Belly of the Beast

PROLOGUE

USS Hellcat (CV-67) - Somewhere - Sometime

USS Hellcat (CV-67) steamed steadily through the calm waters of the Atlantic, the distant lights of the Florida coastline just beginning to flicker on the horizon. The aging conventionally powered carrier, the last of her kind still in active service, was nearing the end of what many believed would be her final deployment.

“The Beast”, as she is affectionately know by her crew, is a unique and historically significant aircraft carrier.  Originally intended to be the fourth ship of the Kitty Hawk-class, she was ultimately modified into a one-of-a-kind design, incorporating features that set it apart from its predecessors. Because she received so many modifications, she formed her own ship class and is often listed as a single-vessel class. There was a proposal to make her nuclear powered, but since Congress would not authorize it, The Beast was constructed as a conventionally powered carrier.  Her smokestack is also different from other Kitty Hawks and tilts outboard to send stack gas away from the flight deck. The angled end of the waist is also different from the other Kitty Hawks, bearing a closer resemblance to that of the Nimitz class.

Unlike the Nimitz-class carriers, whose nuclear-power allowed for long-range, high-endurance operations without the need for refueling, Hellcat relies on steam power, generated by eight boilers driving four geared steam turbines. This conventional propulsion system, while powerful—producing approximately 280,000 shaft horsepower—necessitates frequent refueling and limited operational range compared to her nuclear counterparts.

Measuring 1,052 feet in length, the Hellcat is only slightly shorter than the 1,092-foot-long Nimitz-class carriers. However, her full-load displacement of approximately 82,655 tons made it significantly lighter than the over 100,000-ton Nimitz-class carriers, impacting her ability to carry fuel, supplies, and aircraft. Despite this, she boasted a spacious flight deck, measuring 252 feet across, capable of operating up to 80 aircraft, including F/A-18C Hornets, F-14B Tomcats, and specialized aircraft like the EA-6B Prowler and E-2C Hawkeye. Though comparable to a Nimitz-class carrier in aircraft capacity, the Hellcat lackes the advanced nuclear-powered catapults and sustained operational endurance that gave her nuclear counterparts a distinct strategic advantage.

Aesthetically and structurally, the Hellcat features a modified island superstructure and internal layout, differentiating it from the standard Kitty Hawk-class carriers. She was also built with additional armor, making her heavier and more resilient but at the cost of some fuel efficiency. Like the Nimitz-class carriers, she is heavily armed for self-defense, carrying Sea Sparrow surface-to-air missile launchers and Phalanx CIWS (Close-In Weapon Systems) to protect against incoming threats. However, she does not benefit from the integrated warfare systems and enhanced electronic countermeasures found on newer carriers.

Perhaps the most defining characteristic of the Hellcat is her place in history—as the last conventionally powered carrier in U.S. Navy service, she marks the end of an era before the Navy fully transitions to nuclear-powered supercarriers. Though she requires more frequent logistical support than a Nimitz-class vessel, the Hellcat remains a highly capable warship, able to project power globally and support carrier strike operations with formidable efficiency. Her service in the early 2000s, carrying one of the last operational F-14 squadrons, further underscores her historical significance as a bridge between the past and the future of naval aviation.

For months, she had been the tip of the spear in the global war on terror, delivering precision strikes against Taliban and al Qaeda targets in Afghanistan as part of Operation Enduring Freedom. Over 31,000 tons of ordnance had been dropped from her decks, her F-14B Tomcats and F/A-18C Hornets relentlessly pounding enemy positions in the mountains and deserts. But now, her mission was over, and the Hellcat was returning home—her fate uncertain.

Captain Robert "Bob" Garrison had only recently assumed command, his predecessor relieved in disgrace following a tragic accident in the Persian Gulf. The Hellcat had collided with a dhow, one of the countless wooden sailing vessels that dotted the region’s waters. The dhow had been obliterated on impact, leaving no survivors. Though the carrier herself remained structurally unscathed, the incident triggered a chaotic sequence of events on her flight deck. A sudden, evasive turn had sent an F-14B from VF-103 sliding into an F/A-18C of VFA-81. The Tomcat's wing crumpled against the Hornet’s forward fuselage, damaging the radome and upper section of the cockpit canopy.

Speculation spread quickly through the fleet that the previous captain had delayed evasive action to recover returning aircraft critically low on fuel. However, an official review board found otherwise—the strike fighters had enough fuel to remain safely aloft while the ship maneuvered. The incident, coupled with concerns about the carrier’s deteriorating condition, had made her a liability.

The post-deployment trials only compounded the problems. Critical systems failures plagued the Hellcat—two aircraft catapults were non-functional, rendering half of her launch capability useless. Three of her aircraft elevators were inoperable, leaving the air wing struggling to move planes between decks. Worse yet, two of her boilers refused to light, hampering propulsion and casting doubt on the ship’s ability to conduct sustained operations.

Now, the Navy faced a difficult choice. The Hellcat was the most expensive carrier in the fleet to maintain, a relic of a bygone era of conventional propulsion. A full overhaul would be staggeringly expensive, and with budget cuts looming and naval strategy shifting towards an all-nuclear carrier force, the Hellcat was viewed by many as obsolete.

Still, she was a warfighter. Her decks had seen combat in multiple theaters, her crew hardened by battle. Many among her officers and enlisted ranks believed she still had a role to play. But as she approached Mayport, Florida, one question loomed large: would she be given a second chance, or was this her final voyage?

Bob Garrison had spent most of his career fighting to prove himself. A capable officer with undeniable skill, his temper and stubbornness had often worked against him. His early years as a naval aviator had been marked by impressive combat performance, but his inability to navigate the politics of command had stymied his advancement. A heated altercation with a superior officer had once landed him in hot water, and despite being an excellent tactician, he had been passed over for promotion once already. The stain on his record was something the Navy had not forgotten.

Born into a middle-class family in Norfolk, Virginia, Garrison grew up in the shadow of the Atlantic Fleet. His father was a retired Navy chief, a stern but fair man who instilled in him a deep respect for the service. From an early age, Garrison knew he wanted to fly. He earned a Naval ROTC scholarship to the University of Virginia, where he studied aerospace engineering. While he was a talented student, he had a reputation for questioning authority, something that occasionally put him at odds with his instructors.

Commissioned as an ensign upon graduation, Garrison entered flight school and quickly established himself as a natural aviator. He earned his wings and was assigned to VF-151, the "Vigilantes," flying the F-4S Phantom II. His early years were spent patrolling the Pacific, conducting carrier operations in tense Cold War waters. When the F-14 Tomcat replaced the aging Phantoms, Garrison transitioned to the new aircraft, thriving in the high-speed, high-tech environment of modern aerial combat.

His skills as a pilot earned him a spot with VF-101, the "Grim Reapers," one of the most storied fighter squadrons in the Navy. Over the years, he climbed the ranks, eventually becoming the squadron's commander. As a CAG (Commander, Air Group), he was responsible for leading carrier-based air operations, a job he excelled at—until his career stalled.

During a heated debriefing, he clashed publicly with an admiral over mission priorities, an argument that left a lasting mark on his record. Though his tactical instincts were sound, his inability to temper his frustration cost him. Passed over for promotion once, he found himself at a crossroads.

His assignment to the Hellcat was not a reward—it was a test. The Navy needed someone to steady the troubled carrier after the recent scandal, and Garrison needed a chance to redeem himself. If he could see the Hellcat through her final deployment with distinction, it might be enough to secure his future. Failure, however, would mean the end of his career.

The weight of expectation was not lost on him. He knew that many in the upper echelons of command doubted his ability to lead effectively. Some whispered that his selection for the Hellcat was merely a means to ease him into retirement. But Garrison was determined to prove them wrong. He would not go quietly into obscurity. He would fight for his command, for his crew, and for the future he still believed he deserved.

As the ship steamed toward Mayport, Garrison stood on the bridge, gazing out at the horizon. The Hellcat had been counted out before, and so had he. But neither of them was finished yet.

As Garrison contemplated the challenges ahead, one issue loomed large in his mind: the vacant Executive Officer (XO) position. The Hellcat needed a strong second-in-command, someone who could manage the day-to-day operations of the ship, oversee the crew, enforce discipline, and ensure combat readiness. The XO was not just a figurehead—they were the captain’s right hand, the person responsible for making sure everything ran smoothly. The ship’s fate could hinge on having the right person in that role.

Garrison needed someone with fire, someone who could cut through red tape and get things done despite the obstacles. The XO had to be a leader, a problem solver, and someone who could execute orders with precision. As he turned the idea over in his mind, he found himself describing the kind of officer he respected—someone who wasn’t afraid to push back when necessary but ultimately knew how to inspire a crew. Someone who had a reputation for bold action, for standing up for what was right, even at the risk of their own career. Someone who could navigate the bureaucracy of the Navy without being crushed by it.

As he formulated the profile in his head, he smirked. Whoever this officer was, they needed to have the same passion for the job that he did, the same relentless drive to prove themselves.

Naval Air Station (NAS) - Whiting Field, FL - sometime ZULU

Several weeks later, the outer bands of Hurricane Ivan began lashing the Florida Panhandle late in the evening. By dawn the following day, the full fury of the storm had arrived. Ivan, a powerful Category 4 hurricane with sustained winds exceeding 150 mph, barreled ashore near Gulf Shores, Alabama, sending a storm surge deep into the coastal areas of Florida’s Escambia and Santa Rosa counties. Inland, torrential rain and howling winds battered everything in their path—including Naval Air Station (NAS) Whiting Field, the heart of the Navy’s primary flight training program.

NAS Whiting Field, situated about 30 miles northeast of Pensacola, was no stranger to tropical storms, but Ivan was different. The hurricane’s sheer size and power meant it would leave no part of the base untouched. For days, commanders had monitored the storm’s progress, and as Ivan’s track became clear, the base went into full hurricane preparedness mode. Training flights were suspended, aircraft were flown out to secure locations or packed into reinforced hangars, and non-essential personnel were evacuated. A skeleton crew remained—weathering the storm inside the reinforced command center and emergency operations bunker.

As the eyewall passed just to the west, the full force of Ivan’s fury tore into Whiting Field. The shrieking winds lifted pieces of metal roofing from hangars and barracks, sending them hurtling like deadly missiles across the tarmac. Sheets of rain turned runways into rivers, while pine trees snapped like matchsticks under the relentless assault. Power lines came down, transformers exploded in flashes of eerie blue light, and the air was filled with the deep, resonant groan of structures struggling to hold together.

Inside the main operations building, the emergency team monitored the situation, watching as one system after another failed. First, the primary electrical grid went offline, plunging sections of the base into darkness. Then the backup generators strained under the load, flickering as they fought to keep the control tower and communications hub operational. Reports flooded in over handheld radios—roofs collapsing, aircraft shelters compromised, and entire sections of the airfield submerged in stormwater.

At the flight line, the few remaining aircraft still on base were taking a pounding. A T-34C Turbo Mentor broke loose from its moorings, its lightweight frame no match for the wind. It skidded across the rain-slicked pavement before slamming into a maintenance shed, crumpling like tin foil. Helicopters stored inside hangars fared better, but not by much—one hangar’s roof peeled away entirely, exposing the aircraft inside to the deluge.

Even inside hardened structures, the storm was an inescapable presence. The command staff could hear the wind howling like a living thing, rattling the reinforced windows and shaking the walls. The base commander, Captain Douglas Reese, had been through hurricanes before, but even he felt an uneasy pit in his stomach as a deep, resonant boom echoed through the building. A fuel storage tank near the northern end of the base had ruptured, sending flames licking into the stormy night before the rain quickly snuffed them out.

As dawn broke, the storm’s winds slowly abated, but the devastation became painfully clear. Buildings that had stood for decades were either heavily damaged or outright destroyed. Floodwaters had submerged key training areas, and debris—trees, twisted metal, shattered glass—was strewn across the runways and taxiways. The base chapel, one of the oldest structures on Whiting Field, had been reduced to little more than rubble.

For Whiting Field, the storm’s wrath meant more than just structural damage—it was a direct hit to the Navy’s ability to train its next generation of aviators. The carefully choreographed cycles of classroom instruction, simulator drills, and live flight training had come to an abrupt halt. With so much of the base in shambles, the question wasn't just when training could resume, but how.

CHAPTER 1

Robert’s Residence - Alexandria, VA - sometime ZULU

The warm glow of the Roberts’ home faded in Harm’s rearview mirror as he pulled away from Bud and Harriet’s open house. The warmth of the gathering still clung to him—the laughter of friends, the soft cooing of the twins, the easy camaraderie of a JAG family that had been through hell and back together. He had barely done more than shake hands, congratulate them on the twins, and make a few rounds before excusing himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there—he did—but the noise, the laughter, the easy warmth of family life… it only reminded him of everything he didn’t have.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of his SUV, he exhaled sharply and started the engine. The familiar rumble filled the space, grounding him in the present as he pulled out of Bud and Harriet’s driveway, heading toward Joint Base Andrews.

The streets of Alexandria were quiet, the early afternoon sun casting long shadows over the pavement. Harm barely noticed as he turned onto the parkway, his thoughts already drifting south to the hurricane-ravaged Gulf Coast. He was heading to Florida, ostensibly to assist with post-storm assessments at Whiting Field, but deep down, he knew this trip served another purpose—it gave him something else to focus on. Something other than the fact that Mattie Grace was gone from his life.

Mattie.

He had tried to prepare himself for the day she would leave, for the moment she’d decide to give her father another chance. He had told himself that it was what she needed, what was best for her. But as he had watched her pack up her things, her teenage excitement barely masking the uncertainty in her eyes, he had felt an ache settle in his chest. He had fought so hard to give her stability, to be the father figure she never had. And now, just like that, she was gone.

He had driven her to Blacksburg himself, standing by as she hugged him goodbye before walking into her father’s house. She had turned back, just for a second, offering him a small smile.

“Don’t go getting yourself into trouble without me, Harm,” she had teased.

He had smiled back, masking the hollowness he felt. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But it wasn’t just Mattie. It was everything.

Mac.

Their conversations since Christmas had been polite. Cordial. Careful. And that’s what bothered him. They weren’t supposed to be careful. They had spent years sparring, pushing, pulling—always toeing the line between what was professional and what was personal. But now, it was like they were walking on eggshells around each other.

Harm knew why. They had danced around their feelings for so long that maybe there was nothing left to say. The Paraguay mission had changed everything. What was once an easy friendship had become something strained, something complicated. He had thought, for a brief moment, that they might finally cross that line, but time had marched on, and so had they.

Now, they were just… what? Colleagues? Friends? Something in between?

He tightened his grip on the wheel. They had been dancing around each other for so long now, stuck in a pattern neither of them seemed able to break. Every time they got close, something pushed them apart—his career decisions, Paraguay, Webb, her endometriosis, the unspoken fears that neither of them could seem to voice. He had thought, after everything, that they would finally find their way back to each other. But she had been distant, and he… he had let her be.

Part of him told himself it was because she needed space, that she was still working through everything. But deep down, another part of him wondered if he was just tired. Tired of fighting for something that always seemed just out of reach. Tired of hoping for a future that never came.

As he merged onto the highway, he thought about the last time they had really talked. Not just about work, not just in passing, but really talked. He couldn’t even remember. And that terrified him more than anything.

The drive to Andrews was quiet, Sunday afternoon leaving the roads nearly empty. When he arrived at the base, he went through the motions—checking in, confirming his seat on the transport, exchanging brief words with the duty officer. The flight to Whiting Field would be routine, just another assignment, another distraction.

For a fleeting moment, he considered turning around. Calling Mac. Telling her… what? That he missed her? That he was tired of this distance? That he wanted—no, needed—something more?

But he didn’t.

Instead, he squared his shoulders and climbed aboard, finding a seat along the fuselage. As the engines roared to life, he leaned back against the bulkhead, closing his eyes.

By later today, he would be in Florida. Another day, another mission. Maybe, when he got back, he and Mac could finally have that conversation.

Or maybe, by then, it would be too late.

The gates of flight line loomed ahead. He slowed, rolled down the window, and handed over his credentials to the guard.

"Commander Rabb, sir," the young airman acknowledged, glancing at the orders on the passenger seat. "You’re booked on a Navy C-20 Gulfstream, wheels up in forty-five minutes."

"Appreciate it, Airman," Harm replied, giving a slight nod as the gate lifted.

He navigated the quiet roads of the base toward the tarmac, where a handful of aircraft stood under the floodlights. The C-20 waited near the hangar, engines quiet for now, but ready. A transport to Pensacola, then a short hop to Whiting Field.

The C-20 Gulfstream is the U.S. military’s designation for the Gulfstream III and Gulfstream IV business jets, which have served as reliable transport aircraft for decades. Originally designed for corporate and civilian use, the Gulfstream series quickly proved its worth as a high-speed, long-range platform for the U.S. Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine Corps.

The Gulfstream III (C-20A/B/C) and Gulfstream IV (C-20D/E/F/G) were developed in the late 1970s and 1980s by Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation. Built for endurance and efficiency, the Gulfstream III was introduced as an improved version of the successful Gulfstream II, featuring better range, advanced avionics, and a redesigned wing for improved aerodynamics. The Gulfstream IV took these advancements further, incorporating more fuel-efficient Rolls-Royce Tay 611-8 engines, an updated digital cockpit, and increased cabin space.

Recognizing the aircraft’s capabilities, the U.S. military began acquiring modified Gulfstream jets for VIP transport, operational support, and priority logistics missions. The C-20A and C-20B entered service with the U.S. Air Force, primarily used by Air Mobility Command (AMC) to transport high-ranking government and military officials, ensuring rapid global mobility.

Meanwhile, the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps adopted the C-20D and C-20G, using them for similar executive transport missions as well as cargo and medical evacuation roles. The C-20G was particularly unique, as it featured a large cargo door, allowing it to carry both passengers and priority freight, such as classified military equipment or mission-essential supplies.

The U.S. Army also utilized the C-20H, an upgraded version of the Gulfstream III, for its own executive transport and operational support missions.

Despite being primarily a VIP and transport aircraft, the C-20 is a high-performance jet, boasting a cruise speed of approximately 500 knots (575 mph) and a range of up to 4,200 nautical miles, depending on the model. These capabilities allow it to conduct transcontinental flights with minimal stops, making it an invaluable asset for senior military leaders needing to travel swiftly between commands, especially during crisis response operations.

Its flight ceiling of 45,000 feet gives it the ability to fly above most commercial air traffic and weather systems, ensuring smooth, uninterrupted travel. The aircraft is also equipped with secure communications systems, allowing passengers to maintain real-time contact with command centers and government officials during flight.

Over the decades, the C-20 has been a workhorse of the U.S. military, operating in every major conflict zone from the Persian Gulf War to the Global War on Terrorism. It has ferried presidents, secretaries of defense, high-ranking admirals and generals, and other government officials across the world.

Its current role in hurricane response efforts, showcases its flexibility—able to quickly transport military leadership and assessment teams to disaster zones. The C-20's ability to land at smaller airfields means it can reach places larger transport aircraft, like the C-17 or C-130, cannot.

Stepping out of the car, Harm slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and took a long breath of the cool night air. He had spent most of his life chasing the horizon—always moving, always searching. For justice, for duty, for love. But standing there on the tarmac, watching as the aircrew moved about in preparation for the flight, he had to wonder—was he still chasing something? Or had he let too much slip away?

A crew chief approached. "Sir, we’re fueling up now. Should be ready for you to board in about twenty."

Harm nodded. "Thanks, Chief."

He took a seat on a nearby bench, watching as the night stretched endlessly before him. Somewhere out there, in the darkness, a storm had already come and gone. But another, he suspected, was still on the horizon.

C-17 Globemaster III en-route to Joint Base Andrews - Sometime ZULU

Mac sat in the back of the government transport, the soft hum of the engines barely cutting through the thoughts swirling in her mind. The mission was over, the hostages were safe, and the Palau was no longer a floating bomb. But instead of relief, frustration burned deep in her chest.

She stole a glance at Lieutenant Greg Vukovic, slouched in the seat opposite her, his cocky smirk still plastered on his face as if his reckless stunt had been the key to their success. It hadn't. If anything, he had been a liability. He had charged into the situation without backup, been captured, and forced her to risk her life to extract him.

Mac clenched her jaw. This wasn’t how operations were supposed to go. Discipline, teamwork, and strategy—those were the cornerstones of military success. But Vukovic had acted as if he were in some action movie, like rules didn’t apply to him. And the worst part? He actually thought he had done well.

She let out a slow breath, steadying herself. Cresswell had said Vukovic and Harm were alike. She had bristled at the comment then, and now, after this disaster of an operation, she outright rejected it. Harm might have been headstrong, might have followed his instincts over protocol at times, but he had never been reckless. He had never been self-serving.

Harm was driven by something deeper—an unshakable sense of justice. He didn’t act out of arrogance or to prove himself; he acted because he believed in doing the right thing, no matter the cost. He was brilliant in the courtroom, relentless in his pursuit of the truth, and despite his ego, he had an integrity that Vukovic could never hope to emulate.

She turned her gaze to the window, watching the faint glow of city lights as they neared Washington, D.C. Her thoughts shifted from frustration with Vukovic to something more personal. Harm.

Things between them had been strained ever since Paraguay. She had tried to rebuild what they had—tried to piece together the trust, the friendship—but every time they got close, something pulled them apart. Or maybe it was her. Maybe she was the one pulling away. Ever since her endometriosis diagnosis, a part of her had been scared to hope for anything more than what they had.

She knew Harm cared for her. He always had. But had she pushed him away for too long? Was there still a chance for them?

Her mind drifted back to last Christmas Eve, the night she had crashed her Corvette. The memories played like a film reel—her sitting in Commander McCool’s office, laying bare the turmoil inside her, admitting that she had always been searching for something. She had told her about the four percent rule, about how most people would never find true happiness, and she had accepted, maybe even resigned herself, to being part of the ninety-six percent who never did.

But then there was Harm.

She had been lying in that hospital bed, bruised and groggy from painkillers, when he walked in. He had stayed with her, sat in that uncomfortable chair all night, never leaving her side. And when she had finally drifted into wakefulness, she heard his voice, soft but steady.

"Nothing's changed, Mac. I'm still here."

She remembered staring at him, feeling something shift inside her. He was always there. Through everything. Dalton, her relapse, Paraguay, dealing with the aftermath of Sadik, her endometriosis. Every time she had been at her lowest, he had shown up, unwavering and constant. And every time she had pushed him away, convinced herself that their relationship was impossible. But was it?

Mac exhaled sharply, as if trying to physically dispel the weight of her thoughts.

Harm had always been a part of her life in a way no one else had. He had been her best friend, her partner, the one who challenged her, infuriated her, made her laugh when she didn’t want to. She had watched him risk everything for her more times than she could count, and every single time, she had questioned his motives instead of trusting what was right in front of her.

Her thoughts drifted to the news footage from last year. Harm, landing that crippled C-130 on the Seahawk, saving the crew and passengers from what should have been certain death. She had watched him carrying that little Libyan girl off the aircraft, the weight of the moment etched in his features. And despite the undeniable heroism of it all, she hadn’t been able to shake the thought—he looked tired. Not just physically, but bone-deep exhausted.

She had left him nearly twenty messages while he was at the CIA, and he hadn’t responded to a single one. Was he deliberately avoiding her then or was it the CIA had him too busy to call her back?

Her mind rewound to Paraguay, to that tiny hotel room where the truth had nearly slipped between them.

"You did it for me?" she had asked, stunned at the revelation that Harm had resigned his commission just to find her.

He had only looked at her, that same unreadable yet somehow knowing expression.

Later, as they had lain in that cramped bed, she had tried again.

"Riddle me this, flyboy—why?"

His answer had been another classic Harm deflection.

"I think you know why."

Mac clenched her jaw. That had been the moment. The moment where if either of them had just swallowed their pride, been brave enough to say what they really felt, things could have been different. But instead, she had let the moment slip away, let her own fears and insecurities fill the silence.

She had assumed, after everything, that he had done it simply out of duty or friendship. That despite the sacrifices, despite the risks, it had all been about loyalty, not love. But what if she had been wrong?

She thought back to that argument in Paraguay, the one that had sent them spiraling into a mess of miscommunication and hurt feelings. He had snapped at her, said things that cut deep. But now, as she looked back on it with the clarity of time, she realized something—Harm’s cruelest words had always come when she was with someone else. When she had been with Mic. When she had flirted with Webb. When she had pushed him away in frustration. It was never just about the moment; it was about them, about all the things they had left unsaid.

And she had done the same to him.

She had thrown "Never." at him like a knife in the dark, severing whatever fragile hope he had held onto. She had told herself it was for the best, that they were too complicated, too volatile. But looking back now, she could see it—how many times had Harm all but told her how he felt in the only way he knew how?

"You gave up your commission, traveled 5,000 miles to find me, and damn near got killed."

What else did she need? Did he really have to say the words, or had he been saying them all along?

Mac took a deep breath, gripping the armrest of her seat.

Mac swallowed, a surge of determination rising in her chest. Enough was enough. She was tired of the distance, tired of pretending they weren’t still orbiting each other. When she got back to JAG, she was going to talk to Harm. Really talk to him.

It was time to move forward or move on.

C-20 En-route to Naval Station Mayport (KNRB) - Sometime ZULU

After about an hour and forty five minutes the C-20 Gulfstream banked smoothly as it descended toward Naval Station Mayport (KNRB), its sleek fuselage cutting through the afternoon haze. The sun had just begun its slow decent over the Florida peninsula, casting golden light across the sprawling naval base below. Commander Harmon 'Harm' Rabb, Jr. sat by the window, his sharp blue eyes scanning the coastline as he flipped through the damage assessment reports detailing the havoc Hurricane Ivan had wrought on Whiting Field.

The reports painted a grim picture—collapsed hangars, flooded runways, downed power lines, and extensive water damage to critical flight training infrastructure. Flight operations were paralyzed, and dozens of training aircraft had been destroyed or heavily damaged. Whiting Field was the beating heart of the Navy’s pilot pipeline, and every day it remained offline put naval aviation further behind schedule.

As the aircraft touched down at Mayport, the ground crew was already in position. The engines hummed steadily as the C-20 taxied to a halt near the main terminal. The cabin door swung open, and within moments, Captain Robert Garrison stepped aboard.

Garrison was tall and broad-shouldered, his uniform crisp despite the uncertainty surrounding his future. The USS Hellcat had been sidelined while the Navy debated her fate, and for now, he was tasked with leading recovery operations at Whiting Field. His expression was serious as he stowed his gear and took the seat opposite Harm.

"Commander Rabb," Garrison said,.

"Captain Garrison," Harm replied standing to salute, but Garrison waved him off. "Looks like we're both headed into a mess."

"No kidding," Garrison muttered, settling into his seat. The engines roared back to life as the C-20 began its takeoff roll. Within moments, the aircraft lifted into the sky, banking westward toward the hurricane-ravaged panhandle.

As the jet climbed, Garrison found his mind drifting to the Hellcat. His ship was a mechanical nightmare—two aircraft catapults were still offline, three of the aircraft elevators were inoperable, and two of her boilers refused to light. If the Hellcat had any shot at avoiding decommissioning, these issues had to be resolved quickly. And for that, he needed an executive officer who could get things done.

He had a list of potential candidates, but none of them had stood out. He needed someone relentless, someone who wouldn’t accept ‘no’ as an answer. Someone who cared as much about fixing the Hellcat as he did.

Someone like…He didn’t know yet. 

Meanwhile, Harm continued reviewing the damage reports, his thoughts occasionally drifting elsewhere. Mattie was gone—back to her father in Virginia. And then there was Mac. Their relationship was as complicated as ever. He had no idea where they stood, or where they were headed.

The C-20 droned on, slicing through the sky as it carried its two passengers toward the devastation left in Ivan’s wake, and into the uncertain futures of their own careers.

Garrison glanced across the cabin at Rabb, noting the gold wings pinned to his uniform. The insignia wasn’t lost on him—naval aviator. That meant this wasn’t just some desk-bound JAG officer playing damage control.

“You a pilot, Commander?” Garrison asked, breaking the silence between them.

Harm looked up from the reports, surprised by the question but offering a slight nod. “Yes, sir. Started out as a Tomcat driver before moving over to JAG.  I just completed my quals in the F/A-18”

Garrison raised an eyebrow. “F-14s, huh? Damn fine aircraft. Flew them myself.” He extended a hand. “Robert Garrison. Started out in Phantoms with VF-151 before transitioning to the Tomcat. Spent some time with VF-101 as CAG.”

Harm shook his hand, a hint of respect crossing his features. “VF-101? The Grim Reapers?”

“The one and only.” Garrison leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. “I take it you didn’t go straight from the cockpit to a courtroom.”

Harm smirked. “No, sir. Flew off the Sea Hawk before an incident forced me into law. Took the JAG route, but I still get stick time when I can.”

Garrison studied him for a moment. A fighter pilot turned lawyer? That wasn’t something you saw every day. But then again, Garrison wasn’t looking for someone ordinary.

“You ever think about getting back into the fleet?” Garrison asked, testing the waters.

Harm hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shrugged. “I did for a little while. I went back to flying back in ’99. Did a six-month deployment on the Sea Hawk. But I was too old, not enough flight hours, not enough traps. I was only back for six months, and the CAG told me I had run out of sky. There was no path to command, so I transferred back to JAG.”

Garrison gave a knowing nod. “Tough break. At least you got one last ride.”

Harm smiled slightly. “Yeah, I did.”

Garrison exhaled, shifting the topic. “I need an XO who understands both the cockpit and the command structure. Someone who can cut through the red tape and get things done.”

Harm raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”

“You have no idea,” Garrison sighed, rubbing his temple. “Hellcat is a disaster. Two catapults are down, three aircraft elevators aren’t functioning, and two boilers refuse to light. The brass is already talking about whether she’s worth saving.”

“That bad?” Harm frowned.

Garrison nodded.

Harm leaned forward, thinking. “The catapults—what’s the issue? Hydraulic system failure or steam pressure problems?”

“Steam issues,” Garrison said.

“You could prioritize repairs on the boilers first—get at least one fully operational so you can get steam pressure up. If you can’t get them lit, maybe backflow steam from the remaining operational system?”

Garrison gave him a look of intrigue. “That’s a long shot, but it’s something. And the elevators?”

“If the motors are shot, you could manually crank them up with external power sources, at least for critical aircraft movements. It’s not ideal, but it keeps ops moving while they work the main system.”

Garrison grinned. “You sound like a man who’s had to work around Navy maintenance delays before.”

“I have,” Harm admitted.

Garrison shook his head with a smirk. “See, this is what I mean. I need someone who won’t just push paper and tell me what I can’t do. I need someone who knows how to fight through the bureaucracy and make things happen.”

Harm shrugged. “Then you need a damn good XO.”

Garrison studied him for a long moment, then smirked. “Yeah… I do.”

The C-20 continued westward, the two men now quietly contemplating the road ahead—one seeking a path forward, the other searching for the right officer to help him save his ship. Neither knew it yet, but their paths were about to collide in ways neither could have expected.

Naval Air Station Whiting Field, Florida

The C-20 shuddered slightly as its wheels met the battered tarmac of Whiting Field’s North airstrip. The descent had been smooth, but the landing was rough—the runway, still littered with debris despite initial cleanup efforts, showed clear scars from Hurricane Ivan’s rampage. Puddles of standing water reflected the grey sky, and patches of broken pavement revealed where wind and floodwaters had ripped apart the asphalt.

From his seat, Harm could already see the extent of the damage. Several hangars had partially collapsed, their twisted steel skeletons exposed like broken ribs. The control tower stood intact but bore the unmistakable marks of high winds—its windows still boarded up, and a weather radar mast bent at an unnatural angle. Beyond the airfield, large swaths of trees lay flattened, their trunks snapped like matchsticks.

As the engines spooled down, the cabin door swung open, allowing the thick, humid air to seep into the aircraft. Harm and Garrison unbuckled and stepped onto the tarmac, their boots crunching against the scattered gravel. A lone staff car pulled up near the plane, and a man in a flight suit stepped out, his face etched with exhaustion.

“Commander Rabb, Captain Garrison,” the man greeted, offering a firm handshake to each. “I’m Captain Douglas Reese, CO of Whiting Field. Welcome to what’s left of my base.”

Douglas Reese grew up in Pensacola, Florida, a city synonymous with naval aviation. Yet, unlike many military children raised in the area, his parents despised the military. His father, a civilian engineer, and his mother, a trauma surgeon, had hoped he would follow a different path—medicine, academia, anything but a life in uniform. They wanted him to become a doctor, to save lives rather than wage war. But from the moment he saw his first airshow at NAS Pensacola, he was hooked.

The roar of the F-4 Phantoms and F-14 Tomcats overhead captured his imagination like nothing else. He would spend hours at the beach, watching fighters from nearby carriers scream across the sky. He didn’t see war machines—he saw freedom, skill, and precision. By the time he was in high school, he knew exactly what he wanted: to fly.

Despite his parents' objections, Reese secured an appointment to the United States Naval Academy, where he excelled academically, balancing his coursework in aerospace engineering with a relentless focus on earning his commission. His parents never attended his graduation, a painful but expected reality. He didn’t need their approval—he had found his purpose.

Reese earned his wings at NAS Whiting Field, a place that would define his career in ways he never anticipated. Assigned to VFA-81 Sunliners, he became an F/A-18 Hornet pilot, deploying aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71). Combat came early in his career, flying missions over Iraq during Operation Southern Watch and later in the early stages of Operation Enduring Freedom. His skill as a pilot and his coolness under pressure made him a standout officer, and his rise through the ranks was swift.

Despite his success in the fleet, Reese had a deep appreciation for training. The best pilots weren’t just born—they were made. He transitioned to an instructor role at NAS Meridian before returning to Whiting Field as the commander of Training Squadron Two (VT-2). There, he honed his leadership, shaping the next generation of naval aviators. His ability to connect with young pilots, balancing tough expectations with mentorship, earned him a reputation as one of the Navy’s premier instructor pilots.

Promoted to captain, Reese took command of NAS Whiting Field, returning to the very base where his aviation journey had begun. Under his leadership, Whiting Field remained the Navy’s primary training hub, producing hundreds of new pilots annually. But when Hurricane Ivan struck the Florida Panhandle, the base was left in ruins. Runways were crippled, aircraft were damaged, and training operations were paralyzed. Whiting Field faced its greatest crisis, and Reese was determined to bring it back.

He wasn’t the type to wallow in setbacks. While bureaucrats debated funding and logistics, Reese got to work. He coordinated recovery efforts, secured resources from the fleet and the Pentagon, and demanded the same resilience from his staff that he had shown throughout his career. Failure was not an option.

Now, with Commander Harmon Rabb and Captain Robert Garrison arriving to assess the damage and accelerate the base’s recovery, Reese saw an opportunity. Restoring Whiting Field wasn’t just about fixing infrastructure—it was about safeguarding the future of naval aviation. His parents had wanted him to save lives. In his own way, he had. But this wasn’t about him. It was about the next generation of pilots who would take to the skies, just as he once had, against all odds.

Reese gestured toward the field behind him. “We’re doing everything we can, but as you can see, we’re barely keeping our heads above water.”

“Ivan really did a number on the place,” Garrison noted grimly.

“That’s an understatement,” Reese replied as he motioned for them to follow him to a waiting Humvee.

The drive across the base was a slow, sobering experience. They passed rows of training aircraft—T-34C Turbo Mentors and newer T-6 Texan IIs—many of which had been upended by the storm. Some had been tossed into hangar doors, their fuselages crumpled like discarded tin cans. Others lay in pieces, scattered by 150 mph winds.

Reese narrated as they went. “We lost at least fifty aircraft outright, maybe more once we assess the damage. Power has been down for days, and our backup generators struggled to keep critical systems running. The biggest problem is infrastructure. The runways are barely usable, two of our three control towers are damaged, and half the training facilities are offline.”

They pulled up to one of the main hangars, or what was left of it. The massive sliding doors had been sheared off their tracks, leaving gaping holes in the building. Inside, training aircraft sat in disarray, some stacked atop one another from the force of the wind. Mechanics and flight instructors moved through the wreckage, doing what they could to piece things back together.

They stepped out of the vehicle, and Reese led them toward a group of instructors standing near a makeshift command post.

“Gentlemen,” Reese called out, “this is Commander Rabb from JAG and Captain Garrison, who’s assisting with the recovery efforts.”

A grizzled instructor, Lieutenant Commander Mark Hayes, stepped forward. His flight suit was stained with oil, his hands covered in grime. “Glad you’re here. We’ve got one hell of a mess.”

“What’s the biggest holdup to getting training back online?” Garrison asked.

Hayes sighed. “Facilities, mainly. The classrooms took a hit, and a lot of our flight sims were either flooded or lost power long enough to fry them. We can’t train new pilots if we don’t have functional simulators. And then there’s the aircraft situation. Even if the runways were perfect, we don’t have enough birds left to maintain a full training schedule.”

Garrison nodded, jotting down notes. “What about instructor availability? Any major personnel issues?”

“We’ve got instructors who lost homes, families displaced,” another officer chimed in. “Morale is shot. Some of the guys are barely keeping it together.”

Harm listened intently before stepping in. “Alright, let’s break this down. What do you need to get at least partial training back up and running? Priority one.”

Hayes thought for a moment, then rattled off a list. “We need power restored to all training buildings, emergency repairs on at least one control tower, and functional aircraft. If we can get even a handful of trainers operational, we can start getting flights back in the air.”

Harm nodded and turned to Reese. “Any word on when full power restoration is expected?”

Reese exhaled sharply. “Could be days, could be weeks. Gulf Power is stretched thin trying to restore the entire region. We’re on the priority list, but we’re not top of it.”

Harm glanced at Garrison. “We might need to pull strings on that.”

Garrison nodded. “I’ll reach out to fleet logistics and see if we can get the Navy to push for faster restoration.”

Harm made more notes before looking back at the instructors. “And in the meantime, we’ll need generator support to get essential facilities running.”

Garrison added, “We’ll also need to coordinate with depot-level maintenance to fast-track aircraft repairs. Maybe even pull trainers from other bases to make up for losses.”

Reese folded his arms. “That would go a long way. If we can just get something—anything—operational, we can at least keep moving forward.”

Harm closed his notepad. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

As they moved through the wreckage, it was clear the road ahead would be long. But the pieces were coming together. They had a plan, and now it was time to make it happen.

CHAPTER 2

JAG HQ - Falls Church, VA - Early Morning ZULU

The early morning light filtered through the windows of JAG Headquarters as Lieutenant Colonel Sarah "Mac" MacKenzie strode through the front doors, her heels clicking purposefully against the polished floor. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the ever-present tang of paperwork and polished brass, a familiar combination that signaled the start of another busy day.

She had barely dropped her cover into the crook of her arm before scanning the bullpen, her dark eyes searching instinctively for one person.

Harm.

Her resolve from the flight back from the USS Condon remained firm—she was done waiting, done second-guessing. She needed to talk to him. Really talk to him. The ghosts of Paraguay, of endometriosis, of everything that had kept them locked in a holding pattern for years, needed to be exorcised. But as her gaze swept the room, the familiar broad-shouldered frame in dress blues was nowhere to be found.

A flicker of disappointment tightened in her chest. He should be here. Monday morning, early call. If she knew anything about Harmon Rabb, it was that he was always the first one in, usually with a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-smirk that meant trouble on his lips.

A quick glance at his office—dark, unoccupied—told her what she already suspected.

Damn it.

Pushing down her frustration, Mac pivoted toward the front desk where Petty Officer First Class Jennifer Coates sat, her fingers flying over a keyboard as she sorted through the morning’s administrative tasks. The younger woman, always impeccably put together despite the early hour, had a look of sharp efficiency about her, but Mac could see the faint traces of exhaustion in her eyes—Coates always worked harder than anyone gave her credit for.

“Morning, Colonel.” Coates offered a polite smile, pausing in her typing.

“Morning, Coates,” Mac replied, shifting her briefcase higher on her shoulder. “Do you know where Commander Rabb is?”

Coates hesitated just a fraction, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He’s been sent down to Whiting Field for hurricane recovery assessments. Left yesterday.”

Mac’s lips pressed together as she absorbed the information. Whiting Field. That meant he’d be gone for at least a few days, maybe longer depending on the extent of the damage. So much for clearing the air today.

“Did he say when he’d be back?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her tone.

Coates shook her head. “No exact return date, ma’am, but I’d guess a few days at least. He’s working with the recovery teams there.” She hesitated, then added, “He didn’t mention it to you?”

Mac exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “No. I was out on assignment.”

Coates gave her a thoughtful look, her sharp eyes flickering with something unspoken. “You, uh… needed to talk to him?”

Mac hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Coates tilted her head slightly, studying Mac with the same perceptiveness that had made her invaluable to JAG Headquarters. “You okay, Colonel?”

Mac forced a tight smile. “Fine.”

Coates arched a brow but didn’t push. Instead, she nodded toward the small stack of papers on her desk. “General Cresswell has called a senior staff meeting at 0900. He wants all department heads present. He’s already sent out the briefing notes.”

Mac nodded, shifting her focus. “Got it. Thanks, Coates.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, Mac asked, “You are watching Mattie while Harm’s gone?”

Coates’ expression shifted instantly, the warmth in her eyes dimming as sadness crept into her features. She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, ma’am. Mattie… she’s back with her father in Blacksburg.”

Mac frowned. “When did that happen?”

“Over the weekend,” Coates admitted, her voice quieter now. “Harm took her down himself. He wanted to make sure it was what she really wanted.”

Mac absorbed that, her stomach twisting. She knew how much Mattie had meant to Harm, how fiercely he had fought for her when no one else had. “How’s he handling it?”

Coates offered a small, sad smile. “Honestly? I think he’s trying not to think about it too much. He acts like he’s fine, but… you know how he is.”

Mac nodded slowly. Yeah, she knew. Harm didn’t do well with loss, not when it came to the people he cared about. And Mattie—Mattie had been family. Even if letting her go had been the right thing, it didn’t make it any easier for him.

The younger woman hesitated before adding, “You know, he talks about you. A lot.”

Mac blinked, caught off guard. “Harm?”

Coates smirked slightly. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, not in some big, dramatic way, but… he asks about you when you’re gone. Makes sure you’re okay.”

Something in Mac’s chest tightened. “Does he?”

Coates nodded. “Yeah. Just thought you should know.”

Mac swallowed, then gave a small, appreciative nod before turning on her heel and heading toward her office, her thoughts still lingering on Harm.

So much for seizing the moment.

As she walked, her mind drifted back to Mattie. She had seen firsthand how fiercely Harm had thrown himself into being a father figure for that girl, how he had upended his entire life just to make sure she had a chance at something better. Letting her go must have been agonizing. And knowing Harm, he wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t let anyone see just how much it had affected him. He’d just keep moving, keep burying himself in work, pretending it didn’t hurt.

She sighed as she stepped into her office, dropping her briefcase onto the desk and rubbing her temples. The familiar routine of work had always been a welcome distraction, but today, it just felt like a delay. A postponement of something that had been postponed too many times already.

She glanced toward the window, the morning sun spilling golden light across her desk. He wasn’t in Washington. He wasn’t here. And for now, all she could do was wait.

Sighing, she reached for the first file and forced herself to focus. Her resolve would have to hold a little longer.

A few minutes later, a light rap on her open door made her look up.

"Morning, Ma’am!" came the familiar voice of Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts, his boyish face breaking into a warm smile as he stepped into her office. "I just wanted to say we missed you at the open house."

Mac returned the smile. "I wish I could have been there, Bud. I heard the twins are adorable."

Bud beamed with pride. "They are. Harriet and I feel like we’re running a small daycare, but we wouldn’t trade it for the world."

Mac chuckled. She had always admired Bud’s unwavering optimism, even after everything he had been through—his complex relationship with his father, his struggles to prove himself in the Navy, and the unimaginable ordeal of losing his leg in Afghanistan. Yet here he was, still standing, still smiling.

"How was your assignment?" Bud asked.

Mac exhaled sharply. "Frustrating. I was stuck working with Lieutenant Vukovic."

Bud’s face fell. "Oh… I take it he didn’t exactly impress?"

"That’s putting it mildly," Mac said dryly. "He was reckless, arrogant, and nearly got himself killed because he couldn’t follow orders. Honestly, I don’t know what Cresswell sees in him."

Bud nodded. "Sounds like you could use some coffee. Come on, I’ll buy."

Mac chuckled. "You know what, Bud? That sounds like a great idea."

Mac and Bud walked side by side through the narrow hallways of JAG Headquarters, their pace steady as they made their way to the break room. The rhythmic clicking of Mac’s heels against the tile floor was in contrast to the softer footfalls of Bud, whose gait had long since adjusted to the prosthetic he wore. The air carried the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with paper and ink, the ever-present perfume of a legal office in motion.

As they walked, Mac glanced at Bud. “Was Commander Rabb at the open house?”

Bud nodded, adjusting his uniform as he walked. "Yeah, he was there, but only for a short while. Just ‘passing through,’ as he put it. I don’t think he stayed more than half an hour."

Mac sighed. That sounded like Harm. Always on the move, never staying in one place long enough to really settle. She looked at Bud curiously. "Did you talk to him much?"

Bud's face suddenly flushed slightly. "Uh, yeah… and I kind of stuck my foot in my mouth."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

Bud winced. "I was making conversation, and I said, ‘I highly recommend the state of fatherhood.’ I wasn’t even thinking… I completely forgot about Mattie going back to her father."

Mac’s expression softened as she exhaled. "I just found out myself. Coates told me this morning."

Bud nodded solemnly. "Yeah, as soon as I said it, I could see it in his face. He covered well, but you know Harmthe Commander… when something gets to him, he just locks it away."

Mac frowned. "How do you think he’s really handling it?"

Bud considered the question carefully as they turned a corner. "Honestly? I think he’s putting on a brave face, but inside, he’s hurting. He was so dedicated to being Mattie’s guardian. I mean, he changed his whole life for her. And now…" Bud trailed off, shaking his head. "Now she’s back with her father, and I think he’s trying to tell himself that it’s for the best. But I’m not sure he believes it."

Mac swallowed, her throat tightening. She knew Bud was right. Harm wouldn’t admit it—not to her, not to anyone—but losing Mattie had to feel like losing part of himself.

They stepped into the break room, the rich aroma of coffee greeting them as they crossed the threshold. The room was modest but functional, a few tables scattered around with chairs that had seen better days. A coffee machine hummed in the corner, accompanied by a stack of disposable cups and an assortment of sugar packets.

Standing near the counter, stirring a cup of black coffee with deliberate slowness, was Commander Peter Ulysses "Sturgis" Turner. Dressed in his crisp service khakis, he cut the figure of a man who had spent his career balancing precision and discipline. The son of a Navy chaplain, former submariner, and Harm’s old Academy buddy, Sturgis had a reputation for being measured and methodical. That had served him well in the courtroom, but his rigid approach had clashed with the more informal camaraderie of JAG when he first arrived three years ago. Over time, though, he had adjusted—mostly.

Looking up from his coffee, Sturgis flashed a reserved but friendly smile. "Mac, Bud. Good morning."

“Morning, sir,” Bud greeted with his usual enthusiasm, reaching for a cup.

Mac nodded as she poured herself some coffee. "Morning, Sturgis."

Sturgis took a sip from his mug before leveling his gaze at Mac. "So, how was your assignment?"

Mac let out a short, humorless laugh. "You mean my time babysitting Lieutenant Vukovic? Let’s just say it was an exercise in patience."

Sturgis raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

Mac sighed, taking a sip of coffee before responding. "He’s arrogant, reckless, and doesn’t know when to shut up. He went off on his own, got himself captured by pirates, and I had to be inserted onto a hostile ship to drag his ass out before he got himself killed."

Sturgis smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Sounds like a real team player."

Bud, still adding sugar to his coffee, chuckled. "That’s what I said."

Mac leaned against the counter, rubbing her temple. "I don’t know what Cresswell sees in him. He’s nothing like Harm, no matter what the General says."

Sturgis, who had long since refused to take part in the Harm-and-Mac soap opera, merely shrugged. "Maybe Cresswell sees something in him that isn’t immediately obvious. The brass sometimes plays the long game."

Mac scoffed. "Or maybe he just wanted to see if I’d break my no-drinking rule after working with him."

Sturgis chuckled. "I’d pay good money to see that."

Bud grinned. "Me too. But we all know the Colonel’s too strong for that."

Mac gave Bud a grateful smile, then turned back to Sturgis. "Enough about Vukovic. What about you? How’s Varese?"

Sturgis’ expression softened at the mention of Varese Chestnut, the jazz singer he had finally found happiness with after years of an on-again, off-again relationship with Congresswoman Bobbi Latham. "She’s good. Keeping busy with her tour, but we talk every day."

Bud smiled. "That’s great, sir. You deserve some happiness."

Sturgis nodded, then glanced at Mac. "And what about you?"

Mac hesitated for just a second before taking another sip of coffee. "Still figuring things out."

Sturgis didn’t push. He simply gave a small, knowing nod before changing the subject. "So, Bud, how’s fatherhood treating you?"

Bud lit up again. "Exhausting but amazing. The twins are keeping us up at all hours, but Harriet and I wouldn’t trade it for anything."

Sturgis smiled. "Glad to hear it. Fatherhood suits you."

Bud chuckled. "Well, I just hope I do a better job than my dad did."

A brief silence followed. Everyone in the room knew about Big Bud Roberts—the former Master Chief who had raised his children with a firm hand that sometimes bordered on abusive. Bud had worked hard to break that cycle, to be the kind of father his own had never been.

Mac patted Bud’s arm. "You’re a great father, Bud."

Bud smiled, a little embarrassed but grateful. "Thanks, Ma’am."

Sturgis glanced at the clock. "Well, we better finish up. Cresswell’s meeting starts soon."

Mac nodded, her mind drifting once more to Harm, to Mattie, and to the conversation she still needed to have.

Cresswell’s Office

Major General Gordon "Biff" Cresswell, USMC (JAGC), sat behind his large oak desk, fingers steepled, his sharp eyes staring at the stack of reports before him without really seeing them. His office was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall and the occasional murmur of voices beyond his closed door. 

Cresswell was born into a family with a long and proud tradition of military service. His grandfather had fought in World War II as a Marine on Iwo Jima, and his father had served with distinction in Vietnam. Growing up in a household that valued discipline, integrity, and service, young Gordon had little doubt about his future—he was going to be a Marine.

Raised in the heart of Texas, Cresswell was a natural athlete and leader. He excelled in football and wrestling, and when he wasn’t studying, he was either on the rifle range or poring over history books about military strategy. His discipline and drive earned him a nomination to the United States Naval Academy, where he quickly distinguished himself. While many of his peers aspired to become pilots or ship commanders, Cresswell was drawn to something else—the law.

After commissioning as a second lieutenant in the Marine Corps, Cresswell completed The Basic School (TBS) at Quantico, where he stood out for his analytical mind and unshakable composure under pressure. But instead of following the traditional combat arms path, he applied for the Marine Corps' Funded Law Education Program. The Corps saw potential in him, and he was sent to the University of Texas School of Law, where he earned his Juris Doctor degree.

Newly minted as a Marine judge advocate, Cresswell’s first assignments were with Fleet Marine Force units, where he provided legal counsel on rules of engagement and military justice matters. He deployed to Beirut in the early 1980s, serving in a legal advisory role during the tense peacekeeping operations. His experience in combat zones gave him a deep appreciation for the men and women in the trenches—he wasn’t just another lawyer in a suit; he was a Marine first, and he earned the respect of those he served with.

The nickname "Biff" came about during his early days at Quantico. A hard-nosed Gunnery Sergeant in charge of physical training made an offhand remark that Cresswell “looked like he walked straight out of one of those Biff Baxter military comics from the ‘50s,” thanks to his square jaw, intense stare, and no-nonsense attitude. The name stuck, especially after he proved himself in the boxing ring during TBS training, where he gained a reputation for delivering precise, devastating blows. From then on, “Biff” became a moniker that followed him throughout his career, one he embraced as a badge of honor.

Cresswell’s career took him from courtrooms to war rooms. He served as the Staff Judge Advocate for multiple Marine Expeditionary Forces (MEF) and later advised the Commandant of the Marine Corps on matters of military justice, ethics, and operational law. His tenure included overseeing investigations into high-profile cases, ensuring that justice in the Corps was swift, fair, and uncompromising.

As terrorism became the dominant global threat, Cresswell was instrumental in crafting legal frameworks for Marine Corps operations in the post-9/11 era. He worked closely with the Department of Defense, ensuring that Marines operating in Iraq and Afghanistan had the legal backing to do their jobs while staying within the bounds of international law. His leadership during this period earned him the Legion of Merit and deepened his already formidable reputation.

By the mid-2000s, the Navy and Marine Corps needed a strong, battle-hardened legal mind to take over as the Judge Advocate General of the Navy. When Rear Admiral A.J. Chegwidden retired, the search for his replacement led straight to Cresswell. His nomination was met with some resistance—after all, a Marine taking the top Navy legal post was unusual—but his record spoke for itself. He was confirmed and promoted to Major General, becoming the senior uniformed legal advisor to the Department of the Navy.

Cresswell brought a new style of leadership to JAG HQ—blunt, direct, and unwilling to tolerate inefficiency. He didn’t care for politics, but he knew how to maneuver through it when necessary. His priority was ensuring that the JAG Corps remained effective, ethical, and respected. Under his command, JAG officers were expected to be warriors first and lawyers second, understanding that the law was a weapon just as much as any rifle or fighter jet.

Despite his tough, battle-hardened reputation, Cresswell was, at his core, a devoted husband and father. His wife, Dora, had been his rock for decades, standing by his side through the long deployments, relocations, and the relentless demands of military life. She was a strong woman, fiercely independent yet deeply supportive of her husband’s career.

Their daughter, Cameron—nicknamed "Cammie"—had inherited her father’s determination and discipline. Growing up as a Marine brat, she had seen firsthand the sacrifices required of military families. Instead of resenting it, she embraced it. Inspired by her father’s service, she pursued her own military career and was now attending the United States Naval Academy, following in both her father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. Cresswell was immensely proud of her, though he rarely expressed it in words. Instead, he showed it through the quiet moments—reviewing her tactical essays, helping her prepare for physical training tests, and always making time for their regular phone calls, no matter how busy he was.

Despite the pressures of his position, Cresswell never lost sight of the Marines and sailors who depended on his leadership. He made frequent visits to deployed units, sitting down with junior officers and enlisted personnel to hear their concerns firsthand. He was tough but fair, demanding but loyal. Those who served under him either thrived or found themselves looking for another career.

No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the reports Cresswell’s mind kept circling back to something else. Someone else - Harmon Rabb.

Cresswell exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. Rabb was a damn good lawyer, one of the best JAG had. Sharp, relentless, and with an innate sense of justice that made him a formidable force in any courtroom. But the man was also a magnet for trouble, always finding ways to insert himself into situations that had nothing to do with JAG. A hurricane assessment? Really? And on top of that, he’d recently gotten himself qualified in the F/A-18, as if he were still chasing some long-lost dream of being a full-time aviator.

The man had been with JAG Headquarters for over nine years, coming and going, bouncing between billets, but never truly moving on. He should have been a captain by now, at the very least. Instead, he was still here, still chasing ghosts of past careers, still not fully committing to his future.

And Rabb wasn’t the only one.

Cresswell shifted his gaze to the framed photographs of his senior staff lining the credenza behind his desk. MacKenzie. Turner. Both sharp legal minds, both strong officers. Mac had been at JAG HQ almost as long as Rabb—nine years, maybe more, on and off. Turner had been here a few years now as well. They were good, all of them, but they were stagnating. JAG Headquarters wasn’t supposed to be a career destination—it was a stepping stone, a place to refine skills before moving on to bigger and better things.

Yet here they all were. Stuck.

But then again, maybe that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Having three of the best legal minds in the Navy under one roof was a luxury. These were the officers he could trust with the most delicate, high-stakes cases, and they had proven time and again that they could handle the pressure. If he sent them off, who would fill their shoes? Could he afford to lose them?

Still, the Navy wasn’t about playing it safe. Careers had to progress. That would start today.  

The SECNAV had just sent down the orders, Joint Legal Service Center—Navy and Marine lawyers in the field, under one command.  Colonel MacKenzie has been selected for command of that unit.

Cresswell’s mind shifted back to Rabb.  Maybe it was time to see how serious he really was.

Cresswell leaned forward, opening a folder on his desk. The Force Judge Advocate, Naval Forces Europe, needed a new commanding officer. It was a prestigious post—high visibility, significant responsibility. The kind of assignment that could set an officer on the path to flag rank. Someone like Rabb could thrive there. 

Yes, like it or not, this was the moment to finally shake things up at JAG.

The conference room at JAG Headquarters had the crisp, efficient air of a space where decisions with real weight were made. The long mahogany table gleamed under the overhead lighting, the chairs neatly arranged. Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts sat with his ever-present enthusiasm, his fingers laced together on the table. Commander Sturgis Turner sat opposite him, his usual composed demeanor in place. Petty Officer Jennifer Coates had a notepad at the ready, prepared to record any necessary details. And then there was Colonel Sarah "Mac" MacKenzie, sitting straight-backed, her mind still slightly preoccupied with her earlier conversation about Harm and Mattie.

At precisely 0900, the door swung open, and Major General Gordon "Biff" Cresswell strode in, exuding his usual presence of authority. His eyes swept across the room, taking stock of his senior staff.

"Good, everyone's here," he said, closing the door behind him. "Except for Commander Rabb. I’ll inform him separately."

Mac felt a slight pang at the mention of Harm’s absence. Normally, he would be here, sitting beside her, a subtle but ever-present force in her professional life. But not today.

Cresswell wasted no time. "There’s been a new development. With the CNO and Commandant’s blessing, the SECNAV is standing up a prototype joint legal service center. Navy and Marine lawyers in the field, working under one command. Colonel MacKenzie, you’ve been selected for command of that unit. Here are your orders."

Mac’s breath caught. "What?" The words came out before she could stop them. She blinked as Cresswell slid the folder toward her. The weight of the moment settled onto her shoulders.

She was being given command. Not just any command—a new unit, a joint legal service center, something that could redefine military legal operations. It was everything she had worked for, everything she had earned.

Then Cresswell continued, "It’s the Joint Legal Service Center Southwest. You’ll be stationed in San Diego. You have two days travel, four days proceed."

Mac's fingers tightened around the folder. "San Diego?" she repeated, her voice carrying a note of disbelief.

Cresswell nodded. "That’s correct."

Mac’s mind reeled. San Diego. Five hours and an entire country away from Washington, D.C. From JAG HQ. From Harm.

Just when she had resolved to stop running, to confront what was between them, to finally figure out where they stood—this happened. The decision had been made for her. She and Harm were being separated. Just like that. And now, in just six days, she would have to report to her new command. Everything was moving too fast, faster than she had anticipated. The weight of it settled heavily in her chest.

She felt Bud’s eyes on her, his usual eager expression tempered with curiosity. Sturgis, ever the professional, simply nodded in acknowledgment, but Mac knew he was filing every reaction away in that sharp mind of his.

Cresswell turned to Turner. "With Colonel MacKenzie leaving, I’m appointing you as my new Chief of Staff. Effective immediately."

Sturgis straightened slightly, giving a curt nod. "Understood, sir."

"Your first task will be to find a suitable officer to bring to JAG HQ," Cresswell continued. "I want recommendations on my desk by the end of the week. I’d suggest looking at Commander Meg Austin and Commander Larry Barnes."

Turner’s lips pressed together in thought before he nodded. "I’ll begin working on that today, General."

Cresswell took a step back, his sharp gaze scanning the room. "Any questions?"

Mac exhaled, pushing aside the emotional turmoil that threatened to take hold. Focus on the job. "What about staffing my new command?" she asked, keeping her voice steady.

Cresswell nodded approvingly. "You’ll have input. You’re free to choose your executive officer and make recommendations for your senior staff. I want your initial selections within the next week."

Mac nodded, already running through names in her mind. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right.

Bud leaned forward slightly. "Sir, what’s the timeline for standing up the unit?"

"You’ll report to San Diego within the month," Cresswell replied. "We’ll begin transitioning cases immediately."

Bud gave Mac a reassuring smile. "Sounds like an amazing opportunity, ma’am."

Mac returned the smile, though it felt slightly forced. "It is."

Sturgis adjusted his posture. "Sir, will there be additional guidance on jurisdictional authority between the joint command and traditional JAG offices?"

Cresswell nodded. "We’re working on finalizing those details with the SECNAV’s office. Expect further directives soon."

With no further questions, Cresswell straightened. "That’s all. Dismissed."

The room shifted as chairs scraped against the floor. Bud gave Mac another supportive nod before heading out. Sturgis, ever the professional, gave her a glance before following. Coates offered a small, encouraging smile before returning to her duties.

Mac lingered for a moment, staring at the orders in her hand. San Diego. A new command. A fresh start.

Or was it just another way to avoid what she truly wanted?

She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and left the conference room. Mac returned to her office and quietly closed the door behind her. The soft click of the latch echoed in the stillness. She stood there for a long moment, her hand still on the doorknob, her thoughts churning.

What just happened?

She turned, pacing slowly toward her desk, the folder still clutched in her hand. Her world had just turned upside down. One minute she was focused on rebuilding something with Harm, and the next—orders, new command, San Diego.

She needed to talk to him. Now.

Dropping into her chair, she grabbed her cell phone off the desk and quickly scrolled through her contacts until she found his name: Commander Harmon Rabb Jr.

She tapped the call button and raised the phone to her ear.

It didn’t even ring. The call went straight to voicemail.

Mac closed her eyes briefly. Right. Whiting Field had been hit hard by the hurricane. Cell service was probably still down.

She waited for the tone, then spoke softly but firmly.

"Harm, it’s me. Something big just happened. There are some major changes going on at JAG HQ and... I really need to talk to you. As soon as you get this, please call me."

She hesitated a moment before continuing, her voice softening.

"I hope you’re safe. Please call me back."

She slowly lowered the phone to the desk and stared at it, as if willing it to ring. To buzz. To bring Harm’s voice through the static and distance. But it didn’t.

Her office was quiet now—far too quiet. The sunlight that had earlier bathed her desk in a golden glow now seemed harsh, casting sharp angles across the oak surface. The orders to San Diego lay beside her, crisp and untouched since she’d opened them. They felt heavy, heavier than the polished folder should have been.

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling through her nose as she let her eyes close. Six days. In six days, she would be gone. A whole new command, a whole new city, five hours and an entire emotional gulf away from Harmon Rabb.

Her heart felt like it was caught in a vice.

Mac opened her eyes and looked around her office—the familiar bookshelves lined with case law volumes and personal mementos. The framed photographs. The worn coffee mug Harm had once stolen from the breakroom and sneakily left on her desk after she’d lost hers. Her space. Her career. Her sanctuary.

And now, she was leaving it all behind.

She reached again for her phone, tempted to try calling him one more time. But she didn’t. She knew it would be the same—straight to voicemail. No signal. No answer. And that left her with too much time to think.

What would he say when he finally got the message? Would he be happy for her? Hurt? Confused? Would he think she had accepted the assignment without telling him on purpose?

Mac rubbed her temple, her fingers brushing against the curve of her temple in slow, frustrated circles.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. That the universe would finally align? That fate would suddenly stop throwing roadblocks between them?

For so long, she’d told herself that their timing was just never right. That the Navy, their careers, the things unsaid between them—those were the barriers. But now… now she was beginning to wonder if the real problem had always been her. That maybe she’d spent so long protecting herself from disappointment that she hadn’t seen the one person who had never stopped trying to reach her.

And now he was out of reach.

She turned in her chair, facing the window that overlooked the parking lot. A dull overcast had replaced the morning’s sun, and a light drizzle had begun tapping gently against the glass. It was the kind of day that invited reflection. Regret.

Her voice had been calm when she left the voicemail. Too calm. She hadn’t said what she really wanted to say. Not really. She hadn’t told him that she missed him. That she was afraid. That she didn’t want San Diego if it meant being without him.

Her hand curled into a fist on the armrest.

She needed to talk to him before she left. Not just because of the assignment. Not because it was her duty to inform him as her colleague. But because she couldn’t go on like this anymore—caught in a purgatory of what-ifs and unspoken feelings.

This time, she wasn’t going to let the moment pass her by.

If it meant flying to Whiting Field herself, she'd do it.

Mac opened the orders again, scanning the fine print. Two days’ travel. Four days’ proceed. After that, she’d be reporting in at Joint Legal Service Center Southwest. A command with her name on it.

But it wouldn’t mean anything—none of it would—if she left things with Harm unfinished.

She looked back at her phone.

Still no response.

CHAPTER 3

Naval Air Station Whiting Field – Command Center - Sometime ZULU

The stifling Florida heat pressed down on Whiting Field as the scent of damp earth and lingering salt from the storm filled the air. Inside the makeshift command center, Captain Robert Garrison sat at a battered wooden desk, typing furiously on his laptop, crafting a detailed report of their findings and recommendations for the Pentagon. A few feet away, Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. was orchestrating a whirlwind of activity over the phone, his voice steady and authoritative as he worked to cut through red tape.

Garrison’s fingers paused over the keyboard as he reviewed their key findings. The hurricane had inflicted severe structural damage to several critical facilities, with the flight line and hangars taking the brunt of the storm. The control tower had lost power, the airfield lighting system was down, and multiple training buildings had sustained roof collapses. Flooding had shorted electrical grids, leaving much of the base inoperable. The good news was that while infrastructure had been battered, the runways themselves remained intact, meaning restoration efforts could proceed with a functioning airstrip.

Their recommendations were straightforward but urgent:

1 - Immediate Deployment of Navy Seabees – With civilian power companies stretched thin, the Navy’s construction battalions needed to be mobilized to support Florida Power & Light (FPL) and Gulf Power in restoring electricity.

2 - Expedited Procurement of Materials – Essential supplies, including generators, transformers, roofing materials, and structural reinforcements, needed priority approval for shipment.

3 - Temporary Facilities for Training – As flight operations were vital to the Navy’s training pipeline, modular classrooms and temporary shelters should be established to prevent delays in pilot instruction.

4 - Prioritization of Critical Infrastructure – Restoration efforts should focus first on the control tower, flight line support buildings, and barracks housing for essential personnel.

Garrison exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples before glancing over at Rabb. The commander had switched between three different calls in the last five minutes, his tone shifting from persuasive to firm as he worked his contacts.

“I understand, but we can’t afford to wait,” Rabb said into the phone, his expression unreadable. “I know the Seabees are stretched thin, but Whiting is a priority installation. Get me Commander Doyle in Gulfport—he owes me one.”

As he waited for the call to be transferred, Garrison arched an eyebrow. “Doyle?”

Rabb shot him a small smirk. “Defended him in a dereliction of duty case a few years back. He was nearly court-martialed over a training accident that wasn’t his fault. I got him cleared. Now, he’s in a position to return the favor.”

Garrison chuckled, shaking his head. “You really do know everyone, don’t you?”

Rabb shrugged. “You learn a few things in JAG. The trick is knowing who to call when you need to make things happen.”

A few moments later, Doyle picked up. Rabb leaned forward, his voice lowering slightly. “Doyle, it’s Rabb. I need a favor—big one.” He listened for a moment, then continued. “Whiting’s a mess. We need Seabee support ASAP to assist with power restoration and repairs. Can you pull some strings?”

Garrison watched as Rabb navigated the conversation with the ease of a seasoned negotiator, cutting through resistance and presenting solutions before problems could stall the effort. Within minutes, Doyle agreed to push the request up the chain, promising a fast-track deployment of a Seabee detachment within 48 hours.

Hanging up, Rabb immediately dialed another number, this time to Navy procurement. “Lieutenant, I need a priority shipment of construction supplies routed to Whiting Field. We’re looking at major structural repairs, and I can’t have my Seabees sitting on their hands waiting for materials. Who do I need to talk to?”

Garrison leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he observed. In the span of half an hour, Rabb had set into motion what would have taken days through normal channels. It wasn’t just his connections; it was his persistence, his ability to read a situation, and his willingness to push until he got results.

Finally, Rabb hung up and exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Alright. Seabees will be here within two days, materials should start arriving by the end of the week, and FPL will have extra crews on-site by tomorrow morning.  I even got C-Spire to commit to having a go at getting the CDMA 3G towers around the base back online”

Garrison shook his head, a slow grin forming. “Cell phones!?  Commander, remind me to never bet against you in a fight.”

Rabb chuckled. “Just doing my job, Captain.”

But as Garrison looked at him, he saw more than just a capable officer. He saw a leader—one who wasn’t just effective, but invaluable.

By late afternoon the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the storm-ravaged town of Milton as Garrison and Rabb  navigated the cracked roads in an old base vehicle they had commandeered. The truck rattled as they drove past downed power lines and boarded-up windows, the scars of the hurricane still fresh.

Garrison’s stomach growled loudly, breaking the comfortable silence between them. He smirked. “Tell me we’re close, Rabb. If I go much longer without food, I might start chewing on my flight log.”

Rabb chuckled, checking the GPS on his phone. “There’s a local place up ahead—Maggie’s Grill. Looks like it’s open, despite the damage.”

When they pulled into the gravel lot, they saw that Maggie’s had taken a hit—half of its neon sign was shattered, the awning was torn, and plywood covered one of the front windows. But the warm glow inside and the smell of grilled meat wafting through the broken doorway told them all they needed to know.

Inside, the place was half-full with locals and workers—linemen from FPL, Seabees from Pensacola, and a few uniformed officers like themselves. The air buzzed with weary conversation, the kind that came after long days of hard work.

They found a table near the back, and a waitress, looking just as exhausted as the rest of them, handed them menus. “Limited selection,” she warned. “Grill’s working, but the fryer’s down. We got burgers, steak, or whatever’s left of today’s special.”

“Burgers sound perfect,” Garrison said. “Double for me.”

“Same here,” Rabb added. “And coffee—lots of it.”

As the waitress disappeared, they leaned back, letting themselves unwind for the first time all day.

“You know,” Garrison said, rolling his neck, “I don’t think I’ve stopped moving since 0600.”

Rabb smirked. “Welcome to hurricane recovery. It’s not quite combat, but it’s a battle all the same.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the hum of life around them. Then, as if following an unspoken cue, the conversation drifted from work to something more personal.

“You always been married to the job?” Garrison asked, taking a sip of water.

Rabb exhaled, considering the question. “I guess you could say that. My life’s always been tied to the Navy, one way or another.” He leaned back in his chair. “My mom, Trish, lives in La Jolla now with my stepfather, Frank Burnett. She moved around a lot when I was a kid, trying to find stabiliProlog

Lieutenant Bud Roberts, Jr., one of the senior attorneys at the Navy's Judge Advocate General (JAG) headquarters in Falls Church, Virginia, stood and watched the news feed in the bullpen with amazement.  The ZNN feed showed his mentor, former Commander Harmon “Harm” Rabb, Jr., doing what he did best, pulling off a miracle.  Somehow Harm had managed to land a C-130 on the deck of the Seahawk at night.   Bud couldn’t imagine why in the world Harm would need to do something so dangerous.   The images showed Harm walking away from the plane with a small girl on his shoulder.   Beside Bud, Lt. Colonel Sarah "Mac" MacKenzie, senior attorney and Chief Of Staff at JAG, watched as well, with a knowing smirk on her face.   “Only Harm could have pulled that off”, she thought to herself.  She couldn’t remember the last time she and seen his full megawatt fly-boy smile but there it was now on TV for all to see.  But underneath the smile she could tell Harm was tired.  “Oh my, on TV!  What’s the CIA going to think about that?”, Mac wondered.   Across the bullpen, Rear Admiral Albert Jethro“A.J.” Chegwidden, Navy Judge Advocate General, and Commander Sturgis Turner, another senior attorney,watched as well.  A.J. turns to Turner, and says “I don’t think that stunt will end well for Rabb.”  Turner nods in agreement as A.J. turns on his heal and heads back to his office wondering again how he was going to solve his lawyer shortage with Rabb gone.

Chapter 1

Harm sat across from Harrison Kershaw, the CIA Director, seething with anger. He had just returned from Libya, where he had completed a successful mission to pull an agent out of the country. Sure, he had been seen on ZNN, but he had saved the mission, getting the agent back safe and sound. And yet, Kershaw was berating him as if he had failed.

Kershaw was a stern man with piercing blue eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. He had called Harm to his office for a debriefing following  mission in Libya. Harm knew that Kershaw was angry about the slip-up that had caused Harm to be inadvertently shown on ZNN.

"I did what I had to do to get that agent out of there, sir," Harm said through gritted teeth. "I made a split-second decision to modify the mission and get the agent's family out as well. And I still managed to avoid detection by the Libyan authorities."

Kershaw's face remained stoic. "That's not good enough, Mr. Rabb. Your actions have put this entire agency at risk. And being IDed on national television? That's just unforgivable."

Harm could feel his blood boiling. He had risked his life to pull off an incredible feat of flying, landing a damaged C-130 Hercules on the deck of the USS Seahawk, and yet Kershaw was focused on a few seconds of footage on ZNN.

Harm replies frustrated, “Unforgivable? This mission had no backup plans!  So I landed a C-130 with no brakes on the deck of an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Mediterranean at night. I risked my life to get that agent and his family out of Libya.”

Kershaw responds sarcastically, “Yes, you certainly did a great job of drawing attention to yourself in the process. Do you have any idea how much damage control we've had to do since your little stunt?”

Harm tries to change tact and apologetically says, “Sir, I understand that my actions may have put the agency at risk, and I'm willing to take responsibility for that. But I did what I had to do to complete the mission.”

“That's not good enough, Mr. Rabb.”, Kershaw says, “You're a liability to this agency now. We'll have to seriously consider when and if we can use you in the future.”

Harm's heart sinks as he realizes the gravity of the situation. He had always prided himself on his flying while at CIA, but now it seemed that flying might not be enough.

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Harm responds, resigned.

The CIA director nods curtly and stands up, signaling the end of the debriefing. Harm rises from his seat and makes his way to the door, his mind racing with why he always catches shit for doing the right thing.

Later that day

Golfcourse

The sun was setting on the golf course, casting long shadows across the green grass. Harm approached Allen Blaisdell, his boss at the CIA, with a dark expression on his face. The last time he had seen Blaisdell was when he briefed Harm and Commander Beth O’Neil on the mission to extract Saed Labdouni from Lybia.

Blaisdell was standing at the bar, nursing a glass of scotch. Harm greeted Blaisdell with a nod and sat down beside him. "What's the occasion?" Harm asked, as he ordered a drink for himself. Blaisdell looked at him with concern. "I just wanted to check in on you. You look like you've been through a lot, Harm. I heard about your recent mission on the USS Seahawk. How was it?"

Harm took a swig of his drink before answering. "It was a nightmare. We barely made it out alive. But we managed to land the C-130 and save those refugees."

Blaisdell nodded, but Harm could see a glint of unease in his eyes. "There's something else, isn't there?" Harm said, sensing that Blaisdell was about to deliver some bad news.

Blaisdell took a deep breath before speaking. "The thing is, Harm, you were filmed by a TV crew while you were carrying that little girl off the plane. That's a clear violation of CIA regulations. I'm sorry, but I have to let you go."

Harm felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Fired again? Are you kidding me?"

Blaisdell shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harm. I wish there was another way."

Harm clenched his fists in anger. "You know what? This is just like JAG and you are no better than Chegwidden!  I saved people lives and what do I get for my trouble?  I got thrown under the bus. You people don't give a damn about anything except your own damn rules."

Blaisdell looked uneasy, but Harm could see that he was standing firm. "I'm sorry, Harm. But rules are rules. We can't have our agents being filmed by the media."

Harm felt a surge of rage. "You know what? I'm sick of all this bullshit. I risk my life out there, and for what? So I can get fired every time I do something heroic? I'm done with this. I'm done with all of it."

He stood up from the bar and walked away from Blaisdell, seething with anger and frustration. As he left the golf course, he felt like his life was spiraling out of control. Once again, he had been betrayed by the very institution he had sworn to protect. He knew that he was going to have to find a new path, but he had no idea where to go from here. All he knew was that the darkness was closing in, and there was no escape.

The Next Day

CIA Langley

The next day Harm’s was summonsed to Langley for his exit process.  Harm stormed out of the exit interview, still fuming at the injustice of his situation. He couldn't believe that he was getting fired from the CIA, just like he had been forced to resign from the Navy to save Mac on that disastrous mission with Clayton Webb. It seemed like every time he did the right thing, he ended up paying the price.

As he walked through the CIA headquarters, he couldn't help but think of Catherine Gale, the CIA analyst who he had “married” when she thought her mother was terminal so he could get the details of Mac’s whereabouts.  He shook his head in frustration at the thought of that little adventure.  Absently he wondered, how much more “follow through” did he need to do before Mac realized the lengths he would go to for her.

As he made his way to the exit, he was stopped by a familiar face. It was Clayton Webb, the CIA spy who had caused him so much trouble in the past. Harm felt a surge of anger at the sight of him.

"What are you doing here, Webb?" Harm spat.

Webb held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I just wanted to say goodbye, Harm. I heard you're leaving the CIA."

Harm glared at him. "Yeah, thanks to you and your damn mission in Paraguay I’m out on my ass again."

Webb looked contrite. "I know I messed up, Harm. I've been trying to make it up ever since."

Harm scoffed. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Look, I don't have time for this. I've got to get out of here before I lose my temper."

Webb nodded. "I understand. Good luck, Harm."

Harm didn't respond as he stormed past him and headed for the exit. He couldn't wait to get out of this place.

As he approached the security checkpoint, he was stopped by a young agent. "I'm sorry, sir. You can't take that with you," she said, pointing to his CIA badge.

Harm sighed in resignation and handed over the badge. He watched as the agent deactivated it and placed it in a bin.

"Goodbye, Mr. Rabb," she said with a smile.

Harm didn't respond as he walked through the metal detector and out into the bright sunshine. He took a deep breath of fresh air and felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

As he walked to his car, he couldn't help but think of all the good he had done for the CIA, and yet he was being fired for being seen. He was angry at the agency for not recognizing his contributions and for treating him like a liability.

But as he drove away from the CIA headquarters, he knew that he was done with the agency for good. He would find a way to make a difference on his own terms, but right now he just wanted to forget everything and everybody.  Harm pointed his car towards Benzinger's.

BenZinger’s Bar

Harm sighed and took another swig of his drink, staring into the amber liquid as if it held the answers to all his problems. He had been at Benzinger's for over an hour now, nursing his drink and trying to figure out what to do next. He wasn't ready to face the real world just yet, but he knew he couldn't stay holed up in his apartment forever.

As he sat there lost in thought, a familiar voice interrupted his reverie.

"Hey, isn't that Harmon Rabb?" Sturgis Turner said as he walked into the bar and spotted Harm sitting alone.

Harm turned to see his old friend and former colleague from JAG, Sturgis Turner, approaching him. "Sturgis, hey," Harm said, trying to hide his surprise at seeing him there.

"Long time no see, buddy. Mind if I join you?" Sturgis asked, pulling up a chair.

Harm shook his head, and Sturgis sat down, ordering a beer from the bartender. "So, what brings you here?" Harm asked.

Sturgis took a sip of his beer before answering. "Just finished up a case, thought I'd come in for a drink. What about you? Last I heard, you were working for the CIA."

Harm took a sip of his drink before answering Sturgis's questions. "Yeah, I got fired," he said, setting the glass down on the counter. "I don't want to talk about it."

Sturgis raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to talk about it? Since when do you keep secrets from me, Harm?"

"It's not a secret, I just don't want to relive it," Harm said, his tone clipped.

Sturgis nodded, recognizing the note of anger in Harm's voice. "I get it. But what about the C-130 incident? What happened there?"

Harm sighed heavily. "Long story short, I had to make a choice between following orders or doing what I knew was right. I chose the latter, and the consequences were… not great."

“Yeah, I saw the coverage on ZNN.   That can’t mix well with field work”, Sturgis replied.

Harm shook his head in agreement.  "I'm sorry, Harm," Sturgis said, laying a hand on his friend's arm. "That must have been tough."

"It was," Harm said, his eyes distant. "But what's done is done."

Sturgis nodded, sensing Harm's reluctance to talk about the incident any further. "So, what's next for you?

“I haven't really decided yet. Maybe I'll start my own law practice. Maybe I'll take a job as a private investigator. Who knows.", Harm responds.

Sturgis leaned in. "You know, you could always talk to Admiral Chegwidden about getting your old job back. The case load is so bad with you gone he’s bring in Carolyn Imes to help out."

Harm shook his head. "Carolyn Imes, that’s rich!  Look Sturgis, I could never work for a man who had so little respect for me and who would leave one of his own to die on a mission he OKed."

Sturgis's eyes widened in surprise. "Leave someone to die? What are you talking about?"

Harm hesitated, but the weight of his anger and frustration was too great to keep inside any longer. "Look Strugis, I can’t go into details, but you’re a smart guy.   I didn’t resign my commission so I could go off somewhere and get a sun tan.  Chegwidden knew something had gone south, but he wasn’t doing anything to help one of his people in trouble. He just left that person out there to rot.  That’s all I can say, the rest is classified.  You’re an investigator, you can piece the rest together on you own."

Sturgis sat silent for a minute and looking stunned. "I had no idea, Harm. I'm sorry."

Harm shrugged. "It's not your fault."

Sturgis nodded in understanding. "I hear you. But just think about it, okay? You're too good of a lawyer to waste your talent."

Sturgis looked at Harm with concern. "Harm, you’re going to have to put this behind you. You need to move on."

Harm looked at Sturgis, his expression unreadable. "I know. But it's hard."

Sturgis put a hand on Harm's shoulder. "I get it. But you're one of the best lawyers I know, and you could make a real difference at JAG."

Harm didn’t respond so Sturgis continued, "Think about it, okay? If you do decide to go back to JAG, I'll be there for you. And I'm sure the Admiral would be willing to hear you out."

Harm smiled weakly. "Thanks, Sturgis. I appreciate it."

Harm nodded slowly, still lost in thought. Sturgis finished his beer and stood up. "I've got to get going, but call me if you need anything, okay?"

Harm nodded again and watched as Sturgis walked out of the bar. As he sat there alone, he knew that Sturgis was right. He needed to start moving forward and stop dwelling on the past. But he didn't know where to begin.

Union Station

That night Harm drug himself up the stairs to his apartment, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. As he opened the door, he was hit with a wave of emptiness. The refrigerator was empty, and he had no food. He realized that he had been too caught up in his work at the CIA to take care of himself.

He made his way to the bathroom, the sound of the shower calling to him. As the warm water cascaded over his body, he couldn't help but think about everything that had happened. Being fired from the CIA, the memories of his time in Paraguay with Sarah, and the betrayal he felt from JAG.

He was still angry with Mac for what had happened in Paraguay and for dating Clayton Webb, and he couldn't bear the thought of her reaching out to him. He needed space and time to sort out his emotions.

As he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, he dried himself off and made his way into the living room.  There he noticed the answering machine blinking with a red light. He pressed the button and sat down on the couch, as the machine began to play Sarah's messages.

"Hey, Harm. It's Mac. I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing. I heard about what happened on the Seahawk, You looked tired Harm and I wanted to make sure you're okay. Ok, call me back."

The messages continued, each one more desperate than the last. Sarah was trying to reach out to him, but Harm didn't want to hear it. He deleted the messages, one by one, until there were none left.

As Harm sat there, his thoughts drifted back to Mac. He had loved her for years, and if he was being honest with himself, he loved her ever since they first met at JAG. He had resigned his commission from the Navy to go to Paraguay and find her. He wanted to tell her how he felt, to finally let her know that he loved her.

But everything had spiraled out of control. He had seen Sarah kiss Clayton Webb, and he felt like he had lost everything. He had always known that Sarah and Clayton had a complicated relationship, but seeing it with his own eyes had been too much.

When they returned to Washington he had thrown himself into his work at the CIA, hoping to forget about Mac and everything else. But he knew that he couldn't run from his problems forever.

As he sat there in his empty apartment, he realized that he still loved Sarah. Despite everything that had happened, he couldn't help but feel drawn to her. He didn't know what he would do if she ever showed up at his door, but he knew that he couldn't keep running from his feelings forever.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus on the present, on finding a way to move forward. He couldn't keep dwelling on the past and what could have been.

With a deep sigh, he stood up and made his way to the kitchen. He knew that he needed to take care of himself, to start eating properly and taking care of his body.  But as he looked around the fridge, he saw that it was just as empty as his apartment. There was nothing, no life, nothing that could make it feel like a home. It was just a place to sleep, a place to escape from the rest of the world.

Harm returned to the couch, feeling lost and alone. He knew that he needed to get away, to put all of this behind him. He thought about flying to some exotic location, or maybe just driving until he hit the ocean. He needed to find a place where he could start over, where he could forget about all of his troubles.

But for now, he decided to stay at his apartment and try to make the best of it. He needed time to think, to process everything that had happened. Maybe tomorrow he would start packing for a new adventure, but for tonight, he just needed some rest.

Soon however His feeling of hunger returned.  Harm left his apartment and got into his car, heading towards the Chinese restaurant down the street. As he drove, he couldn't help but think about his options. Maybe he could find a new job as a lawyer, although he wasn't sure if he was ready to go back to that kind of work. Maybe he could try his hand at flipping houses, or something else entirely.

He even considered going to San Diego to visit his parents, Trish Burnett and Frank. He hadn't seen them in a while, and he knew that they would be happy to see him. But he wasn't sure if he was ready to face them yet. He didn't know how to explain what had happened with the CIA, or how he had lost his way.

He pushed the thoughts aside and focused on his hunger, eagerly anticipating the Vegetable Delight he would soon be devouring. When he returned to the apartment, he sat at the small kitchen table and ate his food, savoring the flavors.

After eating, he checked his mail for bills and other important documents. He was exhausted from the events of the past few days and desperately needed sleep. He knew that he needed to make a decision about his future soon, but for now, he just needed rest.

He changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed, the exhaustion overwhelming him. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help but wonder what the future held for him. But he knew that he couldn't think about that right now. For now, he needed to rest and gather his strength for whatever came next.

Harm was sound asleep, but his dreams were anything but peaceful. In his first dream, he was once again trying to land the C-130 on the Seahawk. But this time, he overshot the landing and crashed into the sea, leaving him, Beth, the agent they rescued and his family helpless and drowning.

In his next dream, he saw the faces of everyone he had killed while working for the CIA, haunting him with their accusing eyes and silent screams.

But it was his final dream that shook him to his core. He was back in Paraguay, and he had found Sarah McKenzie tied to a table, being tortured by one of Sadik's terrorist henchmen. She was being shocked with a car battery, and Harm desperately tried to save her, but he was too late. In his dream, Sarah died in front of him, and he was left with a sense of overwhelming guilt and despair.

Harm woke up with a start, sweat pouring down his face. He realized it was all just a nightmare, but the images were still fresh in his mind. He got up, trying to calm himself down, and went to the kitchen to get a drink of whiskey. As he sipped his drink trying desperately to clam his nerves, he realized that he needed to be with his family. He couldn't face his demons alone anymore.

After a few minutes, Harm made a decision. He would go to San Diego to see his parents. It had been a long time since he’d seen them last, and he knew they would be happy to see him. Grabbing Blackberry, Harm checked the smartphone for available flights and found an early morning departure to San Diego.  As he waited for his flight to confirm, Harm scribbled notes in a small notebook, trying to organize his thoughts and figure out what he wanted to say to his parents. He knew they would have questions about his sudden visit, and he wanted to be prepared.

He also checked his bank account to make sure he had enough funds to cover the cost of the flight and a place to stay in San Diego. He had some savings, but not much, and he knew he needed to start thinking seriously about his future career prospects.  Once his flight was confirmed, he headed back to the bedroom and quickly packed a bag, got his things in order, and set his alarm for an early morning flight.

As he lay back down to sleep, Harm's mind was a jumble of emotions - fear, anger, uncertainty - but he tried to focus on the positive. He was going to see his family, and that was something to be grateful for.  So he tried to quiet his mind and think about his next steps. He knew that he had to find a way to move forward, to make things right. But he also knew that he couldn't do it alone. He needed the support of his family.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Harm drove his sleek Lexus SUV to Washington Dulles Airport, the early morning sun barely visible above the horizon. As he drove, his mind wandered to the events that had led him to this point. He thought about Sarah MacKinzie and the painful memories of their time together in Paraguay. He wished he could go back in time, make different choices, and say different things, but he knew that was impossible.

He also thought about the Admiral's words, which still echoing in his mind. "You're not a team player, Harm. Maybe you should go wrestle alligators." It stung to hear those words, but he couldn't deny that there was some truth to them. He had always been a bit of a lone wolf when it came to taking the risks that saved other people, and that had caused him problems in the past.

But as he drove, Harm also felt a glimmer of hope. He was going to see his family, and maybe they could help him figure out his next move. He knew he needed to find a new path, something that would give him purpose and a sense of fulfillment. Maybe he could use his legal skills to help people in need, or find a new way to serve his country.

As he pulled into the airport parking lot, Harm took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay positive. He grabbed his bag and headed inside, ready to face whatever came his way.

As Harm made his way through the bustling terminal, he couldn't help but recall the conversation he had earlier that morning with his mother. Her voice was filled with joy and surprise when he told her that he was coming out to visit, and she insisted that he stay with them in their beach house in La Jolla.

Harm smiled at the memory, feeling a sense of comfort and relief at the thought of being with his family. However, he knew that there were conversations that needed to be had about his recent departure from the Navy and his time with the CIA, conversations that he wasn't looking forward to.

Despite the weight of those conversations, Harm couldn't shake the feeling of happiness that he felt knowing he would soon be with his loved ones. He made his way to the gate with a newfound sense of peace, ready to face the next chapter in his life.

Harm reached the gate and presented his ticket to the gate attendant.  He then took a seat and  waited to board the plane.  Dispite the sense of relief that washed over him as he thought about spending time with his family in La Jolla, he had to shake off the lingering feeling of unease from his nightmares the night before.  He needed to focus on the present.

As he waited, he noticed a group of three men standing in the corner of the waiting area. They tried to remain unseen, nervously scanning the crowd. Harm felt a chill run down his spine as he studied them. Something about their demeanor seemed off, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they were up to no good.

The men were dressed in dark clothing and had their faces partially obscured by hats and sunglasses, despite being indoors. They spoke in hushed tones, and their body language was tense and furtive. Harm couldn't make out what they were saying, but he had a sinking feeling that it wasn't anything good.

Harm decided to distract himself by thinking about his upcoming visit with his parents. He hadn't seen them in a long time, and he was looking forward to spending time with them. He smiled as he remembered the last time he was at their house in La Jolla, sitting on the porch with Frank overlooking the Pacific ocean, watching the waves as they crashed against the shore.

But he also knew that the visit wouldn't be all fun and games. He would have to face his past and explain things to his parents. He didn't know how they would react, but he hoped they would understand.

As the boarding call was announced, Harm gathered his things and joined the line of passengers. While he waited to board the plane, he couldn't shake off the feeling that he was being watched. He tried to dismiss the feeling as paranoia and refocus on the upcoming visit with his family. But the men's presence kept nagging at him, and he couldn't help but watch them out of the corner of his eye. Little did he know, their evil plans were about to unfold, and he would be caught in the middle of it all.

Harm sat down in the plush leather seat in the back of the first-class section of the Boeing 747-400. He gazed around the cabin, taking in the luxurious surroundings, from the crystal glasses and silver cutlery to the soft pillows and thick blankets. The wide, comfortable seat was a welcome change from the cramped coach seats he was used to flying in during his time with the Navy.

Despite the exorbitant cost of the ticket, Harm couldn't help but appreciate the extra legroom and ample space to stretch out his 6' 4" frame. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the chance to relax during the long flight.

As Harm opened his eyes, he noticed three men making their way down the aisle, looking gruff and impatient. They pushed past other passengers and were rude to the flight attendant, making Harm uneasy. He couldn't help but wonder who they were and what their business on the flight was.

They were dressed in dark clothes and had tense expressions on their faces. One of them was bald and had a scar above his left eyebrow, while the other two had long beards and looked like they hadn't slept in days. Harm tried to ignore them and focused on his magazine, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

The flight attendant came by and asked if he needed anything to drink. Harm ordered a scotch and soda, hoping that it would calm his nerves. As the flight attendant walked away, he noticed the three men glaring at him. Harm quickly looked back down at his magazine, pretending not to notice.  He flipped through the pages of a travel magazine, trying to distract himself from his racing thoughts. As the plane taxied towards the runway, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping the flight would be uneventful.

Soon the plane started to taxi down the runway, and Harm felt the familiar sensation of takeoff. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Thankfully, the jumbo jet continued its climb to 32,000 feet.   Harm was just starting to relax when the plane settled into its cruising altitude and the pilot turned off the seat belt sign.  Suddenly, Harm felt a jolt, followed by the sound of commotion from the front of the plane. His eyes flew open and he saw the three gruff men from earlier rush towards the cockpit.

Harm's heart raced as he watched one of the men pull out a gun and he quickly realized what was happening. The three men were hijackers and Harm sat briefly frozen, watching in horror as the terrorists took control of the plane. He couldn't believe what he was seeing - this was something he had only seen in movies. The man with the gun pointed it at the flight attendant, demanding that she open the cockpit door. The other two men started to move towards the front of the plane, looking for something. The flight attendants tried to stop them, but they overpowered them with ease.  In just a few seconds, two of the men had produced a small IED quickly blew open the locked door.   Then numerous shots were fired as the cockpit was sprayed with bullets.  

Judging from the screams coming from the cockpit and the way the plane was being tossed about, it was clear the flight crew had just met an unfortunate end.  It seemed like 9/11 was happening all over again.  Harm knew that he had to act quickly to save himself and the other passengers. Without hesitation he unbuckled his seat belt and stood up. In a rage fueled by the months with the CIA he  lunged at one of the hijackers, tackling him to the ground.   Looking around for something to use as a weapon, he  found a nearby briefcase and quickly dispatched the hijacker beneath him.   Harm couldn’t celebrate his victory however, as a second hijacker turned fromm the cockpit to find his associate’s head flattened against the 747’s floor.  The scared hijacker wielded his gun towards Harm’s head when suddenly a fellow passenger brandishing a stainless steel coffee pot swung it in a blured arc and collided it with the hijackers already marred face.  The man was caught off guard and stumbled back. Harm took the opportunity to grab the gun from the man's hand and point it him. "Get down!" he shouted, hoping that someone would come to his aid.  To his relief a Sky Marshall appeared overpowering and incapacitating the terrorist.

With his own handgun drawn the Sky Marshall made his way to the flight desk, Harm following closely behind. Upon entering the Sky Marshall quickly aimed and dispatched the remaining hijacker with a single marksman like shot to the invader’s head.  As the hijacker slumped over the 747’s control yoke, Harm could feel the jumbo jet plane start to go into a dive, lifting those who were standing off the floor and into the air.  He knew instantly that he had to stop the dive before it was too late.  

Harm managed to right himself and he struggled to get the dead terrorist out of the pilot’s seat.  The Sky Marshal quickly recovered as well.  He pointed his gun at Harm’s head and shouted for Harm to stand aside.  But Harm didn’t relent and he yelled that he was a former Naval fighter pilot as well as a C-130 pilot for  government and that he could fly the plane.  Pausing only a second, the burly Sky Marshall considered his options and then relented, trusting Harm and helping Harm into the pilot’s seat.

Harm’ could help but to think back three years prior when he climbed into the left seat of another 747…

<flashback>

Harm's palms were slick with sweat as he wrestled with the controls of the massive 747. The wind was howling,as he dropped the landing gear to slow the plane causing the North Korean MIGs to overshoot.  He had never flown anything this big before, but he knew as the MIGs came around again and position themselves for another shot that he had to do something bring the jumbo down safely. Harm heard the US Air Force pilot yell, “Missiles inbound,  break hard left now!” and he gritted his teeth forcing the Queen Of The Skies into a hard left bank.   Despite the flares released by the F-15s and Harm’s evasive maneuvers, chaff from the exploding North Korean missile set the 747’s number three engine on fire.  

After stabilizing the big jet, Harm quickly pulled the number three fire-handle shutting down the engine and extinguishing the fire.  Safe for the moment the F-15s escorted Oceanic Flight 105 back to South Korea and Harm hoped he could land this buss.  When they approached the Air Force base , the Air Force ATC guided Harm in as he re-lowered the landing gear.

As he looked out of the cockpit window, he could see the runway stretching out in front of him. It was illuminated by the bright lights of the airport, but Harm knew that they were coming in too fast. The plane was hurtling towards the ground like a missile, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

"Come on, baby," he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening on the controls. He was sweating buckets, but he refused to give up.  He was coming in too hot, and the plane was shaking with the force of the descent. It felt like he was riding a roller coaster, hurtling towards the ground with no brakes.

Finally, the wheels hit the runway with a bone-jarring thud. Harm could feel his teeth rattling in his head as he fought to maintain control of the plane. He deployed the brakes and brought the plane to a stop, his heart racing with adrenaline.

The air traffic controller's voice crackled over the radio, congratulating him on a successful landing. Harm couldn't believe it - he had done it! He had landed the 747 like a pro, even with all the odds stacked against him.

As he looked out of the cockpit window, he could emergency vehicles descend upon the on them.  The night air was electric with excitement, and Harm couldn't help but grin from ear to ear.  Despite Mac’s crack about taking a boat next time, he had never felt more alive than in that moment, when he had been flying the massive 747 and bringing it safely to the ground.

Harm leaned back in his seat and let out a whoop of triumph, his heart pounding with excitement. He knew that there would be more challenges ahead, but for now, he was content to bask in the glory of a successful landing.

<end flash back>

…..Harm hoped to pull of another Miracle this time.

As Harm took control of the plane, he could feel the immense weight of responsibility on his shoulders.  The cockpit was in shambles and he had to rely on his basic Navy flight training as he worked stabilize the aircraft.  He pulled back on the yoke with all his strength, gritting his teeth as he fought to level out the plane. The passengers in the cabin screamed as the plane shuddered and bucked, but Harm refused to give up. He had to keep the plane in the air, no matter what. Finally, he felt the plane start to level out, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately the terrorists had done a number on the plane.   All five EFIS displays were down, two smashed by bullet holes and splattered with blood.  The secondary air speed indicator was also shattered by gunfire.     With only the secondary attitude indicator and altimeter still working Harm knew his biggest concern was airspeed.   If the plane flew too fast he might over stress the structure and the big jet would break apart in mid air.  If the plane flew too slow it would stall and similarly fall from the sky.   He quickly assessed the damage and realized that he needed ATC’s help.  

With shaking hands, Harm reached for the pilot’s headset only to find a bloodied and tattered mess.  He yelled out to the Sky Marshall to grab the co-pilots headset.   The Marshall reached over the dead co-pilot and carefully retrieved the headset.   Fortunately, this one was not damaged and he handed it to Harm.   Harm quickly placed it on his head and plugged it in.   As he keyed the mic button on the yoke he hoped the radio was still set to the proper frequency.   "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is National Flight 1745. We've had a hijacking but have regained control of the aircraft.   The flight crew is dead.   I am a former US Navy pilot and I am flying the plane. Most of our flight instruments have be shot up so we don’t have any airspeed indicator. Requesting immediate assistance, over."

The controller's voice crackled through the speakers. "National 1745, this is Indianapolis Center.   Just to confirm your are a former US Navy pilot and your flight crew is dead?  Can you please state your altitude, heading, and airspeed?"  

Harm looked down at the instruments, but they were all dead. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. "Indianapolis Center, National 1745.  My name is Harmon Rabb, I’m a former Navy pilot.   Hijackers shot up the flight deck and seized control.  Both pilots are dead.  We have regained control of the aircraft but primary flight instruments have been destroyed.   We only have the secondary attitude indicator and altimeter working. Please tell me my airspeed."

The controller's voice was calm and reassuring. "Copy that, 1745. We show your ground speed at 275 knots.  We're going to need you to try and maintain altitude and head towards the nearest airport. Can you do that?"

Harm nodded to himself, feeling a glimmer of hope. "Copy that, center. We're going to do our best. Please keep talking us through this."

The controller's voice crackled over the radio, giving Harm instructions on how to steer the plane towards the nearest airport. Harm gripped the yoke tightly, sweat pouring down his face as he fought to keep the plane steady.

He could see the airport coming up in the distance, but it looked impossibly far away. The plane was shuddering and shaking, and he could feel the engines straining under the weight of the damaged aircraft. But he refused to give up.

Finally, he saw the runway coming up in the distance. It looked tiny, like a thin strip of concrete stretched out in front of them. Harm took a deep breath, feeling his heart racing in his chest.

"National 1745, this is Cincinnati approach. You're coming in too fast. Reduce your speed and maintain your current altitude."

Harm nodded, feeling his palms sweating on the yoke. He gently adjusted the throttles, trying to bring the plane's speed down. It was like trying to slow down a freight train with his bare hands, but he refused to give up.

With a sickening lurch, the plane started to lose altitude again. Harm felt his stomach drop as he fought to bring it back up. The controller's voice was urgent in his ear, guiding him through every step of the landing process.

After 20 tense minutes of maneuvering, Flight 1745 crossed the threshold of runway 36 right and Harm brought the nose of the plane down, hoping to touch down as smoothly as possible. Despite his best efforts, the plane hit the ground hard, jarring Harm's teeth in his head.  Somehow he managed to keep it from bouncing back up.  With the wheels firmly on the ground,  he heard the cheers and applause of the passengers behind him.  The engines roared as they reversed thrust and the huge 747 hurtled down the runway, slowly coming to a stop.

Harm let out a long, shuddering breath, feeling the weight of the world lift off his shoulders.  The passengers erupted into cheers and applause, grateful to be on solid ground.   "Flight 1745, Cincinnati Tower. You did a great job. We're sending emergency services to your location now”.  “Copy that Tower, we are all breathing again here.   Thank you for all the help.”, he replied.  he continued to communicate with the tower, receiving instructions on the best way to shut down the aircraft.

Once the plane was safe Harm looked over at Sky Marshall, a small smile of satisfaction forming on his face.  "We did it," he said. "We got them safely to the ground. My name is Harm by the way." The  Marshall nodded his own relief evident on his face, “Tim Jackson”.

Chapter 3

As the passengers disembarked from the 747, they flocked around Tim and Harm, many of them taking out their smartphones to capture the heroic Marshall and pilot who had saved their lives. Harm was grateful for the appreciation, but he was also eager to get on with the next steps of the process. He made his way down the staircase, feeling the weight of exhaustion and adrenaline weighing heavily on him.

Airport security was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, and they escorted him to the terminal building for debriefing. The FBI was the first to interview him, peppering him with questions about the events that had transpired on the plane. Harm recounted the events as best he could, grateful for his military training that helped him stay calm and focused throughout the ordeal.

Once the FBI was done with their interview, the NTSB came in, asking Harm about his background the, the damage to the cockpit, and how he got the 747 safely down . Again Harm did his best to answer the questions, but he was feeling more and more drained by the minute.

Finally, the interviews were over, but Harm was informed that he should check into the Airport hotel for the night.   The FBI and NTSB would follow up with him in the morning.  He was the released back out into the airport, but he was met with a swarm of reporters waiting for him with cameras and microphones, all clamoring for his attention and looking for the next big scoop. Harm knew better than to engage them so he refused to answer and made his way to the airport Marriott. He was exhausted and he simply wanted to get to his room and make arrangements to resume his trip to his parents house.

As the day wore on, the news spread about the heroic pilot who had landed a damaged 747. The passengers continued to share their videos and pictures of Harm, and the public hailed him as a hero. But for Harm, the experience had taken its toll, and he was grateful to finally make his way to a hotel room, eager to put the events of the day behind him and move on with his life.

Mac was making her way from her office to the break room when she noticed a group of officers watched the news of the hijacked 747 on ZNN in the JAG Headquarters bullpen. She recognized the hero of the hour, her former JAG partner Harm, looking handsome as ever but also looking tired and worn out. She hoped he was okay, but she knew that they were no longer on speaking terms since Admiral Chegwidden unceremoniously confirmed that Harm’s separation papers had been processed, effectively firing Harm from JAG.

As she continued to watch, Admiral Chegwidden walked into the bullpen and over to her. Mac turned  to greet him. They exchanged pleasantries, but the tension between them was palpable. Mac was unsure of Chegwidden ever since her return from Paraguay.

The ZNN reporter on the TV announced that the man who landed the 747 was the same person who had landed the C-130 on an aircraft carrier a few days prior. Mac couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for Harm's heroic actions, despite their current situation.

Admiral Chegwidden, on the other hand, was less than thrilled. He still harbored some resentment towards Harm and was annoyed that the media was once again focused on him. Nevertheless, he knew that Harm's actions saved the lives of many, and for that, he had to give him credit.

At the Pentagon, Edward Sheffield, II,the Secretary of the Navy (SECNAV), and William Mordorman, the Chief of Naval Operations (CNO), were meeting in the SECNAV's office when they saw the breaking news story of Harm and the 747 on CNN. The reporter identified Harm as a former Navy top gun pilot who had flown F-14s, and recounted his service record with two Distinguished Flying Crosses. The reporter also noted Harm's service in the Gulf of Sidra and Somalia, along with his landing of a damaged 747 in North Korea in 2000, also mentioning the incident landing the C-130 aboard the USS Seahawk.

Edward Sheffield II was born into a prominent political family. His father was a US senator and his mother was a well-known socialite. Growing up, Sheffield was given every advantage, attending the finest schools and receiving a top-notch education. After graduating from Harvard with a degree in political science, he followed in his father's footsteps and entered politics.

In his early years in politics, Sheffield served as an aide to his father and gained valuable experience and connections. He quickly rose through the ranks and was elected to the US Senate at the young age of 35. He became known for his intelligence, sharp wit, and ability to work across party lines to achieve results.

In his second Senate term, Sheffield was appointed to the Select Committee on Intelligence, where he quickly established himself as a leader. He was a key player in the investigation of a "dirty bomb" attack that was foiled by the JAG team, and the committee's findings ultimately led to the removal of the Secretary of the Navy, Alexander Nelson.

After several successful terms in the Senate, Sheffield was appointed by the President as the new Secretary of the Navy. He brought his intelligence and political acumen to the position, leading the Navy through a challenging time of budget cuts and shifting priorities.

Despite his success, Sheffield's political opponents were always looking for ways to bring him down. His opponents accused him of being too cozy with defense contractors and criticized his handling of several high-profile Navy incidents. However, Sheffield was always able to deflect these criticisms and maintain his position of power.

Overall, Edward Sheffield, II was a shrewd and accomplished politician who had a long and distinguished career in public service. Despite his many achievements, however, he was always aware that his position was tenuous, and that his opponents were always looking for ways to take him down.

Mordorman turned to the Sheffield and asked, "How in the world did we let Rabb separate from the Navy? He's one of the most distinguished pilots we've ever had.  He’s a literally a walking Navy Poster child and the press is having a field day wondering why he isn’t an Admiral. Don’t forget he’s the pilot that that played tag with that dirty nuke and saved an entire carrier group."

The SECNAV sighed and replied, "It wasn't my decision, it was the JAG's.  Don’t forget Rabb has a checkered past.  He crashed that F-14 during a night trap while he was a Lieutenant.   He crashed another F-14 in the Atlantic in 1999.   He was accused of killing that JAG Lieutenant a few months ago.  Rabb left the Navy voluntarily to go after McKenzie on that botched CIA opp in Paraguay.   AJ had enough of Rabb and processed his separation request."

On the other hand, William Mordorman was born on May 22, 1954, at a Navy base in San Francisco. He grew up in a military family, with both his father and grandfather serving in the Navy. His family moved frequently throughout his childhood, and Mordorman attended several different schools as a result.

After graduating from high school, Mordorman attended the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. He excelled in his studies and was quickly recognized as a natural leader. Upon graduation, he was commissioned as an ensign in the Navy and began his military career.

Mordorman's early assignments were in the aviation community, and he quickly proved himself as a skilled pilot. He flew numerous missions with Patrol Squadron 42 (VP-42) at the Naval Station at Sangley Point, and later served as an instructor pilot in VP-31 at Naval Air Station Moffett Field. His expertise in aviation led to command positions in VP-45 (the Pelicans) and a Patrol Reconnaissance Wing in Hawaii.

Mordorman's career continued to advance, and he gained valuable experience on the staff of commander, Carrier Group 5 aboard USS Saratoga (CVA-60). As a flag officer, he served in a variety of positions, including Director of Air Warfare and Chief of Naval Personnel, where he oversaw recruitment and retention efforts for the Navy. He later became the Vice Chief of Naval Operations (VCNO), the second-highest-ranking officer in the Navy.

Throughout his career, Mordorman was known for his strategic thinking and leadership abilities. He was a strong advocate for increased funding for the Navy, and he played a key role in shaping the service's modernization efforts. His dedication to the Navy and its mission earned him numerous awards and decorations, including the Legion of Merit and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Despite his many accomplishments, Mordorman remained a humble and approachable leader. He was deeply committed to the welfare of his sailors and their families, and he often went out of his way to mentor young officers and sailors. His leadership style was characterized by a strong sense of integrity and an unwavering commitment to excellence, and he was widely respected throughout the Navy.

Mordorman shook his head in disbelief. "AJ hasn’t been the same since that bogus Lindsey investigation that you instigated a few years ago.   He’s held on to those people way to long and you know it.  And we both know Rabb shouldn’t have been put in that position.  He should have been ordered to Paraguay not to allowed to separate just so AJ could keep his nose clean.  AJ needs to consider retirement.”

The CNO continued, ”Besides, Rabb’s first crash was a result of misdiagnosed night blindness and the second crash was due to shoddy F-14 maintenance.  Don’t forget he’s the one who found that fatal flaw in that F-14 control system we tried back in 1996.   He earned his first DFC saving Admiral Boon with those bad eyes and his second in combat.  Then he added a Silver Star for playing tag with that dirty nuke.  Then, just months after he was acquitted following that bullshit NCIS witch hunt, he not only saved that Marine Colonel’s ass down there in Paraguay, bailing AJ out in the process, but he also took out a truck full of stingers that were in the hands of that terrorist cell while he was at it…with a goddamn Stearman biplane no less!!  We can't let someone with Rabb's experience and leadership go unused. We need to recall him to the Navy. We need to get him back in uniform!"

The Sheffield was still resistant, but the Mordorman insisted. He stated that he would put Harm on his staff, and that they could find a suitable position for him. The CNO felt that Harm was precisely the type of officer that the Navy needed in times of crisis, and that they should not let his talents go to waste.

The Sheffield relented, realizing that it would be difficult to refuse such a compelling argument. He agreed to consider recalling Harm to active duty, but only after calling Kershall over at CIA. The SecNav wanted to figure out why Rabb was on Flight 1745.  Mordorman was pleased with the decision, knowing that he could count on Harm to be a valuable asset to the Navy once again.

Chapter 4

DoubleTree by Hilton Hotel, Cincinnati International Airport 

As Harm settled into his room at the DoubleTree by Hilton Hotel just outside the airport, his mind raced with everything that had just happened. He thinks back to the moment when he took control of the plane and landed it safely, and he can barely believe that he's still alive. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins during the flight has worn off, and now he feels exhausted and sore all over.

He sat down on the bed and reached for his phone, his fingers shaking slightly. After a moment of hesitation, he dials his parents' number. His mother, Trish, picked up after a few rings.

"Hello?" she says.

"Mom, it's me," Harm says, his voice shaking slightly.

"Harm! Oh, thank God. We saw the news coverage and we were so worried about you."

"I'm okay, Mom," Harm said, trying to reassure her. "I was on the plane, but I helped to take down the hijackers and land it safely."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and then his mother's voice comes through, trembling with emotion. "Oh, Harm, we're so proud of you," she says. "Your stepfather and I were so worried when we saw the news. We didn't even know you'd left the Navy until we saw that business about the C-130 and the Seahawk the other day…."

Harm sighs, knowing that this is going to be a difficult conversation. "Yeah, I left a few months ago," he says. "I’ll tell you about it when I get out there."

There's another pause, and then his mother says, "Well, we're just glad you're okay. We'll have to talk about all of this when you get here."  Harm nods, even though his mother can't see him. "Yeah, we will," he says.

She puts his stepfather on the phone, who tells Harm he's proud of him for his bravery and quick thinking.

Frank suggests sending a private plane to pick Harm up and bring him to San Diego, but Harm insists he will be fine and that he'll catch a flight as soon as he's done with the FBI and NTSB interviews.

Frank gives the phone back to Trish, and she asks when Harm can continue out to San Diego.   Harm reassures her, "I'm planning on coming to San Diego as soon as I can. I just have to deal with the FBI and NTSB first."

"Of course," his mother says. "You take care of yourself, okay? We love you."

"I will, Mom," Harm says. "I love you too."

He hangs up the phone and leans back on the bed, feeling exhausted but grateful to be alive. He knows that he's going to have a lot of explaining to do when he sees his parents, but for now he just wants to rest and recover from everything that's happened.

Trish Burnett sat at the kitchen table in her La Jolla home, staring out the window at the Pacific Ocean. Her husband, Frank, poured two glasses of red wine and sat down across from her. They had just hung up with their son, Harm, who had survived the hijacking of Flight 1745.

"Did you hear how tired he sounded?" Trish asked, taking a sip of wine.

Frank nodded, his brow furrowed in concern. "I know, I wish we could do something to help him now."

Trish's mind wandered as she thought about what could have driven Harm to leave the Navy.  She begins to feel a sense of dread. She knows something is not right, but she can't quite put her finger on it. Frank can sense her unease and asks her what's wrong. Trish hesitates for a moment before finally speaking up.

"I don't know, Frank. It's just that... something feels off. Harm sounded exhausted, like he's been through hell. And now he's out of the Navy? I can't help but wonder if something happened that forced him out."

"I can't imagine anything that would make Harm voluntarily leave the Navy," Frank said, interrupting her thoughts.  Frank furrows his brow, his mind racing. "Do you think it could be related to that investigation the SECNAV’s office did last year that Harm told us about?" he asks, his voice low and serious.

Trish nods, her eyes wide. "It's possible. But I can't shake this feeling that there's more to it than that. And what about Sarah? She's still with the Marines, right? Why would Harm leave if she's still there?"

Frank leans back in his chair, deep in thought. "I'm not sure, Trish. I'm going to make some calls to some of my old contacts in the DOD and see if I can learn anything. Maybe they can shed some light on the situation." Trish nods,  grateful for her husband's connections. But despite his efforts, she can't shake the sense of unease that something terrible has happened to Harm and not just the things she’s seen on ZNN.  

As they finished their wine and cleared the table, Trish continued to ponder. Harm's sudden departure from the Navy and his involvement in the hijacking left more questions than answers, and she couldn't help but think there was something they were missing.  Frank asked, “Are you allright?”  Trish nodded, "Let's hope we can get some answers soon. I hate feeling so in the dark about all of this."

Mac Appt

Mac watched the evening news with a mix of relief and nostalgia. Her former partner, Harmon Rabb, had once again pulled off another miracle, this time defeating a group of hijackers and landing a damaged 747. But as the news segments played out about the hansom former Navy pilot, she couldn't help but wonder what could have been.

Mac had always admired Harm's bravery and skill as a pilot, but as she watched him on the news, she couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if things had been different. She knew she had feelings for him, but the timing had just never been right. The last few months were just another example in a long line of examples.

Sitting on the living room couch, Mac's thoughts shifted to Clayton Webb.  She had a complicated relationship with him. They had dated a couple of times after the events in Paraguay, and Mac had been drawn to him initially by his charm, wit, and intelligence. Webb had also been a comforting presence in the wake of the tragedy that occurred in Paraguay.

However, as time passed, Mac began to realize that Webb was not what he seemed. His work with the CIA involved a great deal of secrecy and deception, and he often lied to her about where he was and what he was doing. She found it difficult to trust him, and it put a strain on their relationship.

Mac had tried to make things work with Webb, but the constant lies and secrets eventually became too much to bear, and she ended the relationship. It was a painful decision, but she knew that it was the right thing to do.

Now, after seeing Harm shying away from the reporters in Cincinnati, Mac couldn't help but think about her past with him.   Mac had always felt a deep connection with Harm. Though they had both dated other people over the years, Harm had always been there for her.  Seeing him in action today reminded her of what she loved about him. His courage, his determination, and his unwavering loyalty to his friends. When Harm resigned his commission to save her in Paraguay, Mac thought it was a sign that he loved her. But under the stress of the mission they both said things that should have gone unsaid.  Then she had blurted out “never”, and once they returned to Washington Harm joined the CIA, and they had lost touch.  

As she sat there contemplating she rewound what she had just heard in her own head.  “…what she loved about him…” “…she loved about him…”  She loved him.  Now, she began to consider whether she had been wrong when she told Harm that having a romantic relationship with him was impossible.

Was he just a friend or was there more?  Was he even a friend anymore?   She had left him nearly 20 messages over the last several weeks and he hadn't responded to even one of them.  Then she remembered the news stream from a few days earlier.  Her former partner had once again pulled off a daring rescue mission, this time landing that damaged C-130 on the USS Seahawk.   Even as she watched him carry the little Libyan girl on his shoulder, she couldn’t help but notice that he looked tired.   The news feeds today only confirmed her suspicions. Harm looked absolutely exhausted as he tried to avoid the sea of reporters at Cincinnati Airport, perhaps more tired than she had ever seen him.  Could it just be that he hadn’t had the opportunity to respond to her?

As her mind continued to contemplate, her thoughts returned to Paraguay and the little hotel room there. “You did it for me?”, she had asked shocked at the revelation that Harm had resigned his commission to come to Paraguay to look for her.  Rabb responded the way he often did when confronted with a question about their relationship, with only a knowing look. Then later while lying in that tiny bed she asked, “Riddle me this flyboy, why?”  Again what she got back is another classic Harm diversion tactic, “I think you know why.”  But then came the awful conversation that followed, with all his snarky remarks.  She just began to assume he simply did it out of loyalty to her as a friend and co-worker.

But what if she was wrong?  She remembered saying, “It was nice to have somebody state his intentions.”  What if resigning his commission and coming to Paraguay was Harm’s way of stating his intentions?   Now that she thought about it, he surely had shown how much he was willing to do to follow through.  Mac realized she had said it herself, “You gave up your commission, traveled 5000 miles to find me, and damn near got killed”  Could it be that he did love her, but was just too insecure to say it?   And because of that, instead of saying the words he displayed his jealousy?  

Despite all of Harm’s favorable qualities, he could say some really nasty things to her.  Thinking of those times Sarah began to tie them all together.  They all came when she was involved with other men.   They all came at a time when all Harm had to do was say the words and she would be his.  But instead of saying what she longed to hear, he would give her some cryptic signal.  She on the other hand would think that he doesn’t feel the same way as she does and the cycle would repeat.  But what if he had said "I love you" in that hotel room would she have had any doubt?   The man had given up nearly everything to come save her, so if he had told her he loved her she would have had no reason to doubt it. So given the actions behind the words did he need to say them at all?

Mac tried to look at it from Harm’s perspective. “Maybe he’s afraid you don’t feel the same?”, she asked herself.   “After all, I’ve never said the words to him either”, she thinks.  “If I were Harm, and I told him I didn’t feel the same after he professed his love for me, it would devastate me!”  The revelation was so powerful yet so simple.  After all these years how could she have missed it?  Could it be that despite all his confidence and bravery he was just too scared to tell her he loved her?  Then she remember something else he had said in the past when she asked, “Are you only this way with me?”  OMG, she thought as she remembered his answer, “Only with you.”

Maybe it was time for her to put on her big girl pants and take control of her relationship with Harm. Maybe it was time for her to tell him how she felt and see where it led. 

As Mac considered her options ZNN droned on in the background. “Welcome to Breaking News on ZNN, I'm your anchor, John Matthews. Before we return to our top story lets take a look at other aviation news.  Today we have some alarming news coming out of Blacksburg, Virginia. Grace Aviation, a local aviation company run by a 14-year-old minor named Mattie Grace Johnson, has been shut down by the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA).

The FAA investigation found shoddy maintenance practices at the aviation company after a near-fatal incident involving a crop-duster and some power lines. The incident has sparked concerns about the safety of the company's operations and prompted the FAA to take action against the company.

But that's not all. There is a warrant out for Thomas Johnson, Mattie father, who was in charge of the company's operations. He is being sought for embezzlement, drunk driving, and child endangerment. Johnson has been accused of putting the lives of both his employees and customers at risk by allowing unsafe practices at the company.

As a result of the investigation, Mattie Grace Johnson has been taken into custody by the Blacksburg Department of Child Protective Services. Her relatives are currently traveling to take custody of her, as she will not be allowed to return to the aviation company.

This incident has raised serious concerns about the regulation and safety of small aviation businesses. The FAA has stated that they will be increasing their inspections of small aviation companies across the country to ensure that similar incidents do not occur in the future.

We will continue to monitor this developing story and bring you the latest updates as they become available. When ZNN returns, more on our top news story.  How did the hijackers of National Flight 1745 get a gun and an IDE aboard the plane?”

Mac got off the couch and shut off the TV, she couldn't help but think that she had to do something.  Calling Harm and leaving messages hadn’t worked.   Besides, he wasn’t home to hear them.  She couldn’t call or text him as she no longer knew his mobile number.   She couldn’t email him because she couldn’t get through to his CIA address.  Maybe she needed to approach this the old fashioned way, with a letter.

Deciding on this approach,Mac walked over to her desk, taking out a pen and a piece of paper. She sat down and began to write, her heart pounding in her chest.

Dear Harm,

I know that we haven't talked in a while, and I'm sorry if I've been distant. I just wanted to say that I miss you, and I think about you all the time. Watching you on the news today made me realize how much I care about you.

I know we've had our ups and downs, and I've said things that I regret. But I want you to know that I love you. I always have, and I always will.

I don't know what the future holds for us, but I hope we can at least be friends again. I’m hoping letting you know how I feel will empower you to tell me how you feel.  And if you feel the same maybe we can  where things go from her

Please call me back when you have a chance.

Love,

Mac

As she read over the letter, tears streamed down her face. She knew that this was a risky move, but she had to take the chance. She couldn't keep her feelings bottled up any longer.

Mac folded the letter and put it in an envelope.  But where to send it?   Harm was clearly not in Washington.  After the C-130 incident she doubted he would be on assignment with the CIA any time soon. “Where was he going?”, she wondered aloud.  She tried to recall some of the endless details ZNN was reporting on the events of the day.  One thing that struck her was it was reported that Harm had been sitting in the first class section of the 747 when he sprang into action and disabled a hijacker with a briefcase.  

One thing that Webb had complained about during one of their dates was that “the company” never sprang for first class tickets.  From this Mac inferred that Harm was not on CIA business at the time.  Next she checked the internet to find the details National Flight 1745.  It had departed Dulles International Airport non-stop for San Diego International Airport.  San Diego, she wondered, “Why was he going to San Diego?”  Again, she thought back to the first class ticket.   Harm wouldn’t spring for a first class ticket unless he had to.  “Why would he have to buy a first class ticket”, she vexed.  Maybe he bought the ticket last minute?  Deducing the flight was not business related and assuming that he bought the ticket last minute left Mac with the conclusion that Harm was flying for personal reasons.   “So if he was flying for personal reasons, why go to San Diego?”, she asked herself.  After a second of contemplation, the light went on.  “To see his parents!”, she said out loud.

She knew it was a long shot but she also knew this couldn’t wait until Harm returned to Washington.   Taking a chance, she looked up the address of Trish and Frank Burnett in La Jolla CA.  She addressed the envelope to Harmond Rabb, c/o Trish and Frank Burnett, 1234 Seaside Drive, La Jolla, CA 92037. She grabbed her coat and headed out the door, determined to get to the post office and send the letter priority mail.

She grabbed her coat and headed out the door.  As she walked down the street, she couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness in her stomach. She had no idea how Harm would react to her letter, but she knew that she had to take the chance.

ty after my dad went MIA in Vietnam.”

Garrison nodded, having read about Harmon Rabb Sr.—the decorated aviator who disappeared behind enemy lines. “That must’ve been tough.”

“Yeah,” Rabb admitted, a distant look in his eyes. “Spent most of my life searching for answers. Thought I could find him. Turns out, I was a little late.”

Garrison had heard the classified whispers—that Rabb had tracked down his father’s final fate in Russia. But he didn’t press.

“And your mom? She doing okay?”

Rabb smiled slightly. “Yeah. She found happiness with Frank. He’s a good guy. Different from my father, but solid. They live near the ocean, enjoy retirement. She’s always worried about me, but that’s what mothers do.”

Garrison nodded approvingly. “Sounds like a good family.”

Rabb swirled his coffee, staring at the dark liquid for a moment before Garrison asked the inevitable. “What about you? Wife? Girlfriend?”

A pause. Then, Rabb shook his head with a small smirk. “No wife, no girlfriend.”

Garrison raised an eyebrow. “That sounded more complicated than it should.”

Rabb sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “There was someone. Still is, I guess.” He hesitated, Mac’s face flashing through his mind. “But chain of command issues got in the way.”

Garrison studied him for a moment, then nodded knowingly. “Ah. One of those situations.”

Rabb huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. One of those.”

Before Garrison could pry further, the waitress returned with their food. The smell of sizzling beef and toasted buns made them both forget conversation for a moment as they dug in.

As they ate, Garrison made a mental note. 

The plates between them were nearly empty, only a few fries and crumbs left as the conversation turned. Harm leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “Alright, Garrison. I gave you my life story—your turn.”

Garrison smirked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You sure you want to hear it? It’s not as polished as yours.”

Harm chuckled. “Considering the last few days, I think I can handle a little rough around the edges.”

Garrison exhaled, glancing around the dimly lit diner before settling his gaze on his water glass. “Alright. Born and raised in Norfolk, Virginia. My old man was a Navy chief—hard as nails, but fair. He expected a lot out of me, but he never handed me anything. If I wanted something, I earned it.”

Harm nodded. “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Garrison took a sip of water. “I always knew I wanted to fly. Something about the way those jets would scream over the harbor when I was a kid—it just stuck. Earned an NROTC scholarship to UVA, studied aerospace engineering, and somehow managed not to piss off too many professors along the way.” He smirked. “Well, most of them.”

Harm grinned. “Let me guess—authority issues?”

Garrison let out a short laugh. “Something like that. I’ve never been good at playing politics. I call things the way I see them, which doesn’t always sit well with the brass.” He leaned forward. “Anyway, got my commission, went to flight school, and landed in VF-151 flying Phantoms. Damn good bird. Eventually transitioned to the Tomcat and spent most of my career in the Pacific.”

Harm nodded. “VF-151—that’s Carrier Air Wing Five, right? Out of Japan?”

“Yep,” Garrison confirmed. “Spent a lot of time out there during the Cold War. Long patrols, tense encounters with the Soviets and the Chinese. You know the drill.”

Harm did. “I flew with VF-103 before I went to JAG. I know how it is.”

Garrison pointed at him. “Then you get it. There’s nothing like being out there, the smell of the flight deck, the adrenaline of a night trap… it’s in the blood.” He exhaled. “But then comes the next step—command. I got my shot with VF-103. Then moved up to CAG. That’s when things… got complicated.”

Harm saw the shift in Garrison’s expression. “Complicated how?”

Garrison rubbed his jaw. “Had a run-in with an admiral over mission priorities. We were operating in the Gulf—tense situation. I wanted to put fighters up as deterrence; he wanted to hold back. I made my case, he didn’t like the way I did it, and next thing I knew, my promotion packet was gathering dust.” He scoffed. “Turns out, being right doesn’t always count for much when you embarrass the wrong guy.”

Harm understood that all too well. “So that’s how you ended up on the Hellcat?”

Garrison nodded. “More or less. She’s a good ship, but let’s be honest—she’s on her last legs. The Navy needed someone to get her through her final deployment clean. I needed a shot at proving I still had a future.” He tapped the table. “That’s where I am now. If I screw this up, I’m done. No second chances.”

Harm studied him for a moment. He recognized the fire in Garrison’s eyes, the drive to prove himself. He had seen it in the mirror more times than he could count.

“What about family?” Harm asked. “Anyone waiting for you back home?”

Garrison hesitated, then shook his head. “Not really. Never married, no kids. Had a few serious relationships over the years, but the job always came first.” He smirked, but there was something behind it—something that hinted at regret. “I guess I was always more comfortable in a cockpit than at a dinner table.”

Harm nodded. “I get that.”

Garrison leaned back, studying him. “You know, Rabb, you’re damn good at what you do. But I gotta ask—do you ever think about what comes next? Beyond the Navy?”

Harm exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Lately, more than I used to.” He took a sip of his coffee, the taste grounding him. “I love the Navy, but sometimes… I wonder what I’m holding onto and what I’m letting slip away.”

Garrison smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got some unfinished business.”

Harm glanced at him, then out the window at the darkening sky. Mac’s face flickered in his mind.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe I do.”

Naval Air Station Whiting Field – Visitor’s Quarters - Late at night ZULU

The old ceiling fan above Harmon Rabb’s head sat motionless, doing little to ease the heat trapped inside the visitor’s quarters. With no power, there was no air conditioning. The room was a stifling cocoon of humidity and stale air, broken only by the distant chirp of insects and the occasional shuffle of boots from nearby rooms.

Harm lay shirtless on top of the thin cot, a damp towel draped across his chest. His skin glistened with sweat. The windows were open, but the night air that drifted in was warm and heavy, thick with the scent of wet pine, diesel fuel, and storm-ripped earth. It was a Southern stillness, alive with sound but devoid of comfort.

He stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

He couldn’t sleep. Not just because of the heat, but because of the quiet that now filled his life.

Mattie was gone. Back to her father in Blacksburg. The apartment in D.C. was empty now—too quiet, too still. He could still picture her things in the hallway, her sarcastic remarks echoing from the kitchen, the way she used to make fun of his old jazz collection.

Now, nothing.

It felt like he’d lost her. Maybe not permanently, but enough that it left a hollow space in his chest. He’d spent so long protecting her, fighting for her. Letting her go was the right thing to do. He knew that. But knowing it didn’t make it hurt less.

And then there was Mac.

Still pushing him away.

He didn’t blame her. Not really. They’d been through so much. Paraguay. Her illness. Webb. Her walls were up for a reason. But lately, something in him had begun to break under the weight of it all. He didn’t know how many more years of "almost" he had left in him.

A flash of lightning lit up the room for a heartbeat, followed by a distant rumble of thunder.

Then—chirp.

The faint digital chime of his phone startled him. He sat up quickly, blinking as he reached for the device lying on the nightstand.

One bar.

Cell signal.

Harm blinked in disbelief. He stared at the signal for a beat, then grinned. “Way to go, C-Spire,” he muttered.

Then he saw it.

A flashing voicemail indicator.

His stomach tightened. Quickly, he pressed the voicemail button and lifted the phone to his ear.

The automated voice played: You have one new message...

Then came her voice.

"Harm, it’s me. Something big just happened. There are some major changes going on at JAG HQ and... I really need to talk to you. As soon as you get this, please call me."

Her voice dropped to something softer.

"I hope you’re safe. Please call me back."

The message ended, and Harm was left staring at the wall, phone still pressed to his ear.

He swallowed.

Something big.

His pulse quickened. He didn’t know what had happened, but something in her voice—the urgency, the hesitation, the vulnerability—made his heart beat just a little faster.

He set the phone down and sat still for a long moment.

Then he reached for his t-shirt, slipping it on with practiced ease.

He stepped out into the hallway, pacing quietly as he hit her number and brought the phone to his ear.

It rang once.  Twice. Three times.

He almost thought it would go to voicemail again when a groggy voice finally answered.

“H’lo?”

“Mac? It’s me. Harm. Sorry—sorry to wake you. Cell service just came back online down here. I just got your message.”

There was a pause, the rustle of sheets and her breath catching slightly as she came fully awake.

“Harm… thank God you called me back.”

Her voice still carried the huskiness of sleep, but relief surged through it.

“What’s going on?” he asked, tension slipping into his tone.

She took a moment before answering, as if steadying herself.

“There’s been a development at JAG HQ,” she said. “Today, Cresswell announced that the SECNAV is standing up a prototype Joint Legal Service Center—Navy and Marine legal officers under one command. And they’ve chosen me to lead it.”

Harm blinked, gripping the phone tighter.

“My first command,” she added, her voice softer now.

He didn’t say anything, as it hit him the clock had just run out.

“Are you still there?” she asked gently.

“Yeah,” he said, recovering. “Yeah, I’m here. Mac, that’s… that’s wonderful. Your first command, congratulations! You’re going to make an incredible CO.”, he continued genuinely.

“You think so?” she asked uncertaily.

“Absolutely,  you’ve earned this Mac.   I’m proud and happy for you!”

A smile crept into her voice. “Thank you.”

But the joy faded slightly. “It’s in San Diego.”

“San Diego?” Harm repeated, the words catching in his throat.

“Yes,” Mac replied, her voice low.

There was silence again. Not uncomfortable, just filled with the weight of things unspoken.

“I guess we knew this day would come eventually,” Harm said at last. “We weren’t going to stay at JAG HQ forever.”

“I know,” Mac said quietly. “I just thought we would have more time.”

“We’ve had nine years,” Harm replied, his voice heavy with memory.

“So… what does this mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Harm said honestly. “I just know it’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“Me neither.”

Another pause. The static on the line felt louder now, as if reflecting the distance that would soon stretch between them.

“When do you leave?” Harm asked.

“By Monday,” Mac said. “I have to report on Tuesday.”

“Not much time,” Harm murmured.

“And you’re in Florida,” she added.

He heard the emotion tightening in her throat.

“How’s Whiting Field?” she asked softly, changing the subject.

Harm exhaled. “A mess. Hangars are torn up, control tower and training facilities have been without power for days. But the runway’s intact. I’ve got Seabees coming, supply chains moving, and the base should be operational again within a couple of weeks. We’re making progress, but it’s slow.”

“When will you be back?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Depends on how fast we can get repair and rebuild efforts in motion. Could be a few more days, could be longer.”

Mac didn’t respond.

“Mac?”

“I’m here,” she said, her voice tight.

Harm closed his eyes. He could hear the crack in her voice, the way she was stifling tears.

“This isn’t the end,” he said gently. “It’s just the start of a new chapter. We don’t know how it’ll turn out yet. But we’re not done. Not by a long shot.”

A long silence passed between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of promises left unspoken, fears not yet voiced, and the stubborn, shared hope that somehow, they’d find a way.

“I want to believe that,” Mac whispered. “But what is it we’re not done with?”

“That’s the million dollar question.  I think that is what we have to figure out,” Harm said. 

Mac shifted on the bed, pulling the blanket tighter around her. Her voice, when it came again, was quieter, introspective.

“When I was flying back from the USS Condon,” she began, “I couldn’t stop thinking about everything. About us. About all the time we’ve spent dancing around… whatever this is.”

Harm didn’t interrupt. He just listened.

“I was frustrated—with Vukovic, with the assignment—but mostly with myself,” Mac continued. “I realized that I’ve been so scared of what we might lose, I never let myself believe in what we might actually have.”

She paused, drawing a slow breath. “I told myself I needed to figure things out. That when I got back to Washington, I’d finally talk to you. Really talk. To find out if there’s still a path forward for us… or only a path apart.”

Harm's heart clenched as her words settled between them, raw and honest.

“I’ve spent so long protecting myself,” Mac said. “But I think I’ve been protecting myself from the wrong things.”

There was a long pause, then Harm replied, his voice low and steady.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for a long time, Mac.”

He leaned back against the cool corridor wall, letting the moment breathe. Then, his voice came quieter, more thoughtful.

"You know, these last few months... it’s like we’ve been circling each other without knowing how to land. Everything between us—since Christmas, really—it’s been cautious. Like we’re afraid to say the wrong thing. But that’s not who we were.  We used to spar, push each other, challenge each other—we walked that line between personal and professional like we invented it. But lately... it’s like we’ve been walking on eggshells."

Mac listened, her breath quiet in the receiver.

"The hardest part has been trying to figure out where we stand. I kept telling myself that if it was meant to happen, it would. But now I wonder if I was just scared of pushing too hard, of losing what little we still had."

He let out a slow breath.

"But I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Not of saying how I feel, not of taking that next step."

He paused, then continued, his voice growing more introspective.

“We have danced around our feelings for so long that maybe we forgot how to speak plainly. Paraguay changed everything. After that mission, something shifted between us. What was once easy... became strained. Complicated. I thought, just for a moment, that we were finally going to cross the line, but time moved on—and so did we. Or at least we tried to."

He took a breath, grounding himself. "Now... I don’t even know what we are. Colleagues? Friends? Something in between? We've been stuck, Mac. In this pattern we can't seem to break. Every time we get close, something pushes us apart. My career, Paraguay, Webb, your illness, everything we didn’t say…and now this"

He trailed off, then added softly, "Part of me wanted to believe you needed space. That you were working through it. But another part of me started to wonder if I was just tired. Tired of fighting for something that always felt out of reach. Tired of hoping for a future that never came."

He let that linger a moment before finishing, "But hearing you tonight... hearing what you said. It reminded me why I never gave up. Because I want that future, Mac. I’ve thought about what life would be like without you in it, Mac... and I don’t want that. I want to find out what’s next—with you."

There was another moment of quiet between them, filled this time not with uncertainty, but with something warmer—fragile, but real.

“I heard about Mattie,” Mac said gently. “I’m so sorry, Harm.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning against the cool wall of the corridor. “It’s fine,” he said too quickly. “It’s for the best. She needs her dad. She deserves a normal life.”

Mac was quiet on the other end. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said softly. “I know how much she meant to you. How much you love her.”

Harm swallowed hard. “I just… I wanted her to have stability. A home. And maybe I thought I could give her that. But in the end, she chose her father. I can’t blame her for that.”

“No, but it still hurts,” Mac said, her voice like balm. “You were the first person who really fought for her. That kind of love doesn’t just disappear.”

“I keep thinking the apartment feels too quiet,” Harm admitted. “Like I’m back where I started.”

“But you’re not,” Mac said. “You gave her something she’ll carry forever. And whether she says it or not—she knows it.”

Harm was silent, his throat tight. He didn’t need to respond. Her words had found their mark.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

There was a beat of silence before Harm spoke again, his voice lower, gentler.

“Mac, listen… I hope I’ll be back in Washington before you leave. But if I’m not, I’ll find a way to come out to see you.”

There was a pause, and then Mac replied softly, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I won’t,” Harm said firmly. “This is one I will keep.”

“Good,” Mac said, her voice strengthening just a little. “Because we have a lot to talk about. Really talk about. No more half-conversations and innuendo.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “It’s time to move forward… or move on.”

Her words echoed in his ears, weighty and true. Harm closed his eyes, feeling the weight of them settle in his chest.

“Yes,” he said finally. “We have a lot to talk about.”

The line went quiet again, but this time, it was filled with something resolute. A shared sense that whatever came next, it had to be faced head-on.

“Goodnight, Harm.”

“Goodnight, Mac.”

They each held the phone for a moment longer before ending the call, neither wanting to be the first to let go.

And as the connection finally clicked off, both were left staring into the dark, wondering if they’d ever get the chance to really tell the other what they truly felt.

USS Patrick Henry (CVN-74) – Sea of Japan - Morning ZULU

The USS Patrick Henry cut through the choppy swells of the Sea of Japan, her towering superstructure casting a commanding shadow over the open waters. The nuclear-powered carrier's deck was alive with the controlled chaos of flight operations—aircraft handlers in brightly colored jerseys dashed across the heat-slicked deck, guiding roaring F/A-18E Super Hornets into position for launch. The piercing whistle of steam catapults filled the air, punctuated by the deafening roar of twin afterburners as another fighter screamed off the deck into the humid, tension-laden sky.

Below decks and across the strike group’s secure comms network, orders and status reports crackled to life. Carrier Strike Group 1 was on station.

Overseeing it all from the flag bridge of the Patrick Henry was Rear Admiral James Weatherly, Commander of Carrier Strike Group 1. A hard-edged officer with a reputation for strategic clarity and calm in the storm, Weatherly stood with hands clasped behind his back, watching the carrier's operations unfold through the armored glass.

Formed in a wide arc around the Patrick Henry, Carrier Strike Group 1 represented the Navy’s floating fortress of deterrence and firepower. The Patrick Henry, a Nimitz-class nuclear-powered supercarrier and the crown jewel of the group, was flanked by five powerful escorts, each one a warship built for a different kind of fight—but all of them deadly in their own right.

To her port quarter cruised the USS Gettysburg (CG-71), a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser bristling with vertical launch cells. As the strike group’s air and missile defense command ship, the Gettysburg's SPY-1 radar array scanned the skies with tireless vigilance, tracking anything from commercial aircraft to ballistic missile threats. Her combat information center was alive with tension, her crew fully alert to the volatile region they now operated in.

Spread around the formation were four Arleigh Burke-class guided-missile destroyers, each running in tight coordination with the others:

USS John Basilone (DDG-122) maintained station off the starboard bow, her sonar suite sweeping the depths for submarines lurking in the black.

USS Truxtun Bay (DDG-112), just aft and to port of the Patrick Henry, provided electronic warfare and radar jamming support, ready to cloak the strike group in confusion should hostilities erupt.

USS Michael P. Murphy (DDG-114) took up the rear position in the formation, a watchful guardian against any encroaching threats from behind.

USS Coronado Strait (DDG-119) maneuvered along the starboard flank, her VLS cells fully loaded with SM-6 and Tomahawk missiles, prepared to answer any provocation with deadly force.

"Any word from Seventh Fleet on the status of the North Korean exercises?" Weatherly asked quietly.

His flag operations officer, Captain Lucinda Torres, stepped forward, tablet in hand. "They're still continuing ballistic missile preparations. No launches yet, but the intel chatter is growing more aggressive."

Weatherly’s jaw tightened. The Sea of Japan had become a powder keg in recent weeks, and CSG-1 was the match—stationed here not just to project power, but to send a message. Don’t test us.

Below, an F/A-18 screamed off the deck with a thunderous roar, banking sharply to join a Combat Air Patrol already circling twenty thousand feet above the strike group. The message was clear to any who watched from space, from shore, or from beneath the waves: the Patrick Henry and her companions were armed, alert, and ready.

The admiral watched the fighter climb into the layered clouds, then turned to Torres.

“Continue fleet readiness drills. I want a full combat systems check across all ships by 1400. No gaps. No excuses.”

“Aye, Admiral.”

Born in Corpus Christi, Texas, in 1959, James “Jim” Weatherly grew up with salt in his veins. His father was a decorated Navy pilot who flew A-4 Skyhawks during Vietnam, and his mother was a high school history teacher who instilled in him a deep respect for leadership and legacy. From a young age, Weatherly was fascinated by carrier aviation, spending countless hours watching training flights at NAS Corpus Christi.

Instead of attending the Naval Academy, Weatherly pursued his education at the University of Notre Dame, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts in Economics and Computer Applications. He was a dedicated student, balancing academics with his commitment to the Navy ROTC program. Known for his analytical mind and ability to think ahead, he excelled in strategic decision-making exercises.

Outside of his studies, he was a fiercely competitive boxer and an avid football fan, rarely missing a Fighting Irish game. His time at Notre Dame shaped his leadership philosophy, blending strategic problem-solving with an appreciation for teamwork and perseverance. Upon graduation in 1981, he was commissioned as an Ensign in the U.S. Navy through the NROTC program.

Weatherly earned his wings of gold in 1983 after completing flight training at NAS Pensacola and NAS Miramar. Selected to fly the F-14 Tomcat, he was assigned to VF-114 “Aardvarks” aboard USS Enterprise (CVN-65), conducting WestPac deployments during the final years of the Cold War. His first combat experience came in 1986 during Operation El Dorado Canyon, the U.S. airstrike on Libya, where he flew combat air patrol missions.

In the early 1990s, Weatherly transitioned to the F/A-18 Hornet, joining VFA-113 “Stingers” as a department head. During Operation Desert Storm, he flew multiple strike missions against Iraqi targets, earning the Distinguished Flying Cross for leading a high-risk suppression of enemy air defenses (SEAD) mission that enabled successful bombing runs on key infrastructure.

Weatherly’s leadership ability and combat experience propelled him through the ranks. He served as Executive Officer (XO) and then Commanding Officer (CO) of VFA-151 “Vigilantes”, where he refined his operational command skills during multiple deployments aboard USS Constellation (CV-64). His tenure was marked by high operational readiness and aggressive training regimens, earning his squadron recognition as the top strike fighter squadron in the Pacific Fleet.

Promoted to Captain, he took command of USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71) in 2001, leading the carrier through Operation Enduring Freedom in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. Under his command, Theodore Roosevelt launched hundreds of combat sorties against Taliban and Al-Qaeda positions in Afghanistan, solidifying his reputation as a steady-handed, combat-tested leader.

In 2004, newly promoted Rear Admiral Weatherly assumed command of Carrier Strike Group 1 and embarked aboard the Patrick Henry. The Patrick Henry, the Navy’s third Nimitz-class supercarrier, had just completed  its refueling and complex overhaul (RCOH), and while its systems were now state-of-the-art, it still needed to fully integrate into operational deployments.

Weatherly gave one final look toward the horizon before returning to his console.

Carrier Strike Group 1 was exactly where it needed to be—on edge, on station, and standing ready in the uneasy dawn of a brewing storm.

CHAPTER 4

Naval Air Station - Whiting Field - Early Morning ZULU

The sun had barely risen, but the air was already thick with the remnants of the storm. Clouds hung low over the tarmac, painted in hues of gray and gold as the light fought to break through. Captain Thomas Garrison stood near the edge of the flight line, his arms crossed as he surveyed the work being done to restore the airfield. The scent of wet asphalt and salt lingered in the humid morning breeze.  The past two and a half days had been a whirlwind of disaster recovery, logistical nightmares, and sheer determination.

Garrison had just finished a secure call with a general at the Pentagon, delivering his assessment report on Whiting Field's recovery efforts. The report was solid—power had been restored to most of the base, communications were back online via temporary satellite uplinks and cell tower repairs, and the SeaBees were en route to begin reconstruction. More critically, aircraft repairs were underway, with training operations projected to resume within two weeks.

That wasn’t just good—it was damn near a miracle considering the devastation they’d faced.

Behind him, a group of Seabees worked diligently, unloading heavy equipment from a transport truck. The hum of activity filled the space around them—voices shouting commands, the distant whine of machinery, and the rhythmic clatter of tools against metal.

Garrison’s attention shifted to a familiar figure standing near the makeshift command tent. Commander Harmon Rabb was deep in conversation with two maintenance officers, gesturing to a clipboard in his hand. Even from this distance, Garrison could see the intensity in Harm’s posture—the way he leaned forward slightly, fully engaged in the problem at hand.

Harm wasn’t just overseeing the efforts; he was in the thick of it, coordinating schedules, solving logistical challenges, and rallying the personnel under his temporary command.

Garrison smirked to himself. The man’s a force of nature and a natural leader.

Harm hadn’t just adapted to the chaos—he had thrived in it. Within hours of arriving, he had been coordinating with engineers, base commanders, and local authorities. He had worked alongside electrical crews, ensuring power was restored as quickly as possible. He had even helped repair an aircraft generator, showing a mechanical familiarity most officers his rank hadn’t maintained.

Garrison had spent part of last night doing research on Harmon Rabb. The man’s record was insane.

He was one of the most distinguished officers the Navy had seen in decades.

His first crash? A result of misdiagnosed night blindness—a condition that could have ended his career right then and there. Instead, he fought his way back. His first Distinguished Flying Cross? Earned after he joined JAG when he saved Admiral Boone, flying with those same bad eyes. His second? Combat action.

And that was just the beginning.

While at JAG, he had been the one to find the fatal flaw in that F-14 flight control system back in ‘96—the one the Navy had almost deployed before his investigation proved it would have killed pilots in combat.

Then came the Silver Star—awarded after he played tag with a dirty nuke, saving an entire carrier group in the process.

And the CIA?  It seemed Harm had even spent some time TAD with the CIA aparently doing something in South America and flying Air America style.   Garrision found a news clip of Harm landing a damaged C-130 on the deck of a carrier.

While most saw Harm as a lawyer now, Garrison knew better.

Harm was a fighter, a leader, a man who ran toward danger instead of away from it.

Garrison glanced toward the makeshift command tent, where Rabb was engaged in a conversation with a group of maintenance officers, a clipboard in hand as he worked through another logistical issue.  His khakis were sweat-streaked, his sleeves rolled, and there was grease smudged near his collar—probably from the aircraft generator he’d helped repair yesterday. But there was clarity in his eyes and purpose in his stride. The man never stopped moving.   Garrison walked towards them.

Harm handed the clipboard back to one of the maintenance officers. “Alright, prioritize the hangar repairs. If we can get the roof stabilized by tomorrow, we’ll be able to move the grounded aircraft inside and free up space on the line.”

The young officer nodded, jotting notes as he walked away.

You wouldn’t know he was a lawyer, Garrison thought. He leads like a CAG.

Morning, Captain,” Harm called as he approached, wiping his forehead with a folded rag.

“Morning,” Garrison replied, his voice gravelly from too much coffee and too little sleep. “Looks like you’re on your third cup of logistics already.”

“Fourth,” Harm said, cracking a smile. “The joys of triage management.”

Garrison motioned toward the activity around them. “I see you’ve got everyone moving at full speed.”

“We don’t have time to waste,” Harm said simply. “The training schedule’s already been disrupted. The sooner we get this base operational, the better.”

Garrison took a slow sip of his coffee, then glanced back toward the flight line. “Base is shaping up faster than expected. That’s thanks to you.”  Garrison gave a small nod of approval, taking a moment to study the younger man. “You’re good at this, Rabb.”

“At what?”

“Everything,” Garrison said with a chuckle. “Leading. Solving problems. Getting people to follow you without question. It’s not something you see every day.”

Harm shook his head. “Team effort. Everyone’s pulling hard.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Garrison countered. “I’ve seen a lot of officers who couldn’t handle this kind of chaos. You thrive in it.  You’ve been the axle holding the whole damn wheel together.”

Harm didn’t respond immediately. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the sun was now cresting the tree line. “I guess it comes with the territory.”

Garrison watched him for a moment, then folded his arms across his chest. “You ever think about what’s next, Rabb?”

Harm glanced at him, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean your career,” Garrison said. “You’ve been with JAG a long time. Nine years, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t get me wrong—you’ve done incredible work there. But you’re still a fighter at heart.”

Harm let out a small laugh. “You think I should go back to flying?”

“Not necessarily,” Garrison said. “But I do think the Navy could use someone like you in a leadership role outside the courtroom.”

Harm raised an eyebrow, sensing where this might be heading. “You’re not recruiting me for something, are you, Captain?”

Garrison smirked. “I might be.”

Harm’s expression shifted subtly, sensing more than just a passing suggestion.

Garrison nodded toward the south. “You and I talked about her on the plane down. The Hellcat. She’s not out of the fight just yet. The Navy’s deciding weather or not to get her operational again. I’m going to get her seaworthy and in fighting shape to make the choice easy for them.”

That got Harm’s full attention.

“The Hellcat,” he echoed, more to himself than anything.

“I’m going to need an executive officer,” Garrison continued. “Someone who understands leadership under pressure. Who knows what it means to guide a crew through fire and come out the other side.”

Harm blinked, visibly taken aback by the offer. “Captain… I don’t have the flight time. Or the traps. Or the air group leadership experience. There are other officers out there far more qualified—and more deserving—of that job.”

Garrison didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I’m not looking for someone who’s chasing their next billet just to punch a ticket to carrier command. I don’t want a climber.”

He stepped in a little closer, his tone lowering with conviction.

“I want someone who’ll fight for the old girl. Who’ll take the Hellcat—yeah, she may not be the youngest belle at the ball—but make damn sure she still turns a few heads when she’s depolyed.”

Harm looked down, uncertain. “Why me?”

“Because you give a damn,” Garrison said plainly. “Because I’ve watched you for two days rally this base like it was your own carrier deck. Because you’ve got the respect of officers and enlisted alike. And because I don’t need perfect flight hours—I need perfect leadership.”

He gestured around them. “What matters is that you have the skillset—and the mindset—to make a real difference.”

Harm took a breath, letting the offer settle in. He looked out at the humming activity of the base—the shouts of the Seabees, the grind of power tools, the rumble of forklifts. But his mind was far from Florida.

San Diego.  Mac.  JAG HQ.

Everything familiar… and everything uncertain.

Garrison watched him, reading the silence. “I’m not asking you to answer now. Hell, I know you’ve got ties in D.C.—and some things there you’re still figuring out. But I had to ask. I’d be crazy not to.”

Harm nodded slowly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Thanks,” he said. “For the offer. For believing I could do it.”

Garrison grinned. “Just think about it. She’s a fine ship, and I need someone who’s got steel in his spine and instinct in his gut.”

“Yeah,” Harm said softly. “I’ll think about it.”

As Garrison turned to rejoin a group of logistics officers, Harm remained standing there, gazing out over the flight line, the Florida breeze tugging at his sleeves.

The Hellcat. A new mission. A fresh start.

Maybe even a chance to finally set things right.  But even if he took it, when not deployed, he’d still be 5000 miles away from San Diego.

JAG HQ - Falls Church, VA -  Late Morning ZULU

Mac’s office exuded quiet authority—a blend of polished mahogany, crisp white papers, and the low hum of air-conditioning that contrasted with the restless energy outside. Today, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation; next week, she would leave for San Diego to assume command of the new Joint Legal Service Center. Every detail in the office reminded her of the immense responsibility that lay ahead.  Mac sat at her desk reviewing a case files for reassignment when a figure appeared in her doorfame. Lieutenant Greg Vukovic strode in, his posture cocky and self-assured. He barely waited for a greeting before launching into his pitch.

“Colonel MacKenzie, I’ve been thinking,” Vukovic began, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You know, with your new command at Joint Legal Service Center starting soon, you could really use someone with my... talent on your staff. I’m confident I can bring a fresh, energetic edge to your new command.”

Mac sighed but didn’t stop him.

“Mac,” he continued, his tone overly familiar, “I’m telling you, I’d be a perfect fit on your new command. You need someone with fresh energy—a younger, more dynamic version of Commander Rabb. I’m ready for greater responsibility. You should really request for me to join your staff.”

Mac looked up from the thick case file she had been reviewing. Her gaze was steely, and her expression was anything but amused. She closed the file with a measured snap and fixed him with a cool stare.

“Lieutenant,” she said sharply, “in this office, it’s ‘Colonel MacKenzie’ or ‘Ma’am to you, Lieutenant.’ Now, have a seat.”

Vukovic hesitated only a moment before striding to the chair and perching on its edge. He continued, his voice smooth but laced with impatience, “I’m telling you, ma’am, you’d benefit from having someone like me—someone who isn’t shackled by old-school thinking. A guy who can shake things up.”

Mac leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Lieutenant, I appreciate ambition. But let me be very clear: As I start  assembling my team I’m not interested in basing staffing decisions on empty bravado. I need officers who understand the weight of duty, not those who think they’re already in line for a promotion.”

Vukovic’s smirk faltered. “But Colonel, I’m confident I can offer—”

“Confidence isn’t the same as capability,” she interrupted firmly. “Commander Rabb earned his place through years of hard work, sacrifice, and integrity. I expect my staff to embody those values. You, on the other hand, still have a long way to go before you’re even in the same conversation as him.”

Vukovic's eyes flashed with indignation. "With all due respect, Ma'am, I believe I can bring a fresh perspective to this command. I’m ready to take on more responsibility."

Mac's eyes narrowed, and she rose swiftly from her seat, the click of her polished heels punctuating the tension in the room. "Listen carefully, Lieutenant," she said, her voice firm and unyielding, "I do not tolerate entitlement. You are not here to demand assignments based on empty bravado. Your time and your experience do not yet measure up to what is required to lead or even support my command at the level I need. I expect every officer to earn respect through performance, not through reckless self-promotion."

Her words hit Vukovic like a sledgehammer. The lieutenant’s confident posture slumped visibly. "Ma'am, I—I was just offering my assistance..."

Mac cut him off, her tone icy. "Save it, Lieutenant. You have a long way to go before you’re even close to being considered the caliber of leadership we demand here. Your arrogance is noted, but it won’t get you far unless you learn to work as part of a team and earn your place through hard work. Now, get back to work."

At that moment, General Cresswell, who had been passing by the open doorway, paused and listened. His sharp eyes took in the scene—Vukovic's shrinking posture, Mac's commanding presence—and a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. That boy’s ego is as big as they come, he thought. He’ll need to be assigned to menial cases for a while to knock him off his high horse.

Vukovic mumbled a reluctant, "Yes, Ma'am," before hastily retreating from the room.

As the door closed behind him, Mac exhaled slowly, her stern expression softening just a fraction. She turned back to her desk, reorganizing her papers with meticulous precision. The message was clear: her new command would not be compromised by underqualified personnel.

Across the hall, the murmur of voices and the clatter of keyboards resumed, and the JAG office settled back into its purposeful rhythm—a space where only excellence was acceptable, and every officer was expected to earn their place.

Sturgis Turner sat behind his cluttered desk, surrounded by a mix of old case files, legal briefs, and personal mementos—a faded photograph of him and Harm on the basketball court, a battered trophy from his Academy days, and a framed quote from his former submarine command. Today, his mind was on his new role as General Cresswell’s soon to be Chief of Staff. With Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie leaving soon for her new command in San Diego, Turner was tasked with orchestrating the transition and finding the right officer to reinforce JAG HQ.

Turner’s thoughts wandered briefly to the name that had surfaced in the General’s directive—Lieutenant Commander Meg Austin. So far he had found she’d been a rising star at JAG HQ back in 1995, partnering with Commander Rabb on investigations and stepping in for Lieutenant Junior Grade Caitlin Pike when Pike was reassigned. Meg had an impressive knack with computers and was fluent in Spanish. After transferring to the Region Legal Service Office Southwest in San Diego, she’d built a reputation over the past decade as a pioneer in cyber forensics, streamlining digital evidence processes and forming robust ties with local law enforcement. Her steady climb through the ranks had earned her commendations for both technical acumen and grit in handling military justice cases in the modern era.

General Cresswell believes she might be the one to fill MacKenzie’s shoes, Turner thought, tapping his pen absently against a notepad. He’s not looking for a career climber—he wants someone who’ll fight for the old guard, someone with passion and resolve.

Reaching for a notepad he scribbled, “Review Meg’s complete dossier,” he mentally noted. He then tapped the screen and dialed Petty Officer Coates’ extension.

A few moments later, Petty Officer Coates answered crisply, “Turner here.”

“Coates, please pull up Meg Austin’s complete dossier and send it directly to my terminal,” he instructed, his tone professional. I need to see her latest performance reports and any commendations she’s received since joining RLSO Southwest, he reminded himself silently.

“Right away, sir,” came Coates’ prompt reply.

Turner paused, his gaze drifting toward the window as he watched the early afternoon light spill over the base. He recalled the struggles he’d faced during the turbulence of the last two years—his own battles to adapt to the sometimes chaotic, informal culture at JAG HQ and the lingering doubts from his stint as interim head of JAG. But now, as he prepared to shape the future of the team, he steeled himself with determination.

I must be the steady hand now. I have to find the right officers, set a clear direction, and lead by example, he resolved internally.

A soft knock at the door brought him back. Petty Officer Coates, Jennifer, peeked in, her eyes reflecting both respect and the urgency of the day. “Sir, General Cresswell is ready for you in his office,” she announced.

Turner offered a brief nod. “Thank you, Petty Officer,” he replied, gathering his files with deliberate care.

Before stepping out, he cast one final look at Meg Austin’s dossier on his screen. Maybe she’s exactly what we need, he mused silently. Or perhaps this is only the beginning of a long, challenging road.

As Turner left his office, the weight of his new responsibilities settled over him—a mix of apprehension and resolve.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting sharp lines across the stacks of paperwork cluttering Bud Roberts' desk. The quiet hum of JAG HQ filled the air—a mix of muted phone calls, shuffling papers, and the distant clatter of footsteps echoing through the hallways. Bud was absorbed in a personnel report, his pen hovering above the page, when a sharp knock on the doorframe made him glance up.

"Colonel!" he said brightly, setting the pen down. "Come in. What brings you here?"

Mac stood in the doorway, poised and polished as always in her dress blues. There was a determined glint in her dark eyes, and Bud immediately sensed this wasn’t just a casual visit.

"Hey, Bud," she said, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind her. She glanced at the chaos on his desk and smirked. "Looks like you’re buried in paperwork—as usual."

Bud chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Well, you know how it is. The Navy never sleeps, and neither does its bureaucracy."

Mac crossed the room, taking the seat across from him. She hesitated for a moment, fingers lightly tapping the edge of his desk. Bud tilted his head, his cheerful expression shifting to one of curiosity.

"Alright, what’s on your mind, Colonel? You’ve got that look—like you’re about to drop some life-changing news."

Mac smiled faintly. He always could read her well. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, and clasped her hands together.

"Bud, as you know, I’m about to leave JAG HQ and take command of the new Joint Legal Service Center in San Diego," she began, her tone measured but earnest. "It’s a huge opportunity—one I’m both excited for and a little nervous about."

Bud nodded, his expression supportive but cautious. "You’re going to do great, Ma’am. They couldn’t have picked a better officer for the job."

"Thanks," Mac said softly. Then, after a pause, she straightened, her tone taking on a more purposeful edge. "But here’s the thing—I’m going to need a strong team. People I can trust implicitly. And that’s why I’m here."

Bud blinked, surprised. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Mac said firmly, leaning in. "Bud, I want you to come with me to San Diego—to be my executive officer."

For a moment, Bud was speechless. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his mind racing to catch up with what she’d just said.

"Colonel, I—" he began, but she held up a hand.

"Let me finish," she said, her voice tinged with both urgency and sincerity. "Bud, I’ve worked with you for years. I’ve seen your dedication, your integrity, your ability to handle even the toughest situations with grace and humor. You’re exactly the kind of officer I need by my side. Someone who knows how to navigate the legal maze but also understands the human side of leadership."

Bud leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest. "Ma’am, I’m honored—really, I am. But… this is a big decision. It’s not just about me—it’s about Harriet, the kids, everything we’ve built here in Virginia."

Mac nodded, her expression softening. "I get that, Bud. And I’d never ask you to uproot your family without a good reason. But this isn’t just about the job—it’s about shaping the future of military justice. This new command is going to set the standard for how Navy and Marine Corps legal teams operate together. It’s a chance to make a real difference—and I can’t think of anyone better suited to help me do that than you."

Bud rubbed the back of his neck, clearly torn. "It’s a lot to think about, Mac. Harriet and I just had the twins. The timing… it’s not exactly ideal."

"I know," Mac said gently. "And I’d never pressure you to do something that wasn’t right for your family. But I believe in you, Bud. You’ve got what it takes to be a great XO. You’ve already proven it here at JAG HQ. This is your chance to step into a bigger role, to lead in a way you’ve always been capable of."

Bud looked down at the desk, his expression thoughtful. Mac waited, giving him the space to process. The silence stretched for a moment before Bud finally spoke.

"I’ll talk to Harriet," he said quietly, meeting her gaze. "This isn’t a decision I can make on my own, but… I’ll think about it. Seriously."

Mac smiled warmly, relief flickering in her eyes. "That’s all I ask, Bud. Just think about it."

She rose from the chair, smoothing her uniform and extending a hand across the desk. Bud stood as well, shaking her hand firmly.

"Thanks, Mac," he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. "For believing in me."

"Always," she replied with a smile. "You’ve earned it."

As she turned to leave, Bud called after her. "Colonel?"

She paused in the doorway, glancing back.

"No matter what I decide, you’re going to be an incredible CO," he said, his tone resolute. "San Diego’s lucky to have you."

Mac’s smile widened, and for a brief moment, the weight of the coming transition felt just a little lighter. "Thanks, Bud. That means a lot."

And with that, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bud to stare thoughtfully at the door, the weight of her proposal settling over him like a thick fog.

Naval Air Station Whiting Field – Flight Line - Sometime later afternoon ZULU

Harm stepped onto the flight line, his boots crunching against loose gravel as a cacophony of rebuilding efforts surged around him. The air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and diesel fuel, mingling with the faint brine carried inland from the Gulf. Power tools whined, engines rumbled, and the rhythmic clang of metal against metal formed an industrial symphony that vibrated in his chest. The SeaBees were a hive of activity, their bulldozers lumbering across the battered tarmac to push twisted debris into piles. Engineers clustered over blueprints, their voices raised above the din, while a few pilots lingered near storm-damaged aircraft, their hands grazing battered fuselages with a kind of reverence, murmuring about repairs.

Harm moved past the parked trainers, their once-pristine frames now streaked with grime and saltwater stains. His strides were purposeful, but his mind churned like the rotary blades of a damaged engine. Every word of Garrison’s offer replayed in a continuous loop, tangling with memories of adrenaline-fueled traps, late-night legal strategies, and the soft, questioning voice of Mac in his mind.

The Hellcat. The offer.

He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand through his hair as if the act could somehow clear the static in his head. No amount of rationalizing could erase the thrill—the pull—of Garrison’s words: “I need someone who’ll fight for her.”

The memory of Captain Garrison’s words sat heavy in his chest. He turned his steps toward the far end of the flight line, away from the noise and the busyness. He needed a moment to think—alone. Finding a quiet spot near one of the hangars still missing its roof, he leaned against the sun-warmed fuselage of a battered T-6 Texan, staring skyward.

The sky above was clear now, a deep, infinite blue. But inside, Harm’s mind was anything but calm.

He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. What am I doing here?

The offer had been tempting—too tempting. Garrison had made it sound like a calling, like the Hellcat wasn’t just another command but a chance to step back into the world Harm had once loved with every fiber of his being. A chance to matter, not in the courtroom, but in the fight. And wasn’t that what he’d always wanted? To fly? To lead? To be part of something bigger than himself?

But then there was Cresswell. The shadow of the General’s expectations loomed heavy, his recent remarks rattling around Harm’s thoughts like loose bolts in a cockpit.   “JAG needs to focus on JAG business”, he had said.

Absentmindedly he brushed his fingers over the worn paint of the T-6. The plane was grounded—like him. For a moment, he tilted his face upward, letting the heat of the Florida sun press against his closed eyelids.

With a deep breath, he pulled out his phone. He needed clarity—direction.

The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered, crisp and efficient despite the early hour. “Petty Officer Coates, JAG Headquarters.”

“Hey, Jen. It’s Commander Rabb. Can you put me through to General Cresswell?”

There was a brief pause before Coates replied. “One moment, sir. I’ll patch you through.”

Harm paced a tight circle as he waited, the faint click of the transfer followed by a few beats of static making his grip on the phone tighten.

Then came the deep, commanding voice. “Rabb.”

Harm straightened instinctively, even though he was alone. “General Cresswell, sir.”

“I saw Garrison’s report to the Pentagon.” The General’s tone was even, measured. “Sounds like you’ve had your hands full.”

“Yes, sir,” Harm replied, his voice steady. “Power was restored this morning. The SeaBees are on-site, and repairs are underway. We expect Whiting to be fully operational within two weeks.”

“Good work.” There was a weight behind the praise, but it was short-lived. After a pause, Cresswell continued, his tone shifting. “When do you expect to return to JAG?”

Harm hesitated—a split-second pause that felt like an eternity. “Late Friday, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. We’re stretched thin at HQ.”

That flicker of concern Harm had felt earlier returned, sharper his time.

Cresswell’s next words hit harder, his voice carrying a steel edge. “Frankly, Rabb, between your recent F/A-18 quals and your time at Whiting, you’ve spent enough time around carriers and fighters. It’s time you focused on JAG.  Enough time around carriers and cockpits for a while. That’s not your role anymore.”

Harm felt the statement hit like a punch to the gut—not harsh, but with a kind of finality that left little room for argument.

“Yes, sir,” he forced out, his tone clipped.

There was a brief pause, and Harm thought the conversation might be wrapping up, but then Cresswell continued.

"By the way, you should be aware of a recent development. Colonel MacKenzie has received orders. She’s been selected as the Commanding Officer of the new Joint Legal Service Center in San Diego."

Harm straightened slightly, his grip on the phone tightening despite already knowing this "San Diego?"

"That’s correct," Cresswell affirmed. "She’ll be leading the Navy and Marine Corps legal teams under a unified command. It’s a significant step up for her—a challenge, but one I have no doubt she’s ready for."

Harm’s thoughts swirled, the words "San Diego" echoing in his mind. Five hours away. A whole country apart. His chest tightened with unspoken emotions, but he forced himself to remain professional.

"She’ll be outstanding, sir," he said after a moment, his voice carrying genuine admiration.

"She will," Cresswell agreed. "But her departure leaves us short at JAG HQ. I’ll be relying on you to step up as we manage the transition."

"Understood, sir," Harm replied, his voice measured, but inside, his thoughts churned.

“I’ll see you Friday,” Cresswell said.

“Aye, sir.”

The line clicked dead, leaving Harm standing there, phone in hand, the faint ring of the dial tone echoing in his ears. Slowly, he lowered the phone, staring at it as though it held the answers he was so desperately searching for. But it didn’t.  

Harm’s grip tightened on the edge of the fuselage as the General’s words resurfaced like a cold wave: “It’s time you focused on JAG. Enough time around carriers and cockpits for a while. That’s not your role anymore.”

For years, he had tried to walk both paths, balancing his life as a lawyer and his soul as a pilot. But the older he got, the harder that balance became. Maybe Cresswell was right. Maybe his time as a naval aviator had truly passed. But did it have to?

The thought churned, turbulent and raw, until another voice surfaced in his mind—one he hadn’t heard in years. Admiral A.J. Chegwidden, sharp and unyielding, from a conversation that felt like a lifetime ago.

"You’re never going to have the life you want until you stop playing Peter Pan, Rabb. You want to fly, you want to litigate, you want to save everyone else’s battles—but what about your own? You’ve got to take responsibility—for your career, for your relationships, for all of it.”

Chegwidden’s words had stung back then, back when Harm was reeling from Paraguay, from his time with the CIA, from resigning his commission only to claw his way back to JAG. He hadn’t wanted to hear it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. But now…

“Maybe he was right,” Harm murmured under his breath, the words pulled from the deepest recesses of his heart.

He closed his eyes, the warmth of the Florida sun pressing against his face like a reminder of the present, even as his thoughts lingered on the past. Responsibility. That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Responsibility for the choices he made, the paths he took—or didn’t take.

When he had joined JAG after his ramp strike, he had wondered if it was temporary, a stopgap. But nine years later, he was still here. Not because he had been forced to stay, but because part of him had chosen to. JAG had given him a purpose, a direction in the chaos of his life. And yet, the cockpit had always called to him, like a siren song he could never fully ignore.

And then there was Mac.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as her face came to mind. If he was being honest with himself, she was another reason he had stayed so long at JAG. She had been his anchor, his partner, his constant. But they’d been circling each other for years without ever truly landing.

“Responsibility, huh,” he muttered, his voice laced with irony. Maybe Chegwidden was right about that too. Maybe it was time to stop circling and figure out what he really wanted—not just in his career, but with her.

Harm opened his eyes, letting the blue expanse above steady him. A single decision. That was all it took to change the trajectory of a life, to move forward instead of standing still.

“Time to figure it out,” he said softly, his voice steady now, resolute.

Straightening, Harm turned back toward the flight line. The work hadn’t stopped—people moved with purpose, rebuilding what the storm had tried to tear apart. And maybe that was his answer too: rebuild. Not just the base, not just his career, but his life. One piece at a time.

The Hellcat. JAG. Mac. Responsibility.

It wasn’t going to be an easy choice. But if there was one thing Harmon Rabb had never shied away from, it was the hard road.

CHAPTER 5

Mac’s Apartment – Late Evening ZULU

The apartment was already showing signs of transition. Half-packed boxes lined the walls, their contents labeled in Mac’s precise handwriting: “Books,” “Kitchen,” “Uniforms.” The smell of packing tape and cardboard filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of jasmine tea from the cup she had abandoned on the counter earlier. Her desk, usually a bastion of neatly stacked files and carefully arranged mementos, was bare save for a single frame—her Marine Corps commission certificate.

Mac stood in the living room, dressed in faded jeans and an an old Marine Corps sweatshirt, her dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She worked methodically, wrapping picture frames in bubble wrap, her movements practiced but unhurried. It was late, but the buzz of adrenaline kept her moving. Leaving felt surreal—like she was dismantling her life piece by piece.

“Do you really need this?”

She turned to see Sturgis holding up a battered paperback copy of The Art of War. He was dressed casually in slacks and a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up as he sifted through a pile of books on her coffee table.

“Yes,” she replied without missing a beat. “Some lessons never go out of style.”

Turner smirked, sliding the book into a box labeled “Miscellaneous.” “Figures.”

The apartment was gradually being transformed into a sea of moving boxes and bubble wrap. Framed photographs and personal mementos lay in neatly stacked piles, waiting to be packed. Mac moving between stacks of items with practiced efficiency. The warm glow from the floor lamp illuminated the cardboard chaos, casting long shadows on the walls of a place that was about to become a memory.

Sturgis crouched next to a box labeled "Books," carefully wrapping the last of Mac’s military law volumes in protective paper. He glanced over his shoulder as Mac paused, pushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Hey, Sturgis,” Mac said, her voice soft but sincere. “Thanks for offering to help me tonight. I really appreciate it.”

Sturgis looked up, setting a book down and giving her a warm smile. “You’re welcome, Mac. It’s the least I can do. I know how hard it is to pack up and move, especially on short notice. Feels like you're dismantling your life piece by piece.”

Mac’s lips curved into a half-smile. “That’s exactly what it feels like. I’ve had less than a week to process everything—not just the move, but the fact that I’m taking command. It’s a lot.”

Sturgis nodded knowingly, pushing his sleeves up as he prepared another stack of books. “Big changes like this always are. But you’ve got what it takes, Mac. You’ll do great out there.”

For a while, they worked in companionable silence, the rhythmic tearing of packing tape and the dull thud of items being boxed punctuating the quiet. Turner moved between the living room and the kitchen, carrying smaller items to a box he’d set up near the door. He didn’t mind helping; it gave him something to do, and he figured Mac could use the company.

As he stacked another box, Turner broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. “Mac, I’ve been thinking about something.”

She glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

He exhaled, his jaw tightening as he set the box down. “I was a sanctimonious prig when I was acting JAG.”

Mac blinked, setting down the vase she’d been wrapping. “Well… that’s some self-awareness.”

Sturgis chuckled lightly, though there was no humor in it. “Yeah, I guess so. I just wanted to apologize. I think being the fill-in for the JAG was a little over my head. Hopefully, being Cresswell's Chief Of Staff will help me with my people skills.”

Mac studied him, her expression softening. “You know, Sturgis, recognizing where you went wrong is half the battle. The other half? Well, it’s about being open to growth and understanding that leadership isn’t just about the rules—it’s about people. You can’t lead effectively if you don’t connect with those you’re leading.”

Sturgis nodded, absorbing her words. “That makes sense. I guess I’ve always been so focused on doing things by the book that I sometimes forget there’s more to it than that.”

Mac smiled faintly, leaning against the desk. “The book matters, but people matter more. You don’t have to change who you are, Sturgis—you just need to remember that leadership isn’t a one-size-fits-all approach. And being Chief of Staff? That’s going to be an incredible opportunity for you to refine those skills.”

Sturgis tilted his head in thought, her advice settling over him. After a pause he continued, “Then after that, I railroaded Harm, Mac. I didn’t give him a fair shake after that incident with the Iraqi minister’s plane.” He looked down, shaking his head. “I treated that investigation like it was just a formality. Charged him with negligent homicide because he didn’t ask permission before firing.”

Mac remained silent, studying him, her packing forgotten for the moment.

Turner rubbed his forehead, his frustration evident. “And of course, we found out later that Zarqawi had already killed the minister and his pilot. That aircraft really was a suicide attack heading straight for the Al Babra Oil Terminal.” He let out a slow breath. “Harm was right. He was goddamn right. And I treated him like some reckless, insubordinate hothead instead of the seasoned officer he is.”

Mac crossed her arms, leaning against the desk. “You regret it?”

“Every damn day,” Turner admitted, his voice laced with bitterness. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers. “I thought I was being the responsible one, the one holding everyone to the letter of the law. But all I did was drive a wedge between us. Harm and I used to be close—hell, like brothers. But after that…” He shook his head. “I don’t know if he’ll ever trust me again.”

Mac tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Look, Harm doesn’t hold grudges the way people think he does. He gets angry, sure, but deep down? He understands duty. He knows you were doing your job, even if you handled it like an ass.”

Turner gave her a doubtful glance.

She shrugged. “It’s the truth. Harm has had to make impossible decisions before, and he knows how messy things get. If he hasn’t forgiven you yet, it’s not because he’s holding onto anger—it’s because he hasn’t had a reason to trust you again.”

Turner exhaled, letting her words settle. “And how the hell do I fix that?”

Mac straightened, her tone steady. “You do what he’d do. You show him, not just tell him. Be the kind of officer he respects, not the one he remembers throwing the book at him.”

Turner considered that for a moment, nodding slightly. Then, after a pause, he turned the conversation back to her.

“So, what about you?”

Mac narrowed her eyes. “What about me?”

Turner smirked, leaning casually against the desk. “Where do things stand between you and Harm?”

Mac hesitated, her gaze dropping to the half-packed box at her feet. “I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “We’ve been through so much. Paraguay, the deal, Sydney… and now, he’s off in Florida playing aviation hero again.” She let out a short laugh, her tone tinged with resignation. “I guess some things never change.”

Turner studied her carefully, his expression softening. “You still love him?”

Mac swallowed, still not meeting his eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. “Yeah. I do.”

Turner nodded, as if he had expected that answer. “Then maybe it’s time you stop waiting for the perfect circumstances and just tell him.”

Mac let out a tired sigh, staring at the framed commission certificate on her desk. “You make it sound so easy.”

Turner smirked. “No. But I think it’s a hell of a lot easier than pretending you don’t care.”

Mac said nothing, her silence weighted with unspoken fears and lingering hope.  After a moment, she straightened and glanced at the boxes stacked along the wall. “I need to figure out what to do about my apartment lease.”

Sturgis raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I just signed a new one-year lease,” Mac explained, her tone frustrated. “I’m going to lose a fortune pulling out of it so soon.”

Sturgis considered that for a moment, then offered, “I know somebody who might be interested in subleasing.”

Mac’s curiosity piqued. “Really!? Who?”

Sturgis grinned, leaning back slightly. “Varese. She booked herself at the One Step Down six nights a week for a few months—kind of like the house chanteuse. We’re going to see how things go between us.”

Mac’s face softened with surprise, and a genuine smile spread across her lips. “That’s great, Sturgis. I hope it works out for both of you.”

He nodded, his own smile understated but sincere. “Thanks. I’ll let her know to give you a call.”

“Sounds great. Thanks Sturgis.”, Mac replied her eyes lingering on him for a moment, gratitude and warmth in her expression. For the first time in days, the weight of her impending move felt just a little lighter.

USS Patrick Henry (CVN-74) – Sea of Japan - Early morning ZULU

Two decks below the flag bridge in the air operations center Captain Charles “Chuck” Wexler stood rigidly on the port side, the cool metal railing under his fingertips grounding him amid the storm of activity. His binoculars focused on the horizon, but his mind was elsewhere—wrapped in the strategic nightmare of their current mission. For weeks, the Pacific had been a tinderbox, and the Patrick Henry was a lit match hovering dangerously close. The ever-present hum of escalating tensions between the U.S. and China had grown sharper, fueled by increasingly bold intercepts of American patrols. North Korea, never content to stay quiet, had joined the fray with their own provocative moves. What had once been predictable maneuvers—a game of cat and mouse—had morphed into something far more sinister.

An F/A-18E from VFA-136 “Knighthawks” rocketed off the number two catapult, its afterburners igniting like twin suns. Wexler tracked it briefly through his binoculars before lowering them, his lips pressed into a hard line.

You could do everything right, follow every regulation, trust in the best intelligence available, and still watch the situation spiral into chaos. The real test of command wasn’t avoiding disaster. It was navigating through it.

That was the lesson of the sea, and it had defined Wexler’s career from the moment he’d first landed an F-14A Tomcat on a pitching flight deck under night-vision green.

A Naval Academy graduate, Class of ’86, Wexler had taken the long way to carrier command. He wasn’t one of those golden-boy officers who’d been groomed for the role since his first commission. He was a fighter pilot first, an aviator to the core, someone who had lived by the brutal, unspoken rule of naval aviation: You either kept up, or you fell out.

His early years were spent with VF-31 “Tomcatters”, flying combat air patrols in the Persian Gulf during Operation Desert Storm. The war had been short, but Wexler had seen real action—dodging SAMs over southern Iraq, covering strike packages headed deep into enemy airspace, and taking his first kill, an Iraqi MiG-23, in a lightning-fast engagement that ended in a bloom of fire against the desert floor.

That kill put him on the fast track, but it wasn’t what defined him. It was the grind that came after. The endless carrier deployments, the gruelling training cycles, and the steady, inevitable shift from being the youngest pilot in the squadron to being the one the younger guys looked to when things went sideways.

By the mid-90s, he had transitioned to the F-14B Tomcat, flying with VF-103 “Jolly Rogers”, and by the late 90s, he had made CAG—Commander, Air Group. He had stood on the flight deck of the USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70), watching his squadrons launch into combat during the opening strikes of Operation Enduring Freedom, knowing full well that some of those jets wouldn’t return.

But it was what came after that set Wexler apart.

When the Tomcat started to be retired, he had made the leap—shifting from the cockpit to the bridge, trading the thrill of ACM dogfights for the cold, brutal calculus of command decisions. He’d taken command of the USS Princeton (CG-59), a Ticonderoga-class cruiser, where he proved that his instincts extended beyond a fighter’s HUD. He had stood toe-to-toe with Iranian fast-attack boats in the Strait of Hormuz, maneuvering his ship in a calculated game of brinkmanship that had narrowly avoided an international incident.

That tour had earned him his carrier command, but it had also made him more enemies than friends. Wexler wasn’t a political officer—he had no patience for the bureaucratic maneuvering that came with command at this level. He had one job: to keep the Patrick Henry ready for war. And right now, that war was closer than anyone wanted to admit.

He turned to his Deputy Commander, Air Group (DCAG), Captain Amanda “Black Widow” Calloway, who stood beside him. Her stance was no less resolute, her sharp eyes scanning the bustling flight deck below. Calloway radiated the calm intensity of someone who had weathered too many storms and yet lived for the next fight.

“We’re walking a damn tightrope out here,” Wexler muttered, his voice low but edged with steel. “More close calls in seventy-two hours than I’ve seen in six months. If the Chinese or North Koreans keep this up, it’s only a matter of time before someone pushes too far.”

Calloway smirked, though there was no humor in it. “That’s an understatement, sir. Just got word from Knighthawk Four. They had a PLAAF J-11 shadowing them at eighty miles before cutting inside their formation. Came within two hundred yards of their wingtip—close enough to see the pilot grinning like it was a damn game.”

Wexler exhaled sharply, his hand tightening around the railing. “Reckless doesn’t even begin to cover it. They’re testing us, trying to provoke a response.”

“Or gauge how long it takes for us to blink,” Calloway said, her tone measured but with a simmering edge. “Our guys kept their cool, held formation. The J-11 peeled off, but not before making sure they got their point across.”

Wexler’s gaze swept back to the horizon. The pale disk of the sun glared through a haze of salt spray and humid air, a stark reminder that even the weather seemed to conspire against them. Below, an F/A-18F from VFA-41 “Black Aces” eased into position alongside a KC-135 aerial tanker, the refueling operation unfolding with surgical precision.

“And North Korea?” Wexler asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

Calloway let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “Twenty minutes ago, a MiG-29 out of Pyongyang nearly clipped one of our CAP birds. Jacobson had to jink hard left to avoid a collision. The MiG came screaming in from above, no warning, no radio contact. If Jacobson hadn’t reacted in time, we’d be fishing debris out of the ocean.”

Wexler turned to her, his jaw tightening. “They’re pushing us into a corner.”

“Feels like desperation,” Calloway said, her brow furrowed in thought. “The question is, what’s their next move? Or are they just trying to see how much pressure we can take before we push back?”

Wexler folded his arms, his mind racing as he weighed options. “Whatever their game, we can’t afford to let our guard down. Brief all pilots—strict engagement protocols. No one fires unless I give the order, but if they pull another stunt like Jacobson’s near-miss, I want our guys ready to react.”

Calloway nodded sharply. “Understood, sir. I’ll make sure they know the stakes.”

Amanda Calloway never had a backup plan. She never wanted one.

From the moment she saw her first carrier landing—watching a Tomcat slam onto the deck with its arresting hook screaming against steel—she knew exactly where she belonged. Some people daydreamed about flying. For Calloway, there had never been another option.

She grew up on the Florida Panhandle, in a family where military service wasn’t just encouraged—it was expected. Her father had been a Marine aviator, an A-6 Intruder pilot who had flown in the Gulf War before retiring to teach at the Naval War College. Her mother had been a civilian contractor for Naval Air Systems Command (NAVAIR). Talk at the dinner table wasn’t about sports or celebrity gossip—it was about carrier deployments, combat sorties, and what jet was going to replace the Tomcat.

When it came time to pick a path, Calloway didn’t hesitate. She fought her way into the Naval Academy, graduating in the top ten percent of her class. But that was just the first battle. The real fight was earning her wings.

Calloway had come up during a time when women in combat aviation were still proving themselves—still fighting against the quiet, unspoken doubt of the old-school aviators who didn’t think they belonged. She didn’t care. She didn’t have time to.

She trained harder, flew better, and outlasted most of the guys in her squadron. Her first posting was with VF-154 "Black Knights", flying the last generation of F-14D Tomcats before they were phased out. She became one of the first women in the squadron’s history to qualify for carrier landings in a Tomcat, and by the time she transitioned to the F/A-18F Super Hornet, she was already a seasoned combat aviator.

Her call sign came during a dogfight training exercise over the Nevada desert. She had been up against a cocky, aggressive F-16 pilot from the Air Force, a guy who had spent the entire pre-flight briefing running his mouth about how Navy pilots couldn’t hang in a one-on-one fight.

Calloway had lured him in, playing defensive, making him think he had her locked up. Then, in the blink of an eye, she’d reversed the engagement, pulling a brutal high-G turn that sent her Super Hornet climbing straight up. The F-16 pilot followed, thinking he had her. But she had one more trick—she chopped her throttle and snapped into a high-angle-of-attack maneuver, forcing him to overshoot right into her sights.

Kill shot. Guns, guns, guns.

When they landed, the F-16 pilot—red-faced and furious—had grumbled, “She’s like a goddamn black widow. Lures you in, makes you feel comfortable, then boom. You’re dead.”

The name stuck.

By the time she saw real combat, Calloway had already made a name for herself. She flew in the Persian Gulf, leading close-air support missions over Iraq and Syria. She had two confirmed air-to-air kills—a rogue Syrian MiG-29 that had ignored multiple warnings and a suicidal Iranian drone that had tried to loiter too close to a U.S. destroyer.

She had been a strike leader on some of the most dangerous missions of the past decade, and when she took command of VFA-32 "Swordsman", she made sure the next generation of aviators knew that being good wasn’t enough. You had to be better.

Calloway wasn’t just a fighter pilot—she was a leader. When she was selected as Deputy Commander, Air Group (DCAG) for the USS Patrick Henry, she knew it meant less cockpit time and more time dealing with strategy, logistics, and politics. But she also knew that someone had to stand up for the aviators. Someone had to fight for them when the bureaucracy got in the way.

She ran flight operations with an iron will. She didn’t tolerate complacency, didn’t have time for political nonsense, and made damn sure that when a mission was planned, it was executed with zero margin for error.

Now, with Chinese and North Korean aircraft testing their response times, she knew they were playing a dangerous game. One miscalculation, one wrong move, and the Pacific could erupt into chaos.

And if that happened, "Black Widow" was damn sure going to be at the tip of the spear.  For now she had the presence of someone who’d seen it all but still had an insatiable drive for the fight. She was as no-nonsense as they came, and Wexler valued her input.

Another Hornet thundered down the deck and launched into the sky, the roar reverberating through the ship as Wexler turned back to the bridge, the weight of command pressing heavily on his shoulders.

The Patrick Henry was no stranger to danger. Her decks had seen combat in every major theater for decades, her air wing always at the forefront of American power projection. But this—the delicate brinkmanship with two adversaries intent on testing their limits—was something else entirely. Wexler had learned long ago that command wasn’t about making the right call; it was about making the least-wrong one. And with every maneuver, every decision, he felt the razor edge of that truth cutting deeper.

“Captain,” Calloway said suddenly, her voice breaking through his thoughts. “Incoming comms from CIC. E-2D Hawkeye’s picked up multiple bogeys—China and North Korea. Fast movers. Looks like they’re running coordinated patrols just inside the ADIZ.”

Wexler’s jaw clenched. “They’re getting bold.”

Calloway nodded. “Could be routine, but the timing—right after two near-misses? Feels intentional.”

“Get me Tactical,” Wexler ordered, moving briskly toward the ship’s operations center. “Let’s get eyes on the situation. If they want to dance, we’ll make sure they know exactly who they’re dealing with.”

The tension aboard the Patrick Henry was palpable, each moment building toward a crescendo no one wanted but everyone expected. The Sea of Japan was quiet, but the silence carried the weight of a thousand unspoken challenges, each one poised to explode. For now, the carrier group was holding its ground, a fortress of steel and resolve in waters more volatile than they had been in decades.

But all it would take was one misstep, one spark—and the Pacific would burn.

Naval Air Station Whiting Field – Visitor’s Quarters – Late Evening ZULU

The stifling air in the small room clung to Harmon Rabb, Jr. like a second skin as he stepped out of the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower, a towel slung low around his hips. Another towel hung across his neck, and the faint scent of soap and steam lingered in the room. He ran a hand through his wet hair, sighing as he glanced at the half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. It had been a long day, and his thoughts churned as rest eluded him.

The buzz of his cell phone on the nightstand startled him out of his reverie. Harm reached for it quickly, curiosity flickering when he saw Mac’s name flash across the screen. He punched the answer button on his Blackberry, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mac,” he greeted warmly, leaning back against the wall. “Twice in one week—should I be worried?”

On the other end, Mac’s voice carried a mixture of weariness and humor. “Harm. Don’t flatter yourself. I just got out of the shower and figured now was a good time to call.”

Harm smirked, leaning his head back. “Oh, this is already interesting. So, we’re both in towels right now?”

Mac laughed softly, the sound cutting through the weight of the day. “Don’t let it go to your head, Flyboy. I’m still trying to figure out where to find the energy to finish packing tomorrow.”

“How’s that going?” he asked, settling more comfortably against the wall. “You making any progress?”

“Slowly,” Mac admitted. “Sturgis came over to help earlier. He was actually decent company this time. He said he hopes being Cresswell’s Chief of Staff will help him with his ‘people skills,’ if you can believe it.”

“Self-awareness looks good on him,” Harm said with a grin. “Did you give him any of that sage Mac wisdom?”

“Of course I did,” she replied, her voice brightening slightly. “I told him leadership isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being someone people can trust, someone who listens. He actually seemed to take it to heart.”

“Well, you’ve always had a knack for knocking sense into people.”

“Speaking of knocking sense into people,” Mac continued, her tone shifting. “I had a lovely little chat with Vukovic today.”

Harm groaned. “Do I even want to know?”

“He tried to sell himself as the perfect candidate for my new command,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “Called himself a ‘younger, more dynamic version of you.’”

Harm laughed—an actual, full-belly laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” Mac said dryly. “Don’t worry, I put him in his place. Told him he wasn’t even close to being on your level and sent him back to work.”

“Remind me to thank you for that,” Harm said, still chuckling.

Mac hesitated for a second, then continued. “I also talked to Bud. Offered him the position as my XO in San Diego.”

“Bud?” Harm asked, raising an eyebrow even though she couldn’t see him. “How’d he take it?”

“He was surprised at first. He said he needed to talk it over with Harriet, but I think he’s warming up to the idea,” Mac said. “He’s always been a steady hand—loyal, hardworking. I trust him, Harm. He’s one of the few people I know who could handle the responsibility.”

“He’s a good pick,” Harm agreed. “Bud’s got the heart for it, that’s for sure.”

Mac’s tone softened slightly. “It wasn’t easy bringing it up, though. He reminded me so much of you today—so dedicated, so steady.

“Bud’s a good man,” Harm said quietly, his respect for his friend evident. “You would be lucky to have him around.”

There was a pause, a comfortable silence filled only by the faint hum of static on the line.

“So,” Mac said eventually, her voice lighter now, teasing. “How about you? How was your day, Commander Rabb?”

Harm smirked, walking over to the open window to let some of the thick air escape. “Well, let’s see. I spent most of the day coordinating with Captain Garrison. The man’s a force to be reckoned with—keeps hinting that he wants me as his XO on the Hellcat.”

“The Hellcat?” Mac’s voice carried a note of curiosity. “That old carrier? Didn’t they decommission her?”

“Not yet,” Harm said. “She’s on the chopping block, though. Garrison’s determined to keep her afloat—literally and figuratively. He’s got big plans, but honestly? I think he’s crazy for even considering me.”

Mac prompted, her voice tinged with concern. “Are you actually considering it?”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” Harm admitted. “He’s passionate about the ship—wants to save her from being decommissioned. Says he needs someone who’s willing to fight for her. Someone who understands leadership and knows how to get things done. But, Mac… leaving JAG? After all these years? I’m not sure it’s the right move.”

“I’ll tell you this much,” Mac began, her tone firm but laced with warmth. “You’d be an amazing XO. You have a way of inspiring people, Harm. They follow you because they believe in you. You have that kind of presence, that kind of leadership. But leaving JAG again? That’s a big decision and likely a one way street.”

“Yeah,” Harm murmured, the weight of her words settling over him. “It is.”

“Have you talked to anyone else about it?” Mac asked, her voice quieter now.

“Not about the Hellcat, specifically,” Harm said, leaning his head back against the wall. “But earlier today, Cresswell called me. Told me it’s time I stopped pretending I’m still a naval aviator and to focus on JAG. He didn’t hold back.”

Mac winced knowing how integral flying is to Harm. “He never does.”

“But it got me thinking,” Harm continued. “About something Chegwidden told me last year. When I came back to JAG after Paraguay, he said I needed to stop playing Peter Pan. That I’d never have the life I wanted until I started taking responsibility—for my career, my relationships… all of it.”

Mac was silent for a moment, her breath soft in his ear. “Maybe he was right,” Harm added quietly.

“Maybe,” Mac said gently. “But maybe you’ve already started, Harm. You’ve done so much—for JAG, for the Navy, for the people in your life. I think you’ve taken more responsibility than anyone gives you credit for.”

Her words settled over him like a warm blanket, and for a moment, the tension in his chest eased. “Thanks, Mac,” he said softly.

“Anytime,” she replied.

There was a pause, a comfortable silence stretching between them as they both seemed lost in thought.

“When are you coming back to D.C.?” Mac asked finally.

“Late Friday, if everything goes according to plan,” Harm said. “Why?”

“Because,” Mac said, her voice tinged with regret, “that doesn’t leave us much time to talk. I leave for San Diego on Monday.”

The air between them grew heavier, the reality of her words sinking in. Harm closed his eyes, his grip on the phone tightening slightly.

“Then we’ll talk when I get back,” he said firmly. “We’ll make it work, Mac.”

“Promise me,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me we won’t table this conversation. Not this time.”

“I promise,” Harm said, his voice steady and resolute.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The distance between them felt vast, but the connection they shared was stronger than ever.

“Goodnight, Harm,” Mac said finally, her voice laced with warmth and exhaustion.

“Goodnight, Mac,” Harm replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

As the call ended, Harm set the phone down and stared out into the dark Florida night.

Robert Residence – Alexandria, Virginia – Late Evening ZULU

The boys were in bed and the twins were finally asleep. The last bottle had been washed, dried, and lined up neatly on the counter. The rhythmic whirr of the dishwasher filled the otherwise quiet kitchen, joined occasionally by the low rumble of distant traffic and the faint cry of cicadas outside.

Harriet stood barefoot on the tile floor, rubbing a dish towel between her hands. She looked exhausted, but content—the kind of weariness that came after a day spent juggling babies, bottles, and briefings. She glanced up when she heard the front door click softly shut, followed by the familiar gait of her husband’s uneven steps.

Bud walked in, his khaki uniform wrinkled and rumpled from a long day, his tie loosened, cover tucked under one arm. He offered her a tired smile.

“You look like you’ve been through a battle group,” she said with a soft chuckle, setting the towel down.

“Feels like it,” he replied, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Got a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

She motioned toward the table. Bud pulled out a chair and sat down with a weary exhale. Harriet followed, curling into her seat and giving him her full attention. The overhead light cast warm amber shadows across the kitchen, making the space feel small and intimate.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he began, voice gentle but deliberate. “Mac came to see me today.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows. “She’s not even out the door yet. Let me guess—more transition planning?”

Bud shook his head. “Not exactly. She offered me a job. Executive Officer of the new Joint Legal Service Center. In San Diego.”

Harriet froze, processing the words. “San Diego?”

He nodded.

She blinked, sitting up straighter. “You mean... she wants you to pack up everything, uproot us and the twins, and move across the country?”

Bud didn’t answer right away.

Harriet leaned forward, concern flooding her voice. “Bud, your medical care—your prosthetic maintenance, your therapy—what about that? You’ve got an incredible setup here. The specialists at Walter Reed know you. The VA connections, the support programs—you want to start all of that over again in a new city?”

“I know it’s a lot,” Bud said calmly, meeting her eyes. “I’ve thought about that too. But San Diego has one of the top military medical centers on the West Coast. Naval Medical Center Balboa has a prosthetics division that works with Marines and SEALs straight out of combat zones. I’ve already looked into it. They’re fully equipped to manage my care.”

Harriet hesitated, unconvinced. “And what about the stress? The kids? I finally just found a rhythm again with the twins. Now you want to toss all of that in the air?”

He reached across the table and gently took her hand. “I’m not doing this lightly. But I’ve been at JAG HQ for nine years. Nine years, Harriet. That’s unheard of. In the Navy, staying in one post that long—people start thinking you’re stuck, that you’ve plateaued. I’ve worked damn hard to stay relevant, to prove that losing my leg didn’t make me any less of an officer. But if I keep sitting behind the same desk, I’m going to fade into the background.”

Harriet looked at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. Bud rarely let that part of himself show.

“I don’t want to be a cautionary tale,” he continued. “I want to lead. I want to make an impact. Mac’s offering me that chance—not just because we’re friends, but because she believes in me. She sees what I can bring to the table. She wants me beside her, helping shape a brand-new command. It’s everything I’ve been working toward. And it’s real. It’s now.”

He paused, giving her space to absorb it.

“This isn’t just about me chasing a title. It’s about finally stepping into something I know I can do. Be the guy who makes things better. For the junior officers. For the command. For the mission. And I want to do it knowing you’re with me.”

Harriet’s eyes shimmered slightly, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. She looked down at their joined hands, then back up at him. “You’ve really thought this through.”

Bud nodded. “Every angle.”

She exhaled slowly. “You’ll still be able to help with the kids? It’s not going to be one of those commands that eats you alive?”

“Mac’s already talked about making family integration a priority,” he said quickly. “She knows I have little ones. She’s not building some iron-fisted machine. She wants something smarter, more adaptable.”

Harriet smiled faintly. “That sounds like Mac.”

Silence lingered for a long moment.

Then she squeezed his hand. “Alright,” she said softly. “If this is what you want—if it’s what you need—then I’m with you. We’ll make it work. For us. For the children.”

Bud’s smile bloomed with genuine gratitude, his eyes misting over. “Thank you, Harriet. I promise—I’ll make you proud.”

She grinned, finally leaning over the table to kiss him. “You already do, Bud.”

Outside, the streetlamps flickered on as the quiet suburban neighborhood settled in for the night. Inside the Roberts home, a new chapter had just begun—one born from shared sacrifice, deep trust, and the quiet strength of a family ready to face the unknown together.

CHAPTER 6

USS Patrick Henry (CVN-74) – Sea of Japan - Late morning ZULU

The low hum of machinery reverberated through the bulkheads, a constant reminder that the beating heart of the USS Patrick Henry was working tirelessly to power the massive carrier through the choppy swells of the Philippine Sea. Deep in the engineering deck, the air was hot, thick with the smell of oil, sweat, and the faint tang of burning metal. Captain Matthew Collins, the ship’s Chief Engineer, lay sprawled in his cramped bunk, his uniform wrinkled and his boots still laced. He had barely managed to steal two hours of sleep after a grueling double shift overseeing maintenance on one of the secondary turbines.

Overhead, the muffled roar of flight operations drummed incessantly, punctuated by the metallic clang of tools and the faint echoes of voices carrying through the labyrinthine corridors. Collins was used to it. Noise was the constant companion of life below decks on an aircraft carrier. It was his symphony—a relentless, grinding melody of machinery that never stopped.

A shrill, metallic buzz cut through the room, jolting Collins awake. He groaned, sitting up slowly as his aching body protested. The intercom on the bulkhead crackled to life, the voice of Lieutenant Junior Grade Eric Grayson, one of his assistant engineering officers, filtering through the static.

“Chief, sorry to wake you, sir, but I’ve got something you need to see,” Grayson said, his tone tight with urgency. “We’re getting unusual temperature and pressure readings on Reactor Two. It’s… not normal.”

Collins rubbed the sleep from his eyes, already swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “Define ‘not normal,’ Lieutenant,” he replied, his voice rough and gravelly from exhaustion.

“Temperature’s fluctuating in the coolant loop, and pressure’s increasing in the core. I’ve never seen it do this before, sir. I think we might have a valve issue—or worse,” Grayson explained hurriedly.

Collins was on his feet before Grayson could finish. He grabbed his worn khaki cap and shoved it onto his head as he moved toward the hatch. “Keep an eye on it, and don’t make any adjustments until I get there. I’m on my way.”

“Aye, sir,” Grayson responded before the intercom clicked off.

Matthew Collins wasn’t born into a Navy family—he was born into steel and fire. His childhood home wasn’t filled with stories of fighter pilots or submarine captains; it was filled with the clang of hammers on steel and the roar of acetylene torches.

His father was a lead shipwright at Bath Iron Works, a man who could trace the lifeblood of a warship from her keel to her bridge before she ever touched the water. His mother was a naval systems analyst, specializing in engineering logistics for ship construction. Together, they built warships for the U.S. Navy, and from the moment Collins could walk, he was surrounded by their world.

While other kids played with action figures, Collins spent his childhood watching destroyers and cruisers take shape, their steel skeletons rising from the shipyard like giants. By the time he was twelve, he could name every class of naval vessel that had ever been built in Bath. By fifteen, he could read blueprints almost as well as his father.

But he didn’t just want to build ships—he wanted to run them.

Collins earned an ROTC scholarship to the University of Michigan, majoring in Nuclear Engineering. While his classmates were partying on weekends, he was spending late nights buried in reactor design schematics, pushing himself harder than anyone else.

After graduation, he commissioned as an Ensign in the U.S. Navy, selecting the nuclear propulsion track. Unlike his peers, who were gunning for flight school and cockpits, Collins wanted the engine room—he wanted the heart of the ship, where reactors hummed and the stakes were highest.

His first tour was aboard the USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70) as a junior reactor officer. It was grueling, unforgiving work—long hours in the belly of the beast, managing temperamental machinery and ensuring that the nuclear reactors kept the floating city above him alive.

Collins thrived in the pressure. He wasn’t just technically brilliant—he had a gift for leadership. When an unexpected steam line rupture nearly crippled one of the reactors, he was the one who took charge of the damage control teams, keeping the situation contained while senior officers were still scrambling for answers.

That incident earned him his first Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal—and the attention of Naval Reactors, the elite command that oversaw all nuclear-powered ships in the fleet.

Collins climbed the ranks quickly, serving as a Reactor Controls Division Officer, then as an Engineering Officer aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71). He became known for his uncompromising standards, his ability to diagnose system failures by ear, and his brutal honesty with commanding officers.

When the USS George Washington (CVN-73) suffered a major reactor coolant leak during a deployment in the Western Pacific, Collins was the one who led the response team, ensuring that the crisis was contained without needing to divert to port. That earned him a Meritorious Service Medal and cemented his reputation as one of the best nuclear engineers in the fleet.

But Collins wasn’t just a reactor guy—he understood the entire ship, from the electrical systems to the flight deck operations. He earned a Master’s degree in Systems Engineering from MIT, completed the Navy’s prestigious Nuclear Power School, and aced the command qualifications that many engineers struggled with.

By the time he was selected for Chief Engineer of the USS Patrick Henry, he was a Captain in rank, but he had no illusions—he knew the ship belonged to the aviators and the command staff. His job wasn’t to win dogfights or make tactical decisions.

His job was to make sure that no matter what happened, the power never failed, the reactors never died, and the ship never stopped moving.

Collins wasn’t a flamboyant officer. He didn’t believe in grand speeches or empty pep talks. He was a pragmatist, a man who demanded perfection and had zero patience for incompetence.

He was feared and respected in equal measure. If a junior engineer screwed up, Collins didn’t scream—he explained exactly how that screw-up could have killed them all. If a system failed, he didn’t panic—he found the fault and fixed it.

But when things went truly bad, when alarms blared and red lights flashed, Collins was the one everyone turned to. Because when the ship was on the line, there was no one better at keeping her alive.

The Chief Engineer moved with purpose, his boots thudding heavily against the metal grating as he navigated the narrow, dimly lit passageways leading to Main Control. His mind was already racing through possibilities, calculating risks, and prioritizing actions. The reactors were the lifeblood of the Patrick Henry, and any instability could spell disaster.

Above, on the bridge, Captain Wexler stood near the starboard-side windows, his hands clasped behind his back as he observed the organized chaos of flight operations on the deck below. The rhythmic thump of arresting cables echoed through the air as an F/A-18E Super Hornet from VFA-136 “Knighthawks” snagged its wire, jolting to a stop amidst plumes of vapor rising from the deck.

Beside him the CAG, Captain Calloway, leaned against the console, her eyes sharp as she monitored the incoming and outgoing flights. The precision of the deck crews and pilots never failed to impress her, but tension still gnawed at the edges of her composure. The last few days had been a balancing act of sorties and ever-increasing close calls with Chinese and North Korean aircraft.

“Deck crews are holding steady,” Calloway said, glancing at Wexler. “But we’ve pushed fourteen launches in the last hour. If this tempo keeps up, we’ll burn them out.”

Wexler nodded, his gaze unwavering. “We’ll pull back when the situation allows it, but until then, we stay ready. I don’t trust the Chinese to keep playing these games much longer.”

Before Calloway could respond, the calm of the bridge was shattered by the sharp, blaring sound of alarms. The lights above them instantly shifted to red, casting an eerie glow across the space. Warning indicators flashed rapidly on multiple consoles, and the atmosphere shifted in an instant—from composed vigilance to controlled chaos.

“Captain, we have a situation!” the Officer of the Deck called out, his voice cutting through the noise. 

“What the hell is going on?”  Wexler barked, spinning toward the nearest officer. His voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

The young lieutenant at the tactical console stared at his monitor, his face pale as sweat beaded on his brow. His fingers flew over the keyboard, trying desperately to isolate the source of the alarm, but the flood of warnings layered over one another made it almost impossible to pinpoint the cause.

“Captain!” he managed to stammer. “Nuclear containment alarm is going off! One of the reactors is showing abnormal readings!”

Wexler’s stomach turned to ice. “Engineering, now!” he commanded, striding to the nearest phone. He snatched it off the hook and dialed down to the reactor spaces. “Engineering, this is the bridge. What’s going on?” His voice carried the weight of authority, but beneath it, urgency simmered.

As Collins entered the the reactor control room of the Patrick Henry, the monitors displayed the terrifying story that both reactors on the great ship were in serious trouble, Collins knew this was it—the moment where everything he had ever learned, everything he had ever trained for, would be put to the ultimate test.

“Get me status on the reactors!” Collins barked as he approached the main console, the monitors blazing with data that painted a grim picture. His heart sank. Reactor Two’s temperature and pressure were spiking past critical thresholds, and Reactor One wasn’t far behind.

“Collins here, sir!” he answered Wexler’s call from the bridge, trying to keep his voice steady. “I just got woken up by this damn alarm myself—standby for assessment.”

His eyes darted to his team. “Report!” he barked.

One of the senior technicians, hunched over his monitor, shouted, “Reactor Two is going prompt critical!”

Collins froze for a fraction of a second before grabbing the phone again. “Captain! Reactor Two is going prompt critical!” His voice was tight, the words rushing out of him as adrenaline kicked in.

Wexler’s voice returned, sharper this time. “Collins, confirm that!”

Collins glanced back at the technician, whose nod was grim. He turned back to the phone. “Confirmed, sir. Reactor Two is experiencing a rapid, uncontrollable chain reaction. If we don’t act fast, we’re looking at a full-scale meltdown!”

Wexler felt the blood drain from his face as he processed the gravity of Collins’ words. Prompt criticality meant the reactor was sustaining an uncontrollable fission chain reaction—heat and radiation spiraling exponentially. A meltdown wasn’t just a possibility—it was imminent.

“What are our options?” he demanded, gripping the edge of the console as if anchoring himself against the sheer weight of the unfolding crisis.

Collins’ voice came back, rapid and clipped. “We can SCRAM the reactor—immediate emergency shutdown. The control rods should stabilize the reaction.”

Wexler nodded, preparing to issue the order when another cry erupted from the control room: “Reactor One is going prompt critical!”

The words hit like a sledgehammer.

For a moment, silence reigned on the bridge. Even the blaring alarms seemed distant against the deafening realization that both reactors were teetering on the edge of catastrophe.

Wexler clenched the console, his knuckles white. “Collins! What the hell is going on? How can both reactors be failing?”

Collins’ voice was strained but resolute. “I don’t know, sir! But this isn’t a false alarm—the temps and pressures in both reactors are spiking fast. We need to SCRAM the reactors now!”

Wexler’s voice was grim. “If we shut both reactors down, we’re dead in the water. No propulsion, no power.”

Collins exhaled, his frustration audible through the static. “We don’t have a choice, sir. If we don’t shut them down, this ship—and everyone on it—goes.”

Wexler’s jaw tightened as he made the call. “Do it. SCRAM both reactors. We’ll figure out what the hell is happening later—right now, we need to prevent a disaster.”

“SCRAM both reactors!” Collins ordered his team, his voice thunderous as he took command. Engineers rushed to their stations, hands moving swiftly over consoles as they initiated emergency shutdown protocols. The control rods—graphite-tipped mechanisms designed to absorb neutrons and halt the reaction—began to descend.

But the monitors told a different story. The rods weren’t inserting fully.

“They’re not seating properly!” one engineer cried out. “Temperatures are too high—the rods might be warping!”

Collins cursed under his breath, slamming his fist against the console. “Override the system—force them in manually if you have to!”

The frantic efforts of his team couldn’t overcome the physics of the failing reactor. The chain reaction wasn’t slowing—it was accelerating.

Collins grabbed the phone, his voice tight with urgency. “Captain, we’ve got a big problem! The control rods aren’t inserting fully. We can’t stop the reaction!”

Wexler’s grip on the console tightened as terror threatened to claw its way to the surface. “What options do we have, Collins?” he demanded.

Collins took a breath, forcing his mind into overdrive. There was one option left—a last-ditch fail-safe that would shut the reactors down completely. “Boron injection,” he said grimly. “Flood the reactor core with boron. It’ll absorb the neutrons and kill the reaction instantly.”

Wexler’s brow furrowed. “What’s the catch?”

“If we inject boron, the reactors will be useless until we do a full overhaul. The ship will lose all propulsion and power. We’ll be dead in the water no chance to restart,” Collins warned.

Wexler stared at the digital readouts flashing across the consoles—the rising pressures and temperatures creeping toward the point of no return.

“And if we don’t?” he asked.

“Then we’re looking at a full nuclear meltdown,” Collins said flatly. “The cores will go, and we won’t be here to argue about it.”

Wexler exhaled, his mind racing as the seconds ticked by. The alarms screamed around him, the red lights reflecting off his face like blood.

Finally, he made the call.

“Inject the boron.”

U.S. 7th Fleet Headquarters – Yokosuka Naval Base, Japan – Late Morning ZULU

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the Fleet Command Center offered a sweeping view of Tokyo Bay, its waters gleaming under a high sun, dotted with ships large and small moving like slow, purposeful sentinels. Inside the sleek, glass-walled briefing room on the upper floor of U.S. 7th Fleet headquarters, the mood was more restrained—focused, taut with the quiet tension that came from operating in one of the most volatile theaters in the world.

Vice Admiral Emilia “Emmy” Navarro stood at the head of the long oak conference table, arms folded behind her back, eyes fixed on the digital command display mounted on the wall. The live tactical overlay of Carrier Strike Group 1 flickered slightly as data updated in real time—ship positions, flight ops tempo, satellite tracking pings, and proximity alerts.

Her jaw was set, her eyes sharp beneath neatly arched brows. She had the look of someone who not only demanded precision, but lived it.

“Status on Patrick Henry?” she asked without turning.

Captain Aiden Zhu, her operations chief, looked up from his tablet. “All systems nominal, ma’am. Flight ops active. Rear Admiral Weatherly’s report just came in—he’s initiated full combat systems checks across CSG-1.”

Navarro gave a small nod. “Good. Keep the pressure up. I want that carrier group operating like it’s five minutes from a shooting war—because that might not be far from the truth.”

She stepped back from the display and turned to the room of assembled staff. “Let’s not delude ourselves. DPRK missile posturing isn’t just saber-rattling anymore. Satellite coverage shows TELs moving to hardened sites, and there’s chatter on encrypted channels we haven’t seen active since ‘03. If they launch even a test round in our AOR, Weatherly’s group is the shield between it and our allies.”

The room was silent, every officer keyed in.

Navarro’s presence was like a live wire. At fifty-two, she was one of the Navy’s most formidable flag officers—battle-hardened, politically astute, and fiercely loyal to the sailors under her command. She had been raised in a Navy family—her father a Machinist’s Mate aboard the Midway, her mother a naturalized immigrant who had cleaned offices on base and demanded excellence from every one of her five children. Navarro had earned her commission through the U.S. Naval Academy, class of ’76, when female midshipmen still had to prove their worth twice as hard.

She began her career as a surface warfare officer, rising through the ranks with a reputation for coolness under fire and an analytical mind that earned her early selection for command. Her time as CO of the USS Chosin during anti-piracy operations off the Horn of Africa became required reading at the Surface Warfare School. Later, as a Rear Admiral, she oversaw strategic missile defense deployments in the Western Pacific and was instrumental in integrating Japanese and South Korean command-and-control systems into joint ops—an effort that had won her quiet praise from the Pentagon and wary respect from skeptical allies.

She had taken command of 7th Fleet barely six months ago, inheriting a tense balance of power between China’s expanding naval influence, North Korea’s unpredictable provocations, and the need to maintain freedom of navigation in contested waters. She had no illusions about the job: every day was a knife’s edge.

Her comm screen chirped—an incoming secure channel from the Patrick Henry.

She tapped the interface. “Weatherly.”

Rear Admiral James Weatherly’s face appeared, framed by the steel bulkheads of the carrier’s flag bridge.  Weatherly looked like hell—his uniform collar open, shadows under his eyes, the bridge behind him buzzing with hushed voices and frenzied movement. This wasn’t a routine update. Navarro saw it immediately.

The secure video conference connecting them used the Defense Information Systems Network (DISN), the Department of Defense’s primary communications infrastructure at the time. The system utilized Secure Video Teleconferencing (SVTC) terminals—clunky, boxy units built around CRT monitors or early flat-panel displays, hardwired to encrypted DoD networks.

Each location was equipped with a Tandberg 6000 MXP or Polycom VSX unit—state-of-the-art in 2005—linked through classified Integrated Services Digital Network (ISDN) lines or SCI-level SIPRNet access, depending on the location and clearance requirements. Video quality was often grainy, running at sub-HD resolutions, but stable enough to transmit real-time conversation with only minor lag.

Audio came through directional desk microphones or clip-on lapel mics, and participants used handheld remotes to switch between feed windows or adjust volume. Encryption was handled through inline cryptographic hardware, like KG-175 Taclane units, ensuring the conversation was fully secure against interception—even at sea aboard the Gettysburg.

While the interface lacked the intuitive polish it was cutting-edge—cold, efficient, and built for warfighters and senior leadership navigating the fog of global crisis.

“Admiral Navarro…” he began, voice tight, controlled. “We’ve had a reactor incident aboard the Patrick Henry.”

Navarro’s jaw tightened slightly, but her face remained unreadable. “Go on.”

“Approximately forty-five minutes ago, both reactors went prompt critical.”

That phrase alone made the air in the briefing room go still.

“Prompt critical?” she repeated, as if testing the words for their full weight.

“Yes, ma’am,” Weatherly confirmed grimly. “We lost primary control. Insertion of the control rods failed. We initiated SCRAM protocols, but automatic systems didn’t respond on either reactor. Engineering had to inject emergency boron solution manually—both reactors were seconds away from a full meltdown.”

A quiet gasp escaped someone in the room, but Navarro’s eyes never left the screen.

“Casualties?”

“None reported so far. The engineering crew performed above and beyond. But the Patrick Henry is dead in the water. No propulsion, no reactor output, no catapults.”

Navarro didn’t curse aloud—but she wanted to.

“And your air wing?”

Weatherly exhaled. “Half of them were in the air when it happened. We can’t recover them. Fuel is critical on at least a third of the aircraft. I’m requesting immediate scramble of tanker assets from Misawa or Kadena, whoever can launch faster. We need to get those birds refueled and diverted to Atsugi.”

Navarro was already moving—gesturing to Zhu and the signals officer. “Get on the line with Misawa and Kadena, priority-one scramble. Tell them we have live assets at risk—Super Hornets, Growlers, and two Hawkeyes. Use my name if they hesitate.”

Zhu nodded and began barking orders into his headset.

Weatherly continued, “We launched our own tankers, but our operational reserves were limited due to this week’s patrol tempo. We’ll cover what we can, but we’re going to need backup. Fast.”

Navarro’s mind was already three steps ahead. “What’s your position?”

“About 140 nautical miles south-southeast of Wonsan.”

That close to the North Korean coast. Too close for this kind of vulnerability.

“Any foreign surface or subsurface contacts?”

“No visual or sonar contacts yet. But we’re running passive, and I’ve ordered the strike group to tighten formation around us. The Gettysburg is already on extended EMCON. Destroyers are holding defensive perimeter.”

Navarro’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want them holding anything. I want those Burke-class destroyers fully combat-loaded and lit up if anything even sniffs the edge of your picket line.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

She stepped forward toward the digital map, her voice cutting through the room like a knife. “Weatherly, you’re sitting on a nuclear paperweight. And if Pyongyang or Beijing gets wind of this before we have assets in play, they’ll assume weakness. We both know they won’t hesitate to test our resolve.”

Weatherly nodded grimly.

“You need tug support?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. ASAP. If we can get her stabilized and towed, we can prevent this from becoming a regional flashpoint.”

Navarro turned to Zhu again. “Task Military Sealift Command out of Sasebo. I want two heavy tugs underway in the next four hours. Put destroyer escort on them from Yokosuka. I don’t care if you have to reroute port security—we’re getting that carrier out of danger.”

Zhu gave a tight nod and got to work.

Weatherly’s voice softened. “Admiral… this could’ve been so much worse. If we’d lost even one reactor…”

Navarro nodded, eyes hard. “But you didn’t. You held the line. Your people saved the ship.”

Weatherly gave a tired nod, his voice weighted. “But we’re still floating bullseye until those tows arrive.”

“Not for long,” Navarro replied. “Keep your CAP rotating as long as fuel permits. Stay dark. Play crippled, not dead. Help is coming.”

Weatherly held her gaze. “Understood. Weatherly out.”

The screen blinked to black.

Navarro turned back to the room. “Get CINCPAC on the line. And alert the NSC—we have a nuclear incident underway in contested waters. We need strategic cover before the press gets wind.”

She took a breath. The enormity of what had nearly happened hung in the air. But she couldn’t afford panic. She was the calm in the eye of this storm.

“Start prepping contingency ops,” she added quietly. “And have intel scrub every signal coming out of North Korea and China. If either one starts to circle, I want to see them before they see us.”

CHAPTER 7

Pentagon - Washington, D.C. - 0500 Hours

The faint glow of the Washington skyline barely penetrated the thick glass of the conference room on the E-Ring of the Pentagon. It was too early for the usual flurry of activity that would soon sweep through the building, but inside, two of the most powerful men in the United States Navy were already deep in conversation.

Edward Sheffield II, the Secretary of the Navy, sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a steaming cup of black coffee resting untouched at his elbow. Sheffield was born into a powerful political family, with a U.S. senator for a father and a well-known socialite mother. Given every advantage, he attended elite schools and earned a degree in political science from Harvard before following in his father’s footsteps. His political career began as an aide to his father, where he built valuable connections and experience. Rising quickly, Sheffield was elected to the U.S. Senate at just 35, earning a reputation for intelligence, wit, and bipartisan deal-making. During his second term, he joined the Select Committee on Intelligence, playing a crucial role in the investigation of a foiled "dirty bomb" attack that ultimately led to the removal of the Secretary of the Navy, Alexander Nelson.

Following several successful Senate terms, Sheffield was appointed Secretary of the Navy, where he navigated budget cuts and shifting military priorities with political skill and strategic vision. His leadership during this challenging period was often met with criticism, with opponents accusing him of being too close to defense contractors and mishandling high-profile naval incidents. Despite these attacks, Sheffield maintained his influence, using his political acumen to deflect controversies and remain in power. A shrewd and accomplished politician, he understood that his success made him a target, and he constantly worked to stay ahead of those looking to bring him down.

Across from him, Admiral William Mordorman, the Chief of Naval Operations, leaned forward with his hands clasped, his uniform crisp but his face etched with concern.  Mordorman was born into a proud Navy family on May 22, 1954, at a naval base in San Francisco. With both his father and grandfather serving in the Navy, military life was ingrained in him from an early age. Frequent relocations marked his childhood, exposing him to various cultures and experiences. After high school, he attended the United States Naval Academy, where he quickly stood out as a natural leader. Upon graduation, he was commissioned as an ensign and embarked on a distinguished career in naval aviation. His early years saw him flying missions with Patrol Squadron 42 (VP-42) and later serving as an instructor pilot at VP-31 in NAS Moffett Field. His expertise led to command positions in VP-45 and a Patrol Reconnaissance Wing in Hawaii, further cementing his reputation as a skilled leader and aviator.

Mordorman's career progression took him into high-level strategic roles, including a staff position with Carrier Group 5 aboard USS Saratoga (CVA-60) and later as a flag officer overseeing critical naval operations. As Director of Air Warfare and later Chief of Naval Personnel, he played a key role in modernizing the Navy and ensuring strong recruitment and retention efforts. Rising to Vice Chief of Naval Operations (VCNO), the second-highest position in the Navy, he became a driving force behind increasing naval funding and shaping modernization initiatives. Despite his high rank, Mordorman remained humble and deeply committed to the welfare of sailors, often mentoring young officers and fostering a culture of integrity and excellence. His leadership, strategic vision, and unwavering dedication earned him numerous awards, including the Legion of Merit and the Distinguished Flying Cross, and widespread respect throughout the Navy.

Sheffield exhaled sharply and set down the preliminary report he had been scanning. "Tell me how bad it is, Bill."

Mordorman's jaw tightened. "It’s bad." He took a moment, choosing his words carefully. "The Patrick Henry is dead in the water. Both reactors went critical—almost simultaneously. Engineering managed to scram them, but the control rods didn’t fully insert. They had to inject boron into both cores."

Sheffield closed his eyes for a second and swore under his breath. "Jesus. That means those reactors are done."

Mordorman nodded grimly. "Permanently. The Patrick Henry isn’t moving under her own power anytime soon. Right now, they’re running on emergency diesel generators, but that’s not sustainable. We’ve already dispatched a tow operation to bring her back to port, but we’re talking weeks, possibly months, before she’s home."

Sheffield rubbed his temples. "What the hell happened? Two reactors going critical at the same time? That’s unheard of. Nuclear redundancies are built to prevent exactly this sort of thing."

Mordorman sighed. "We don’t know yet. Engineering is still assessing the damage. The crew was able to prevent a full-scale meltdown, but they’re shaken. We’re talking about a near-catastrophic failure aboard a nuclear-powered carrier in the middle of the Pacific." He looked Sheffield in the eye. "We need answers, and fast."

Sheffield picked up his coffee and took a sip, as if trying to wash away the bad taste of the situation. "Who’s handling the immediate response?"

"Seventh Fleet has it for now," Mordorman replied. "Admiral Navarro is coordinating from Yokosuka, and they’ve already started moving assets to assist."

Sheffield shook his head. "That’s a band-aid. We’re now down a carrier, one of our most capable Nimitz-class ships, in an already stretched Pacific theater. We’re going to have to work out a plan to backfill."

Mordorman gave a tight nod. "We’ll start working through options, but in the meantime, our immediate concern is figuring out what the hell went wrong. Reactor failures like this don’t just happen. Either there was a massive systems malfunction, or…" He let the last possibility hang in the air.

Sheffield’s eyes narrowed. "Or sabotage."

Mordorman exhaled sharply. "We can’t rule it out. If it was an accident, that’s one thing. But if someone did this intentionally…"

Sheffield clenched his jaw. "We need a full investigation. From both a technical and a legal standpoint. JAG needs to be all over this."

"I was thinking the same thing," Mordorman said. "We need our best investigators on this, and we need them yesterday."

He reached for the phone on the conference table, punched in a direct line, and waited. A groggy but composed voice answered after the second ring.

"This is Cresswell."

"General, it’s Mordorman," the CNO said. "Sorry to wake you, but we’ve got a situation. We need JAG involved immediately."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. Then, Major General Gordon "Biff" Cresswell, USMC, the new Judge Advocate General of the Navy, responded in his usual no-nonsense tone.

"Give me the rundown."

Mordorman wasted no time, relaying the key details of the crisis aboard the Patrick Henry. When he was done, Cresswell didn’t hesitate.

"I’ll put my best people on it," he said. "MacKenzie is back from Indonesia—she was wrapping up the investigation into that incident in the Strait of Malacca. I’ll send Roberts as well."

Sheffield, still frowning, tapped his fingers on the table. "What about Rabb?"

Cresswell was silent for a moment, then said, "Rabb is in Florida. He’s assisting with the hurricane assessment at Whiting Field."

Mordorman glanced at Sheffield. The Patrick Henry situation was urgent, but so was the hurricane recovery effort. Both required experienced hands.

"Alright," Sheffield said finally. "Get MacKenzie and Roberts on this immediately. We’ll decide if we need to pull Rabb in once we know more."

"Understood," Cresswell said. "I’ll start making calls."

Mordorman put down the phone and exchanged a look with Sheffield. The Navy had a disaster on its hands, and the clock was already ticking.

The tension in the conference room was thick as Secretary of the Navy Edward Sheffield and Chief of Naval Operations Admiral William Mordorman sifted through classified intelligence reports. The loss of the Patrick Henry had already thrown the Pacific fleet’s operational readiness into chaos, and neither man was under any illusions about the consequences of leaving a power vacuum in the region.

Sheffield exhaled sharply, tapping a finger on one of the briefings. "We can't afford this, Bill. Not now." His voice carried the weight of a man who had seen the Navy through its share of crises. "The Chinese have been shadowing our carrier groups in the Sea of Japan for months. Their new Type 003 carrier is conducting full blue-water operations. And the North Koreans—" He shook his head. "Kim Jong-Il has been rattling his saber harder than ever. More missile tests, more incursions near the DMZ. We know their pilots have been pushing the envelope with aggressive intercepts over the Sea of Japan."

Mordorman scowled as he flipped through the intelligence reports. "The Patrick Henry was our linchpin in the Pacific. Her loss leaves a gaping hole in our carrier presence. And the problem is, every other carrier we have is already committed." He leaned back in his chair. "The Reagan and Washington are on scheduled deployments. Lincoln is in dry dock for refit. Stennis is still completing post-overhaul trials. Nimitz is due for maintenance in a few months. The Eisenhower and Roosevelt are tied up in the Atlantic fleet, and shifting them would leave us exposed there." He exhaled. "Bottom line? We don’t have another Nimitz-class carrier ready to step in."

Sheffield pinched the bridge of his nose. "We need a solution, and we need it fast. If we don’t backfill the Patrick Henry, Beijing and Pyongyang will see this as a golden opportunity to test us. And you know as well as I do that neither of them needs much encouragement."

Mordorman frowned, thinking. His mind cycled through every available asset, searching for something—anything—that could fill the gap. Then, he stopped. He looked up at Sheffield.

"What about the Hellcat?"

Sheffield blinked. "The Hellcat?" He scoffed. "You mean the Hellcat that’s been rusting in the dock while the Navy debates whether to make her a museum or scrap her?"

Mordorman smirked. "She’s not that far gone. She was active until November of last year, when she was relieved by the Harry S. Truman Battle Group. She was in the fight until the very end—her air wing flew relentless sorties over Afghanistan as part of Enduring Freedom. Over 31,000 tons of ordnance were dropped from her decks. Her F-14B Tomcats and F/A-18C Hornets pounded enemy positions across the mountains and deserts, keeping the pressure on the enemy. She’s still conventionally powered, which means we don’t have to worry about a reactor overhaul. And last I checked, she still has her flight deck, her catapults—"

"Two of them are down," Sheffield interrupted.

Mordorman waved it off. "And three aircraft elevators that aren’t working. And two boilers that won’t light." He sat forward. "But she’s still seaworthy, and she was fully operational not that long ago. With the right repairs and a capable crew, we could have her back in service in a month or two."

Sheffield crossed his arms. "The Hellcat hasn’t been on active duty for months. Some of her systems are outdated, and we don’t have a full air wing assigned to her."

"We don’t need her to be cutting-edge," Mordorman countered. "We just need her there. She wouldn’t be replacing the Patrick Henry one-for-one, but she would give us a presence in the Pacific. A carrier is a carrier, Ed. You and I both know the Chinese and North Koreans understand that presence matters just as much as capability."

Sheffield leaned back, considering. "Even if we push this through, getting her deployment-ready means overcoming a mountain of logistical and bureaucratic hurdles. We’d have to convince Congress to reallocate funds, expedite repairs, and somehow pull together a crew—an experienced crew."

Mordorman nodded. "Congress is considering the Emergency Supplemental Appropriations Act. It requires the Navy to maintain twelve operational carriers. We can use that as justification for the repairs." He leaned forward. "The good news is, she still has her CO—Robert Garrison. He’s already been working to keep her viable, even while the Navy was trying to decide what to do with her."

Sheffield exhaled, nodding slightly. "That helps, but Garrison’s only one man. He’s going to need a damn good executive officer to make this happen. Someone who can fight through the bureaucracy, push past the red tape, and make things happen. Someone who won’t just shuffle paperwork and tell him what can’t be done."

Mordorman smirked. "Someone who isn't afraid to take initiative—and isn’t worried about pissing off the brass."

Sheffield nodded slowly. "Exactly."

The two men sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling in.

"If we do this," Sheffield finally said, "we need to move fast. We’ll need an air wing, repairs, and a crew now."

Mordorman nodded. "I’ll start making calls. 

JAG Headquarters – Falls Church, VA – 0555 Hours local 

The pre-dawn darkness still cloaked the parking lot outside JAG Headquarters as Colonel Sarah “Mac” MacKenzie stepped from her car, the chilled early morning air biting through her uniform. Her eyes were bleary, and the collar of her service jacket felt stiff against her neck. She hadn’t slept—there hadn’t been time. She’d spent most of the night finishing her packing for San Diego, folding uniforms, taping boxes, and second-guessing her every move.

Now this.

A call from Petty Officer Coates at 0520 hours. General Cresswell wanted her, Bud Roberts, and Coates at HQ immediately. No explanation.

Something had happened.

The building was dark, save for a few dim security lights and the faint flicker of fluorescent bulbs down the main corridor. Mac swiped her badge, the reader chirping as the door clicked open.

Inside, the hum of HVAC and the tap of her heels on tile was the only sound. She passed empty cubicles, briefing rooms locked tight, and her own soon-to-be-vacated office, where her departure papers sat neatly stacked on her desk.

She’d barely removed her coat when Petty Officer Jennifer Coates appeared at her doorway, looking just as tired but a touch more alert. Her uniform was crisp, but her ponytail was slightly off-center—a rare slip for someone usually so precise.

“Ma’am,” Coates said, a little breathless. “The General is ready for you. He’s already speaking with Commander Roberts.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Any idea what this is about?”

Coates shook her head. “Only what he told me on the phone. Something about the Patrick Henry… but he didn’t give details.”

Mac frowned. The Patrick Henry? She hadn’t heard anything on the news. That alone was strange.

With a nod of thanks, she crossed the corridor and approached the General’s door. She paused for a moment, squared her shoulders, and knocked twice.

“Enter,” came the gravelly voice from within.

She opened the door to find Major General Gordon Cresswell already standing behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight. Commander Bud Roberts was seated across from him, looking alert despite the early hour. Mac stepped in and closed the door quietly behind her.

“Sir,” she said.

“Colonel. Have a seat.”

She did, glancing once at Bud, who gave her a subtle nod. Coates slipped in quietly a moment later and stood just inside the door, at parade rest.

Cresswell didn’t waste time.

“At approximately 0200 Zulu, both reactors aboard the USS Patrick Henry went prompt critical.”

Mac straightened. “Both?”

Bud added horrified, “Prompt critical!?  That’s when the nuclear reaction in the reactor has gone out of control-“

Cresswell’s expression darkened. “A simultaneous failure. Control rods failed to insert. The engineering crew had to inject boron manually to prevent full-scale meltdowns.”

Bud’s eyes widened, “Sir, that’s—”

“Catastrophic,” Cresswell cut in. “They managed to prevent the worst, but the Patrick Henry is dead in the water. No propulsion. No power except for emergency diesels. She’s adrift in the Sea of Japan, and half her air wing had to divert to Atsugi because she couldn’t recover them.”

Mac let that sink in. She’d worked carrier cases before, but this… this was on another level.

Cresswell stepped around his desk and handed each of them a folder. “Your orders. You’re flying to Yokosuka immediately. A helo will take you from there to the Patrick Henry. Admiral Navarro wants a JAG investigation onboard before the press finds out, or worse—before Beijing and Pyongyang realize just how vulnerable she is.”

“What’s our scope, sir?” Bud asked, flipping open the file.

“Everything,” Cresswell said. “Systems logs. Maintenance records. Crew interviews. I want sabotage ruled out or confirmed. And if it was sabotage, I want a suspect in cuffs before your boots hit the deck back at Yokosuka.”

Mac nodded slowly. “We’ll get it done, sir.”

“Good. A car is waiting. You’re flying out of Andrews in under an hour.”

He paused then, his gaze shifting to Mac.

“Colonel, how are your personal preparations for the move to San Diego coming along?”

Caught slightly off guard by the shift, Mac straightened. “About halfway through packing my apartment, sir. I’ve got a lead on someone to sublease it. Should be finalized in the next day or so.”

Cresswell gave a thoughtful nod, then turned his eyes toward Coates. “Petty Officer, contact CNIC Fleet and Family Readiness. I want them to activate full Relocation Assistance Program support for Colonel MacKenzie. Get a RAP counselor assigned to her and make sure her move to San Diego continues while she’s on this assignment.”

Coates blinked, then nodded quickly. “Aye, sir.”

Cresswell returned his gaze to Mac. “Once your investigation aboard Patrick Henry is complete, you’ll report directly to San Diego. The Navy needs that new Joint Legal Service Center operational. Further, as the Patrick Henry’s home port is San Diego, I expect the investigation will continue to be run under your command.  There won’t be time to return to Washington. Understood?”

Mac felt the blow like a punch to the chest. She masked it with a sharp nod. “Understood, sir.”

But inside, her stomach twisted.

She wouldn’t get to see Harm. No last-minute talk, no chance to clear the air. After everything they had said… everything they hadn’t said…everything that needed to be said... it would have to wait. Again.

Promises made, promises postponed.

Her voice remained steady, but the disappointment cut deep.

Bud hesitated, then asked, “Sir… with respect, is Commander Rabb being looped in on this? He has carrier experience—he could be invaluable.”

The air in the room shifted slightly.

Cresswell’s jaw tightened, and his eyes locked on Bud. “Commander Rabb is currently tasked with post-hurricane operations at Whiting Field. He has enough on his plate. I expect the two of you to complete this investigation without his help.”

His tone brooked no argument.

“Yes, sir,” Bud said quickly, backpedaling.

“Dismissed.”

Coates opened the door as Mac and Bud stood. They offered quick salutes before exiting, the air outside the General’s office feeling suddenly colder.

As they walked briskly toward the elevators, Bud shook his head.

“Did I just step on another landmine?”

Mac gave him a dry look. “No, but I think you kicked over whatever bug’s been living up the General’s backside when it comes to Harm.”

“Seriously,” Bud muttered. “You’d think the Commander wrecked his car or slept with his daughter.”

Mac snorted softly. “I think it’s more about control. Cresswell likes order. Harm… doesn’t always play by the rules.”

“He still gets results,” Bud said.

Mac didn’t reply right away.

As the elevator doors opened, she stepped inside and looked at Bud. “Let’s just do our job. If this is as serious as it sounds, we’re going to have our hands full.”

“Agreed.”

As the elevator descended, neither of them said it—but they were both thinking the same thing:

What the hell happened on that ship?

USS Gettysburg (CG-71) – Combat Information Center (CIC) – Sea of Japan – Sometime ZULU

The Combat Information Center buzzed with tightly managed intensity. The dim red glow of low-light panels lit the faces of junior officers hunched over sonar arrays, radar scopes, and secure communication consoles. The air was thick with the acrid tang of recycled air and sweat, punctuated by the occasional barked report, the constant clicking of keyboards, and the soft ping of new data flooding the systems.

Rear Admiral James Weatherly stood in the center of it all, arms crossed, eyes glued to the glowing tactical plot hovering over the main display. Carrier Strike Group One’s position shimmered in digital blues and greens—a slowly tightening web of ships surrounding an empty center.

The Patrick Henry—the heart of the group—was offline, dead in the water 140 nautical miles south-southeast of Wonsan, North Korea.

That gaping hole in the screen was a wound he could feel in his gut.

To the north, a PLA Navy Type 052D destroyer—the Yinchuan—was acting erratically, weaving in and out of Taiwan’s ADIZ like a drunk looking for a fight. To the east, satellite tracks warned of transporter erector launchers (TELs) on the move again in the DPRK. Another missile test within 48 hours was not just likely—it was expected.

The WestPac was a powder keg, and someone had just yanked the pin.

Weatherly’s face was carved in granite, his narrowed eyes betraying fatigue only to those who knew him best. He hadn’t slept since the incident. He couldn’t afford to. Every hour brought new threats, new questions, and more damn meetings.

“Sir,” a junior watch officer called from the radio station, standing at attention. “Secure line incoming from the Pentagon—Admiral Mordorman and Admiral Navarro. Marked urgent.”

Weatherly exchanged a glance with his operations officer, then gave a tight nod. “Ops has the watch. Keep me posted on the Yinchuan’s vectoring.”

He turned on his heel and walked swiftly down the dim corridor, the deck vibrating subtly beneath his boots with the thrum of the Gettysburg’s engines. He entered the cramped flag office, shut the soundproof door, and keyed the secure comms panel.

A minute later, Weatherly stepped into the small, soundproofed flag office and keyed up the secure line. Two faces filled the screen—Admiral William Mordorman, the Chief of Naval Operations, looking grim in the predawn glow of the Pentagon, and Vice Admiral Emilia Navarro, Commander of the 7th Fleet, seated at her operations hub in Yokosuka.

“Admiral Mordorman. Admiral Navarro,” Weatherly greeted, straightening.

“Morning, Jim,” Mordorman said. “We’ve got a situation.”

“No surprise there,” Weatherly replied. “I assume this is about the Patrick Henry?”

“It is,” Mordorman confirmed. “But that’s just part of it. Emilia—can Reagan cover?”

Navarro leaned forward, her uniform collar slightly loosened, her eyes sharp despite the hour. “She can extend, sir. CSG-5 is already underway with Ronald Reagan and Chancellorsville. We can reposition them south to backfill Henry’s absence. But I’ll be honest—she’s still integrating with the air wing after her last maintenance cycle. If we push her tempo now, we’re going to pay for it later.”

Mordorman nodded slowly. “Understood. But for the immediate future, she’s our stopgap?”

“Yes, sir,” Navarro confirmed. “We’ll get her into position. But it’s not sustainable for more than a few months without long-term degradation. Which brings us to the bigger question: What replaces Patrick Henry in the long-term?”

Mordorman’s gaze shifted to Weatherly. “That’s where you come in, Jim. You’re going to stand down Patrick Henry’s command temporarily. And we’re preparing to bring another bird online—Hellcat.”

Weatherly didn’t hide his surprise. “You’re resurrecting the Hellcat?”

“We are,” Mordorman confirmed. “It’s not ideal, but it’s necessary. SECNAV wants twelve operational carriers. With Patrick Henry dead in the water, we’re activating the Hellcat as a short-term replacement in CSG-1.”

Weatherly sat back slightly. “Sir, that’s a big ask. She’s been out of rotation for months now. Last I heard she has catapults offline. Multiple elevators that have been non-functional since she left the Persian Gulf. And she’s conventional. You’re looking at serious logistics complications.”

Navarro spoke up again. “We’ve started assembling logistics support out of Guam and Sasebo. If we stage smart, and keep resupply chains tight, we can manage. What we need is a crew—and leadership—to bring her back to life.”

“Captain Robert Garrison still has been in command after that accident in the Persian Gulf. Where the HellCat had collided with that dhow during air opps,” Mordorman said. “Since she’s returned to port he’s been holding the line, keeping her viable.”

Weatherly raised a skeptical brow. “You’re putting a carrier forward deployed carrier on Garrison?”

Mordorman nodded. “I know your feelings, Jim. But he’s got the flight deck hours, the combat record, and the stubbornness to see this through. He’s knows the Beast has been up against decommissioning but he has working every angle he can to get her operational down in Florida. His heart’s still in the fight.”

Navarro hesitated, then added, “He’s rough around the edges, but if anyone can pull that ship out of the scrapyard and get her turning heads again, it’s Garrison.”

Weatherly was quiet for a beat, then asked, “Are we giving him a fresh air wing?”

“The Patrick Henry will be laid up for years,” Navarro answered. “The best thing we can do is transfer the squadrons to Hellcat.”

Mordorman folded his hands. “The decision’s made. We’re bringing her back. But Garrison’s going to need support.”

Weatherly nodded slowly, already calculating the hurdles. “He’ll need an XO who can cut through the bureaucracy and facilitate her repairs in short order. Someone who knows carrier ops and how to make miracles happen in drydock.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Navarro asked.

Weatherly gave a faint smile. “Let me talk to Garrison first. If he’s still got fire in his belly, we’ll figure out the rest.”

Mordorman leaned forward. “Do it quickly. The Chinese are watching. So are the Koreans. We need the Hellcat sailing in 60 days. And we need her ready for war, if it comes to that.”

“Aye, sir,” Weatherly said. “I’ll make the call.”

The screen went black, and the weight of command settled heavy on Weatherly’s shoulders. He stared at the silent display for a moment longer.

The Hellcat. A rusting giant… but not dead. Not yet.

And neither was Robert Garrison.

CHAPTER 8

Naval Air Station Whiting Field – Outside the VOQ – 0700 Hours

The early Florida sun was just beginning to climb over the pines, bathing the dew-covered grounds of NAS Whiting Field in a warm, golden haze. The scent of fresh-cut grass mingled with the lingering odor of diesel fuel and storm-soaked earth, a reminder that recovery from the hurricane was still very much underway.

Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. stepped out of the Visiting Officers Quarters, dressed in a fresh flight suit with his name patch neatly affixed over his heart. His boots crunched lightly against the damp gravel as he adjusted the folder under his arm—briefing notes for the morning sitrep. He looked up toward the command center just as another figure fell into step beside him.

“Morning, Rabb,” said Captain Robert Garrison, his own khakis sharp, his stride casual but precise. He sipped from a battered stainless-steel coffee thermos, the kind that had clearly seen several deployments and more than a few mess halls.

“Captain,” Harm said with a polite nod.

They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the base slowly stirring to life around them. A pair of junior sailors jogged past on PT, calling out cadence, and a maintenance truck trundled by toward the hangars.

Then Garrison broke the silence.

“So,” he said, almost conversationally, “you give any more thought to what we talked about yesterday?”

Harm’s step slowed slightly. He didn’t need to ask what Garrison meant. The offer had been unexpected, and it had stayed with him all night like a low hum in the back of his mind.

“I have,” Harm said at last. “Believe me, I have.”

Garrison arched an eyebrow. “And?”

Harm exhaled, eyes flicking up to the American flag flapping smartly atop the command center flagpole. “I don’t think it’s the right move for me.”

Garrison gave a slight, unreadable nod, slowing to match Harm’s pace. “Mind if I ask why?”

Harm glanced at him, then stopped near a weather-worn bench just outside the admin building. The two men sat. Harm rested his forearms on his knees.

“A little over a year ago,” Harm began, “I left the Navy. Resigned my commission.”

Garrison looked surprised, but said nothing.

“I went to Paraguay,” Harm continued. “Mac… Colonel MacKenzie—she was on a CIA mission that went sideways. I went down there to find her. Bring her home.”

Garrison tilted his head. “That’s... above and beyond.”

Harm took a slow breath. “When I came back from Paraguay… I wasn’t even in the Navy anymore.”

Garrison blinked. “You resigned?”

Harm said. “Chegwidden processed it while I was gone.”

Garrison’s expression was unreadable. “So what happened?”

“I spent six months flying for the Agency,” Harm said. “Air America-style ops. Off the books, high risk. You might’ve seen the news coverage from my last mission.”

Recognition flickered across Garrison’s face. “The C-130 landing on the Seahawk?”

Harm gave a wry smile. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Hell of a move,” Garrison muttered, impressed. “They still talk about that in carrier aviation circles.”

“Admiral Chegwidden came to find me not long after, I was flying crop dusters to stay busy.”, Harm said, his voice quieting. “We met at a bar—off the record. I was expecting him to chew me out, maybe tell me I’d burned my last bridge. Instead… we talked. About the Navy, about life. About what it would take for him to let me back in.”

He paused, eyes fixed on the concrete underfoot.

“He said he’d do it—but only if I understood something. He didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise his voice. He just looked me in the eye and said: ‘You’re never going to have the life you want until you stop playing Peter Pan.’”

Garrison let that hang in the air for a moment.

“And you took that to heart,” he said.

“I had to,” Harm replied. “I went back to JAG. I stopped chasing ghosts. I told myself it was time to plant roots, find stability. Get serious about my career. My future.”

He looked at Garrison. “So you see, I made my choice. Going back to the fleet now, jumping into something this big with Hellcat... it feels like I’d be undoing all of that.”

Garrison nodded slowly, then took a long sip from his thermos and stood, pacing a few steps. The cicadas had started their morning chorus, buzzing rhythmically in the trees overhead.

“You think going back to sea is running away?” he asked.

Harm didn’t answer.

Garrison turned, his tone shifting. “I don’t. I think it’s facing who you really are. You’ve got the carrier experience. The leadership. And the instincts most guys only wish they had.”

He stepped closer, voice firm now.

“You were born for this kind of role. You walk into chaos and immediately start finding order. I saw you here, Rabb. No rank inflation, no backup, just you—working with engineers, coordinating supply chains, solving problems before they even landed on the CO’s desk. That’s command presence.”

Harm leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “XO is an O-6 billet.” He met Garrison’s eyes. “I’m an O-5. That’s a hell of a jump, especially with my history.”

Garrison didn’t flinch. “I’m not looking for someone who checks the boxes. I want someone who knows what it’s like to fight tooth and nail for something that matters. Someone who’s not afraid to break a few rules to do the right thing. You’re not perfect, Harm—but you’re the kind of imperfect this Navy needs right now.”

Harm looked off into the distance, the outline of helicopters glinting in the rising sun.  “I’m not saying yes,” he said quietly.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Garrison replied. “But I am saying this: the Navy needs you back on the deck, Harm. Not in a courtroom. And I think, deep down, you know it.”

They stood there for a long beat, the hum of a distant generator and the occasional bird call filling the silence.  Then Garrison turned and walked away, leaving Harm alone with his thoughts, the morning light growing brighter as it crept across the base.

As he entered the Command Center a Petty Officer called out to him.

“Captain Garrison, there is an incoming call for you. Rear Admiral James Weatherly—Commander, Carrier Strike Group One.”

Garrison furrowed his brow. Weatherly? He didn’t recognize the name. Carrier Strike Group 1 was a Pacific command—a long way from Whiting Field. Why would a flag officer from the other side of the world be calling him?

He took the receiver. “Captain Garrison.”

A smooth, authoritative voice came through the line. “Captain, this is Rear Admiral Jim Weatherly, Commander, CSG-1. I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrison responded, standing up straight out of instinct. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, first off, how are things over there? I know Whiting took quite a beating.”

Garrison exhaled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “It’s been a hell of a few days, Admiral. They lost power for the better part of a week, communications were down, damage to the training facilities, and some of aircraft took a beating. But we’ve made a lot of progress. Power came back this morning, temp sat-phones are online, and the SeaBees are en route. We’re looking at about two weeks before we can resume normal training operations.”

“Good work,” Weatherly said. “I read your initial assessment report. Impressive turnaround, considering what you were up against.”

“Thank you, sir,” Garrison replied, still wondering where this was going.

After a brief pause, Weatherly chuckled lightly. “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t, sir.”

Weatherly’s tone shifted, becoming more serious. “Captain, have you heard what’s been going on in the Pacific?”

Garrison frowned. “Can’t say I have, Admiral. Comms have been rough here, and I’ve been a little busy putting Whiting back together. I haven’t had time to catch the news.”

Weatherly took a measured breath before answering. “Then let me bring you up to speed. The Patrick Henry  suffered a near-catastrophic nuclear containment incident. Both reactors were compromised, and we were inches away from a full-blown meltdown. The carrier is dead in the water. She’s being towed back to port as we speak, and she won’t be operational for the foreseeable future as they had to use boron to shut down the reactores.”

“Both reactors!?”, Garrison asked.

“Yes, both,” Weatherly confirmed, “As impossible as that seems.”

Garrison leaned back against his desk, absorbing the weight of what he’d just heard. A carrier down. One of the backbones of U.S. naval power in the Pacific—gone.

“That’s… bad,” Garrison finally said.

“Very bad,” Weatherly confirmed. “With the Patrick Henry out, we’re down a full carrier group at a time when tensions in the region are already running hot. North Korea’s been posturing, and Beijing is watching our every move. We need to restore our carrier presence out there—fast.”

Garrison was already thinking ahead, connecting the dots. “You’re moving another carrier into position.”

“That’s the plan,” Weatherly said. “We’re going to get the Hellcat back in to fighting shape and bringing her back to the Pacific Fleet.”

Garrison let out a low whistle. The Hellcat was a far cry from the nuclear-powered supercarriers that dominated the modern Navy. But she was still a carrier, and with the repairs and a strong crew, she could be a damn good one.

“You’re bringing the Beast back,” Garrison repeated, already knowing where this was heading.

“That’s right,” Weatherly confirmed. “We’re going to restore her to operational readiness and send her to the Pacific to replace the Patrick Henry. But to do that, we need the right command team—and that’s where you come in.”

Garrison’s grip tightened on the phone. This was it. The second chance he’d been fighting for. The Hellcat wasn’t just a carrier—it was his shot at proving he still belonged.

“What’s the timeline, sir?” he asked, already shifting his mindset from disaster relief to fleet operations.

Weatherly’s voice carried the weight of a man who had already fought for this plan at the highest levels. “As fast as possible. We’re already allocating resources, but we need to fill out the crew and air wing. And, Captain—”

“Yes, sir?”

Weatherly leaned back in his chair, staring at the bulkhead of his shipboard office as the satellite call with Captain Thomas Garrison continued. The low hum of the carrier’s operations buzzed faintly through the walls, a constant reminder of the naval behemoth he commanded.

Weatherly said, his tone measured. “We need to discuss who your executive officer is going to be.  Do you have someone in mind?”

There was a brief pause on the other end before Garrison answered. “I do, sir. But I should warn you—this idea is unconventional. I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Weatherly smirked. “Try me.”

Garrison took a breath. “Commander Harmon Rabb.”

Weatherly straightened in his chair. Of all the names Garrison could have mentioned, he hadn't expected that one.

“Rabb?” Weatherly repeated, letting the name hang in the air. “You mean the JAG lawyer?”

Garrison exhaled, knowing this was the reaction he’d get. “I mean the pilot, the combat veteran, and the guy who just helped me put Whiting Field back together in record time.”

Weatherly’s brow furrowed as old memories surfaced. He and Rabb had crossed paths before, back in the early ‘90s, when Rabb was a young lieutenant, flying the F-14 Tomcat like he was born in its cockpit. Back then, Weatherly had been an instructor during an air combat training exercise, and he’d taken an immediate liking to Rabb. The kid had been sharp, instinctive—a natural stick-and-throttle fighter pilot. More than that, he’d had a strong moral compass, the kind of unshakable integrity that made the best officers but also sometimes got them into trouble.

“You know,” Weatherly mused, “I trained Rabb in a dogfight exercise when he was just starting out. Kid had skills—a real knack for situational awareness. But I didn’t expect to hear his name in this conversation.”

Garrison chuckled. “Yeah, most people wouldn’t. But Rabb’s not just a JAG officer. He’s a decorated combat pilot, two-time DFC recipient, Silver Star awardee—hell, the man literally played chicken with a loose nuke and won. He was the guy that landed that C-130 on the Seahawk last year. And right now? He’s the reason Whiting Field is even remotely functional after the hurricane. I’ve watched him in action, Admiral. He’s got leadership, tactical awareness, and a way of inspiring people. That’s what I want in an XO.”

Weatherly listened carefully. He hadn’t thought about Rabb in years, but as Garrison spoke, the puzzle pieces began falling into place, now remembering the C-130 incident.

“Rabb’s been at JAG for a long time,” Weatherly pointed out. “He hasn’t been fleet-side in years.”  

Garrison didn’t hesitate. “He tried to go back to the fleet in 1999. Did a six-month deployment on the USS Sea Hawk. But his CAG told him he’d run out of sky—said he was too old, didn’t have enough flight hours, not enough traps. Told him there was no path to command, so he transferred back to JAG.” Garrison let that sink in for a second before adding, “Sir, I think that CAG was an idiot, and the Navy missed out on a helluva command officer.”

Weatherly leaned forward, absorbing that. He didn’t like the idea of wasted potential, and from the sounds of it, Rabb had more to give.

“You really think he’d take it?” Weatherly asked.

Garrison let out a dry laugh. “That’s the tricky part. He seems hellbent to stay at JAG. But I do know this—if you give me the green light, I’ll do everything in my power to make him see what we see.”

Weatherly considered it for a long moment. If Rabb accepted, it would mean a major shift in his career. But if he turned it down?

Well, that would be his choice to make.

"Alright, Captain," he said, his voice firm. "I’ll back your play on this, but if Rabb takes the job, he needs to be all in. No half measures. You make sure he understands what he's walking into."

"Understood, Admiral," Garrison replied. "I'll talk to Rabb about it now."

Weatherly nodded to himself. "Good. And while you’re at it, start putting together a list of key personnel gaps we’ll need to fill on the Beast. We’re going to need the best people we can get if we want her fully operational on an accelerated timeline."

"I’ve already started one," Garrison said. "I’ll send it over as soon as I clean it up."

Weatherly smirked. "That’s what I like to hear. Keep me posted, Captain. The sooner we get Hellcat up and running, the better."

"Aye, sir," Garrison replied. "And Admiral… thanks for hearing me out on this."

Weatherly was a firm but fair leader, often described as a “pilot’s admiral.” He had a reputation for standing up for his people, ensuring that his aviators and sailors were given the resources and training they needed to succeed. However, he also carried the weight of experience—having lost wingmen and seen firsthand how bad decisions could cost lives.

Though he had a deep respect for the chain of command, he wasn’t afraid to challenge flawed directives. He had once butted heads with a Pentagon official who insisted on a rapid, high-risk deployment plan that he deemed reckless, earning him a temporary reputation as being “difficult.” But those who served under him knew he had their backs.

Despite his operational focus, Weatherly understood the importance of morale. He had an open-door policy for his officers and frequently walked the flight deck, checking in with sailors and deck crew. He also had a wry sense of humor—one that helped him navigate the constant pressures of command.

Weatherly let out a dry chuckle. "Don’t thank me yet, Bob. If this blows up in our faces, I’ll be the one explaining it to the CNO."

"Then I’ll make damn sure it doesn’t," Garrison said confidently.

"See that you do," Weatherly said. 

The line went dead, leaving Weatherly staring at the bulkhead. He shook his head, a slight grin forming.

Later, the training building smelled like warm plastic and ozone—a tang of scorched circuits and stale air that hung stubbornly over the darkened simulator bays. Fluorescent lights flickered above, buzzing like irritated hornets as Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. crouched beside a tangled nest of Ethernet cables and blinking diagnostic lights.

He didn’t speak the language of servers and RAID arrays. All he knew was that the simulators—essential for getting instructor pilots and students back into the air safely—were still down, despite power being restored to the facility 12 hours ago.

“Okay,” said Petty Officer First Class Kevin Shepler, one of the IT technicians Harm had roped into this operation, “so the main issue is that the storage cluster for the sim server backplane lost integrity during the storm. The power outage hit during a write cycle, and—”

“English,” Harm said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Shepler cleared his throat. “The computer brain that runs the simulators fried. And the backups we had onsite? Also fried. The storm corrupted everything.”

“So… no sims,” Harm concluded grimly.

“Not unless we can get the offsite backups,” Shepler said. “They’re stored at NAS Jacksonville in the secure ops archive.”

“How long to get them?” Harm asked.

Shepler hesitated. “If we make the request now, and Jacksonville’s systems are intact… maybe 24 to 36 hours for transfer and full restore.”

Harm let out a long breath, straightening. “Alright. Let’s make the request. Top priority.”

Shepler gave a sharp nod and scurried off to prep the request forms.

Harm turned toward the rows of black simulator cockpits lined up in silence—hulking, lifeless machines that normally buzzed with artificial engine noise and digital landscapes. The simulators were a critical part of Whiting Field’s training program. Without them, flight instructors would be stuck waiting to qualify students—delays that would ripple across the Navy’s entire pilot pipeline.

His cell phone chirped. Harm pulled it from his belt, checking the caller ID.

Mac.

He blinked, caught off guard, and quickly answered. “Mac?  That’s the third call this week.   Are you still only wearing a towel?”

“Harm,” her voice came through, a mix of static and motion—car noise in the background, but she was clearly upset, “I’m on my way to Andrews.”

He stepped away from the tech crew, finding a quieter corner near a defunct vending machine. “What’s going on? You sound rushed.”

“I’m catching a flight to Yokosuka,” she said, her voice sharper now, more business. “There was an incident—on the Patrick Henry.”

Harm frowned. “The Patrick Henry? What kind of incident?”

“Nuclear,” she said, letting the word hang heavily. “Both reactors went prompt critical. Control rod insertion failed. They had to inject boron to stop full meltdowns.”

His stomach dropped. “Jesus.”

“She’s dead in the water. They were mid-ops—half the air wing was in the air when it happened. They’ve had to divert aircraft to Atsugi. It’s bad, Harm.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No fatalities reported,” she said. “But this could’ve been catastrophic. Bud and I are being sent out to investigate. We’ll board via long-range helo from Yokosuka.”

He leaned against the wall, still processing the weight of what she’d just said. “That’s... a hell of an assignment.”

“That’s not all,” she added, her tone shifting.

Harm listened closely.

“I won’t be in Washington when you get back,” she said. “Cresswell told me this morning—once the investigation is complete, I’m to report directly to San Diego. To assume command of the Joint Legal Service Center.”

Harm closed his eyes.

“Which means,” Mac said softly, “we won’t get our talk. Again.”

He heard the pain behind her voice, the fatigue—and the quiet frustration of two people who kept missing each other at life’s most pivotal intersections.

“Mac…” he said gently. “Don’t worry.”

“Harm—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off, not unkindly. “We’ll have our talk. I’ll come to San Diego.”

She was quiet.

“I’m serious,” he added. “My mom and Frank still live in La Jolla. I’ve got a reason to visit. I’ll make it work.”

“You promise?” she asked, her voice lower now, vulnerable.

“I do,” he said, the words grounded in certainty. “You and I—we’re long overdue for that conversation. No more half-measures. No more missed chances.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I’ll find a way,” he said again. “Whatever it takes.”

“Alright,” she whispered. “I’ll hold you to that, flyboy.”

They lingered on the line for another moment—just the soft hiss of distance between them. Then she said quietly, “I have to go. Wheels up in twenty.”

“Be safe, Mac,” he said. “I mean it.”

“You too.”

The line went dead.

Harm stood there for a long beat, the quiet buzz of broken machines all around him. Then he looked back at the simulator bay, the dark flight decks staring back like silent sentinels.

One mission at a time.  But some missions weren’t just about recovery.  Some were about making things right.

En Route to Naval Air Facility (NAF) Atsugi near Yokosuka, Japan - Sometime ZULU

The journey from Washington to Yokosuka had been grueling. Military transport was rarely easy, but this trip seemed cursed from the start. Roberts and MacKenzie had left Andrews Air Force Base that morning aboard a C-40 Clipper, squeezed in among a mix of officers, enlisted personnel, and a few civilian contractors rotating into Pacific assignments. 

The C-40 is derived from the Boeing 737, one of the most successful commercial airliners ever built. Boeing’s 737-700 model, with its shorter fuselage and improved fuel efficiency, was selected by the U.S. Navy to meet its transport needs. The Navy required a multi-role aircraft capable of rapidly transporting personnel, equipment, and supplies to remote locations, as well as to support high-priority missions.

The military adaptation began in the late 1990s when the 737-700C was introduced. The "C" in 737-700C stands for "Convertible," indicating the aircraft's ability to carry both passengers and cargo. The aircraft features a rear cargo door and a reinforced fuselage, allowing it to carry bulky equipment and pallets. These modifications made it a versatile choice for the military.

Space was tight, the air was stale, and their first stop at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois barely gave them enough time to stretch their legs before they were herded back onto the aircraft.

By the time they reached Travis Air Force Base in California, delays were already mounting. A storm system over the Pacific had thrown military flight schedules into chaos, and their planned transfer to a transport heading directly to Pearl Harbor was now on indefinite hold.

Mac exhaled heavily as she slumped into one of the terminal’s hard plastic chairs. “You ever get the feeling the Navy’s trying to remind us we’re just cogs in a giant bureaucratic machine?”

Roberts smirked, adjusting his uniform collar. “If you’re just figuring that out now, I’m worried about your ability to lead, Colonel.”

Mac shot him a look but couldn’t suppress a small smile.

They spent hours waiting before finally securing seats on a C-17 Globemaster bound for Hickam Field. The cavernous cargo plane was only partially filled with supplies and a handful of passengers—mostly maintenance crews and logistics personnel. 

Developed to satiaify the need for a modern, more capable airlift aircraft. The C-141 Starlifter, which had served since the 1960s, was aging, and the Air Force needed a replacement that could carry more weight, land on shorter and less prepared airstrips, and provide more flexibility in various operational environments.

In 1981, the U.S. Air Force issued a Request for Proposal (RFP) to develop a new airlift aircraft. The aim was to produce a strategic and tactical transport capable of carrying heavy and oversized cargo while operating in a variety of challenging environments. Several aircraft manufacturers competed for the contract, and ultimately McDonnell Douglas (which later merged with Boeing) won the contract in 1986.

Also known as the Globemaster III, the C-17  entered service with the U.S. Air Force in 1995, and it quickly proved itself to be a reliable and essential asset. The aircraft was capable of carrying up to 170,900 pounds (77,500 kg) of cargo, including oversized items like military vehicles, large equipment, and bulk supplies. Its ability to carry large loads over long distances with relative speed and minimal infrastructure was revolutionary.

The cargo hold of the C-17 is 88 feet long, 19 feet wide, and 13 feet high, making it one of the most spacious military transport aircraft in the world. The aircraft has a cargo ramp at the rear, allowing it to load and unload cargo easily, even in environments without ground handling equipment. It can also carry a wide variety of cargo configurations, from military tanks to disaster relief supplies, making it incredibly versatile.

The aircraft's short-field capability—the ability to take off and land on short, unimproved airstrips—was one of its standout features. This allowed the C-17 to operate in a wide range of theaters, from conflict zones to remote areas with minimal infrastructure, providing rapid and flexible transport support for military operations and humanitarian missions.

In the years since its introduction, the C-17 has become the backbone of the U.S. Air Force's air mobility and has been used by many NATO and allied nations. Its capabilities continue to evolve with upgrades to avionics, engines, and systems to keep it at the forefront of military transport technology.

The seating was spartan, metal-framed webbing along the walls of the aircraft, with noise-canceling headsets provided to combat the deafening roar of the engines. The air alternated between freezing cold and stifling heat, and sleep was nearly impossible.

After an hour of uncomfortable silence, Roberts finally spoke. 

“Colonel,” he said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the dull roar of the engines, “I talked to Harriet.”

Mac looked over at him, raising an eyebrow, her headset slightly askew from where she’d been half-dozing. “Yeah? How’d it go?”

Bud gave a small, hesitant smile. “Better than I expected. I think I wore her down with logic… and maybe a little heartfelt pleading.”

Mac sat up a bit straighter, the fatigue in her features giving way to a spark of interest. “You mean…?”

He nodded. “We’re coming to San Diego. Harriet’s onboard. I’ll be your XO at the new Joint Legal Service Center.”

Mac’s face broke into a genuine, beaming smile—the kind that was rare in times like this. She reached across the aisle and clutched his forearm.

“Bud… that’s amazing. That’s the best news I’ve had in days.”

“I’m relieved,” Bud admitted, his own grin stretching wider. “Harriet was worried about my medical care at first—and the kids. But once we looked into the facilities in the area, and she talked to her sister about helping out with the twins for the move… it just made sense. And honestly, I needed the change too.”

Mac nodded. “We’re going to build something incredible out there, Bud. A real model for what joint legal operations can be.”

“We’ll make it happen,” Bud said confidently. “You and me, just like the old days. Well… with more responsibility, better pay, and slightly more gray hair.”

Mac chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re not that old, Roberts.”

“Tell that to my knee,” he muttered, rubbing at it absently. “The Navy’s been good to me, Colonel, but nine years at JAG HQ? That’s not exactly a shining example of upward mobility. This move… it’s the right call. For my career. For my family. And for me.”

Mac was still smiling when she said, “Then we should tell the General when we get back. He’ll want to update the staffing plan.”

Bud gave a quick nod but didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked thoughtful, fingers tapping lightly against the metal frame of his seat.

Then, cautiously, he asked, “Can I ask something a little… delicate?”

Mac tilted her head. “Of course.”

Bud glanced around—though there was no one nearby—and then leaned in just a bit. “How are you feeling about… leaving Commander Rabb behind in Washington?”

Mac blinked, the question cutting through her good mood like a breeze off the Pacific—cool, sharp, and inevitable.

She straightened slightly, adopting her usual posture of calm professionalism. “It’s a change. But the Navy makes decisions. We follow orders. I’ve got a job to do.”

Bud raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “With respect, Colonel… I wasn’t asking you as your subordinate.”

There was a beat of silence. Mac looked down at her shoes, tracing the scuffed toe of one with her finger.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, Bud,” she said quietly. “Harm and I… we’ve been circling each other for a long time. There’s a lot of history. A lot of feelings that never got dealt with.”

Bud’s voice was soft. “I know. And I hope I’m not out of line, but… it’s kind of obvious to anyone who’s worked with you both.”

She gave a dry, almost sad chuckle. “I figured we weren’t as subtle as we thought.”

Bud offered a small smile. “Subtle? No. Admirable? Yes.”

She looked over at him.

“I’ve seen the way you two look out for each other. How you challenge one another. There’s something there, Mac. Always has been. And I just…” He hesitated. “I hope this move doesn’t drive a wedge between you. Not after everything.”

Mac’s throat tightened, and she looked away, eyes fixed on the riveted metal wall of the aircraft. “I wanted to talk to him before I left. We were supposed to… finally figure it out. See if there was a way forward or if we were just hanging onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“But now?”

“Now,” she said, her voice heavy, “I’m on a flight to Japan, and when this investigation is over, I go straight to San Diego. No detour. No goodbye. No conversation.”

Bud didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “He’ll find you.”

She looked over at him.

“I know Commander Rabb,” Bud said, his voice sure. “He doesn’t let go of what matters. And whatever it is between you two? That matters.”

Mac gave a quiet nod, her expression unreadable.

The C-17 hit a pocket of turbulence, the airframe rattling briefly. Mac took a breath, regaining her composure.

“Thanks, Bud,” she said, her voice stronger now. “For saying that. For being here.”

He smiled. “Where else would I be, Colonel?”

She smiled back and leaned her head against the cold wall of the aircraft, eyes drifting shut.

A long flight later the loudspeaker crackled to life.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re on final approach to Atsugi. Welcome to Japan.”

Mac looked out the tiny window at the approaching coastline. Whatever awaited them aboard the Patrick Henry, it was about to begin.

CHAPTER 9

USS Gettysburg (CG-71) – Temporary Flag Office – Sea of Japan – Sometime ZULU

Admiral Gerald Weatherly leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the neatly stacked folders and reports that cluttered his workspace. A steaming cup of black coffee sat untouched beside him, the surface undisturbed. His sharp blue eyes flicked across the screen of his classified terminal, absorbing the details of Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.’s career.

Captain Garrison had let him know earlier that he had asked Rabb if he was interested in the XO billet on the Beast, but Rabb wanted to think it over.  Weatherly wanted to check for himself to see what kind of man Rabb was.

Sure enough, everything Garrison had told him checked out—and then some.

Rabb wasn’t just a talented aviator. He was a man who had stamped his name into the annals of Naval history with a series of increasingly unbelievable exploits.  Beyond what Garrison knew were several classified undertakings.

Landing a 747 in South Korea after an incident with North Korean fighters.  Tracking and eliminating a truck full of stolen Stinger missiles in Paraguay. Defending the Secretary of the Navy at the World Court, of all places.

And now?  Leading repairs at Whiting Field after the hurricane.

Weatherly exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Truly hero stuff.  But what about the man?

The deeper he dug into the reports, the more he began to see a pattern—a relentless drive, a man constantly throwing himself into the fire. It begged the question:

Did Rabb really have that strong of a moral compass? Or was he just a thrill-seeking adrenaline junkie, chasing the next high-stakes mission like an addict?

Weatherly tapped his fingers against the desk as he sifted through the pages until his fingers brushed against a familiar name—Admiral A.J. Chegwidden, former Judge Advocate General of the Navy. Weatherly remembered the man well—a commander respected for his unyielding principles and tough-as-nails leadership.

Checking the time, he picked up the secure phone on his desk, Weatherly dialed the direct line to Chegwidden’s private residence. The call was answered on the third ring by a voice that was unmistakably Chegwidden’s—gruff, commanding, yet with a warmth reserved for old comrades.

“Chegwidden.”

“Admiral Chegwidden, this is Admiral Weatherly. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

A pause. Then a quiet chuckle. “Well, that depends. If you’re trying to sell me something, you’re about to be real disappointed.”

Weatherly smirked. “Not quite,” exhaling deeply. “I need your take on someone. Harmon Rabb.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a chuckle. “Harm? What’s he done this time?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Weatherly clarified quickly. “Actually, I’m considering him for a significant role—XO on the Hellcat. But I need to know more about the man behind the service record. I’ve seen his accolades, his actions, but I need to understand his motivations, his drive. Is he truly as solid as he appears, or is there something more?”

Chegwidden’s voice softened slightly. “Harm’s one of the best officers I’ve ever had the privilege to work with. His service record is filled with actions that speak louder than words. He’s got an ironclad moral compass and a commitment to justice that’s unwavering. But he’s also human—he’s faced his demons, made mistakes. His drive isn’t just about the adrenaline, though that’s part of it. It’s about making a difference, doing what’s right, even when it’s the harder path.”

Weatherly nodded, absorbing the words. “And what about his ability to lead? To be second-in-command on a carrier in a high-stakes situation?”

“Harm’s not perfect, Jim,” Chegwidden replied candidly. “He’s stubborn, sometimes to a fault. If he has one weakness, it’s that he tries to live on both sides of the coin—fleet and JAG. He needs to pick one or the other and stop trying to be Peter Pan. It’s that weakness that has held him back from getting his own command.  But he inspires loyalty in men and women because he leads by example. They know he’d never ask them to do something he wouldn’t do himself. He’s got a knack for seeing the big picture and the smallest detail simultaneously. If you’re looking for someone who can balance command, crisis, and the human element, Harm’s your man.”

Weatherly let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thanks, A.J. That’s what I needed to hear.”

“Anytime, Jim. And one more thing—don’t underestimate him. He’s got a lot more to give than most people realize.”

As the call ended, Weatherly stared at a photograph of Rabb once more. The decision was becoming clearer, but there was still the matter of convincing Rabb himself.

Naval Air Station Whiting Field – Early Afternoon ZULU

The midday sun glared down like a searchlight, baking the tarmac in shimmering waves of heat. Florida humidity clung to everything—skin, uniforms, breath—making every movement feel like it was done through molasses. The remnants of Hurricane Carlotta’s fury were still plain to see. A shattered hangar door groaned in the breeze, fluttering like a broken wing. Downed power lines had been hastily rerouted, and debris from uprooted trees still lined the edges of the taxiways in twisted, muddy heaps.

Captain Robert Garrison strode out of the Command Center, sweat darkening his khaki collar as he shielded his eyes from the sun. The scent of jet fuel, ozone, and damp pine was thick in the air. The base wasn’t whole yet, but the buzz of activity—construction teams, SeaBees, and junior officers coordinating logistics—proved it was alive.

Above him, the deep, mechanical growl of rotor blades cut through the air. Three MH-53E Sea Dragons thundered overhead, descending like metallic giants. Their massive rotors churned the air, kicking up brown clouds of dirt and grit, forcing nearby personnel to duck or shield their eyes.

Just beyond the landing zone, Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. stood calmly in the chaos, arms crossed, his uniform streaked with dust and sweat. He was deep in discussion with a SeaBee commander—his gestures sharp, efficient, his presence commanding. Even amid the noise and clutter, Rabb exuded control.

Garrison waited until the conversation wrapped. Harm extended a hand to the commander, who shook it with a nod before jogging off toward his troops.

“Things are looking like they’re well in hand,” Garrison called out, his voice rising over the whine of idling choppers.

Harm exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah. I think we’ve got them on the right path. Power’s back, comms are up, and with the SeaBees here, Captain Reese should be able to manage it from here.”

Garrison nodded slowly. “Then you’re about done here.”

“Just about.”

There was a brief pause.

“You hear what’s going on out in the Pacific?” Garrison asked, tone shifting.

Harm’s posture changed. His eyes sharpened. “Yeah. The Patrick Henry. Both reactors went critical. Emergency shutdown, boron injection, full scram.”

Garrison gave a grave nod. “She’s dead in the water. Under tow now.”

“At best, she’s out for years,” Harm said, shaking his head. “That kind of nuclear failure on a carrier? That’s unheard of. The redundancies alone should have made that impossible.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Garrison muttered.

Harm frowned. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Garrison hesitated, then gestured with his chin toward a squat, sandbagged command shack just beyond the helo pad. “Come on. We shouldn’t talk about this out here.”

The command center was little more than four walls, a few desks, and the faint smell of old coffee and dust, but it offered shade and relative quiet. A single wall-mounted fan whirred uselessly in the corner, barely pushing the hot air around. Garrison kicked the door shut behind them and leaned against the desk, folding his arms.

“I got word this morning,” he began. “The Navy’s moving fast to fill the gap left by Patrick Henry. High command greenlit the reactivation of Hellcat.  They are going to move her to the Pacific to join up with what remains of Strike Force 1”

Harm raised his eyebrows. “That’s a turnaround. Last I heard she was about to be decommissioned.”

“She was,” Garrison said. “But with Patrick Henry sidelined indefinitely, someone in Washington remembered we still have a conventionally powered carrier that flew combat missions just a few months ago.”

“And you’re taking her back out.”

Garrison nodded. “Confirmed earlier this morning. Orders are being cut as we speak. We’re getting her ready for redeployment.”

Harm gave a small nod. “Congrats, Captain. You’ve been fighting to get Hellcat back in the fight. I’m glad someone listened.”

“Thanks,” Garrison said… then added, “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

Harm turned slowly to face him.

“I want you to be my XO.”

Harm blinked, but he didn’t speak. His jaw tensed. “Captain, we’ve been through this already,” he said finally.

Garrison took a step closer, reading his hesitation, his silence.

“You’re not afraid of command, are you?” Garrison asked, the challenge subtle but unmistakable in his tone.

That snapped Harm’s gaze up like a shot.

“Scared?” he repeated, a hint of fire sparking behind his blue green eyes. “Don’t insult me, Captain.”

Garrison held up a hand, unbothered by the heat. “Easy, Harm. I didn’t say you were scared of the job. I asked if you were afraid of command. Of what it means. Of what it demands from a man who’s lived two lives.”

Harm took a sharp breath and stepped back from the table. “I’ve been in command. I’ve made life-and-death decisions from a cockpit and a courtroom. I’ve gone into combat and dragged people out of it. So no, Rob, I’m not afraid.”

“Then why?” Garrison pressed. “Why won’t you take the damn job?”

“I told you,” Harm snapped, more forcefully now. “I’ve already made this choice. I was in the fleet and was forced to leave it.  I found a home a JAG but I tried again at fleet and was told I had run out of sky.  I came back to JAG, but had to resign to go save a fellow service member, only to come back to JAG again later. I can’t keep bouncing between careers and expect to get anywhere—professionally or personally.”

“Come on,” Garrison countered. “That’s a nice little piece of career planning doctrine, but you and I both know this situation is far from ordinary. A nuclear carrier is dead in the water. Our carrier presence in the Pacific just dropped by a third. This is more than your résumé. It’s a national concern.”

“And I go where the Navy tells me to go,” Harm replied firmly, his voice low, controlled. “Right now, my commanding officer expects me back at JAG. That’s the billet I was ordered to. I don’t get to unilaterally rewrite those orders because the winds changed.”

Garrison scoffed lightly. “You think the Navy doesn’t want this? You think the CNO or SECNAV wouldn’t approve this if we pushed it? We’re not talking about sneaking you onto a flight deck in the dead of night, Harm. We’re talking about filling a need—the need. The fleet needs experienced leadership in this moment, not in six months. Now.”

Harm shook his head, the steel in his voice returning. “And if they decide to move me, I’ll go. But until then, I report to the JAG, not a former CAG looking to throw a Hail Mary.”

That one stung, and they both knew it. Garrison looked away, exhaling slowly, collecting himself before the words could harden further.

“Look,” he said more calmly, “I’m not here to poach you. I’m here to ask you. Because I need someone I can trust at my side. Not just as a subordinate—but as a partner. And I think deep down, part of you misses this. Not the war stories, not the glamour—but the purpose. The responsibility. The service.”

Harm stood still, arms folded, jaw locked. The silence stretched.  Deep down Harm knew Garrison was right.

They stared at each other for a moment longer—two men forged by experience, battle-hardened by different kinds of war—until finally, Harm asked “Anything further Captain?”

Stalemate.

“Nothing further Commander, jut think about it, dismissed.” Garrison conceded.

As Garrison exited the command shack, the heavy door clanging shut behind him, Harm remained for a moment in the quiet. The hum of portable generators outside, the occasional bark of orders from SeaBees, and the distant chop of helicopter blades were background noise now—white noise against the swirl of thoughts in his head.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. One bar of signal. Just enough.

He hesitated only briefly before dialing JAG Headquarters.

After a few rings, a familiar voice picked up—Petty Officer Coates.

“JAG Headquarters, Petty Officer Coates speaking.”

“Hey Jen, it’s Commander Rabb.”

There was a beat of surprise, then warmth. “Commander! Glad to hear your voice. We weren’t sure when you’d be back on comms.”

“I’ve got signal, at least for the moment,” Harm said. “Is General Cresswell in?”

“One moment, sir. I’ll patch you through.”

There was a brief pause, then the line clicked over.

“Cresswell,” came the gruff, unmistakable voice of the JAG.

“Sir, it’s Rabb. Just wanted to let you know—Whiting’s almost stabilized. I’ve coordinated the final logistics for the SeaBees and local contractors. Captain Reese has everything in hand. I’ll be wheels up in the morning, heading back to D.C.”

There was a short pause. “That’s good to hear, Commander. We could use you back. With Colonel MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Roberts deployed to Japan, I’ve got cases piling up like bad debt. And Turner’s still transitioning into the Chief of Staff billet.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll be in the office as soon as I can.”

Another pause, then Harm pressed on, his voice more cautious now.

“Sir… I’ve been reading the situation reports. About the Patrick Henry. I assume there’s a JAG investigation underway.”

“There is,” Cresswell confirmed. “MacKenzie and Roberts are en route to the carrier now. They’ll be conducting the preliminary inquiry, and if needed, leading the full investigation.”

Harm leaned against the desk, staring down at a cracked folder of engineering schematics. “Should I expect to be involved?”

Cresswell’s tone didn’t shift. “No, Commander. Not at this time. Colonel MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Roberts have the background and experience to handle it.”

There was a pause. Not long. Barely a breath. But enough.

“I see,” Harm said evenly.

He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice, but it crept in anyway—just enough for a perceptive ear like Cresswell’s to catch it.

“Something else, Rabb?”

“No, sir.” Harm straightened. “Just wanted to check in. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Safe travels,” Cresswell said, then the line went dead.

Harm lowered the phone slowly, the small screen dimming in his hand. He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to take something with it.

Not at this time.

The words echoed louder than they should have.

He set the phone down on the table, staring at it for a moment before glancing out the window of the shack. The recovery operations were still in full swing outside—sailors working, helicopters landing, chaos being tamed piece by piece. And yet, despite being in the center of it, Harm felt a growing distance.

En Route to USS Patrick Henry (CVN-74) - Pacific Ocean - sometime ZULU

The MH-53E Sea Dragon vibrated with a steady hum as it cut through the skies above the Pacific. The interior was cramped, the fold-down seats lining the walls barely giving Roberts and MacKenzie enough room to stretch their legs. A faint, rhythmic thump echoed through the cabin as the big helo maintained its course toward the stricken Patrick Henry.

The heavy-lift helicopter was developed by Sikorsky as an advanced variant of the CH-53E Super Stallion. Designed primarily for airborne mine countermeasures (AMCM) and heavy transport operations, the Sea Dragon features a reinforced fuselage, extended-range fuel tanks, and an advanced mine-sweeping system capable of detecting and neutralizing naval mines. Introduced into the U.S. Navy in the 1980s, the MH-53E became a critical asset in both peacetime and combat operations, ensuring the safe passage of naval fleets through mine-infested waters. Its powerful three-engine design, combined with an extensive payload capacity, made it the most capable rotary-wing aircraft for overwater heavy-lift missions in the Navy’s inventory.

Beyond mine countermeasures, the MH-53E proved invaluable for logistical support and heavy transport, particularly in maritime environments where its ability to carry outsized cargo and personnel set it apart. The helicopter’s impressive range, augmented by its aerial refueling capability, allowed it to operate over vast distances, making it indispensable for resupply missions, search and rescue, and disaster relief efforts. With a maximum takeoff weight exceeding 70,000 pounds and the ability to transport large numbers of troops, equipment, and even vehicles, the Sea Dragon became a workhorse of the fleet, often used in high-risk scenarios where its unique capabilities could be leveraged.

When the USS Patrick Henry suffered the reactor failures and was left stranded in the Pacific, normal carrier flight operations became impossible, eliminating the use of traditional Carrier Onboard Delivery (COD) aircraft like the C-2A Greyhound. With the carrier under tow, all personnel and supply transfers had to be conducted using vertical take-off and landing (VTOL) aircraft. The Sea Dragon quickly became the primary lifeline to the crippled vessel, its range and aerial refueling capabilities allowing it to complete the demanding flights required to keep the Patrick Henry operational. The journey to the carrier necessitated two in-flight refuelings, pushing both crew and aircraft to their limits. As a result, the Sea Dragon became an indispensable asset, ferrying investigators, engineers, and critical supplies to the ship, ensuring that the effort to stabilize and eventually restore the vessel could continue.

MacKenzie stared out the small porthole, catching glimpses of endless blue stretching to the horizon. She shifted in her seat and turned toward Roberts, who sat across from her, deep in thought.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

Roberts exhaled, rubbing his chin. “That I don’t like the unknown. There are too many unanswered questions about this incident.”

Mac nodded, her mind running through the possibilities. “Mechanical failure, procedural error, human negligence… or worse.”

“Sabotage,” Roberts finished grimly.

MacKenzie didn’t answer immediately. The idea had crossed her mind, but saying it out loud made it feel all too real. She leaned back against the bulkhead, her arms crossed.

“The Patrick Henry just came out of a Refueling and Complex Overhaul,” she pointed out. “That’s a massive process. Every system gets upgraded, every inch of the ship is practically taken apart and put back together.” She looked over at Roberts. “She was six months out of RCOH. That’s nothing. In theory, she should be in peak condition.”

Roberts frowned. “So what the hell happened?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” MacKenzie replied. “But let’s be honest here, Bud—catastrophic failure in a nuclear reactor isn’t something that just happens. It’s not like someone tripped over a wire.”

Roberts tapped his fingers against his knee. “Right. Which means we’re looking at either gross negligence or something deliberate.”

MacKenzie studied him for a moment. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Roberts let out a slow breath. “That I don’t like what my gut is telling me.”

The Osprey hit a small patch of turbulence, causing a slight jolt through the cabin. Neither of them reacted. They were too focused on the task ahead.

“If it was an accident, we’ll find out where the breakdown was,” MacKenzie said, her voice even. “If it was negligence, we’ll hold the responsible parties accountable.”

“And if it was sabotage?” Roberts asked, his gaze meeting hers.

MacKenzie’s expression hardened. “Then we’re dealing with something far more dangerous.”

For a few moments, the only sound between them was the dull roar of the Osprey’s engines.

Roberts finally spoke again. “The Patrick Henry has been the backbone of Pacific operations for years. Taking her out of the fight like this—it weakens us. If this was intentional…”

“Then someone wanted her sidelined,” MacKenzie finished. She shook her head. “I don’t like it, Bud. Something about this whole situation feels off.”

Roberts nodded in agreement. “Then let’s make sure we get to the truth. No matter where it leads.”

The aircraft’s pilot’s voice crackled over their headsets.

“ETA to Patrick Henry, five minutes.”

MacKenzie took a deep breath and tightened her harness. Roberts did the same. The investigation was just beginning, but they both had the same feeling—this was going to be more than just a routine inquiry.

Something had gone terribly wrong aboard the Patrick Henry and they were about to find out why.

The MH-53E Sea Dragon settled onto the flight deck of the USS Patrick Henry with a shudder, its massive rotors finally winding down after the grueling journey. As Roberts and MacKenzie stepped onto the deck, they were immediately struck by the eerie stillness. Normally, a carrier's flight deck was a symphony of controlled chaos—deck crews in brightly colored vests racing between aircraft, the roar of jet engines, and the constant movement of ordnance and fuel. But here, there was none of that. The Patrick Henry had been silenced. Instead of the orchestrated frenzy, sailors moved about without urgency, their expressions heavy with frustration and unease. The ship, a war machine designed for relentless operations, now drifted toward home like a wounded giant, completely reliant on the tugs towing it across the Pacific.

A young Naval Ensign, his uniform crisp but his posture betraying exhaustion, stepped forward and saluted. “Ma’am, sir—Captain Wexler is expecting you. He’s on the bridge. If you’ll follow me?”

As they moved across the towering bulk of the carrier, they could feel the difference immediately. The usual hum of the ship’s systems was subdued. The passageways, normally pulsing with energy, were filled with pockets of sailors standing around in low conversation, their voices hushed. There was an undercurrent of tension here—uncertainty, perhaps even embarrassment. This was a nuclear-powered carrier, one of the most formidable warships afloat, and yet it had been rendered helpless. They passed damage control stations, where crews checked and rechecked containment procedures. They walked past sailors hunched over consoles in Combat Information Center annexes, reviewing reactor safety logs, trying to piece together what had gone wrong. The entire ship felt like a patient in an intensive care unit—stable but not well, and certainly not combat-ready.

Finally, they stepped onto the bridge, where Captain Charles “Chuck” Wexler stood at the forward windows, gazing out over the ocean with his arms crossed. The man exuded command presence—broad-shouldered, grizzled, his face lined from years of service at sea. He turned as they entered, and Roberts and MacKenzie immediately came to attention.

“Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie, Lieutenant Commander Roberts, reporting as ordered, sir,” Mac said firmly.

Wexler’s expression was polite but tight. He gave them a measured nod, his voice calm but edged with frustration. “Welcome aboard. Not every day we get a visit from JAG aboard a dead-stick carrier.” He gestured toward a nearby table. “I assume you’re here to figure out how the hell this happened. What’s your plan?”

Roberts spoke first. “We’ll need full access to engineering logs, reactor maintenance records, and watchstander reports. We also need to speak to the reactor officers, chief engineers, and key personnel from the engineering department.”

MacKenzie nodded. “Additionally, we’ll need to assess whether this was an accident, negligence, or—” she hesitated slightly before continuing, “something more deliberate.”

Wexler exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “If there was a failure of my crew, I want to know immediately. If this was sabotage—” his jaw tightened, “then we have bigger problems than just getting this ship home.”

Roberts took a step forward. “Sir, do you have any thoughts on what could have caused the reactor problems?”

Wexler shook his head, his expression dark. “None. One minute, we were knee-deep in flight operations, the next, we were staring down an unparalleled nuclear failure.” He let out a long breath, frustration creeping into his voice. “We couldn’t even SCRAM the reactors by inserting the control rods alone. We had to flood the reactor chambers with boron as a last resort.”

MacKenzie’s eyes narrowed. “So, the failsafe failed?”

Wexler met her gaze and nodded grimly. “That’s right. The rods didn’t drop when they were supposed to. Something stopped them, or they didn’t work the way they should have.”

Roberts frowned. “Then that’s our first priority—figuring out why those control rods didn’t work. Because if the automatic shutdown system failed on a Nimitz-class carrier…” He let the implication hang in the air. If the same flaw existed elsewhere in the fleet, the consequences could be catastrophic.

He studied them for a long moment, then gave a small, almost begrudging nod. “You’ll have my full support and the cooperation of my staff. But before we get started, you both look like hell. You just crossed the country and an ocean, and I’m sure enduring a brutal helo flight out here. Take four hours—eat, sleep, get your bearings. After that, I need you sharp. Because I want answers.”

MacKenzie and Roberts exchanged a look. Rest was a luxury in situations like these, but they weren’t about to argue with the ship’s captain.

“Aye, sir,” Roberts said simply.

“Dismissed.”

Visition Officer’s Quarters - NAS Whiting Field - Sometime ZULU

Harm lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling fan as it lazily spun above him. The events of the day churned in his mind—Garrison’s offer, the call with Cresswell, the realization that his future at JAG might not be as certain as he once believed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp trill of the phone on his desk. When had the base PBX been restored?  Sitting up, he reached for the receiver. “Commander Rabb.”

“Commander, this is Rear Admiral Weatherly.”

Harm blinked, surprised. “Admiral Weatherly. Good evening, sir.....ah well, morning where you are.”

Weatherly’s voice was calm, but there was an underlying intensity to it. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time, Commander.”

“No, sir. What can I do for you?”

There was a brief pause before Weatherly continued. “I’ve been reviewing the reports on Whiting Field, and I’ve heard a lot about the work you’ve been doing down there. Impressive stuff, Commander.”

“Thank you, sir. Just doing my job.”

“Your job, and then some,” Weatherly noted. “Commander, I’m the CO of Carrier Strike Group 1 and I need to have a conversation with you about something important. Something that could impact both your career and the Navy.”

Harm’s curiosity was piqued. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the situation with the USS Patrick Henry,” Weatherly began. “Both reactors failed, and she’s out of commission indefinitely. We need to fill that gap, and the decision has been made to bring the Hellcat back into full operational status.”

Harm’s mind raced. Why is the CO of CSG-1 calling him?

Weatherly continued, “You know Captain Garrison?  He is going to be getting Hellcat back in fighting shape, but he needs an executive officer. Someone with your skills and experience. He’s recommended you for the position.”

Harm felt his pulse quicken. “I appreciate the recommendation, sir. But I’m an O-5. The XO billet on a carrier is an O-6 position.”

“I’m aware of that,” Weatherly replied. “If you accept, you’ll be promoted. This isn’t just about filling a slot, Commander. It’s about putting the right people in place to make sure the Hellcat is ready.”

Harm leaned back in his chair, processing the information. “Sir, I’ve spent a lot of time at JAG. My career has taken a different path. Are you sure I’m the right person for this?”

Weatherly’s tone was firm. “Commander, your record speaks for itself. You have the leadership, the experience, and the drive. The Navy needs officers like you in positions of command. This is a chance to step back into that role. But it’s your decision. Think it over, and let me know.”

Harm hesitated for a moment. “How do you think General Cresswell will respond to this?”

Weatherly exhaled. “General Cresswell will probably want what is best for the Navy and for you. But I’m willing to bet he just wants you to stop living on both sides of the coin. Make a choice—one side or the other, fleet or JAG.”

Harm took a deep breath. “Understood, sir. I’ll give it serious consideration.”

“Good,” Weatherly said. “We need to move quickly on this, so don’t take too long. And, Commander—if you decide to take this on, know that you’ll have my full support.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck, Rabb. I look forward to your decision.”

As the line went dead, Harm stared at the phone for a long moment. The weight of the choice before him settled heavily on his shoulders.

A chance to return to the fleet. To command. To prove himself once again.

But also a risk. A leap into the unknown.

He glanced out the window at the darkening sky, feeling the weight of the moment. Whatever decision he made, it would shape the course of his future in ways he couldn’t yet predict.

CHAPTER 10

USS Patrick Henry (CVN-74) - Reactor Control Room - Pacific Ocean

The air inside the reactor control room was thick with tension, the subdued hum of machinery underscoring the gravity of the situation. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a cold, sterile glow over the room, highlighting the intense expressions of the engineers and officers manning their stations. Screens displayed critical readouts, their digital numbers and graphs a lifeline to the complex systems they monitored.

Captain Matthew Collins stood at the center of the room, his eyes scanning the data streams with the precision and focus of a man used to carrying the weight of the ship on his shoulders. His uniform was crisp but bore the marks of long hours and sleepless nights—a testament to the battle they were still fighting to keep the Patrick Henry from sinking into chaos.

Roberts and MacKenzie approached Collins, their presence a stark reminder that the Navy demanded answers—now. Collins turned to face them, his expression a mix of weariness and determination.

“Captain Collins, thank you for taking the time to speak with us,” Roberts began, his voice calm but authoritative. “We need to understand exactly what happened the day the reactors went critical.”

Collins nodded, exhaling slowly as he prepared to recount the events that had brought them to this point. “Of course. I’ll give you the full rundown.”

He turned to a nearby console, tapping a few keys to bring up the relevant data on the main screen. “It started as a routine day—flight operations were in full swing, and we were maintaining steady power levels from both reactors. Then, at approximately 1430 hours, we received the first indications of trouble.”

Collins pointed to the screen, where a series of red alerts had begun to cascade down the display. “Reactor Two’s temperature readings began to spike—far beyond normal operational parameters. Within seconds, we had pressure alarms going off. The control rods were supposed to automatically insert to shut down the reaction, but they didn’t.”

MacKenzie’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t they?”

Collins shook his head, his frustration evident. “We’re still trying to determine that. The rods deployed, but they didn’t seat properly. It’s as if something was obstructing them, or they were malfunctioning. Our backup systems failed to compensate, and the chain reaction continued to escalate.”

Roberts interjected, his voice steady. “What about Reactor One?”

Collins took a deep breath, his jaw tightening. “Just minutes later, we saw the same pattern in Reactor One. Temperature spikes, pressure alarms—the works. It was like a mirror image. We initiated SCRAM procedures, but again, the control rods didn’t fully insert. At that point, we had no choice but to activate our last resort—boron injection.”

He gestured to another part of the screen, where the boron injection system’s activation was logged. “The boron absorbed the excess neutrons, shutting down the chain reaction, but it came at a cost. Both reactors are now unusable without a complete overhaul.”

MacKenzie exchanged a glance with Roberts, both of them absorbing the implications. “Were there any signs leading up to this? Any maintenance issues, unusual readings, anything at all?”

Collins rubbed the back of his neck, his expression troubled. “Nothing significant. We’d just come out of RCOH, and everything should have been in peak condition. We had routine maintenance checks—everything looked good on paper. But we missed something. And whatever it was, it nearly took us out.”

Roberts’s tone grew more intense. “Could it have been sabotage?”

Collins met his gaze, the unspoken fear finally voiced. “We can’t rule it out. If someone tampered with the control systems or the rods themselves, it would explain a lot. But finding proof—that’s the hard part.”

MacKenzie stepped closer, her voice firm. “We’ll need full access to all maintenance logs, personnel records, and any security footage around the reactor spaces. We need to piece together every detail leading up to the incident.”

Collins nodded. “You’ll have it. I’ll make sure my team cooperates fully.”

Roberts turned to MacKenzie. “We’ll start with the logs. See if there’s any pattern, any anomaly we missed.”

MacKenzie agreed, her determination evident. “And we’ll interview the engineering crew. Someone must have seen or heard something—anything that might give us a lead.”

Collins watched them for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter but resolute. “This ship—these men and women—they mean everything to me. We need to find out what happened. We can’t let this go unanswered.”

Roberts placed a hand on his shoulder. “We will, Captain. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

As they left the control room, the weight of the task ahead settled over them like a shroud.

The humming pulse of the ship vibrated through the metal deck as Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts stepped into the reactor monitoring station, a cramped but highly organized room where the ship’s nuclear power technicians carried out their critical duties. A faint scent of machine oil and ozone lingered in the air, a testament to the countless hours these sailors spent ensuring the ship’s twin reactors functioned without issue—until now.

The sailors, clad in dark blue coveralls, straightened as Roberts entered, their expressions a mix of wariness and determination. These were the best of the best, trained to handle the high-stakes world of nuclear propulsion, and yet they had just endured a failure unlike any in the history of the Nimitz-class carriers.

Roberts pulled out his notebook and met the gaze of Petty Officer First Class Brian Kowalski, the senior-most technician on duty when the reactors failed. “Let’s start from the beginning. Walk me through exactly what happened from your perspective.”

Kowalski swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sir, it was a normal day. We were running routine monitoring—temperatures were stable, pressure levels were where they needed to be.” He glanced at his fellow sailors, who nodded in agreement. “Then outta nowhere, Reactor One started climbing past its operating threshold. Alarms were blaring, and we moved immediately to insert the control rods.”

“And?” Roberts pressed.

“They deployed but didn’t seat,” Kowalski said, frustration creeping into his voice. “We tried again—manually cycling the insertion sequence—but they still wouldn’t go all the way in. It was like they were stuck on something. That’s when the SCRAM failed.”

Roberts flipped a page in his notebook. “Were there any irregularities leading up to this? Any maintenance reports that seemed off?”

Kowalski shook his head. “No, sir. We’d been running clean. The systems were responding normally. We even double-checked redundancy protocols just last week.”

Roberts shifted his focus to Seaman Davis, one of the junior watchstanders. “Did you see anything unusual? Hear anything before the alarms?”

Davis frowned, thinking hard. “Not really, sir. Just… well, something weird in hindsight. A few days before it all went south, I remember hearing a slight metallic knocking through the bulkhead near the control rod actuators. It was faint—figured it was just normal ship noise.”

Roberts’s ears perked up. “Knocking? Could it have been a mechanical issue?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Davis admitted. “It wasn’t loud enough to raise alarms, and when I ran diagnostics, nothing came up abnormal.”

Roberts made a note. A mysterious metallic noise before a catastrophic failure? It could be nothing—or it could be everything.

He closed his notebook and nodded to the men. “You all did your jobs. The logs confirm it, and Captain Collins speaks highly of you. Whatever went wrong, it wasn’t because of negligence.”

Relief washed over the sailors’ faces, but the unease in the room remained. Roberts shared their frustration—no clear answers meant the real problem was still out there.

“Keep thinking,” Roberts instructed. “If anything else comes to mind, anything at all, report it.”

“Aye, sir.”

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie sat across from Captain Charles “Chuck” Wexler in his dimly lit quarters, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The captain leaned back in his chair, his square jaw tight, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His uniform, though still crisp, showed the signs of wear—a man who had spent too many sleepless nights trying to salvage his ship’s fate.

MacKenzie, ever direct, wasted no time. “Captain, I’ve gone over the preliminary reports, and from what I can tell, your crew performed flawlessly. Their response was by the book.”

Wexler exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “Damn right they did. That’s why this doesn’t add up.” His voice was edged with frustration. “I’ve commanded this ship long enough to know my people. If there had been a failure in training or discipline, I’d have seen it coming. But this?” He shook his head. “This came out of nowhere.”

MacKenzie studied him, her sharp brown eyes analyzing every tic, every nuance. “You think it was sabotage.”

Wexler hesitated, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. “I don’t want to believe it. But if it was a mechanical failure, then it was a hell of a coordinated one—across both reactors. That’s damn near impossible.”

MacKenzie nodded. “If it was sabotage, we need to determine how someone got access to the reactor systems without leaving a trace.”

“Good luck,” Wexler said grimly. “Our security protocols are airtight. The reactor spaces are some of the most protected areas on this ship.”

MacKenzie arched an eyebrow. “Except if it was an inside job.”

Wexler’s expression darkened. “That’s what scares me most. Because if it was, that means we have a traitor onboard.”

MacKenzie let that thought settle before she continued. “Did you notice anything—anything at all—out of place before the incident? Any personnel acting strangely? Any new arrivals, temporary assignments, civilians working in the reactor area?”

Wexler frowned, considering. “We did have a civilian contractor onboard for some post-RCOH calibrations. A technician from Newport News Shipbuilding. Name was…” He tapped his fingers, searching his memory. “Grayson. Peter Grayson.”

MacKenzie immediately jotted the name down. “What was he working on?”

“Control rod actuator diagnostics,” Wexler said, his voice suddenly heavy. His gaze snapped to MacKenzie. “If he tampered with them…”

MacKenzie stood, determination settling in. “Then we might have our first real lead.”

Wexler stood with her. “Find out what the hell happened, Colonel. If there’s even a hint of foul play, I want to know.”

MacKenzie nodded. “You have my word.”

As she left Wexler’s quarters, she tapped her radio. “Roberts, meet me in the ready room. We might have something.”

The puzzle was finally starting to take shape. Now, they just had to put the pieces together—before it was too late.

A short time later the ready room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the ship’s ventilation system and the occasional creak of metal as the carrier adjusted to the rhythm of the sea. Overhead, the fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the utilitarian space, illuminating Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts and Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie as they sat across the table from Peter Grayson, the civilian technician from Newport News Shipbuilding.

Grayson was in his late 40s, with a receding hairline, sharp blue eyes, and a face that bore the wear of years spent in shipyards and reactor compartments. He was dressed in gray coveralls, the company’s logo embroidered neatly on his chest. A clipboard and a thick maintenance logbook sat in front of him, his fingers resting lightly against the edges.

MacKenzie leaned forward, her brown eyes locked onto Grayson like a predator sizing up its prey. “Mr. Grayson, let’s cut straight to it. You were onboard performing calibrations on the control rod actuators before the reactor failure.”

Grayson nodded, his expression neutral. “That’s correct, ma’am. Standard post-RCOH recalibrations. The control rod actuators need fine-tuning to ensure they deploy at the correct rate. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Roberts’s voice was calm but edged with scrutiny. “Except something was out of the ordinary. The control rods failed to seat properly, which nearly led to a full reactor meltdown. Explain that.”

Grayson exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Look, Commander, I don’t know what to tell you. I followed every protocol to the letter. The actuators were working within spec when I finished my checks.”

MacKenzie wasn’t satisfied. “Then explain the metallic knocking that was heard through the bulkhead near the actuators.”

Grayson blinked, then furrowed his brow. “That’s normal.”

MacKenzie arched an eyebrow. “Normal?”

Grayson pulled the maintenance logbook closer, flipping through its pages with practiced ease until he found the relevant section. He turned the book around so both MacKenzie and Roberts could see.

“Here,” he said, tapping a passage with a calloused finger. “Control rod actuators make a faint knocking sound when they’re being recalibrated. It’s caused by the servos adjusting minutely as they sync with the reactor’s feedback system. That’s expected behavior.”

Roberts studied the manual, his lips pressed into a tight line. The section was clearly documented, right down to the technical explanation. “And there was nothing abnormal about the recalibrations you performed?”

Grayson shook his head firmly. “Nothing. I ran three separate verification cycles before signing off on the job.” He reached into his clipboard, pulling out a printed report with signatures and timestamps. “Here’s the official log from the calibrations. You can check my work against the reactor’s historical performance data. Everything lined up perfectly.”

MacKenzie took the report, scanning through it. The numbers were precise, the documentation thorough. If this was sabotage, Grayson had covered his tracks flawlessly—but her instincts told her the man was telling the truth.

Roberts leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “That’s it, then,” he said, disappointment creeping into his tone.

MacKenzie sat back as well, closing the logbook. “Looks like it.” She studied Grayson for a moment before adding, “You’re clear to go, Mr. Grayson. We appreciate your time.”

Grayson let out a breath, shaking his head. “I get it—you had to ask. If I were in your shoes, I’d be grilling me too.” He stood, gathering his things. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find out what happened. Nuclear systems don’t just fail on their own.”

MacKenzie and Roberts watched as Grayson exited the ready room. The door clicked shut, leaving them in silence.

Roberts finally spoke, rubbing a hand across his face. “Well, that’s a dead end.”

MacKenzie sighed. “And we’re no closer to answers than when we started.”

The weight of their failure settled between them, heavy and unshakable. If the control rods weren’t sabotaged, if the calibrations had been executed correctly, then what the hell had caused both reactors to fail simultaneously?

For the first time, neither of them had a good answer.

USS Patrick Henry – Secure Communications Room

The secure communications room was small and utilitarian, lined with classified material safes and encrypted terminals. A dim overhead light cast long shadows over the steel-gray walls, giving the space an almost claustrophobic feel. The hum of secure-line encryption processors filled the silence as Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts prepared for their report.

Roberts inputted the last security credentials, and after a few seconds, the screen flickered to life, revealing the familiar stern face of General Gordon Cresswell, Judge Advocate General of the Navy. His intense gaze locked onto them immediately, a man who had neither the time nor the patience for unnecessary pleasantries.

“Colonel MacKenzie. Commander Roberts.” His voice was level, clipped. “I trust you have an update on the Patrick Henry investigation?”

MacKenzie nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve completed initial interviews with the Chief Engineer, the engineering crew, and Peter Grayson from Newport News Shipbuilding—the technician who handled the reactor calibrations after the RCOH. As of now, we’ve found no evidence of dereliction of duty, procedural failures, or sabotage onboard the ship.”

Cresswell’s brow furrowed slightly, but he let her continue.

Roberts took over. “Every crew member performed their duties by the book. The control rods were properly calibrated. The metallic knocking reported near the actuators is a normal occurrence, confirmed by both Grayson and the engineering manual. The boron injection system worked exactly as it should, shutting down both reactors before a full meltdown could occur.”

Cresswell exhaled sharply. “And yet, despite all of that, the reactors still failed,” he said, his voice edged with irritation. He leaned forward slightly. “This ship is only six months out of RCOH. A Nimitz-class carrier fresh from overhaul should be in near-perfect condition. Something caused those reactors to fail, and I do not accept coincidence as an answer. Keep digging.”

MacKenzie and Roberts exchanged a quick glance before Roberts spoke up again. “Sir, that’s exactly what’s bothering me. The RCOH.”

Cresswell raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

Roberts sat up straighter, his analytical mind already working through the angles. “Sir, RCOH is a massive overhaul. The ship was essentially stripped down and rebuilt from the inside out, including the reactors. If something went wrong during that process, it wouldn’t necessarily be obvious right away. The Patrick Henry operated for six months before this failure. It’s possible that a flaw—maybe a design defect, a material failure, or even a procedural oversight during the refit—only manifested under sustained operational conditions.”

MacKenzie nodded, seeing where he was going. “That means the problem might not have originated here onboard. It could have come from the shipyard, from Newport News.”

Cresswell’s expression darkened. “If you’re suggesting this is an RCOH-related issue, then that means this might not be isolated to the Patrick Henry.”

Roberts met his gaze. “Exactly, sir. If this is a systemic issue, then every carrier that’s undergone RCOH in the last decade could be at risk.”

Cresswell let that hang in the air for a moment before nodding. “All right. I want you both to go back to the Chief Engineer. Start from square one. Cross-reference every detail of the RCOH modifications against this failure. And if there’s even a whiff of negligence or foul play, I expect to hear about it immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” MacKenzie said crisply.

“One more thing,” Cresswell added. “If Newport News is responsible for a failure of this magnitude, I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

Roberts’s jaw tightened. “A multi-billion-dollar defense contractor on the hook for endangering a nuclear carrier and its crew? This would be bigger than Tailhook.”

MacKenzie took a breath. “And if this wasn’t a mistake, sir? If someone wanted this to happen?”

Cresswell’s expression turned to cold steel. “Then you’d better find out who—before we have another carrier dead in the water.”

The secure line cut out, leaving Roberts and MacKenzie alone with the weight of their next move.

Roberts stood first. “We need to talk to Captain Collins again.”

MacKenzie was already grabbing her notepad. “And this time, we start with exactly what Newport News did to the reactors.”

Without another word, they strode out of the comms room, a renewed sense of urgency pushing them forward.

Early Morning – Whiting Field VOQ

The soft hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the distant sound of jets warming up on the flight line. A faint pre-dawn glow filtered through the slats of the window blinds, casting long shadows across the small but functional quarters. Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. stood in front of the mirror, fastening the last button on his khaki uniform shirt, his mind still replaying his conversation with Rear Admiral Weatherly the night before.

It had been unexpected—a crossroads moment.

The offer to become Executive Officer aboard the USS Hellcat was more than just a new billet; it was a defining shift. Fleet or JAG. That was the choice Admiral Weatherly had laid before him, and after a long, restless night, Harm knew his answer.  He knew it was a one way trip.

He glanced down at the cover resting on the desk beside his neatly packed duffel bag. The insignia of a Navy Commander stared back at him. Soon, if he accepted this assignment, that rank would change. A promotion. A return to the fleet. A return to the life he thought he’d left behind.

The thought sent a surge of excitement through him, but also a lingering thread of doubt. Mac.

Harm exhaled, pushing that concern aside for now. One thing at a time. He grabbed his cover, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the brisk morning air.

Captain Garrison’s Quarters – VOQ

The corridor of the Visiting Officers’ Quarters was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional sound of boots echoing down the tiled floors. Harm reached Captain Garrison’s door and rapped twice with the back of his knuckles.

A muffled voice responded, followed by the creak of the door opening. Captain Garrison stood there, already in his flight suit, a coffee cup in hand. His sharp eyes took in Harm’s squared-away uniform, the determined set of his jaw.

“Commander,” Garrison greeted, stepping aside to let Harm in.

“Captain,” Harm replied, stepping through the threshold and standing at ease as the door closed behind him.

Garrison gestured toward a small table in the room, where an untouched plate of breakfast sat beside a stack of briefing documents. “I was just about to head out to the flight line. What can I do for you?”

Harm took a steady breath. “Sir, I’ve made my decision.”

Garrison set his coffee down and leaned against the edge of the table. “And?”

“I serve at the pleasure of the US Navy.  If orders come down for the XO billet on the Hellcat I will serve in that capacity to the best of my ability.”

For a beat, Garrison studied him, then a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he said simply, nodding. “Damn good.”

Harm allowed himself the briefest of smiles in return. “I won’t lie, Captain. This wasn’t an easy decision. But I belong in the fleet.”

Garrison folded his arms. “I had a feeling you’d come to that conclusion.” He pushed off the table and extended a hand. Harm clasped it firmly.

“You’re going to do well in this job, Rabb,” Garrison said. “It’s not going to be easy—we’re facing one hell of a challenge getting the Beast back in fighting shape. But I need someone who can handle adversity, and from what I’ve read about you, you’re the kind of officer who doesn’t back down from a fight.”

Harm met his gaze. “I appreciate the confidence, sir.”

Garrison nodded. “I’ll inform Admiral Weatherly. He’ll get the process started to change your designator and have BUPERS issue your new orders.”

Harm exhaled slightly. This was happening—really happening.

Garrison continued, “I expect Weatherly will also inform the JAG chain of command about what’s going on.” He gave Harm a knowing look. “I assume General Cresswell’s going to have something to say about this.”

Harm smirked. “No doubt.”

Garrison studied Harm for a moment before asking, “Are you heading back to Washington, then?”

Harm nodded. “Yes, sir. I need to close out my caseload at JAG, tie up some loose ends, and secure my apartment before my new orders come through.”

Garrison acknowledged this with a curt nod. “Makes sense. Tying up those loose ends will make for a cleaner transition.” He took another sip of his coffee before adding, “I’ll be heading back to the Beast in Mayport today. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us before we get her ready to move to San Diego.”

Harm straightened slightly. “Understood, sir. I’ll be ready to join you as soon as my orders are in hand.”

Garrison extended his hand once more. “I’ll be looking forward to it, Commander. Welcome back to the fleet.”

Harm grasped it firmly. “Thank you, sir.”

The door closed behind Harm, and Garrison exhaled, rubbing his chin. That went well. He had expected some hesitation, some pushback—after all, Harm had spent years in JAG, navigating a different world. But Rabb was a naval aviator at heart. It had been clear in his eyes, in the way his posture straightened when he realized the full weight of the opportunity before him.

Garrison turned back to his desk, reached for the secure line, and punched in Admiral Weatherly’s direct number. The line rang once before a clipped, authoritative voice answered.

“This is Weatherly.”

“Sir, it’s Garrison. I just spoke with Rabb. He’s in.”

There was a brief pause, then a satisfied hum from the admiral. “That’s good to hear, Captain. I had a feeling he wouldn’t turn this down.”

“He’s heading back to Washington to close things out at JAG,” Garrison reported. “Says he’ll be ready to join us as soon as his orders come through.”

Weatherly grunted in approval. “We’ll get the ball rolling on that today. I’ll push BUPERS to process his designator change and have his orders cut as soon as possible. I’ll also inform General Cresswell personally. I imagine the general won’t be thrilled about losing him, but he’ll understand this is where Rabb belongs.”

Garrison smirked. “I got the impression that Rabb has been straddling the line between JAG and the fleet for too long. This should settle things.”

“Agreed,” Weatherly said. “Hellcat needs strong leadership for this transition. With Patrick Henry out of commission, we don’t have time for a slow ramp-up. We need that ship fully operational as soon as possible. And to do that, you two will need to work your magic.”

Garrison leaned back in his chair. “Understood, sir. I’ll be heading back to the Beast today to start preparations for the move to San Diego. I expect to see Rabb on board sooner rather than later.”

“You will,” Weatherly assured him. “I’ll handle things on my end. Keep me updated on Hellcat’s status.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pensacola International Airport – Early Morning

The drive from Whiting Field to Pensacola International was quiet, save for the occasional chatter on the base radio. The young seaman behind the wheel kept his focus on the road, occasionally glancing at Harm through the rearview mirror.

“Sir, you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at the military terminal?” the seaman asked.

Harm smirked. “No special transport today, Seaman. I’m just another traveler heading home.”

The young sailor nodded. “Understood, sir. Safe travels.”

Harm grabbed his bag, stepped out of the vehicle, and took a deep breath of the humid Florida morning air. He adjusted the strap on his duffel and made his way inside. Commercial travel. Not his first choice, but with the urgency at Whiting Field now resolved, there was no reason for the Navy to allocate special transport.

Inside, the airport was already buzzing with early travelers, families wrangling kids, businessmen glued to their phones, and retirees moving at a more relaxed pace. Harm navigated through security, then grabbed a black coffee before heading toward his gate.

The flight to Atlanta was packed. The usual mix of business commuters and vacationers filled the narrow rows of the National Airlines Boeing 757. Harm found himself sandwiched in the middle seat, his long legs cramped between the seat in front of him and the overstuffed carry-on of the passenger beside him.

The Boeing 757 was conceived in the late 1970s as Boeing sought to develop a successor to the aging 727. Airlines were demanding a more fuel-efficient, high-capacity narrow-body aircraft that could handle both short- and medium-haul routes. At the time, advancements in aerodynamics and engine technology were reshaping commercial aviation, and Boeing saw an opportunity to create an aircraft that would blend performance, efficiency, and versatility. The design process prioritized reduced fuel consumption and lower operating costs while maintaining the reliability and durability that airlines expected from Boeing aircraft.

First entering service in 1983 with Eastern Air Lines and British Airways, the 757 was an immediate success. Powered by either Rolls-Royce RB211 or Pratt & Whitney PW2000 engines, it offered significant improvements in fuel efficiency over its predecessors. Its distinctive long fuselage, powerful engines, and advanced wing design provided excellent takeoff performance, making it particularly well-suited for high-altitude airports and short runways. Pilots quickly fell in love with the aircraft, praising its excellent handling characteristics, powerful engines, and responsive controls. Many likened it to a "sports car" in the sky, as it was more intuitive and agile to fly than other large aircraft. The 757 also featured a well-designed cockpit layout and user-friendly systems, which further contributed to its reputation as a pilot’s aircraft.

Over the years, the 757 found widespread adoption by major airlines around the world, operating both domestic and international routes. Its range and efficiency allowed it to serve transatlantic markets that were previously the domain of larger wide-body aircraft. The aircraft became a favorite among pilots for its handling and high performance, while airlines appreciated its versatility, using it for everything from high-density shuttle services to long-haul intercontinental flights. Additionally, freight carriers such as FedEx and UPS later converted many 757s into cargo planes, extending the aircraft’s operational lifespan well into the 21st century.

Despite its popularity, Boeing ceased production of the 757 in 2004 due to shifting market demands and the rise of newer, more fuel-efficient aircraft like the 737 Next Generation and the 787 Dreamliner. However, the 757 remains a critical part of many airline fleets, with hundreds still in service today. Its powerful engines and exceptional performance continue to make it a standout in commercial aviation, particularly in challenging operational conditions. 

Harm exhaled. It’s just a couple of hours.

The plane pushed back from the gate, taxied, and took off into the morning sky. Harm leaned his head back, trying to get comfortable, but his mind wouldn’t settle. His conversation with Admiral Weatherly played over in his head.

You’ll be promoted. This isn’t just about filling a slot, Commander. It’s about putting the right people in place.

It had taken him by surprise—how easily he had said yes. He had spent so much of his career balancing between the fleet and JAG, but now? No more split loyalties. The Navy had made its decision. He belonged at sea.

And then there was Mac.

His jaw tightened as he thought of her. She had always supported him, even when it meant putting her own heart on the line. Now, with his orders changing, what would that mean for them? Would she see this as another instance of him choosing his career over their relationship?

Then another thought struck him—one that made his stomach tighten, but also filled him with an unexpected sense of hope.

If he was no longer in JAG, he was no longer in her chain of command.

That had always been the unspoken wall between them. Even when things got complicated—when they danced around their feelings, when they came close to crossing that line—they had always pulled back because regulations demanded it.

Now? That obstacle would be gone.

It didn’t mean they wouldn’t be apart for long stretches of time, but it meant that if they wanted to be together, they could be—truly, without restriction, without the weight of JAG’s rules pressing down on them.

That realization settled in his chest, solid and undeniable. He still didn’t know how Mac would take the news, but for the first time, his transfer didn’t feel like something that would drive them apart.

It could actually bring them together.

The flight attendant passing by caught his eye, a tall, blonde woman with a bright smile and sharp blue eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, leaning toward him with a playful grin. “I just wanted to check—would you like anything to drink?”

Harm glanced at her name tag. Christine.

“I’m good, thanks,” he said, offering a polite smile.

She lingered for a moment. “You know, we don’t get too many passengers who look like you in economy. You military?”

Harm chuckled. “Guilty as charged.”

She tilted her head. “Pilot?”

“Naval aviator,” he corrected.

Christine’s eyes lit up with interest. “I should have guessed. You have that whole ‘Top Gun’ vibe going on.”

Harm smirked but shook his head. “Just trying to get home.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Well, if you need anything—anything at all—you just let me know.” She tapped the back of his seat lightly before moving on down the aisle.

The older woman next to him smirked. “She’s got good taste.”

Harm gave a noncommittal shrug, his thoughts already shifting back to Mac. The old Harm might have flirted back, but not now. Not when he had something real waiting for him.

The rest of the flight passed uneventfully, save for the occasional turbulence and the discomfort of being wedged between two armrest-hogging passengers. When they landed in Atlanta, Harm grabbed his duffel and made his way toward the next gate.

The layover was short, and soon Harm was boarding his connecting flight to Washington. This time, he managed an aisle seat, though the flight was just as packed. He settled in, closing his eyes briefly as the engines roared to life.

As the plane lifted off, he turned his gaze to the window, watching the city lights fade beneath him. Washington, D.C. awaited. He had a job to do—loose ends to tie up at JAG, an apartment to sort out.

And then, there was Mac.

Would she understand? Would she support his decision?

Or would she see this as another roadblock?

Harm exhaled slowly, watching the sky stretch endlessly beyond the wing. One way or another, he would find out soon.

CHAPTER 11

Pentagon – Office of the Secretary of the Navy

The walls of the SECNAV’s office were lined with plaques, framed photographs, and models of warships—a testament to the history and power of the United States Navy. The air hummed with the quiet urgency of high-level decision-making. SECNAV Edward Sheffield sat at the head of the long conference table, flanked by Chief of Naval Operations Admiral William Mordorman. Across from them, General Cresswell sat with his usual stoic expression, his fingers laced together as he listened intently.

Joining remotely were two faces lit by the dim glow of their respective operations centers—Admiral James Weatherly from the flag office aboard the USS Gettysburg, and Vice Admiral Emilia Navarro, Commander of the U.S. 7th Fleet, her backdrop unmistakably Yokosuka.

“Admiral Weatherly,” Sheffield said, tapping the table lightly, “start with the status update on the Patrick Henry.”

Weatherly nodded. “Mr. Secretary, the Patrick Henry is currently 900 nautical miles from Yokosuka, making approximately ten knots under tow. We expect her to arrive in four days.  We’ve kept her course unpredictable to 

Navarro’s voice cut in—cool, precise. “We’ve established a layered ASW screen and CAP coverage with elements from CSG-5. The Chinese are watching, but so far, they're staying in international waters.”

Sheffield exchanged a glance with Mordorman before looking back at the screen. “What happens once she arrives?”

Navarro continued, “Once in Yokosuka, we will offload all personnel and aircraft. The air wing will be reassigned accordingly, and essential crew will remain aboard to assist in prepping the ship for transit. After that, Patrick Henry will maintain a minimum crew while taking on supplies and necessary equipment for the tow operation.”

Mordorman leaned in. “And then the long haul back to Newport News.”

Weatherly gave a curt nod. “Yes, sir. We’ll be towing her back through the Panama Canal, then on to Newport News Shipyard for a full reactor core replacement. Given the extent of the failure, the ship will likely be out of service for years.”

Sheffield sighed, rubbing his temple. “That leaves us a major hole in the Pacific fleet.”

“That’s why the decision has been made to return the Hellcat to full operational status,” Weatherly continued. “She’s being made ready for sea and will be transferred to the Pacific fleet.”

Navarro frowned slightly. “Bringing a conventional carrier back into the Pacific isn’t just about plugging a gap. The PLAN will see it as a signal—maybe even a provocation.”

“Let them,” Sheffield said flatly. “They’ve been testing our limits for months. I want a hull in the water, fast.”

Mordorman glanced at Sheffield, then at Navarro. “Navarro, what’s your assessment of putting the Hellcat back into the 7th Fleet structure?”

Navarro straightened. “It’s unconventional, but not unwise. We need another carrier, and fast. But I want command stability.

Mordorman tapped a pen on the table. “What’s the timeline?”

“Best possible speed,” Weatherly said. “She’ll transit through the Panama Canal and make her way to San Diego, where she’ll undergo final repairs to her catapults, elevators, and boilers. Once the shipyard work is complete, Hellcat will sail for Yokosuka, conducting sea trials en route.”

Sheffield nodded in approval. “And once in Japan?”

Navarro chimed in. “Once in Yokosuka, Hellcat will fill out her air wing, conduct operational readiness exercises, and then be deployed to the Sea of Japan to relieve the Ronald Reagan.”

Sheffield sat back in his chair, arms crossed. “And you’re confident in Captain Garrison leading this effort?”

A brief silence followed. Weatherly and Mordorman exchanged glances before Weatherly answered. “Sir, Garrison has been preparing for this long before the Patrick Henry went down. He fought to keep Hellcat operational even when others were ready to write her off.”

Mordorman nodded in agreement. “Garrison has been hands-on with every detail. He’s been working to get the shipyard teams moving faster, pushing logistics, and making sure the ship is ready for sea. If anyone can get Hellcat back in the fight, it’s him.”

Sheffield exhaled, clearly weighing their words. “I hear what you’re saying. But bringing a conventionally powered carrier back into service after years in a reduced state isn’t just about enthusiasm. It’s about execution.”

Weatherly leaned forward. “Sir, Garrison understands that. He’s already got a detailed plan in motion. But he can’t do it alone.”

Navarro narrowed her gaze. “He needs an executive officer.”

Mordorman folded his arms. “Exactly. He’s going to need a strong XO, unconventional, someone who can help him push this through, whip the crew into shape, and ensure Hellcat is ready when the time comes.”

Sheffield tapped his fingers on the table, mulling over the implications. “Then we need to find him the right officer—and quickly.”

The conversation shifted to other logistical concerns, but one thing was certain—the search for Hellcat’s executive officer would be a decision that could shape the Navy’s future in the Pacific.

The atmosphere in the SECNAV’s office had shifted. The discussion of Hellcat’s return to active service had been a calculated exercise in logistics and strategy, but now, as Sheffield turned to General Cresswell, the weight of uncertainty surrounding Patrick Henry’s catastrophic failure settled over the room like a storm cloud.

“General,” Sheffield said, his voice measured, “bring us up to speed on the investigation into what happened to Patrick Henry.”

Cresswell, ever the disciplined Marine, gave a curt nod before opening a leather-bound folder on the table before him. “Sir, our investigators—Colonel MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Roberts—have been conducting interviews and reviewing technical reports from both the ship’s crew and Newport News Shipbuilding. They provided a preliminary update earlier today.”

He glanced at the large monitor, which still displayed Admiral Weatherly’s serious expression from the Ronald Reagan’s flag bridge. “So far, they’ve found no evidence of negligence, procedural failure, or sabotage aboard the ship itself. Every member of the engineering crew followed protocol, and all emergency shutdown systems functioned as designed.”

Mordorman frowned. “And yet, we still ended up with a carrier dead in the water and nearly had a nuclear disaster on our hands.”

Cresswell’s face remained impassive. “Yes, sir. That’s what has Roberts and MacKenzie concerned. The reactors failed despite everything working as it should. The control rods were properly calibrated, and the boron injection system shut down both reactors before a full meltdown could occur.”

Sheffield folded his hands together. “So what the hell went wrong?”

Cresswell’s jaw tightened. “Roberts believes the root cause may lie in the Patrick Henry’s Refueling and Complex Overhaul.”

Navarro sat forward slightly. “You mean the RCOH that was completed just six months ago?”

“Yes, sir,” Cresswell confirmed. “Roberts pointed out that RCOH essentially strips and rebuilds a carrier from the inside out, including the reactors. If there was a flaw in the overhaul—whether it was a material defect, a design failure, or a procedural oversight—it may not have been immediately obvious. The Patrick Henry operated normally for six months before the failure occurred. It’s possible that whatever went wrong only manifested under sustained operational conditions.”

Mordorman exchanged a look with Sheffield before turning back to Cresswell. “If this was an RCOH issue, that means it’s not just a Patrick Henry problem. Every Nimitz-class carrier that’s undergone RCOH in the last decade could be at risk.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, the implications sinking in.

“Jesus,” Sheffield muttered under his breath before straightening in his seat. “That’s a hell of an accusation. If Newport News botched something in the overhaul process, we’re talking about a systemic failure affecting the entire carrier fleet.”

Cresswell nodded. “MacKenzie and Roberts are doubling back to the Patrick Henry’s Chief Engineer to start from square one, cross-referencing every RCOH modification against the failure. They’re also looking deeper into Newport News Shipbuilding’s involvement.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, “Sir, if this turns out to be negligence on the part of Newport News, we could be looking at one of the biggest defense scandals in decades.”

Sheffield exhaled sharply. “And if this wasn’t just negligence?”

Cresswell’s gaze hardened. “Then we may have a deliberate act of sabotage on our hands.”

That sent a ripple of unease through the room. Navarro’s expression darkened on the monitor. Mordorman sat back in his chair, considering the ramifications.

“We need answers,” Sheffield said finally. “Fast.” He turned back to Cresswell. “Tell MacKenzie and Roberts to keep digging. If this is a systemic issue, we need to know before another carrier ends up stranded—or worse.”

“Already done, sir,” Cresswell replied.

Sheffield tapped his knuckles against the table, his expression grim. “And if someone did this intentionally…”

“Then we find out who,” Cresswell said coldly, “before they strike again.”

The implications of the Patrick Henry’s reactor failure were dire, and Sheffield was already thinking two steps ahead. He turned his sharp gaze to Cresswell.

“General, do you plan on having Rabb investigate Newport News?”

Cresswell exhaled through his nose. “Rabb is en route from Whiting Field as we speak. He’ll be landing at Reagan National this afternoon, and I’ll have him pick up the investigation at Newport News as soon as he’s back in town.”

Before Sheffield could respond, Admiral Weatherly cleared his throat, drawing the SECNAV’s attention. “Sir, if I may, I have a request.”

Sheffield gestured for him to continue.

Weatherly leaned forward slightly, his image on the secure monitor flickering for a second. “I’ve spoken with Captain Garrison aboard Hellcat. He’s requested Commander Rabb be assigned as his executive officer.”

That drew a pause.

Cresswell’s eyes flashed with irritation, but Weatherly pressed on. “Garrison was impressed with Rabb’s leadership and quick thinking at Whiting Field. The way he took control of the situation, stabilized a chaotic environment, and ultimately prevented a potential disaster proves he’s got the instincts and the command presence for the job.”

Cresswell broke in, tone sharp. “Commander Rabb is a lawyer. He’s assigned to my command, and I need him back where he belongs.”

Weatherly pushed back. “He’s a proven asset. What he did at Whiting Field wasn’t just damage control—it was battlefield leadership.”

Navarro raised an eyebrow. “One incident at an airfield is a far cry from serving as XO of an aircraft carrier. Rabb’s a wild card.”

Weatherly nodded. “I agree, which is why I did my own research.” He picked up a folder from his desk and flipped through a few pages. “I reviewed Rabb’s record in detail. His combat experience, his aviation background, and his previous sea duty aboard USS Midway and USS Seahawk make him more than qualified. More importantly, he’s already demonstrated an ability to step into the breach when leadership is needed. With Hellcat heading back into operational status in record time, we need an XO who can think unconventionally. Rabb is that man.”

Before Sheffield or Mordorman could respond, Cresswell snapped, “This is exactly what I’m talking about.” His tone was sharp, barely restrained. “JAG is not a clearinghouse for staff augmentation across the rest of the service. I need my lawyers to be lawyers, not reassigned every time a commanding officer needs a warm body.”

Weatherly’s voice remained calm but firm. “I’ve already spoken to Rabb. He’s willing to take the billet, knowing full well that this is a one-way move. If he accepts, there’s no going back.”

That statement sent a ripple through the room.

Sheffield tapped his fingers against the polished wooden surface of his desk, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath.

“I know Rabb,” he said finally, his voice softer, more reflective. “He defended me at the World Court when I was charged with war crimes over that operation in Iraq.” His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk. “I remember being skeptical of him at first—thought he was just another flashy JAG officer who didn’t know what he was up against.” He shook his head. “But he was resourceful. He found a way to turn the case in my favor when everyone thought I was dead to rights.”

He let that sink in before glancing at Mordorman. “I’m for it.”

Mordorman gave a small nod. “I agree. Rabb’s skill set is unique. If we need Hellcat combat-ready as soon as possible, he’s a solid choice.”

Navarro’s eyes narrowed. “Respectfully, General, these are unconventional times, we’ve lost the Patrick Henry for three years. If Rabb can help get the Hellcat ready for sea, I want him on board.”

Cresswell’s jaw tightened, but he knew when he was outnumbered. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “But I want it clear—this is a permanent move. If Rabb goes, he doesn’t come back to JAG.”

Sheffield met his gaze. “Understood.”

Weatherly cleared his throat, glancing at the others. “There’s one more thing. The executive officer billet on an aircraft carrier is an O-6 position.” He folded his hands on the table. “Rabb’s still an O-5.”

Cresswell, his irritation barely concealed, let out a slow breath. “His name is already before the promotion board.”

Sheffield’s brow lifted slightly. “And?”

Cresswell exhaled sharply. “I fully expected the board to recommend his promotion to Captain.” His tone made it clear that he had no doubts about Rabb’s selection. “In fact, I was already planning on assigning him as the Force Judge Advocate for Naval Forces Europe.”

Mordorman let out a low whistle. “That’s a high-profile billet.”

“Damn right it is,” Cresswell said, leaning forward. “Rabb has the seniority, the reputation, and the legal expertise to handle complex multinational legal issues. I had every intention of sending him to London to serve as my eyes and ears on the European front. But now…” He gestured vaguely, clearly frustrated by how quickly the situation had shifted.

Sheffield tapped his fingers on the desk. “Now, instead of sitting in an office, he’s about to become the second-in-command of a warship heading straight into the Pacific.” He glanced at Mordorman. “The promotion board should be finalizing their selections soon. Can we expedite his selection if needed?”

Mordorman nodded. “If the board was already leaning toward promoting him, and considering the urgency of the Hellcat’s situation, I can grease the wheels. The Navy needs a combat-ready XO yesterday.”

Cresswell’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Fine. Just know that this wasn’t my plan for him.”

Sheffield leaned back in his chair, a knowing look crossing his face. “Sometimes the best officers don’t end up where we plan, General.”

Cresswell’s scowl deepened, but he had no rebuttal. Rabb’s fate had taken a sharp turn, and there was no going back now.

USS Patrick Henry – Chief Engineer’s Office

The Chief Engineer’s office was a small, cluttered space tucked away deep within the heart of the ship. Schematics of reactor systems, operational manuals, and status reports were stacked on his desk, the controlled chaos of a man consumed by his ship’s well-being. The room smelled faintly of machine oil and metal, a stark reminder that deep within this steel giant, its beating heart lay in the twin reactors that now sat cold and lifeless.

Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts and Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie stood before Captain Ethan Collins, the Chief Engineer, who sat behind his desk, rubbing tired eyes. His uniform bore the creases of too many sleepless nights, and the bags under his eyes were evidence of a man who had been running on sheer willpower. The weight of the Patrick Henry's near-catastrophic failure was crushing him, and yet, as a naval engineer, he refused to accept failure without answers.

Roberts placed his hands on the desk, leaning in slightly. “Captain, we need to go back to square one—RCOH.”

Collins frowned. “You think the overhaul was the problem?”

MacKenzie crossed her arms. “A carrier six months out of Refueling and Complex Overhaul should be in pristine condition. Instead, both reactors nearly went critical. Something went wrong, and if it wasn’t negligence or sabotage aboard this ship, then it started before the Patrick Henry ever left dry dock.”

Collins exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the desk. “RCOH is… massive. It’s not just a refuel—it’s a complete rebuild from the inside out. We’re talking hull repairs, flight deck overhauls, combat system upgrades, electrical rewiring, catapult replacements, habitability improvements. Everything.”

Roberts nodded. “And the reactors?”

Collins sighed. “That’s the biggest part. We don’t just replace the fuel—we replace the entire core.”

MacKenzie’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “The entire reactor core?”

Collins nodded, motioning toward a set of detailed schematics pinned to the bulkhead behind him. “Yeah. The original highly enriched uranium core from the ship’s commissioning is completely removed—along with its casing—and a brand-new core is installed. That core is designed to last the rest of the carrier’s service life, another 25 years minimum.”

Roberts pulled out his notepad. “And all of that was done at Newport News Shipbuilding. They’re the only ones in the country who can do this work.”

“Correct,” Collins confirmed. “The Patrick Henry was dry-docked for almost three years during its RCOH. It was stripped down, rebuilt, refueled, and tested. When we left dry dock, we were assured that the ship was better than new.”

MacKenzie glanced at Roberts before turning her attention back to Collins. “You said the control rods failed to fully insert when the reactors began to overheat. That’s not something that should happen—especially not in a reactor with a brand-new core.”

Collins sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ve been beating my head against the bulkhead trying to figure that out myself. The control rods are the primary way to shut down the fission reaction in an emergency. They’re designed to drop instantly into the reactor when needed, absorbing neutrons and stopping the reaction in seconds. If they didn’t fully seat—”

Roberts interrupted, finishing his thought. “—then something was physically blocking them, or they weren’t made to specifications.”

Collins nodded grimly. “Exactly. That’s why we had to dump boron into the system. It’s a last resort. Boron absorbs neutrons, like the control rods, but the process is slower and ruins the reactor. Once boron injection is used, the reactor is dead—completely inoperable until a full overhaul.”

MacKenzie took a deep breath. “So, what could have caused this?”

Collins leaned back in his chair, his gaze darkening. “Look… I don’t want to throw accusations around without proof, but the only logical failure point that could cause what we saw is—”

He paused, then exhaled sharply.

“—the new cores.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy as a storm front.

Roberts sat up straighter. “You’re saying the new reactor cores installed at Newport News were faulty?”

Collins raised his hands in a measured gesture. “I don’t know for sure. But based on what we’ve seen, everything else checks out. The control systems worked. The actuators deployed. The rods dropped—just not all the way. If there was a defect in the core itself—something in the fuel assembly, the casing, even microscopic imperfections in the rod channels—that could explain why the rods didn’t fully insert.”

MacKenzie’s mind was already racing. “A reactor core defect… If this happened on Patrick Henry, could it have happened on other carriers that recently went through RCOH?”

Collins’ jaw tightened. “That’s the question I’ve been afraid to ask.”

Roberts exchanged a glance with MacKenzie. “This isn’t just about this ship anymore. If Newport News installed defective cores, every carrier refueled in the last decade could be at risk.”

MacKenzie turned back to Collins. “Can we prove it?”

Collins frowned. “We’d need a deep forensic analysis of the reactor internals, but with both reactors shut down and flooded with boron, we can’t exactly crack them open for inspection. The best we can do is cross-check material specs, manufacturing reports, and refueling procedures from the overhaul. If there were any deviations from standard protocol—any signs of defects—we might be able to find something.”

Roberts’s expression darkened. “Then we start there.”

MacKenzie nodded. “We need full access to the ship’s RCOH records, reactor component manufacturing reports, and the quality control checks done at Newport News.”

Collins exhaled and shook his head. “Then you need to go back to the shipyard. All of that information is documented there. The records we have on board are just operational reports—post-installation data, maintenance logs, calibration checks. But if you want manufacturing specs and quality control audits, you have to go straight to the source.”

Roberts frowned. “That means Newport News.”

MacKenzie let out a slow breath. “That’s where the trail leads.”

Collins leaned forward, lowering his voice. “If there was a flaw in the cores, whoever signed off on them at Newport News knows about it. Either it was an accident—a failure in production or quality control—or… it was covered up.”

Roberts’s expression hardened. “And if it was covered up, someone was willing to risk the lives of an entire carrier crew.”

MacKenzie straightened. “Then we’d better pack our bags. We’re going to Newport News.”

Roberts said, “We’de better report back the the Captain.”

Mac shook her head in agreement and headed off in the direction of the Captain’s Ready Room.  Roberts caught momentairly flatfooted, hurried to catch up to her.

The ready room of the Patrick Henry was stark and efficient, a space where mission briefings and high-level discussions took place under the ever-present hum of the ship’s systems. Captain Wexler sat behind his desk, his uniform crisp but the exhaustion evident in his sharp blue eyes. He had spent the last several days managing the crisis, and though the immediate danger had passed, the long shadow of uncertainty still loomed over his carrier.

Across from him, Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts sat stiffly, their folders filled with notes and reports, the weight of their findings pressing upon them. The scent of stale coffee and metal filled the air, a testament to long nights and restless hours.

Wexler steepled his fingers, studying them for a moment before speaking. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

MacKenzie took the lead. “Sir, we’ve conducted interviews with Chief Engineer Simmons and the engineering crew. We’ve also spoken with Peter Grayson, the civilian technician from Newport News who worked on the reactor calibrations during the refueling overhaul.”

Roberts leaned forward, his voice steady. “As of now, we’ve found no evidence of negligence or sabotage onboard. The engineering crew followed procedures to the letter, and the emergency shutdown systems operated as designed. The control rods were properly calibrated, and the boron injection system worked as expected, preventing a complete meltdown.”

Wexler’s brow furrowed. “So you’re telling me everything worked, but my ship is still dead in the water?”

“That’s exactly what we’re saying, sir,” MacKenzie admitted. “And that’s what has us concerned.”

Roberts continued. “The RCOH should have left Patrick Henry in top operational condition. But if this failure wasn’t caused by crew error or sabotage, then the root cause likely originated during the overhaul itself.”

MacKenzie nodded. “Which means the problem might not be isolated to this ship. If this was a defect introduced during the refueling and complex overhaul, then every carrier that’s undergone RCOH in the past decade could be at risk.”

Wexler let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. The implications were staggering. If Patrick Henry’s issues weren’t unique, the Navy could be facing a systemic crisis.

“What do you need from me?” he finally asked.

“We need to take the investigation back to the U.S.,” Roberts said. “We have to go to Newport News Shipbuilding and dig into their procedures, materials, and the entire refueling overhaul process. We need to determine if this was a one-time failure—or if there’s a flaw in every carrier that’s gone through the same work.”

Wexler exhaled through his nose, considering the request. He knew how important it was to get to the bottom of this.

“Understood,” he said. “I’ll arrange a helo to get you both off the Patrick Henry. You’ll head to Yokosuka. From there, we’ll put you on the fastest transport back to the States.”

MacKenzie nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Wexler’s gaze hardened. “Find out what happened to my ship, Colonel. And make damn sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Roberts stood. “We intend to, Captain.”

With a final nod from Wexler, the meeting was over. MacKenzie and Roberts left the ready room, moving with renewed urgency.

Once they were in the passageway Roberts turns to Mac, “We should clear this with the General and see if we can get some help.”

Mac nodded in agreement, but this time it was Roberts off to the races, heading for the comm room.  Mac in the middle of a yawn, had to jog a fews steps to catch up to him, “Maybe we can sleep on the plane.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Roberts replied with a yawn.

The secure communications room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the glow of encrypted monitors and the blinking lights of classified data terminals. The hum of cooling fans and the faint buzz of encrypted transmissions filled the space as Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts prepared to report their findings to General Gordon Cresswell.

Roberts entered the last security credentials, and after a moment, the screen flickered to life, revealing the familiar stern countenance of General Cresswell, his gaze sharp as ever. His uniform was crisp, his expression unreadable as he took them in.

"Colonel MacKenzie. Commander Roberts," Cresswell greeted, his voice clipped. "Tell me you have something substantial."

MacKenzie sat up straighter. "Sir, we've concluded our initial investigation aboard Patrick Henry. We've spoken with Chief Engineer Collins and the engineering team. Based on our findings, we believe the failure wasn’t caused by crew negligence or sabotage. Instead, the evidence suggests the problem originated during the ship’s Refueling and Complex Overhaul at Newport News."

Cresswell narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

Roberts took over. "Sir, when the reactors began to overheat, the control rods—designed to shut down the fission reaction—failed to fully insert. That shouldn’t happen. The rods are designed to drop instantly and stop the reaction in seconds. If they didn’t fully seat, something either physically obstructed them or they were manufactured incorrectly."

MacKenzie continued. "The crew had to resort to boron injection, which, as you know, is a last-ditch effort. It shut the reactors down but rendered them completely inoperable until another full overhaul. That means something catastrophic happened."

Cresswell leaned forward, his expression darkening. "And your best theory?"

Roberts didn’t hesitate. "The new reactor cores installed at Newport News. If there was a defect—microscopic imperfections in the fuel assemblies, casing issues, or a failure in the rod channels—that could explain why the rods didn’t fully insert when needed."

MacKenzie nodded. "Collins is hesitant to throw accusations without hard proof, but based on what we’ve seen, everything else checks out. The actuators functioned, the rods deployed—just not all the way. That suggests a flaw in the core itself, something beyond the control of the engineering crew onboard."

Cresswell exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "So what you’re telling me is that this may not be isolated to Patrick Henry."

Roberts nodded grimly. "Correct, sir. If the defect is in the new reactor cores, then every carrier refueled at Newport News in the last decade could be at risk."

Silence stretched across the secure line, heavy with the weight of their conclusion.

Cresswell’s voice was measured but cold. "Do you have proof?"

MacKenzie shook her head. "Not yet, sir. The records on Patrick Henry only go as far as post-installation data and calibration logs. If we want the full picture—the original manufacturing specifications, quality control reports, and any deviations from protocol—we need to access the records at Newport News Shipbuilding."

Roberts nodded. "The best way forward is to shift the investigation to the U.S. Captain Wexler agrees. He’s arranging a helo to take us to Yokosuka, where we’ll board the fastest transport back to the States."

Cresswell rubbed his temple, considering the implications. "You realize the kind of storm this could create? If Newport News is responsible for a systemic failure in nuclear reactor cores, this isn’t just about the Navy. This becomes a national security crisis."

MacKenzie met his gaze. "We understand, sir. But if this is a larger problem, we can’t afford to look the other way."

Cresswell let out a slow breath, then nodded. "Fine. Get back to the States. Dig into Newport News. And if you find evidence of negligence or worse—sabotage—I want to know immediately."

MacKenzie hesitated for a moment, then spoke up. "Sir, while Roberts and I are in transit, we should have Commander Turner get a head start. Sturgis served on subs so he’s not new to nuclear reactors.  He should be great at digging through manufacturing specifications, quality control reports, and protocols. If we give him a direction now, he can be sifting through the data before we even land stateside."

Cresswell exhaled sharply, clearly displeased. "JAG is already stretched thin with you two gone and Rabb still off investigating in Florida. I don’t have people to spare, MacKenzie."

Roberts leaned forward. "Sir, I know we’re asking a lot, but if Sturgis can start pulling discrepancies while we’re en route, we won’t lose valuable time. If this turns out to be bigger than just Patrick Henry, we’ll need every second we can get."

Cresswell pinched the bridge of his nose, considering the request. Finally, he grumbled, "Fine. Get Turner up to speed before you leave Patrick Henry. But I want updates the second you land back in the U.S."

"Yes, sir," MacKenzie affirmed.

Roberts hesitated for just a moment before adding, "Sir, if we’re right about this… we may have just uncovered one of the biggest military industrial failures in history."

Cresswell’s eyes darkened. "Then let’s make damn sure we’re right before we burn the shipyard to the ground."

With that, the screen cut to black.

MacKenzie and Roberts sat in silence for a moment, both processing the enormity of their next steps.

Roberts finally exhaled and stood. "Let’s get to Yokosuka. But first, let’s get Commander Turner on this."

CHAPTER 12

JAG Headquarters – Falls Church, VA - Early Afternoon ZULU

Harm strode down the corridors of JAG Headquarters, his mind already racing with what awaited him. He had barely set foot back in the building after returning from Whiting Field when Petty Officer Coats intercepted him outside his office.

“Commander, the General wants to see you the moment you arrive,” Coats said with a knowing look.

Harm exhaled sharply and set his briefcase and cover down on his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a brief moment before nodding. “I figured as much.”

He straightened his uniform, squared his shoulders, and made his way to General Cresswell’s office. With each step, his thoughts turned to the meeting that had undoubtedly taken place earlier that morning. By now, Cresswell would have heard about Captain Garrison’s request—and the SECNAV’s approval. Harm knew this wasn’t going to be a conversation; it was going to be a reckoning.

Reaching Cresswell’s door, he knocked firmly.

“Enter.”

Harm stepped inside, came to a crisp position of attention, and announced, “Commander Rabb, reporting as ordered.”

General Cresswell sat behind his desk, his posture rigid, his brow furrowed with irritation. He barely looked up from a stack of papers before gesturing sharply.

“At ease, Commander. Sit.”

Harm complied, lowering himself into the chair across from Cresswell, his expression neutral but his senses on high alert. The General tapped a pen against the edge of his desk before finally locking eyes with Harm.

“I just returned from the Pentagon for a meeting this morning with the SECNAV,” Cresswell began, his tone edged with displeasure. “Seems I was the last to know that Captain Garrison and Admiral Weatherly have been working overtime to get you reassigned to the Hellcat as her Executive Officer.”

Harm remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Cresswell continued, voice laced with frustration. “Now, you want to tell me why two senior officers—one of whom just met you—are so hell-bent on dragging you back to the fleet?”

Harm took a measured breath, choosing his words carefully. “Sir, I didn’t ask for this.”

Cresswell scoffed. “Maybe not. But something you did—or didn’t do—convinced them that you belong on that carrier, not in a courtroom.”

Harm hesitated, then responded. “Sir, I guess Captain Garrison observed me firsthand at Whiting Field.”

Cresswell’s frustration continued. “And that is enough to want to chase after a JAG lawyer as his next CO?”

Harm hesitated, shifting slightly in his seat. “I’m not sure, sir.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I guess they think I have the carrier experience, the leadership skills… that I know how to handle pressure.” He hesitated again before adding, “That I have the instincts for it.”

He looked down for a second, choosing his next words carefully. “I think Captain Garrison saw me take charge at Whiting Field—saw me keeping things on track, working with half a dozen commands, making decisions under pressure. Maybe that’s what convinced him.” He met Cresswell’s gaze again, still uncertain. “He probably thinks that’s not something every officer can do. That it’s… command presence.  I suppose I left an impression.”

Cresswell’s eyes narrowed. “An impression? That’s a hell of an understatement, Commander. He’s willing to put his own reputation on the line to have you as his XO.”

Harm inhaled slowly. “Sir, I suspect Admiral Weatherly’s influence played a role as well. He did his own research into my record, and I imagine he found my prior experience at sea compelling.”

Cresswell folded his arms across his chest. “He also spoke to you directly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you willing to take the billet?”

There it was. The moment of truth. Harm held the General’s gaze, his voice steady. “Yes, sir if the Navy thinks this is the best way for me to serve.”

Cresswell exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His expression softened just slightly—less irritation, more resignation. “There’s no denying it, Commander. You’ve got the leadership qualities the fleet needs. It’s what I’ve been saying for a while now, you—frankly all—, of my senior staff at JAG Headquarters has been here too long. It’s time for you to move on to command roles.”

Harm took in the words, understanding the weight behind them. JAG wasn’t meant to be a career destination—it was a stepping stone. The best officers didn’t stagnate; they moved forward, took command, and shaped the future of the Navy.

Cresswell fixed him with a hard stare. “But I need you to understand something, Rabb. This is a one-way move. If you take this, there’s no coming back to JAG. No last-minute changes of heart. Once you are in that XO billet, you’re in the fleet for good.”

Harm felt the finality in those words settle over him. He straightened in his chair, then gave a small nod. “I understand, sir.”

Cresswell studied him for a long moment before his expression shifted slightly, something unreadable behind his eyes. “You didn’t know this, but I was going to put you forward as the next Force Judge Advocate for Naval Forces Europe.”

Harm blinked. The words hit him like a sudden gust of wind. He stared at the General, trying to process what he had just heard.

“Sir… I didn’t know.” His voice was quiet, stunned. “Thank you for even considering me.”

“No, you didn’t,” Cresswell muttered, shaking his head. “And now, it doesn’t matter. Captain Garrison and Admiral Weatherly have their meat hooks into you, and they’ve managed to get the support of the 7th Fleet CO, the CNO and the SECNAV.” His tone was half-exasperated, half-resigned. “That kind of backing means this isn’t a request anymore—it’s a done deal.”

Harm swallowed, an unspoken weight settling on his shoulders. He shifted forward in his seat. “Sir… I wasn’t trying to leave JAG.” He met Cresswell’s eyes. “I was just doing my job at Whiting Field—trying to keep things moving, keep people safe. I didn’t expect this. I wasn’t looking for it.”

Cresswell studied him for a long moment before nodding, accepting the sincerity in Harm’s words. “I know that, Rabb.” His voice had lost its previous irritation, settling into something quieter. “But you did your job too damn well.”

Harm allowed himself a small, rueful smile.

Cresswell let out a breath, shifting gears. “How do you feel about all this? About taking on the XO billet aboard Hellcat?”

Harm straightened slightly. “I’ll miss JAG, sir. I’ve learned more here than I ever expected. Admiral Chegwidden… and you… you both shaped me into a better officer.” He paused, his voice steady but thoughtful. “But I’m looking forward to the challenge. I’ve always loved being at sea.”

Cresswell nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Harm hesitated for a brief moment before adding, “And, sir… this reassignment also allows me to pursue some things in my personal life.”

Cresswell narrowed his eyes slightly, intrigued. “How so?”

Harm considered his words carefully. “It means I’ll be able to pursue a relationship with a fellow officer… someone who will no longer be in my chain of command.”

Cresswell gave him a long, scrutinizing look before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back, arms crossed. “Mac.”

Harm didn’t confirm it outright, but the flicker in his eyes was enough.

Cresswell huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “About damn time.”

Harm allowed himself a small, knowing smile.

Cresswell leaned forward again, his expression turning serious once more. “Alright, Rabb. I’ll sign off on your transfer. But just know this—being an XO isn’t just about leading sailors and running flight ops. It’s about preparing for the day when you’re the one sitting in the captain’s chair. You ready for that?”

Harm met his gaze with steady resolve. “Yes, sir.”

Cresswell exhaled sharply and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the desk as he leveled a firm gaze at Harm. “In the meantime, I need you to finish out your caseload as much as possible until your new orders come in. Anything you can’t close out in the next day or two will need to be reassigned.”

Harm nodded, already mentally cataloging his open cases. “Understood, sir.”

Cresswell tapped a pen against his desk. “I expect you to present recommendations on how your remaining caseload should be distributed. I don’t want a mess left behind.”

Harm straightened. “I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the day.”

Cresswell gave a curt nod, signaling the conversation was over. “Good. Dismissed.”

Harm rose to his feet, came to attention, and offered a crisp, “Aye, sir.” He turned on his heel and exited the office, closing the door behind him.

As soon as Harm was gone, Cresswell picked up the phone on his desk and pressed the intercom button. “Coates, locate Commander Turner and have him report to me immediately.”

“Aye, sir,” Coates responded crisply over the line.

A few minutes later, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

“Enter.”

Commander Sturgis Turner stepped in, his posture straight, his expression professional. “Sir, reporting as ordered.”

Cresswell gestured toward one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Have MacKenzie and Roberts gotten you up to speed on the Patrick Henry investigation?”

“Yes, sir.” Sturgis nodded as he sat. “I’ve reviewed their preliminary findings, and I’m heading to Newport News shortly to start the next phase of the investigation.”

Cresswell leaned back in his chair, watching him carefully. “And what’s your plan once you get there?”

“I’m going to start by digging through manufacturing specifications, quality control reports, and production protocols,” Turner explained. “I want to see if there were any irregularities in how components were manufactured, assembled, or tested before installation. If there was a systemic failure, it might not have started with the ship—it could go back to the supply chain or even to oversight failures in procurement.”

Cresswell gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Be thorough, Commander. We need answers, and we need them yesterday.”

Turner inclined his head, then added, “Sir, I also wanted to update you on the personnel side. I’ve been reviewing options to replace Colonel MacKenzie here at JAG HQ. One candidate stands out—Lieutenant Commander Meg Austin.”

Cresswell’s eyebrows lifted. “Austin… Meg Austin. I remember her. She was partnered with Rabb back in ’95, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, sir. Worked with him for nearly a year. She's currently assigned to the RLSO Southwest in San Diego. Fluent in Spanish, sharp on military law, and she’s a tech whiz—cybercrime, data forensics, encryption analysis. I’ve read some of her recent case work. Impressive stuff. She’d be an excellent addition here at HQ.”

Cresswell considered that for a moment. “Sounds promising. But you’d better keep looking.”

Turner blinked. “Sir?”

“Because you’re going to need two replacements,” Cresswell said grimly. “Commander Rabb is being reassigned.”

Sturgis straightened in his chair. “Harm? Where?”

“He’s been selected as the new executive officer of the USS Hellcat,” Cresswell said. “Captain Garrison made the request, SECNAV approved it, and the CNO signed off. His transfer orders will be cut within the next 48 hours.”

Sturgis didn’t hide his surprise. “That’s… unexpected.”

“It wasn’t my plan either,” Cresswell said bluntly. “But Rabb’s a strong candidate for the role, and it’s a critical assignment. The Hellcat is being rushed back into operational service to fill the gap left by the Patrick Henry. We needed someone who could hit the ground running.”

Turner exhaled, processing the news. “That’s a hell of a shift.”

“You’re telling me.” Cresswell leaned forward slightly. “So, when you finish up in Newport News, I want your full recommendation list for two incoming officers. One to replace MacKenzie. One to replace Rabb.”

“Yes, sir,” Turner said, recovering quickly. “I’ll get on it right away. Should I still prioritize Meg Austin?”

“Absolutely. But pair her with someone who can carry Rabb’s litigation load. Preferably someone with combat zone experience and a history of working across jurisdictions. We’re going to need stability in this building, especially with the Pacific heating up.”

“Understood,” Turner said, already running through names in his head.

“I know you’ve had your challenges here, Commander,” Cresswell added, “but you’ve got the reins now. I’m counting on you to keep this place running like a warship, not a law school.”

Turner nodded firmly. “Aye, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Sturgis stood, saluted, and exited the office with a head full of names and one overwhelming realization—The investigation into the Patrick Henry was just beginning, and the truth was waiting to be uncovered.  Add to that JAG HQ was about to change, and it was up to him to help shape what came next.

The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly as Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. sat behind his desk, reviewing the thick case file for a pending Article 32 hearing he wouldn’t be around to prosecute. His name was still on the docket, but someone else would have to finish it.

The blinds were half-drawn, slats of sunlight striping the floor in golden bars. 

A knock on the door broke his focus.

“Yeah,” Harm called out, looking up.

Commander Sturgis Turner stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. His hands were in his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes observant.

“You got a minute?” Turner asked.

Harm leaned back in his chair. “Sure. Door’s open. Come on in.”

Turner stepped inside, pausing for a second as if considering how to begin. “I just came from Cresswell. Sounds like you’re leaving JAG.”

Harm nodded slowly. “Orders are being cut. Looks like I’m going to be the new XO aboard the Hellcat.”

Turner arched an eyebrow. “The Hellcat? Isn’t that carrier being considered for decommissioning?”

“She’s getting brought back into service,” Harm said. “To fill the hole left by the Patrick Henry.”

Turner nodded, jaw tight. “That’s a hell of a transition—from courtroom to second in command.”

“Not the first time I’ve gone through a career transition,” Harm said with a small, wry smile. “Though this time it feels... permanent.”

There was a pause—just long enough for the history between them to settle like static in the room.

“I know we haven’t exactly been… in sync over the last year,” Turner finally said, voice low.

Harm gave a short laugh. “You mean since the time you tried to pin a negligent homicide charge on me?”

Turner winced but didn’t deflect. “Yeah. That.”

Harm stood and walked to the window, peering out at the familiar JAG parking lot. “I get it. You were doing your job. Dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s. Following the ROE. But I thought you knew me better than that, Sturgis. I really did.”

Turner stepped closer, voice softer now. “I did know you, Harm. That’s what made it harder. But I was on shaky ground after I was accused of incompetence and then racism. With Cresswell just taking command I couldn’t afford to show favoritism, not even for a friend.”

“You didn’t have to go after me like I was some reckless trigger-happy rookie.”

Turner nodded, hands still in his pockets. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I let the weight of the stars I was pretending to wear get to me.”

Harm turned back toward him, eyes narrowing. “Pretending?”

Turner chuckled dryly. “Let’s not kid ourselves. I was filling Admiral Chegwidden’s shoes with a patch and a prayer. And I felt like everyone was waiting for me to fail—especially you.”

Harm blinked at that. “I wasn’t waiting for you to fail.”

“You weren’t helping me succeed either.”

That landed. Harm exhaled, crossing his arms.

“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “I should have had your back more. Especially after all we went through together—Annapolis, the Academy, the years here. I guess I just never saw you in that role. And when you charged me… yeah. I stopped seeing you as a friend.”

Turner gave a small nod, the tension between them finally starting to crack.

“I didn’t handle it well,” he said. “Any of it. I was trying so hard to be the admiral I thought I had to be, I forgot how to be the officer—and friend—I actually was.”

The silence between them was more comfortable now, almost reflective.

“Well,” Harm said, lifting a shoulder. “We both made a mess of it.”

Turner nodded. “Agreed. But I’m glad you’re getting this shot, Harm. The Hellcat’s no joke. They’ll need a leader who understands chaos, pressure, and command.”

Harm joked, “I guess you have to take up the mantle of ‘being the next JAG’?”

Sturgis chuckled, “I always figured I follow you on that, but it seems now I may not have to wait as long.”

Harm allowed himself a small smile. “And you’re going to Newport News?”

“Yeah,” Turner confirmed. “Following up on the Patrick Henry investigation. Digging through RCOH protocols, supply chain audits, and interviewing engineers. Trying to figure out how a Nimitz-class carrier lost both reactors without a single procedural error on record.”

“You think it’s sabotage?”

Turner hesitated. “I don’t want to think that, but it’s on the table. Mac and Bud are headed back to the states now, but if this leads back to Newport News Shipbuilding, we’ll need to be thorough. No assumptions.”

“Be careful with that one,” Harm said. “Too many careers—and too many lives—are riding on it.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence again for a moment. Then Turner extended a hand.

“No hard feelings?”

Harm looked at the hand, then grasped it firmly.

“Water under the bridge,” he said. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you in basketball if we ever end up at the same base again.”

Turner chuckled. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

As he turned to leave, Harm added, “And Sturgis?”

Turner looked back.

“For what it’s worth—I think you’re a hell of an officer. We just both got lost in the uniforms for a while.”

Turner gave a quiet nod. “Thanks, Harm. That means more than you know.”

Then he stepped out, closing the door behind him, leaving Harm alone in his office.

Tokyo Haneda International Airport – National Airlines Flight 715 to San Francisco

The terminal buzzed with travelers hustling through the early morning hours, announcements echoing in both English and Japanese over the loudspeakers. Colonel Sarah MacKenzie and Lieutenant Commander Bud Roberts moved through the bright, polished concourse side by side, fatigue clinging to their features like a second skin.

They still wore the faint marks of salt from their helicopter ride off the USS Patrick Henry. The flight from the damaged carrier to Yokosuka had been an ordeal—shaking, shuddering, jostled by unpredictable Pacific crosswinds. Both officers were veterans of sea and sky, but even Mac had held tight to her seat harness, and Bud’s normally upbeat demeanor had taken a hit from the experience.

Bud rolled his shoulder as they passed through the final security checkpoint. “That helo ride might’ve taken a few years off my life.”

Mac gave him a tight smile. “I’ve had friendlier landings on pitching decks in typhoon season. And I wasn’t even flying.”

They came to a stop near the departure gate for Flight 715, the Boeing 777-300ER waiting outside in the early dawn, bathed in pale blue terminal light. The sleek aircraft gleamed under a wash of rain and runway lights, the U.S. flag and National Airlines markings just visible against the mist.

As they approached the boarding lane, Bud slowed his pace.

“This is where we split,” he said, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.

Mac turned to him, brow furrowing slightly.

“I’m heading back to D.C. until I get new orders,” Bud explained. “You’re off to San Diego to prep for the Joint Legal Service Center. I figured I’d touch base with Harriet and the kids, then report back to JAG HQ unless or until we make things official.”

Mac gave him a nod of understanding, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes. “I still haven’t told the General I want you as my XO. Was hoping we’d do it together.”

Bud smiled, warm but reserved. “Then I’ll be standing right beside you when the time comes. And I’d be honored to serve with you again.”

Mac hesitated, the emotion catching her off guard. “It would mean a lot, Bud. Truly.”

They embraced briefly—a moment of gratitude between two officers who’d shared more than just cases and courtrooms. When they pulled apart, Mac’s expression turned reflective.

“Safe travels,” she said.

“You too, Colonel.”

They boarded different jetways—Bud headed to the gate for Washington, Mac to her flight bound for San Diego via San Francisco. They didn’t look back.

At Cruise Altitude – Somewhere Over the Pacific MacKenzie reclined slightly in her economy-class seat as the gentle hum of the engines surrounded her. Outside the window, the last of Japan’s coastline faded into darkness, replaced by an expanse of stars and ocean.

The seat next to her on the 777-300ER was empty. She had declined the in-flight meal and ignored the folder full of JAG memos stashed in her carry-on.

The Boeing 777-300ER, known among aviation enthusiasts as the "Triple Seven," is a marvel of modern engineering. Designed to meet the growing demands of long-haul international flights, the aircraft was introduced earlier in the year as an extended range variant of the successful Boeing 777-300. With its sleek design and cutting-edge technology, the 777-300ER quickly became the flagship of many airlines, including National Airlines, offering unparalleled fuel efficiency and the ability to cover vast distances without refueling. Powered by the immense General Electric GE90-115B engines, the plane boasts a remarkable range of up to 7,370 nautical miles, making it a favorite for transcontinental journeys.

As the aviation industry grappled with rising fuel costs and increasing environmental concerns, Boeing's engineers were tasked with developing an aircraft that could deliver on both fronts. The result was the 777-300ER, which incorporated several innovative features to reduce drag and enhance fuel efficiency. The aircraft's longer wingspan, complete with raked wingtips, allowed for greater lift and reduced fuel consumption. Advanced materials, such as lightweight composites, were used extensively in the construction, further contributing to its impressive performance.

The 777-300ER's cabin was designed with passenger comfort in mind, offering spacious seating arrangements and state-of-the-art in-flight entertainment systems. It quickly became a preferred choice for premium airlines like National looking to provide a luxurious travel experience. The aircraft's reliability and versatility also made it a popular option for cargo carriers, capable of transporting large volumes of freight across the globe. This adaptability ensured the 777's continued success in a competitive market, solidifying its reputation as one of Boeing's most significant achievements.

Mac’s mind wandered.

The mission aboard the Patrick Henry had been grueling, both physically and emotionally. But what lingered most now wasn’t the near-catastrophic reactor failure or the pages of engineering reports she and Bud had poured over.

It was the call she hadn’t made.

The words she hadn’t said.

Harm.

She shifted in her seat, resting her head against the window and watching the clouds shimmer in the moonlight below.

She’d known for a long time that he was the constant in her life—the one person who always showed up, even when she pushed him away. Through the worst of it—her struggles with recovery, the battles with Webb, the chaos in Paraguay—he had been there. Sometimes silent. Sometimes stubborn. But always there.

So why had she always been so afraid?

Afraid that if she let him in, she’d lose herself. Afraid that it wouldn’t work. Afraid that maybe it would.

It wasn’t just about love—it was about control. About letting go of the careful walls she’d built to protect herself.

But the moment they had shared before she left—his promise to come to San Diego, to not let this be the end—had stuck with her.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was simple. Honest. Real.

I’ll find a way to come see you.

Maybe this time… that was enough.

She thought back to the long nights at JAG HQ, their near-kisses, the almost-confessions, the lingering stares that said everything they were too afraid to speak aloud. The hospital room after her crash. His voice—calm, unwavering—telling her he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m still here.”

She smiled faintly at the memory.

For once, the path ahead was clear—even if the timing wasn’t. She didn’t know what would happen next. But she knew what she wanted.

She would build something new in San Diego. She’d take command of the Joint Legal Service Center. She’d be the leader the Navy needed her to be.

And when Harm came?

They would finally have their talk.

The one that should’ve happened years ago.

And maybe, just maybe… they’d stop dancing around the edge and finally take that leap.

Mac closed her eyes, the white noise of the aircraft softening her thoughts as she let herself drift.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t running.

JAG HQ - Harm’s Office - late afternoon ZULU

The late afternoon sun filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting long streaks of gold and amber across the desk where Harm sat, flipping through a case file he had little interest in. His mind was elsewhere—on the Hellcat, on what lay ahead. The quiet hum of his office was interrupted by the sharp ring of his phone.

He glanced at the caller ID and straightened in his chair before picking up.

“Rabb.”

“Commander, it’s Captain Garrison.” The familiar voice came through the line, calm but carrying an undertone of urgency. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

Harm set down the file and leaned back in his chair. “Not at all, sir. What’s the latest?”

Garrison exhaled. “Your reassignment is working its way through the bureaucratic machine. BUPERS should have your new orders cut in a few days. As soon as they do, we’ll make it official.”

Harm felt a mix of anticipation and satisfaction. It was happening. After years on land, he was finally heading back to sea.

“That’s good to hear, sir,” he said. “I appreciate you keeping me in the loop.”

“You’re going to be my XO, Rabb. Keeping you in the loop is part of the deal,” Garrison replied with a chuckle. Then his tone shifted slightly. “Now, onto business. We’ve got a lot of work to do before the Hellcat is ready to move. I want her sailing through the Panama Canal en route to San Diego as soon as possible, but right now, she’s not fit to leave port. We’ve got a list of critical repairs that need to be addressed before she can even think about getting underway.”

Harm nodded, already mentally running through the potential problem areas. “What’s the biggest holdup?”

“Boilers,” Garrison answered immediately. “Specifically, the two troublesome Foster Wheeler steam boilers. We’ve got some good engineers, but we need someone who really knows these systems inside and out if we’re going to get them fully operational in time.” He sighed. “The problem is, most of the real experts on these old steam systems have retired. The Navy’s been transitioning to gas turbines and nuclear for so long that finding someone who truly understands these boilers is like hunting for a needle in a haystack.”

Harm exhaled. He had expected this. The Hellcat had been on the chopping block for years, and keeping her running had been an uphill battle.

“I agree,” Harm said. “If we don’t get those boilers working reliably, we’re going to be dead in the water before we even reach the canal.” He paused, tapping a pen against his desk. “I can do some research while I’m still at JAG—see if I can track down an expert on Foster Wheeler systems. There might be someone at NAVSEA or a reservist that can be recalled. Maybe even someone on another ship type that has similar boilers.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say,” Garrison said. “We need someone who can get in there and diagnose the problems fast. I’ve got my engineering team doing everything they can, but they’re stretched thin. If you can find someone with the right expertise, it’ll make a hell of a difference.”

“I’ll start making calls today,” Harm promised. “In the meantime, what’s the plan for getting the Beast out of port once the repairs are complete?”

“We’ll get a minimal underway crew aboard and conduct sea trials in the Atlantic,” Garrison explained. “Once we’re confident she’s stable, we’ll take her south. The transit through the Panama Canal will be tight, but she made the trip before, and she can do it again. Once we hit San Diego, we’ll bring aboard the rest of the crew and start working her up for deployment.”

Harm nodded, already envisioning the process. “Sounds like a solid plan. We’ll need to be methodical about testing her systems before we commit to the move.”

“Agreed. And that’s where you come in, XO,” Garrison said, emphasizing the title. “I want you fully engaged in this. I know you’re still wrapping things up at JAG, but as soon as you’re clear, I need you onboard.”

Harm felt the weight of the responsibility settling on his shoulders, but it was a welcome feeling.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” he said firmly.

“I know you won’t, Rabb,” Garrison said. “Now, get me that boiler expert, and let’s get this old warhorse moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Harm hung up the phone, he leaned forward, already forming a plan.

The office had grown dim as the sun dipped below the horizon, but Harm hardly noticed. His desk was buried under scattered notes, printouts, and a notepad filled with hastily scribbled names and phone numbers. The glow of his desk lamp cast sharp shadows across the paperwork as he rubbed his temples, exhaustion creeping in. He had closed out as many cases for JAG that he could, before shifting his attention to the Beast.  He spent the last several hours on the phone with Navy Personnel Command, hunting down anyone with expertise in Foster Wheeler steam boilers.

The results had been discouraging.

He had started with the standard channels—NAVPERSCOM detailers assigned to engineering billets. One by one, they all gave him the same answer: expertise in naval steam systems was vanishing. The Navy’s transition to gas turbines and nuclear reactors had phased out most steam boiler specialists. The few who remained were either already assigned to the dwindling number of steam-powered ships in the fleet or had long since retired.

After his third call, he had managed to convince one of the detailers to expand the search beyond active-duty personnel. “See if there’s anyone in the active or inactive reserves with experience on these systems,” Harm had pressed. “We might be able to recall someone if they’re qualified.”

“I’ll run a search, Commander, but I won’t lie to you,” the detailer had replied, a little annoyed at being held so late.  “Most of these guys either aged out or moved on. It might take a while to track someone down.”

Harm had thanked him, but as he hung up the phone, he knew he needed to find other avenues in the meantime.

Now, with the office quiet and the phone calls exhausted for the day, Harm turned to another resource—the internet. He had pulled up every technical manual, Navy report, and industry document he could find on Foster Wheeler steam boilers. Some of the material was decades old, but the fundamentals hadn’t changed.

He scrolled through an archived engineering report, scanning for details on the Hellcat’s specific boiler configuration. The more he read, the more concerned he became.

One report mentioned a persistent issue with boiler tube corrosion in Foster Wheeler units, particularly when ships had been inactive for extended periods—a problem that the Beast was sure to be facing after months of limited operations. Another article detailed failures in superheater elements, which, if unchecked, could lead to catastrophic loss of pressure control.

Then he stumbled upon something even more troubling.

Both Foster Wheeler and Westinghouse had supplied the Navy with boilers and related components for decades—but those components often contained asbestos. He found case after case of lawsuits and medical reports detailing exposure risks for sailors and shipyard workers who had served on steam-powered ships. The insulation, gaskets, and even some of the refractory materials used in the Hellcat’s boilers likely contained asbestos.

Harm leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. This wasn’t just about getting the ship operational—it was about doing it safely. If they had to rip apart the boiler system to make the necessary repairs, there was a real chance that the crew could be exposed to hazardous materials. That meant environmental controls, containment procedures, and possibly even specialized contractors.

He exhaled, tapping his pen against the desk.

One more thing to worry about.

He glanced at the clock. Nearly 2200. He had been at this for hours, but he wasn’t done yet. He needed to brief Garrison on what he had found and start figuring out a way to navigate the asbestos issue before it became a full-blown operational roadblock.

As he reached for his phone to make one last call for the night, his mind was already moving three steps ahead. The Hellcat was going back to sea—but it wouldn’t be easy. And Harm was just getting started.

CHAPTER 13

Pentagon – Office of the Secretary of the Navy  - 0500 Hours LOCAL

The sky over Washington was still a deep charcoal gray, the first hints of dawn barely brushing the horizon. But inside the E-Ring of the Pentagon, the lights in the Office of the Secretary of the Navy were already burning.

Edward Sheffield sat behind his polished mahogany desk, a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand, and a classified operational report from Seventh Fleet in the other. The silence was broken only by the low drone of ZNN’s early morning broadcast playing on the wall-mounted television—background noise more than anything.

Until a phrase caught his ear.

“…sources suggest a minor systems failure aboard the USS Patrick Henry, currently deployed in the Pacific theater. The Navy has yet to comment, but according to internal sources, the situation is under control and not expected to impact operational readiness.”

Sheffield’s head snapped up.

On screen, B-roll footage showed the Patrick Henry conducting flight ops—fighter jets launching into a clear sky, sailors in colored jerseys hustling across the flight deck. Below the anchor, a red banner scrolled slowly across the bottom of the screen:

BREAKING: MINOR SYSTEMS ISSUE ABOARD U.S. NUCLEAR CARRIER – NAVY OFFICIALS DECLINE COMMENT

Sheffield grabbed the remote and muted the volume. The coffee forgotten, he reached for the secure phone on his desk and punched in the direct line to the Chief of Naval Operations.

It rang once.

“Mordorman,” came the familiar growl.

“Sheffield. Turn on ZNN. Now.”

A pause, followed by the sound of rustling papers and the flick of a television screen.

“Son of a bitch,” Mordorman muttered.

“They’re calling it a minor failure,” Sheffield said, rising from his chair and walking toward the window. “They’re using the word minor, Bill.”

“They have no idea what actually happened,” Mordorman replied, voice tight. “That’s good—for now.”

Sheffield stared out at the still-sleeping capital. “We need to get ahead of this. Once that ship gets within range of Japanese ports, we’ll be swarmed with foreign press, not to mention intelligence eyes.”

“Agreed. We need a plan—and we need it now.”

Sheffield turned back toward his desk. “Here’s what we do: get PAO to prep a holding statement. Downplay everything. Routine technical maintenance. No reactor involvement. Emphasize that the ship is continuing toward port under tow purely as a precaution.”

“No lies,” Mordorman said, “but we blur the lines with careful omissions.”

“Exactly,” Sheffield agreed. “Until Patrick Henry hits Japanese waters, this stays classified. No reactor talk. No shutdowns. No boron injections. We say nothing until we absolutely have to.”

Mordorman hesitated. “That might not be enough. Someone leaked this.”

Sheffield’s expression hardened. “Then find out who. And shut them down. I want an internal security review. Every comms channel from Seventh Fleet to Fleet Forces. Cross-check all non-cleared personnel with access to the Patrick Henry incident log.”

“I’ll have NCIS quietly open a counterintelligence case,” Mordorman said. “We’ll narrow it down.”

“But that still leaves the press,” Sheffield muttered. “They’re sniffing at the door.”

“I have an idea,” Mordorman said slowly. “Senator Connors.”

Sheffield raised an eyebrow. “You want to involve Connors?”

“He’s already calling for a briefing, right?”

“Yes. His aide reached out this morning,” Sheffield replied.

“Then brief him,” Mordorman said. “Loop him in just enough to make him feel important. Paint this as routine maintenance that got sensationalized by overeager defense reporters. Feed his ego.”

“And in return?” Sheffield asked.

“We get him to help kill the story,” Mordorman replied. “Have him go on the record with a statement—say he was briefed, the incident is minor, nothing to worry about. A voice from Congress calming the waters will go a long way.”

Sheffield considered that. “He does love the sound of his own voice.”

“And he loves being the guy who knows something no one else does even more,” Mordorman added. “He’ll run to the cameras just like always—but this time with our version of the story.”

“Fine,” Sheffield said. “I’ll handle Connors personally. He gets a sanitized read-in. Make sure Legal scripts his talking points. I don’t want him ad-libbing and mentioning reactors by accident.”

“Already on it,” Mordorman said. “And I’ll get Admiral Navarro involved. She’s going to be the face of this once the fleet gets to Yokosuka. We need her press office fully aligned.”

Sheffield’s aide knocked once and stepped inside, handing him a new folder marked “Prelim. Press Intelligence: ZNN Source Analysis.”

Sheffield skimmed it and frowned. “Looks like ZNN got the leak from someone inside the Seventh Fleet logistics chain. Civilian contractor. Probably doesn’t even understand what they saw.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mordorman replied. “They’re now a problem.”

“I’ll have ONI and NCIS follow up quietly,” Sheffield said. “We don’t need arrests. Just pressure. Make it clear this is above their clearance level.”

Mordorman’s voice dropped. “If we can keep the media spinning for four more days—just long enough for Patrick Henry to make port—we’ll be in better shape. After that, we can control the narrative more directly.”

“Agreed,” Sheffield said. “But the window is small. And if anyone else leaks hard reactor details…”

“Then we move to full containment mode.”

Sheffield killed the audio on the muted television entirely. The anchor had moved on to NATO budget concerns, but the banner at the bottom of the screen still flickered red.

PACIFIC FLEET INCIDENT UNDER REVIEW – PENTAGON SILENT

He looked down at his phone again. “I’ll call Connors within the hour. Give him just enough to soothe his ego and keep him from digging too deep.”

“And we keep the rest of the wolves at bay,” Mordorman finished.

Sheffield sat back in his chair, gaze fixed on the blank television screen.

“This story’s a fire,” he murmured. “And if we don’t control it… it’s going to burn through everything.”

JAG Headquarters - Falls Church, VA – same time LOCAL

The halls of JAG Headquarters were still quiet when Harm arrived. The morning chill clung to the air, the sun barely beginning its ascent beyond the office windows. Most of the staff hadn’t filtered in yet, but Harm preferred it that way. It gave him time to think, to work through the mounting challenges ahead.

He walked briskly to his office, closing the door behind him before sinking into his chair. His first order of business—follow up with the detailer who had been searching for a qualified Foster Wheeler boiler expert in the reserve ranks.

He dialed the number and waited as the phone rang on the other end.

“Lieutenant Howard,” the voice answered.

“Lieutenant, it’s Commander Rabb. Any luck on that search?”

There was a pause before Howard sighed. “Sorry, sir. We came up empty. We combed through active and inactive reserves, but anyone with that kind of expertise either retired or moved into civilian engineering fields years ago. There just aren’t enough steam-powered ships left in the fleet to sustain a significant talent pool.”

Harm closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed was still frustrating.

“Understood, Lieutenant,” he said, his tone even. “Thanks for looking.”

“Yes, sir. If anything else turns up, I’ll let you know.”

Harm hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. If there’s no one in the reserves, maybe the answer isn’t in the Navy at all.

He shifted his focus to another avenue—civilian expertise. Foster Wheeler boilers weren’t exclusive to naval vessels; commercial ships used them as well. Maybe there was someone in the merchant marine or a private engineering firm who had worked with these systems.

Harm pulled up his laptop and started digging. He researched ship classes, scanning through any vessels that still operated with Foster Wheeler steam propulsion. After an hour of cross-referencing different sources, he finally hit on something useful.

The USNS Mercy and USNS Comfort, the Navy’s two hospital ships, were equipped with a more modern iteration of the Foster Wheeler boiler system. While their mission was vastly different from that of an aircraft carrier, they still required skilled engineers to keep their propulsion systems running.

That’s it.

If he could track down someone from one of the Mercy-class ships, they might have exactly the expertise the Hellcat needed.

Just as he was jotting down notes, a voice interrupted him.

“How’s the casework coming along, Commander?”

Harm looked up to see General Cresswell standing in his doorway, his arms crossed as he studied him with that sharp, assessing gaze.

Harm straightened. “Morning, General. I sent you a list of open cases and my recommendations for reassignment late yesterday.”

Cresswell nodded, stepping into the office. “I saw it. Appreciate the thoroughness. I’ll review the recommendations this morning.” He glanced at the pile of research spread across Harm’s desk. “I assume that’s not casework?”

Harm hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no point in keeping it to himself. “No, sir. I’m looking into potential boiler experts who can help get Hellcat back to full operational status. The Navy’s ranks are thin on experience with these systems, so I started checking into civilian and auxiliary fleet personnel.”

Cresswell raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem surprised. “So even before your orders are officially cut, you’re already working the problem.”

Harm offered a small, self-deprecating smile. “Yes Sir, I’ve closed out all of my open administrative cases. I’ll be in court later this morning for final arguments in the dereliction of duty case for Seaman Watts. I expect deliberation to be short, as I uncovered evidence that was presented last week proving Watts was following the orders of his Master Chief. So I expect the members will have a finding by the end of the day.”

Cresswell shook his head with a chuckle, his tone turning playful. “Power down, Commander. I was just going to point out,” he said, nodding toward the pile of research spread across Harm’s desk, “that it’s that kind of initiative that has fleet sealing you from my command, Rabb.”

Harm let out a breath of amusement taking the compliment for what it was.

“I expect Roberts to arrive back today and MacKenzie be in San Diego,” Cresswell continued. “We’ll have a senior staff meeting later in the day. Be ready to brief them on your caseload transition.”

“Aye, sir,” Harm replied.

Cresswell gave him one last nod before turning to leave. As the General disappeared down the hall, Harm refocused on his screen. He had a lead—now he just needed to track down the right people.

Newport News Shipbuilding – Senior Engineering Conference Room - Sometime ZULU

Commander Sturgis Turner stepped out of the rental car and took in the sight of Newport News Shipbuilding, a sprawling industrial complex of steel, concrete, and cranes towering over drydocks filled with the skeletal frames of warships. The shipyard, established in 1886, has been the cornerstone of American naval construction for over a century, producing everything from early battleships to the modern nuclear-powered aircraft carriers and submarines that form the backbone of the U.S. Navy. Located along the banks of the James River in Virginia, Newport News is the largest private shipbuilding company in the United States, with a legacy of excellence and a workforce deeply entrenched in the traditions of naval engineering.

The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and industrial lubricants, punctuated by the occasional clang of metal striking metal as workers went about their tasks. Sturgis adjusted his uniform, ensuring that his ribbons and insignia were squared away, then strode purposefully toward the main office building.

Inside, he was met by a senior representative of the company, William Caster, the head of nuclear engineering operations. Caster, a wiry man in his early sixties with sharp eyes and a clipped mustache, extended a hand.

"Commander Turner, welcome to Newport News Shipbuilding. I understand you're here regarding incident on the Patrick Henry.  Are you concerned it may be related to the Patrick Henry's RCOH?"

Sturgis shook the offered hand firmly. "That’s correct, Mr. Caster. I need to meet with your senior staff and engineers who worked on the Refueling and Complex Overhaul."

Within minutes, Sturgis was seated in a large, windowless conference room. Around the table sat a half-dozen engineers and project managers, some wearing crisp button-down shirts while others were still clad in coveralls, their work badges clipped to their chests. There was a tension in the air, the kind that came with knowing an inquiry was about to dig into years of work that no one wanted questioned.

"Let’s start from the top," Sturgis said, setting his notepad on the table. "For those who aren't familiar, walk me through the standard RCOH process."

The engineers exchanged glances before Caster finally nodded at one of them, a gruff-looking man with gray hair and thick glasses.

"Well, Commander, the Refueling and Complex Overhaul is a massive, multi-year process," the man, identified as Robert Hanley, began. "First, the ship is drydocked, and the reactor compartments are completely secured. We conduct extensive radiation surveys, remove access barriers, and establish contamination control zones before we even begin to open the primary reactor systems."

Sturgis leaned forward. "And when you do open the reactor compartments?"

Hanley continued, "The old reactor fuel elements are removed in a step-by-step process that involves remote handling, shielding, and strict oversight from both the Navy’s Naval Reactors branch and the shipyard’s nuclear specialists. The spent fuel rods are transported under classified protocols to the Department of Energy’s Naval Reactors Facility for storage or processing. Once the cores are removed, the reactor pressure vessels are fully inspected using ultrasonic testing, radiographic imaging, and metallurgical analysis to check for any stress fractures or corrosion."

Sturgis took notes. "Who fabricates the new reactor cores? Where are they built?"

Caster spoke up. "Westinghouse and BWX Technologies manufacture the new cores at their secure facilities. Westinghouse is primarily responsible for core design and fuel composition, while BWXT handles the final fabrication and assembly at their Lynchburg, Virginia, and Barberton, Ohio, facilities. Each core contains high-enriched uranium fuel encased in zirconium alloy cladding to ensure thermal efficiency and radiation containment. Before delivery, they undergo a series of criticality safety evaluations, hydraulic flow testing, and thermal simulations to confirm they meet Navy specifications."

Sturgis raised an eyebrow. "And what kind of quality control measures are in place? I want specifics."

Hanley nodded. "Every weld, every fuel assembly, every component undergoes multi-stage inspection protocols. Ultrasonic and eddy current testing ensures there are no microscopic defects in the fuel cladding. Neutron flux analysis verifies the uniformity of the fuel distribution. Once the cores arrive here at Newport News, we perform additional verifications, including pressure vessel compatibility checks and flow testing within the reactor coolant loop. The Navy’s Reactor Safeguards team independently reviews all data before authorizing core installation."

Sturgis flipped a page in his notepad. "What about secondary components? The Patrick Henry suffered a near-catastrophic failure. Could there have been a defect in the coolant pumps, steam generators, or control rod mechanisms?"

Caster and Hanley exchanged a look before Caster answered. "The coolant pumps are fabricated by Curtiss-Wright, the control rod drive mechanisms by General Electric, and the steam generators by Babcock & Wilcox. Each supplier is contractually bound to perform in-house inspections before shipment, but once components arrive, we integrate them into a test reactor loop to simulate operational conditions. If there were a failure in one of those components, it should have been caught long before the Patrick Henry put to sea."

Sturgis tapped his pen against the table. "Then how do you explain what happened? A reactor compartment doesn’t just go into emergency shutdown unless something is seriously wrong."

Caster exhaled sharply. "Commander, you understand that these records are highly sensitive, and any implication of a problem with our work could have serious repercussions for the company."

Sturgis leveled him with a steady gaze. "Mr. Caster, let’s not play games. If there’s nothing to hide, then transparency shouldn't be an issue. If there is something to hide, then I guarantee you I will find it. If you don’t cooperate with me fully, I’ll be reporting this back to the Judge Advocate General, and within hours, the SECNAV will be breathing down your necks. Do you really want that kind of exposure?"

The room fell into a heavy silence. The engineers shifted uncomfortably. Hanley rubbed his temples and muttered something under his breath. Caster exhaled sharply, looking as if he’d swallowed something sour.

Finally, he nodded. "Fine. We’ll give you access to the records you’re asking for. But I want it understood that we stand by our work."

Sturgis gave a small nod. "Duly noted. Now, let’s get started."

He reached for the folder of questions he had prepared the night before and flipped it open.

There was no more posturing now. Just the cold, clinical process of digging for the truth.

Pentagon – Secretary of the Navy’s Conference Room – 1215 Hours LOCAL

Senator Malcolm Connors strode into the sleek, window-lined conference room with the confidence of a man used to having his phone calls returned first and his press briefings aired live. His navy-blue suit was tailored to perfection, his tie knotted in the practiced way of a lifelong politician. His staff trailed behind him—two aides with tablets and notepads, already whispering to one another.

Edward Sheffield, Secretary of the Navy, stood at the head of the long table. He offered a practiced smile and extended a hand. “Senator Connors. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Connors took the hand with a firm grip. “The Hill’s buzzing, Ed. Something’s going on in the Pacific, and I don’t appreciate being blindsided by ZNN.”

“You’re right,” Sheffield said smoothly. “Which is exactly why you’re here. Let’s sit.”

They took their seats while a Navy PAO officer placed a slim folder in front of the Senator. Sheffield spoke first, voice calm but deliberate.

“We’ve had a mechanical issue aboard the Patrick Henry. Nothing catastrophic. No injuries. The crew responded flawlessly, and the ship is under tow back to Yokosuka as a precaution.”

Connors opened the folder and skimmed the contents. “This says something about control rods not inserting properly. That sounds a hell of a lot more serious than a ‘mechanical issue.’”

Sheffield gave a measured nod. “Technically, yes. But what matters is the outcome—reactors shut down safely, no radiation leaks, and the Navy’s nuclear protocols held. Our internal assessment will take time, but right now, we have no evidence of foul play or systemic failure.”

Connors leaned back, eyes sharp. “And the press?”

“ZNN ran with a vague leak. They’re calling it a ‘minor systems failure.’ That’s the narrative we’re reinforcing—for now.”

“Until you know more,” Connors said, his tone hinting at suspicion.

“Exactly,” Sheffield replied. “And that’s where you come in.”

The senator raised an eyebrow.

“We’d like you to go on record this afternoon,” Sheffield continued. “Say you were briefed at the Pentagon. Confirm that the Navy acted swiftly, that the situation is under control, and that rumors of a nuclear incident are exaggerated. Nothing too detailed—just enough to calm the sharks.”

Connors considered it, then nodded slowly. “And in return?”

“You get to be the calm voice of Congressional oversight,” Sheffield said with a grin. “The steady hand in uncertain waters. It’ll look good on the Sunday shows.”

Connors smirked. “You know me too well.”

“We just want the public focused on facts—not speculation,” Sheffield said. “If you can help us keep the press distracted for a few more days, we’ll have the Patrick Henry in port, and we’ll be able to speak with more clarity.”

Connors tapped his fingers on the folder, then stood. “Alright, Ed. I’ll do it. But if this turns into another Thresher or Boise, I’m not going down with the ship.”

“Understood,” Sheffield replied. “We just need time.”

Live on ZNN - Outside the Capitol Building, “…and joining us now is Senator Malcolm Connors of the Armed Services Committee. Senator, thank you for taking a moment to speak with us.”

Connors smiled into the camera with practiced ease. “Happy to, Melissa.”

The anchor, standing outside the Capitol, got straight to the point. “There’s been speculation about a nuclear incident involving the USS Patrick Henry in the Pacific. Can you confirm anything?”

“Absolutely,” Connors said smoothly. “I was just briefed by senior Navy leadership. What we’re dealing with is a minor systems malfunction—a mechanical issue, not a nuclear event. The crew responded exactly as they were trained, and the ship is proceeding to port under tow as a precaution.”

He held up a hand before the anchor could speak.

“There’s no threat to the crew, no danger to the public, and no cause for alarm. I’ve been assured the Navy is investigating thoroughly, and I have full confidence in their response.”

The anchor blinked. “So… you’re saying this was routine?”

He paused, then added, “It’s important to note that the Patrick Henry has been operating under significant stress. She’s been dealing with multiple aggressive acts by both Chinese and North Korean air forces over the past several weeks. The resulting increase in operations tempo has naturally put strain on both equipment and personnel. These things happen when you’re flying high-tempo ops in a contested environment.”

He straightened slightly, the tone of his voice growing more deliberate.

“But thanks to the professionalism of our sailors, it’s been handled. The last thing we need is a media circus speculating before we have the facts.”

He smiled again—humble, reassuring, authoritative. “Let’s let the Navy do its job.”

At the ZNN Newsroom the control room was abuzz with new headlines. A producer rushed into the anchor’s booth, holding up a script.

“Brad and Jen officially split. We’ve got confirmation from both reps.”

The anchor looked up. “Finally. What about the carrier story?”

“Dead for now,” the producer said. “Connors gave it the wet blanket treatment. Navy’s tight-lipped. No reactor news. No drama. We’re pivoting to the Super Bowl fallout and the Jackson thing—public interest is tanking on the Henry.”

The anchor nodded and adjusted her mic.

“Alright, people,” the director called out. “Next segment—Hollywood heartbreak and halftime scandal. Let’s go live in 5… 4… 3…”

Back at the Pentagon, Sheffield stood watching the muted television, arms folded, as the screen filled with split images of Jennifer Aniston’s tearful interview and Janet Jackson’s now-infamous halftime wardrobe malfunction.

He smiled, ever so faintly, and sipped from his new cup of coffee.

“We’ve bought our window,” he muttered.

And for now, that was enough, but JAG needed to get to the bottom of this ASAP.

JAG Headquarters – Early Afternoon

Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a rare moment of satisfaction. His closing arguments in the dereliction of duty case for Seaman Watts had landed exactly as he’d intended—precise, compelling, and indisputable. The deliberations had been swift, and by noon, the panel returned with a finding of not guilty.

It had been a tough case, not because of the evidence, but because of the underlying command pressure. Seaman Timothy Watts had been facing charges of dereliction of duty after an engine room failure aboard the USS Benfold. The prosecution argued that Watts had failed to perform proper safety checks, leading to a coolant system overpressure that damaged key components. However, Harm had uncovered the real story.

Watts had been following direct orders from his Master Chief, who had overridden standard procedures in an attempt to compensate for a miscalibrated sensor reading. The problem was, the Master Chief wasn’t on trial—Watts was. Command wanted to make an example of someone, and Watts, as a junior sailor, was the easy target.

Harm had torn apart the prosecution’s case piece by piece. He presented engine room logs, maintenance records, and watch rotation schedules, proving that Watts had no reasonable way to question the orders given to him. The final blow came when Harm got the ship’s engineering officer to admit, under cross-examination, that even he would have followed the same command without hesitation.

By the time Harm delivered his closing argument, the outcome was inevitable.

"Seaman Watts did what any good sailor would do—he obeyed orders. The fault here lies not with him, but with the system that put him in an impossible position. To convict him would not be justice. It would be scapegoating."

The members had only needed thirty minutes to deliberate before returning with a not guilty verdict.

It was a good win. A fitting bookend to his career as a JAG lawyer.

Harm glanced around his office. The same office he had occupied for years, filled with stacks of case files, reference books, and the occasional model aircraft. But now, everything was starting to feel temporary. His desk was unusually clear, a sign that the transition was becoming real.

The sharp ring of his phone broke his thoughts. He straightened, picking it up. “Rabb.”

“Harm, it’s Garrison.”

Captain Garrison’s voice was steady as ever, with that same unflappable tone that suggested he was already three steps ahead of any conversation.

“Captain,” Harm greeted. “Good to hear from you.”

“Likewise. You should be getting your orders any time now. Figured I’d check in, see how things are looking on your end.”

Harm nodded, even though Garrison couldn’t see it. “Just waiting for the official word. But things are moving. Had my last ride as a JAG lawyer today—got Seaman Watts acquitted. Feels like the right way to go out.”

Garrison chuckled. “Kicking ass in the courtroom till the very end, huh? Not surprised.”

“Old habits.” Harm smirked, then shifted gears. “How’s everything on the Hellcat?”

“Moving fast. The ship’s coming together, but we’re still short on some key personnel. Which brings me to my real reason for calling—how’s your search for that boiler expert going?”

Harm exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Frustrating. I went through NAVPERSCOM, combed through the personnel records for anyone with the kind of experience we need, but I keep hitting dead ends. Most of the old steam plant specialists either retired, transitioned to nuclear power, or left the service entirely.”

“Damn,” Garrison muttered. “We don’t have time to wait for a miracle. We need someone who knows their way around a conventional plant, and we need them yesterday.”

“I know,” Harm agreed. He drummed his fingers on his desk, his mind already pivoting to his next idea. “I was thinking—we might have better luck looking outside the carrier community. Since NAVSEA and NAVPERSCOM weren’t much help, but what about the hospital ships?”

“The Mercy-class ships?” Garrison sounded intrigued.

“Yeah,” Harm confirmed. “They’re old oil-fired Foster Wheeler steam plants, just like the Hellcat. If we can track down a senior engineering officer or a chief from one of those ships, we might have exactly the kind of expertise we need.”

Garrison was silent for a moment, clearly considering the idea. “That’s not bad, Harm. Not bad at all. Could be some engineers still in the system who worked those plants over.”

“Exactly.” Harm leaned forward. “I’ll start looking into the personnel from those refits, see if anyone with the right background is still active duty or recently separated. If we’re lucky, we’ll find someone who can get up to speed fast.”

Garrison let out a breath. “Alright, I’ll get Admiral Weatherly to reach out to the CO of Military Sealift Command. The Mercy-class engineers are civilians, working under MSC contracts. If we can’t find an active-duty sailor, we might be able to get a contractor with the experience we need.”

Harm nodded. “That could work. As long as they know these plants inside and out, I don’t care what uniform they’re wearing.”

“Agreed,” Garrison said. “Look, we’re already up against the clock, and I’d rather not pull someone from the civilian yards if we can avoid it. Keep me posted on what you find.”

“I will, sir.”

“And Harm—don’t take too long getting down here. You’re going to want to be part of this from the start.”

Harm smirked. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m already packing.”

Garrison chuckled. “See you soon.”

The line went dead, and Harm set the phone down.

Newport News Shipbuilding – Records Review Room

Sturgis rubbed his temples and blinked against the strain of hours spent poring over the meticulous documentation of the Patrick Henry's Refueling and Complex Overhaul (RCOH). The stacks of binders, engineering logs, and digital records in front of him painted a picture of careful precision—at least on paper. Every quality control check, every weld inspection, every reactor core integrity test was signed off with no irregularities.

Across the table, William Caster and Robert Hanley, along with a few other senior engineers, watched him with a mix of patience and exhaustion. It was clear they were expecting him to eventually concede that the shipyard had done everything by the book.

Sturgis flipped another page, scanning a series of component inspections. Steam generators, reactor coolant pumps, primary loop integrity reports—everything checked out. His pen tapped rhythmically against his notepad as his mind worked through the details. He was missing something.

Finally, Sturgis looked up. “I’d like to see the RCOH records for the Nimitz.”

A beat of silence. The engineers exchanged glances.

Hanley frowned. “The Nimitz? That overhaul was completed in 2001. What does that have to do with the Patrick Henry?”

Sturgis leaned forward. “I want to compare the quality control checks, the component replacement logs, and the signoffs from that overhaul with the ones for the Patrick Henry.” He pointed to the open files. “If there’s a discrepancy—no matter how small—I need to find it.”

Caster crossed his arms. “Commander, I’m telling you, you won’t find anything wrong with those records either. The Nimitz’s RCOH was as thorough as they come.”

Sturgis met his gaze evenly. “Then you shouldn’t have any problem giving me access.”

The room tensed. Caster let out a slow breath and exchanged a look with Hanley before giving a reluctant nod. “Fine. I’ll have them pulled.”

A few minutes later, a junior engineer wheeled in another cart stacked with thick binders labeled USS NIMITZ – RCOH 1998-2001. Sturgis wasted no time opening the first volume, flipping straight to the nuclear systems refurbishment section.

As he worked, the Newport News team watched in silence, their skepticism evident. The Patrick Henry overhaul records had been flawless. What did he expect to find in these older documents?

Sturgis’s eyes moved quickly over the pages. Reactor core replacement schedules. Quality control inspections. Weld verification reports. Each entry bore the signatures of naval and shipyard inspectors, just like the Patrick Henry’s records.

He looked up at Caster. “Was there anything different at all between the Nimitz RCOH and the Patrick Henry’s?”

Caster shook his head. “The RCOH process was exactly the same. The only differences were a few minor improvements implemented from the development of the Gerald R. Ford-class carriers.”

Sturgis set down his pen. “Be specific. What kinds of improvements?”

Hanley leaned forward. “Well, for one, the reactor control and monitoring software was upgraded to a more modern architecture. The Nimitz still had some legacy analog redundancy systems; by the time we worked on the Patrick Henry, those were phased out in favor of fully digital interfaces.”

Caster nodded. “There were also efficiency improvements in the reactor coolant pumps. The newer models installed on the Patrick Henry used improved ceramic coatings on the pump impellers, reducing erosion and extending operational life.”

Sturgis jotted that down. “And what about the reactor cores themselves? Any differences in design or materials?”

Caster shook his head. “Not in the core itself. The core fabrication followed the same Westinghouse and BWXT processes, same uranium enrichment levels, same fuel geometry. But—” He paused, frowning slightly. “Now that I think about it, there was a modification to the reactor coolant chemistry.”

Sturgis glanced up. “Go on.”

Caster scratched his chin. “There was an additive introduced to extend the coolant’s lifespan and enhance corrosion resistance in the primary loop. It was a proprietary formula developed under Naval Reactors’ guidance. Supposedly, it would reduce metal ion leaching from the piping and reactor vessel walls, lowering maintenance needs over time.”

Sturgis noted this down but didn’t dwell on it. “That’s interesting, but I don’t see how that would cause the Patrick Henry to experience a spike in power outputs and pressure that required emergency reactor shutdowns.”

Hanley nodded in agreement. “Yeah, an additive like that shouldn’t cause reactor instability. If anything, it was meant to improve long-term performance.”

Sturgis exhaled and set down his pen. He still wasn’t any closer to explaining what had gone wrong on the Patrick Henry. But he wasn’t done yet. “Alright. Let’s keep going.”

CHAPTER 14

USNS Mercy (T-AH 19) – Pier 1, Naval Air Station North Island, San Diego

The USNS Mercy sat moored at Pier 1, a towering white hospital ship distinct against the backdrop of San Diego Bay. Her massive red crosses stood out vividly on her hull, a universal symbol of humanitarian aid and medical relief. Though built from the hull of an old San Clemente-class supertanker, she had been transformed into one of the Navy’s most vital medical assets, capable of housing 1,000 patient beds and a full surgical hospital.

But right now, she wasn’t preparing for a deployment or responding to a global crisis. Instead, she was in the thick of her 21-day Mid-Term Availability (MTA)—a depot-level maintenance period meaning it involves more extensive repairs and maintenance than a standard Voyage Repair (VR) period. They are critical for maintaining safety and mission-essential equipment and might include safety of life at sea equipment, upgrading decking and coatings, and renovating crew storage spaces. They are carfully planned to ensure the ship reaches its planned service life.  The ship was alive with the sounds of maintenance crews—hammers ringing against metal, the whine of power tools, and the occasional burst of steam venting from open systems.

Unlike most commissioned Navy vessels, Mercy was operated by Military Sealift Command (MSC), meaning her engineering and deck crews were all Civil Service Mariners (CIVMARs)—highly skilled civilian professionals responsible for keeping the ship mission-ready. They didn’t wear standard Navy uniforms, but rather coveralls, work boots, and hard hats, with their ranks following a merchant marine structure rather than the traditional officer and enlisted system.

Chief Engineer Raymond David stood near Main Machinery Room One, a clipboard in hand and a thin layer of sweat on his brow despite the cool Pacific breeze wafting through the open hatches. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, his face weathered by years of hard sea service. His coveralls, with a name patch reading CHIEF ENGINEER R. DAVID, were smudged with grease and dust, but his sharp eyes missed nothing as he supervised the intricate dance of engineers, technicians, and contractors moving around him.

Born and raised along the tranquil shores of Chesapeake Bay, Raymond's earliest memories were woven with the salty air and the gentle lapping of waves against the hull of his family's modest sailboat. His father, a seasoned sailor and a veteran of the sea, introduced him to the water before he could barely walk. Together, they'd set out at dawn, casting lines for striped bass and navigating the intricate waterways of the bay. The United States Power Squadrons' boating program became their second home—a place where seamanship was both art and discipline.

The weekends were a flurry of activity: knot-tying lessons, navigation drills, and the subtle science of reading the wind. The elder David instilled in his son not just the mechanics of sailing, but a profound respect for the sea's unpredictability. "The ocean doesn't yield to anyone," he'd say, his weathered hands guiding the tiller. "You have to learn to move with it."

As a teenager, Raymond's affinity for the water translated into a job at the local YMCA, where he taught sailing to enthusiastic newcomers. His patience and natural leadership shone through as he guided novices through the basics of tacking and jibing. It wasn't just about sailing—it was about instilling confidence, fostering independence, and sharing his passion for the open water.

One balmy summer afternoon, after wrapping up a class, Raymond overheard a spirited debate between two visiting scholars on the docks. They were discussing marine biology, delving into topics like the migratory patterns of whales and the impact of pollution on coral reefs. Intrigued, Raymond joined the conversation, his curiosity evident. The exchange opened his eyes to the broader world of maritime studies—a fusion of science, exploration, and technology.

Motivated by this newfound interest, Raymond set his sights on higher education. The State University of New York Maritime College beckoned—a prestigious institution renowned for producing some of the finest mariners and engineers in the country. Gaining admission was no small feat, but Raymond's blend of practical experience and academic diligence secured his place in the incoming class.

Graduating in 1974, Raymond emerged from SUNY Maritime not just with a degree in marine engineering, but with a sharpened sense of purpose. The rigorous curriculum had pushed him to his limits, covering everything from thermodynamics to advanced navigation. He'd spent months at sea aboard the college's training vessels, learning the intricacies of engine systems and the camaraderie essential to life aboard a ship.

As the Cold War simmered and the geopolitical landscape grew increasingly complex, the Military Sealift Command (MSC) was expanding. The Pacific Fleet was taking applications, promising adventures across vast oceans and the chance to serve his country in a vital capacity. But before he could finalize his plans, the Atlantic Fleet opened positions that aligned perfectly with his expertise. Opportunity knocked at the Norfolk Naval Station, a stone's throw from his childhood haunts.

Accepting the offer, Raymond began his career with the MSC, joining the ranks of civilian mariners who provided critical support to the Navy's operations worldwide. His first assignment was aboard a replenishment oiler, ensuring that the fleet remained fueled and ready, no matter how distant the theater of operation. The work was unrelenting—long hours in the engine room, troubleshooting under pressure, and maintaining systems that were the lifeline of the vessel.

Over the years, Raymond's reputation for excellence grew. He had a knack for anticipating problems before they arose, a sixth sense honed from decades on the water. His tours took him around the globe: navigating the icy passages of the North Atlantic, braving monsoon seasons in the Indian Ocean, and threading the narrow straights of the South China Sea. Each mission brought new challenges and the ever-present need for adaptability.  But it was his assignment to the USNS Mercy that felt like the culmination of his life's work. The massive hospital ship wasn't just a marvel of engineering; it was a beacon of hope.  

Now before him lay the heart of the ship’s propulsion system—two Foster Wheeler D-type steam-generating boilers, their outer casings open for inspection. These beasts supplied superheated steam to the General Electric turbines, which, in turn, drove the ship’s main shafts. Though the ship rarely needed to reach her top speed of 17.5 knots, the steam plant was crucial for keeping her mission-ready.

David walked over to the open starboard boiler, peering into the labyrinth of pipes, manifolds, and burner assemblies. The engineering team had already pulled and inspected the burner tips, checking for carbon buildup and thermal fatigue.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked First Assistant Engineer Jimenez, one of his top boiler specialists.

Jimenez wiped his hands on a rag, glancing at his notes. “Burners look good, Chief. But we found some scale buildup in the superheater sections. Could lead to inefficient heat transfer if we don’t clean it properly.”

David nodded. “I want that cleared out completely. Last thing we need is reduced efficiency when we’re under full load.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Behind them, workers moved through the distilling plant bay, where all four distilling units were currently open for cleaning and inspection. These systems, crucial for producing fresh water from seawater, were stripped down to their heat exchangers and evaporators. Their gleaming metal components were laid out carefully, ready for maintenance crews to scrub away salt deposits and check for corrosion.

Further down, near the auxiliary engine room, a team of diesel mechanics worked on one of the ship’s three auxiliary diesel engines, which served as secondary power sources when steam wasn’t needed. The open engine block exposed massive pistons, while technicians examined wear patterns on the crankshaft bearings.

David stepped away from the boilers, making his way through the bustling engineering spaces. Everywhere he looked, there were signs of progress—technicians checking wiring looms, welders reinforcing brackets, and pipefitters replacing worn-out insulation.

He stopped near the main engine control panel, where Second Assistant Engineer Paul Han was monitoring the ongoing work.

“Han, where are we on the electrical distribution inspection?” David asked.

Han tapped the screen of his ruggedized tablet. “Ahead of schedule. Power distribution panels are all checked except for the port-side emergency bus. We’ll get to that this afternoon.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” David said with a satisfied nod.

Though he was running a tight ship, he couldn’t shake a nagging thought. The Navy was phasing out steam propulsion in favor of gas turbines and electric drives. Fewer and fewer engineers knew how to keep these old old designs running, and finding replacement parts was getting harder.

And now, as he looked over his hardworking CIVMAR team, he wondered—when the time came, would there be enough skilled hands left to keep these ships alive?

Newport News Shipbuilding – Records Review Room

The tension in the room was thick as Sturgis continued working with Caster, Hanley, and the Newport News team for several more hours. They meticulously examined each change implemented between the Nimitz and Patrick Henry overhauls.

“Let’s go over the reactor control and monitoring system upgrades,” Sturgis said, rubbing his eyes before focusing back on the records.

Caster nodded and flipped through a set of technical schematics. “For the Patrick Henry, we upgraded the reactor control systems to the Integrated Digital Reactor Protection System, or IDRPS. It’s a major step up from what the Nimitz had. The old system relied on a mix of analog and digital controls—this one is fully digital, with touchscreen interfaces for reactor operations.”

Hanley leaned in. “The IDRPS monitors neutron flux, coolant flow rates, and core temperature in real-time. Automated safety protocols were improved as well—if there’s an unexpected spike in pressure or power, the SCRAM system reacts faster.”

Sturgis skimmed the documentation. “And the logs from Patrick Henry?”

Caster tapped a screen displaying system performance data from before the incident. “It performed perfectly. No anomalous readings, no indication that the control system failed in any way.”

Sturgis nodded but made a note anyway. “What about the reactor coolant pumps?”

“We replaced them with the newer RCP-1000 models,” Hanley explained. “Higher efficiency, better flow control, and improved seals to reduce the risk of leaks. Again, all recorded tests show they functioned as expected.”

Sturgis sighed. “Alright, let’s talk about the reactor coolant itself.”

Hanley hesitated, then pulled another file. “One change was made in the Patrick Henry’s RCOH—an additive was introduced into the coolant to extend its lifespan and reduce corrosion in the primary loop.”

Sturgis frowned. “An additive?”

Caster nodded. “Yes Zirconium Tungstate.  Developed based on lessons from the Ford-class carriers currently under development. It is meant to prevent degradation of the reactor piping and core components over long deployments.”

Sturgis made a note but everything from the Patrick Henry’s logs seem to indicate the cooling system was working as designed when the incident occurred. “Alright, what about fuel rod and control rod construction? I want to see records on fuel composition.”

Caster exhaled sharply. “That’s something you’ll have to get from Westinghouse. They’re the ones who fabricate the fuel assemblies and control rods for all the Nimitz-class carriers.”

Sturgis looked up. “Where?”

“The fuel is enriched and fabricated at the Westinghouse facility in Columbia, South Carolina,” Hanley said. “Control rods come from a mix of suppliers, but Westinghouse oversees final assembly.”

Sturgis looked up from his notes, fatigue etched in the lines around his eyes. The fluorescent lights of the conference room cast a harsh glow over the scattered documents and schematics strewn across the table. "I think that's all we can cover today," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you both for your help. Your insights have been invaluable."

Caster leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. "No problem, Commander Turner. We're just as eager to find out what happened with the Patrick Henry."

Hanley nodded in agreement. "At least it seems Newport News Shipbuilding is in the clear," he added, a hint of relief evident in his tone.

Sturgis offered a small smile. "It looks that way for now," he conceded. "But the investigation is just getting started. There's still a lot we don't know."

Caster stood, extending his hand. "Well, if there's anything else you need, don't hesitate to reach out. We're committed to getting to the bottom of this."

Sturgis shook his hand firmly. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks again."

As he gathered his papers and slid them into his briefcase, Hanley walked him to the door. "Safe travels, Commander," Hanley said. "Hope you find what you're looking for down in South Carolina."

"Me too," Sturgis replied, adjusting the strap of his briefcase on his shoulder. "Take care."

Stepping out into the cool evening air, Sturgis took a deep breath. The shipyard was a maze of towering cranes and skeletal hulls, shadows stretching long under the floodlights. The distant clanging of metal on metal echoed faintly—a reminder of the relentless work that kept the Navy's vessels in top condition.

He walked toward the parking lot where his car waited, each step weighed down by the responsibility of the task ahead. The glow of the shipyard receded behind him as he contemplated the implications of his findings.

Potential issues with the fuel assemblies opened up new avenues—and new risks. If there was a fault at the manufacturing level, it could have far-reaching consequences, not just for the Patrick Henry, but for the entire fleet of nuclear-powered vessels.  And what about the introduction of the coolant additive?

Climbing into his car, Sturgis made a mental checklist of what needed to be done. Contact Westinghouse to arrange a visit, review the fabrication protocols, and cross-reference them with the incidents aboard the Patrick Henry. He also needed to consider the possibility of systemic issues—if there was a flaw in the production process, time was of the essence to prevent any further incidents.

Pulling out of the lot, Sturgis drove away from Newport News Shipbuilding, the road ahead illuminated by the steady beam of his headlights. The weight of the day pressed upon him, but rest would have to wait. The investigation was gaining momentum, and he was determined to follow every lead.

As the city faded into the distance, Sturgis's thoughts turned to the crew of the Patrick Henry. They deserved answers, and he was resolved to find them. The complexities of nuclear engineering, the intricacies of naval operations, and the shadows of potential negligence or worse—all converged into a knot that JAG was tasked with unraveling.

An few minutes later Sturgis tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his rental car as he merged onto Interstate 664, leaving the sprawling Newport News Shipbuilding complex behind him. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the James River as he crossed the Monitor-Merrimac Memorial Bridge-Tunnel, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt barely breaking his concentration.

The meeting had been grueling—hours of scrutinizing records, cross-referencing data, and chasing every possible discrepancy. Yet, despite his exhaustive efforts, he hadn’t uncovered anything damning. At least, not yet. The reactor coolant additive was interesting but didn’t seem immediately relevant to the Patrick Henry’s near-catastrophic reactor event. The upgraded systems, from digital control interfaces to the reactor coolant pumps, had all been installed and tested properly, with no signs of failure leading up to the accident.

He reached into his uniform jacket, pulled out his secure government-issued cell phone, and punched in the number for JAG Headquarters. The line rang twice before a familiar, gruff voice answered.

“Cresswell.”

“Sir, it’s Turner. I just left Newport News.”

“Go ahead.”

Sturgis exhaled, running a hand through his short hair as he formulated his report. “Sir, I spent the entire day combing through the Patrick Henry’s RCOH records. I went deep—reactor core replacement schedules, weld verification reports, pressure vessel compatibility checks, you name it. Everything lines up. All quality control inspections were conducted at every stage, including multi-stage inspection protocols for nuclear fuel integrity. Verifications were done at every level, including flow testing within the reactor coolant loop to ensure proper circulation and cooling efficiency.”

Cresswell was silent, so Sturgis continued. “Further, the Navy’s Reactor Safeguards Team reviewed everything independently. Their reports match the shipyard’s findings—no anomalies, no failed quality control checks, no deviations from standard procedure. If there was a problem with the overhaul itself, I sure as hell haven’t found it in the records.”

Cresswell finally spoke, his tone even. “So, no smoking gun.”

“No, sir. But I’m not ruling anything out yet. We focused primarily on the systems that were upgraded since the Nimitz RCOH—reactor control software, digital monitoring interfaces, improved reactor coolant pumps. All records indicate they were installed correctly, passed all factory acceptance tests, and were verified post-installation. The Patrick Henry’s operational logs show all of these systems performed exactly as expected before and after the incident.”

Cresswell let out a quiet sigh. “And yet, we almost lost a carrier to a nuclear catastrophe.”

“Yes, sir.” Sturgis’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Which is why I asked for the records on the fuel rods and control rods—manufacturing reports, fuel composition details, anything that might point to a problem in the nuclear fuel cycle. That’s where I hit a roadblock. Newport News builds the carriers, but they don’t manufacture the reactor cores or the fuel rods. That’s all Westinghouse. If there’s a flaw in the nuclear fuel or a problem with how the control rods were fabricated, we’ll have to get the records from them.”

Cresswell grunted. “Of course. That’s another mess entirely.”

“Yes, sir,” Sturgis agreed. “But if there was a structural defect in the control rods, if they weren’t absorbing neutrons as they should, or if the fuel composition had inconsistencies—especially if the enriched uranium wasn’t evenly distributed—it could explain the spike in power output and pressure that forced the emergency SCRAM.”

Cresswell was silent for a moment before speaking with the weight of a man already thinking three steps ahead. “Get back to Washington tonight. MacKenzie and Turner will be arriving back from the Patrick Henry shortly. I want all three of you in my office at 0800. We’ll lay out the next steps then.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And, Sturgis.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re doing good work. Keep at it.”

Sturgis felt a swell of determination in his chest. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Cresswell ended the call, leaving Sturgis alone with his thoughts as he sped northward. He had spent the entire day buried in records, but instead of finding answers, he had only uncovered more questions. The Patrick Henry’s overhaul had been textbook, yet something had gone catastrophically wrong. The nuclear crisis on that carrier wasn’t just a fluke—it had a cause. And Sturgis Turner was going to find it.

The glow of Washington, D.C., loomed on the horizon as he pressed down on the gas. This case was far from over.

JAG Headquarters – 1800 Local

Harm leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he stared at the stack of case files on his desk. The office was quiet now—most of the staff had filtered out for the evening—but he wasn’t in a rush to leave. He had only a few days left at JAG Headquarters, and while the transition ahead both excited and unsettled him, there was a gravity to packing up nine years of memories.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced up just as it creaked open.

“Hey, Commander.”

Bud Roberts stepped inside, uniform travel-wrinkled, eyes tired, and the ghost of jet lag written plainly across his face.

Harm stood. “Bud. You’re back.”

“Just got in,” Bud nodded. “Flight landed a couple of hours ago. Took a car straight here. Figured I’d check in before heading home.”

Harm motioned to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. You look like you’ve been through a war zone.”

Bud collapsed into the chair with a long exhale. “If the war zone had fluorescent lighting and was filled with engineers dodging questions, then yeah… close enough.”

Harm cracked a smile, but it faded quickly. “So… the Patrick Henry?”

Bud nodded, rubbing his eyes before pulling out a small notebook from his pocket. “It’s not good. The reactor failures on the Patrick Henry weren’t due to crew error. And we didn’t find any signs of sabotage. What we did find… was a hell of a lot of red flags with the RCOH.”

Harm’s expression darkened. “Wasn’t that overhaul just completed six months ago?”

“Exactly. Everything we’ve seen points to a fault in the reactor refit itself. When the reactors overheated, the control rods didn’t fully seat. The crew followed protocol—every last step. But the rods didn’t go all the way in.”

“That’s a mechanical defect,” Harm said flatly.

Bingo,” Bud replied. “So they went to backup—boron injection. It shut the reactors down, but it also killed them. The ship’s effectively dead in the water.”

Harm shook his head, jaw tight. “That could’ve been a meltdown.”

“They were close,” Bud confirmed. “They got lucky, Commander. If the engineering crew hadn’t acted fast, it would’ve been Chernobyl in the middle of the Sea of Japan.”

Harm leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk. “And it all tracks back to Newport News?”

Bud nodded. “That's where the threads are pointing. Commander Turner is digging through years of records—fabrication logs, QA test data, supply chain documentation. If someone cut corners, or ignored a defect, we’ll find it. But it’s a mountain of paperwork, and a lot of stonewalling.”

Harm exhaled, slow and steady. “If that core’s flawed, then other carriers that’s been through RCOH could be at risk.”

“Yeah.” Bud’s voice was low, grim. “This could go far beyond the Patrick Henry.”

Silence settled between them for a moment.

Then Harm asked, “How’s the Chief Engineer holding up?”

“Captain Collins? Professional, but shaken,” Bud replied. “He knows he did everything right. He’s just hoping the Navy believes it. His whole team’s been through the wringer.”

Harm nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’ve got a hell of a job ahead.”

Bud smirked wearily. “We all do, don’t we?”

Harm chuckled softly. “I suppose we’re both heading into the unknown.”

Bud tilted his head. “That reminds me… there’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Harm raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Bud shifted a bit in his chair. “Mac… she offered me the XO billet at her new command—the Joint Legal Service Center in San Diego.”

Harm blinked. “Yeah, she mentioned that to me.”

“Yeah. It’s not official yet—we still need to get Cresswell’s approval. But Harriet and I talked about it. A lot. And we’ve decided… we’re going.”

For a beat, Harm didn’t speak. His expression was unreadable, and Bud suddenly wondered if he’d overstepped.

“That’s… big news,” Harm said finally. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Bud said. “It’s a great opportunity. I’ve been at HQ for nine years, Harm. If I stay any longer, it’s going to look like I’ve hit my ceiling. This gives me a shot to do something more.”

“No argument there,” Harm said, voice softer now. “Mac couldn’t have picked a better XO.”

Bud smiled gratefully. “I appreciate that.”

Harm leaned back in his chair, absorbing the weight of it all. Mac leaving. Bud going with her. His own departure looming.

Bud leaded back. "Enough about my disaster. How did things go at Whiting Field?"

Harm smirked. "Much better, thankfully. Power was restored by the time I left. The SeaBees were on-site, and repairs were well underway. We expect Whiting to be fully operational within two weeks."

Bud let out a relieved sigh. "That’s something, at least. I’m glad someone had a smooth mission."

Before either man could say more, a knock came at the door.

Both turned to see Petty Officer Coates standing in the doorway.

“Commander Rabb, Commander Roberts,” she said. “General Cresswell would like to see you both in his office.”

Harm and Bud exchanged a look—one of understanding, one that carried the weight of years of service, shared battles, and mutual respect.

“Guess we’re not off duty just yet,” Harm muttered, standing.

Bud stood too, adjusting his uniform jacket. “We never are.”

Together, they stepped into the hallway, the hum of overhead lights and distant footsteps echoing in the stillness of JAG Headquarters. The future wasn’t clear, but it was coming—fast.

Inside the sleek, wood-paneled conference room, Petty Officer Coates sat quietly at the far end of the table, her notepad open but untouched. The muted overhead lights did little to brighten the tension hanging in the room. Coates glanced at the clock, then toward the door, then back at the two officers seated across from her.

Commander Bud Roberts sat upright, his hands folded neatly on the table, still visibly processing the whirlwind of his return from Japan and the investigation at Newport News. Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr., sat beside him, expression unreadable, brow furrowed ever so slightly in anticipation.

The door swung open.

Major General Gordon Cresswell strode in, exuding authority. His uniform was immaculate, his bearing as sharp as ever. He carried a single, thick folder under his arm. His eyes swept over the trio in the room before he offered a curt nod.

"Good. Everyone’s here—except for Commander Turner. I’ll inform him separately."

He moved to the head of the table and set the folder down with a soft thump. The room seemed to draw in a collective breath.

Cresswell’s tone was clipped and focused. “As you all know, Colonel MacKenzie has received her new orders and is now in San Diego, assuming her command at the new Joint Legal Service Center.”

Bud’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. Harm, however, felt his stomach tighten at the mention of Mac, and the distance between them.

The general didn’t pause. “Now, Commander Rabb has new orders as well.”

Cresswell opened the folder, retrieved a single sheet of official stationery, and walked it around the table, placing it directly in front of Harm.

“You are to report to Captain Robert Garrison, commanding officer of the aircraft carrier Hellcat, currently berthed in Mayport, Florida, to assume your new role as Executive Officer of the Hellcat.”

Silence.

Harm stared at the paper, unmoving.

Cresswell continued, his voice just a notch softer. “With the Patrick Henry out of service for the foreseeable future, the Hellcat has been reassigned to the Pacific Fleet. She’s making ready for sea as we speak.”

The general stepped back, then gave a rare, small smile—part pride, part challenge. “Congratulations… Captain Rabb.”

The room seemed to tilt. Bud blinked in surprise and turned toward his friend. “Captain?” he echoed with raised eyebrows.

Cresswell added, "As the XO billet is a captain’s posting, the O-6 board just reported out. Frocking has been authorized."

Bud asked, “Were you expecting this sir?”

“No, this really wasn’t in my plan,” Harm admitted, lifting his gaze.

Cresswell stepped around the table, folding his arms. “Rabb here made an impression at Whiting Field, Commander—Captain—and you impressed more than just Captain Garrison. Your name came up in two separate secure briefings, and when the CNO asked if you could handle it, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.”

“But…” Harm hesitated. “You didn’t want this. I could tell.”

“No,” Cresswell admitted. “Not at first. I had other plans for you—plans that would’ve kept you in the JAG Corps. But things change. The needs of the Navy change. And more importantly… I realized I was wrong.”

That stunned both Harm and Bud into silence.

“You belong out there,” Cresswell added, his voice quieter now. “You’ve always had one foot in the cockpit and the other in the courtroom. Maybe it’s time to stop straddling the line. This billet isn’t just a promotion. It’s a command track. Take it, and there’s no more going back and forth. You’ll be in the pipeline for full command one day.”

Harm glanced at Bud, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement.

Then he looked down at the orders again, his fingers brushing the crisp edge of the paper.

He thought about Mac. About that night on the phone. About how she had finally opened up—how they had promised to finally talk, really talk. And now she was gone. San Diego. Her new command.

He was heading west, too… 

“Thank you, sir,” Harm finally said, voice steady despite the knot in his chest.

Cresswell gave a small nod. “You’ll report to Mayport in 72 hours. Transportation is being arranged. Petty Officer Coates will provide you with the logistics packet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cresswell turned to Bud. “Commander Roberts. You’ll continue to be part of the investigation into Patrick Henry until further notice.  Commander Turner was at Newport News today.  He spent the entire day combing through the Patrick Henry’s RCOH records.  So far everything lines up.  He’s on his way back to Washington as we speak.  We’ll reconvene here at 0800 tomorrow to discuss the next steps in the investigation."”

“Aye, sir,” Bud said, his posture straightening instinctively.

Cresswell’s gaze lingered on both men a moment longer. Then he nodded once more. “You’re dismissed.”

Harm and Bud stood, saluted, and turned to leave. But as they reached the doorway, Bud leaned in quietly.

“You okay?”

“It’s all changing,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Bud agreed. “Feels like we’re at the end of something, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Harm replied. “Or the start of something new.”

Harm paused for a second, then gave him a nod before they disappeared into the corridor, the weight of new orders—and uncertain futures—settling on their shoulders like the sea air of a rising storm.

Naval Base San Diego – Visitors’ Quarters – Early Evening

The sun had just begun to dip beneath the Pacific horizon, casting streaks of orange and lavender across the sky as Colonel Sarah “Mac” MacKenzie set down her duffel bag on the floor of the spartan VOQ room. She exhaled slowly, taking a moment to drink in the silence. No jet engines. No carrier alarms. No shouting over rotor wash.

Just quiet.

For the first time in days.

Her back ached from the brutal travel—from the Patrick Henry to Yokosuka by helo, then to 12 hours in coach on a 777, a sixty-minute layover in San Francisco, and finally the short hop to San Diego.  Every leg of the journey had been a test of her patience and spine. She’d barely eaten, barely slept. And now, standing in the middle of a bland government-issued room with her thoughts finally catching up to her, her mind that felt truly exhausted, all she wanted to do was collapse into the bed and sleep for a week.

She pulled out her cell phone and stared at the screen a moment before hitting the familiar contact.

It rang twice.

“Hey,” came Harm’s voice on the other end, warm and grounding.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, leaning back against the headboard.

“You make it to San Diego okay?”

Mac exhaled. “Define okay… A 30-hour journey across three time zones, a plane load full of snoring passengers, and a nd a bumpy-as-hell 737 ride where I seriously questioned if the flight crew had ever heard the word ‘altitude hold.’”

Harm chuckled softly. “So, business as usual.”

“Pretty much,” she replied. “But I’m here. I’m safe. And the room even has working A/C, so I might actually survive.”

“That’s a win in my book.  Did they at least give you a room with a view?”

She glanced toward the small window. “If you consider a rusted forklift and two seagulls fighting over a sandwich a view, then yes.”

He laughed again. “Sounds like home.”

There was a beat of silence.

“How are you?” she asked, her tone shifting gently. “Things wrap up at Whiting?”

“Yeah. Left the base in good hands. SeaBees are finishing up the work. Reese has everything under control now.”

There was a beat before she spoke again, her tone shifting. “The Patrick Henry was a mess.”

Harm leaned back in his chair at JAG HQ, tension creeping into his voice. “What kind of mess?”

“The control rods didn’t fully insert,” she said quietly. “That should’ve been impossible. But when the reactors started overheating… they didn’t scram. They had to inject boron.”

His tone sharpened. “They were that close to full meltdown?”

Mac nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Too close. Bud and I spoke to Chief Engineer Collins. His crew followed every protocol to the letter. It’s not them. It’s not sabotage either. It’s starting to look like a failure rooted in the RCOH. If so, this isn’t just Patrick Henry’s problem. It’s bigger.”

Harm was silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of her words. “Every other Nimitz-class carrier that’s undergone overhaul could be compromised.”

“Exactly.”

Harm exhaled. “Turner’s digging through records at Newport News?”

“Yeah. He’s good at spotting inconsistencies. If there’s a trail to follow, he’ll find it.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Another pause.

They were quiet again. The weight of that truth sat between them.

I should’ve been on that investigation,” Harm murmured. “With my background—carrier ops, legal, engineering—I could’ve helped.”

“You were needed elsewhere,” she said gently. “Whiting wouldn’t be operational right now without you. And… maybe it’s not about where you’re needed, but where you're going.”

There was a pause.

“Actually… I’m glad you called,” Harm said, his tone shifting.

“Oh?”

He hesitated. “I’ve found a way to come visit you.”

Mac blinked, straightening slightly. “What? Really?”

He chuckled nervously. “Yeah… but you’re not gonna like it.”

“Oh boy.” She narrowed her eyes, even though he couldn’t see her. “What did you do?  You haven’t resigned again have you?”

“No! I swear,” he said quickly, “this wasn’t my idea.”

“Harm…”

“I mean it, Mac. Garrison, Weatherly, CO of the 7th Fleet—they’re the ones who pushed it through.”

“Spill it,” she ordered.

He took a breath. “I’ve been reassigned. I’m the new Executive Officer of the Hellcat.”

Dead silence.

“What?” Mac shot to her feet. “You’re what?”

“It’s official,” Harm said calmly. “Cresswell gave me the orders a little while ago. Captain Garrison requested me, Weatherly backed it, Mordorman signed off, and Sheffield rubber-stamped it.”

“You’re going back to sea duty?” she asked, rising to her feet again, pacing now. “How the hell is that supposed to help us talk?”

“Because the Hellcat is being transferred to the Pacific Fleet. She’s going to be based out of San Diego for final repairs and air wing integration.”

She stopped pacing. “You’ll be here?”

“Yes.”

“And stationed here?”

“Yes, Mac.”

Her eyes closed slowly. Her chest rose and fell with a shaky breath. “Then we will get our talk?”

“I promised you we would,” he said quietly. “And I meant it.”

She sat down slowly, the bed creaking beneath her. “You do realize this complicates things even more, right?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But when have things between us ever been simple?”

A faint laugh escaped her lips despite herself.

She exhaled hard, torn between frustration and relief. “I should be mad,” she said. “But I think… I think I’m just tired of being mad.”

“Me too.”

There was a long moment of quiet before Harm added, more cautiously, “On the other hand, you know what else this means?”

“What?”

“We’re no longer in the same chain of command. That line we could never cross—it’s not there anymore.”

Her breath caught slightly. “So you're saying…”

“I’m saying the Navy just took away one of our last excuses.”

She let out a soft, dry laugh. “Figures it took a nuclear crisis and a resurrected aircraft carrier to make that happen.”

“Yeah,” Harm chuckled. “Not exactly subtle.”

Mac sat back down on the bed, heart racing, the exhaustion of the day battling with the fluttering of something else. Hope.

“When do you get here?” she asked, almost too quietly.

“I have to be in Mayport in 48 hours.  From there we’ve got to get Hellcat ready for sea, starting with her boilers,” Harm said. “Then we’ll make the move west, so probably about a month. Could be sooner, depending on how fast things move.”

Her voice dropped, soft but certain. “I’ll wait.”

“So will I.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.  The space the space between them didn’t feel so impossible.

CHAPTER 15

JAG Headquarters – 0730 Hours LOCAL

The early light of the Virginia morning filtered through the tall windows of JAG Headquarters, casting long beams across polished floors and freshly waxed tiles. Phones rang. Heels clicked. The scent of burnt coffee, toner, and starch-filled uniforms filled the air as officers and staff buzzed with purpose, already knee-deep in paperwork and legal prep.

Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. stepped through the main doors of JAG for what might be one of the last times. His cover tucked under his arm, his khakis pressed with the kind of precision that only years of service could perfect, he paused briefly in the entranceway—soaking it in.

Across the bullpen, Commander Sturgis Turner looked up from his desk at just the right moment. Their eyes met. There was a second of silence, an unspoken understanding. The years hadn’t erased the rough patches between them, but there was mutual respect there—maybe even a friendship slowly healing.

Just then, Commander Bud Roberts bustled in, balancing a stack of files, a coffee cup, and a bag of bagels he’d clearly picked up on the way in. “Morning, sirs!” he chirped.

Harm offered a dry smile. “Hey, Bud. You bringing enough for everyone or just bribing the General?”

Bud chuckled. “Both. I figured one might cancel out the other.”

Harm gave him a nod, then turned toward his office. “I guess I’m off to pack up.”

Bud slowed at that, the weight of the statement settling in. “It’s really happening, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harm said quietly, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. “It’s time.”

He took a step, but before he could reach his door, a voice rang out like a starter’s pistol.

“JAG on deck!”

The entire floor snapped to attention. Conversations halted, footsteps froze, and even the background printer seemed to go silent. Major General Gordon Cresswell strode into the building like a thundercloud in uniform—energy, authority, precision. His eyes scanned the room with the intensity of a man who’d seen war and now wielded that same decisiveness in the halls of military justice.

“At ease,” he said briskly.

The tension melted—somewhat.

“Staff call in the main conference room, 0800 sharp. Colonel MacKenzie will be joining via conference link. We’ll be reviewing the Patrick Henry investigation. Be prepared.”

Then his eyes locked on Harm. A flicker—brief, unreadable—passed across his expression.

“Commander Rabb, you should join us as well. There’s something we need to discuss.”

Harm straightened slightly. “Aye, sir.”

Murmurs rippled around the bullpen, heads turning, speculation thick in the air. Roberts raised his eyebrows. Turner gave Harm a sidelong glance. Even Coates, passing by with a file in hand, arched a curious brow.

The senior staff had gathered. Rabb, Turner, Roberts, and Coates took their seats around the polished oak table, arranging notepads and files. The hum of the speakerphone filled the silence, waiting for the remote connection to patch in. Bud stole a bagel from his own bag and offered one silently to Coates, who took it with a grateful smile.

The door opened again.

“Attention on deck!” someone called reflexively.

General Cresswell entered, his uniform crisp, every medal and ribbon in perfect order. He carried a single file under one arm. Not the usual stack—just one.

“As you were,” he said, taking his place at the head of the table.

“Coates, get Colonel MacKenzie on the line.”

The speaker crackled to life, and a second later, Mac’s voice filled the room. “Colonel MacKenzie online.”

Cresswell gave a curt nod, then turned to Harm.

“Mr. Rabb, you’re out of uniform.”

Harm immediately glanced down at himself, brow furrowing as he quickly checked his khakis for any sign of a spill, a missing insignia—god forbid, an open fly. Nothing seemed out of place.

He looked back up at Cresswell, puzzled. "Sir?"

Cresswell didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he opened the folder and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper.

“Attention to orders,” he barked.

Everyone stood.

Cresswell took a deep breath before continuing. "Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr., I am honored to promote you to the rank of Captain in the United States Navy."

A hushed silence fell over the room, a mix of surprise and admiration. Cresswell extended his hand, offering Harm a set of new shoulder boards, the four gold stripes gleaming under the conference room lights.

Harm blinked, momentarily stunned, before stepping forward to accept them.

A stunned hush fell over the room.

Bud’s mouth fell open.

Turner’s brows shot upward.

Mac’s voice came over the speaker, warm but low. “It’s about damn time.”

Cresswell stepped forward, presenting Harm with a new set of shoulder boards. The four golden stripes caught the conference room light as if already gleaming with command.

Harm stepped forward, still dazed, and accepted them.

“Captain,” Cresswell said, “repeat after me…”

The oath followed. Simple. Direct. But every word seemed to resonate with deeper meaning this time. As Harm recited them, his voice steady and clear, something changed in the room. Pride, yes—but also the feeling that this was the closing of one chapter and the start of another.

When the oath ended, applause broke out—not raucous, but heartfelt. Even Cresswell allowed himself the faintest smile.

Then he cleared his throat.

“Alright. Back to business.”

The room quieted instantly.

Cresswell glanced at Harm, his expression firm yet understanding. “Captain, you are excused. I know you need to pack up and get down to the Hellcat.”

Harm stood up, back straight, and snapped to attention with the practiced ease of a seasoned officer. “Yes, sir! Thank you.”

For a brief moment, a flicker of melancholy crossed his features. This was it—the moment he truly left JAG behind. No more standing in this room for high-level investigations, no more strategy sessions with Mac, Bud, and Turner. The chapter was closing, and despite the excitement of what lay ahead, there was something bittersweet about moving on.

He hesitated for just a beat before adding, “Sir, if I can be of any help to the investigation, please let me know. Any time, anywhere.” His voice carried the weight of genuine commitment. Just because he was leaving JAG didn’t mean he would stop caring.

Cresswell gave him a sharp nod, acknowledging the sentiment. “Understood, Captain.”

With that, Harm gave one last glance around the room—his colleagues, his friends—and then stepped out, heading to his office to pack up the last remnants of his time at JAG.

As the door closed behind him, Cresswell turned his attention back to the table. The weight of the earlier moment settled into the background, giving way to the urgency of the investigation.  “Alright, let’s get to it. Turner, I understand you spent yesterday at Newport News Shipbuilding. Let’s hear your findings.”

Sturgis reached into his coat and pulled out a secure notebook.

“Sir, I spent the entire day at Newport News Shipbuilding going through the Patrick Henry’s RCOH records—reactor core replacement schedules, weld verification reports, pressure vessel compatibility checks, you name it. Everything lines up. All quality control inspections were conducted at every stage, including multi-stage inspection protocols for nuclear fuel integrity. Verifications were done at every level, and the Reactor Safeguards Team independently reviewed everything.”

Cresswell’s expression remained unreadable. “So, nothing in the overhaul itself that stands out?”

Sturgis shook his head. “No, sir. Not in the records, at least. Every test, every safety check, every clearance procedure was followed. Even the new reactor control software, digital monitoring interfaces, and improved reactor coolant pumps were installed correctly and passed all factory acceptance tests. The Patrick Henry’s operational logs show all of these systems performed exactly as expected before and after the incident.”

“And yet,” Cresswell said darkly, “a dual reactor failure.”

Bud nodded. “Sir, the incident didn’t originate from the installation process. Based on what the Colonel and I saw and from what we confirmed with the engineering staff, the likely source is a materials flaw—possibly in the fuel rods or the control rod assemblies themselves.”

Mac’s voice crackled through the speaker. “If that’s true, and the cores came from a common batch, then we may be staring down a systemic failure across the entire Nimitz-class fleet.”

Cresswell leaned back slightly, absorbing the report. “Next steps?”

Sturgis exhaled, gripping the table edge. “I requested additional records on the fuel rods and control rods—manufacturing reports, fuel composition details, anything that might indicate a flaw in the nuclear fuel cycle. That’s where I hit a wall. Newport News builds the carriers, but they don’t manufacture the reactor cores or fuel rods. That’s all handled by Westinghouse. If there was a structural defect in the control rods—if they weren’t absorbing neutrons as designed, or if the enriched uranium in the fuel rods wasn’t evenly distributed—it could explain the emergency SCRAM.”

Cresswell exhaled sharply. “We’re certain the crew performed correctly?”

MacKenzie chimed in. “All the data indicates the failure didn’t originate onboard; it started with the reactor cores themselves. When the control rods deployed, they didn’t fully seat, forcing the crew to initiate boron injection—a last-ditch emergency measure that rendered the reactors useless until another full overhaul.”

She added, “We need to dig in to how the cores were manufactured. If nothing change the other carriers  could be compromised.”

Roberts nodded. “If the defect is in the reactor cores, it means we could be dealing with a systemic failure across the fleet.”

Silence stretched across the room, heavy with implications. Cresswell’s fingers tapped against the desk as he processed the gravity of what he was hearing. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured but cold. “Do we have proof?”

Sturgis shook his head. “Not yet, sir. The Patrick Henry’s records only go as far as post-installation data. To get manufacturing specifications, quality control reports, and any deviations from protocol, we need to access Westinghouse’s records.”

Cresswell’s jaw clenched. “And that’s an entirely new level of bureaucracy.”

He exhaled sharply and straightened in his chair, shifting his focus. “The next step is clear. We need to take this investigation to the source—Westinghouse’s nuclear fuel facility in Columbia, South Carolina.” He turned to Turner and Roberts. “You’ll fly out of Andrews. Coates has your arrangements. Wheels up in one hour. Get out there ASAP. Coordinate with Naval Reactors if needed, but I want you digging into every aspect of their quality control and manufacturing records. If there’s even a whisper of a systemic issue, I want to know.”

Turner and Roberts exchanged a glance, then both nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, sir,” Turner affirmed.

Cresswell then turned his attention to MacKenzie. “Colonel, as the Patrick Henry’s home port was San Diego, from this point forward, you are to manage the investigation from Joint Legal Service Center Southwest. We have a meeting with the Secretary of the Navy and the Chief of Naval Operations in one hour. I want you to present the report. After that, I expect daily updates. This is now a top-priority case, and you’re the lead.”

Mac nodded sharply. “Understood, sir.”

Cresswell’s gaze swept the room. “This is the most serious failure of our nuclear fleet since Thresher. We don’t know yet if it’s engineering, negligence… or something else. I expect diligence. I expect results.”

He paused.

“And I expect the truth.”

The team nodded. The gravity in the room had returned.  “Dismissed.”

The morning sun slanted through the blinds in Harm’s office, casting long, golden stripes across the neatly arranged desk that, in a few hours, would no longer be his. His cover sat on the edge of the desk, his duffel bag half-packed beside it. A few personal items remained—photos, plaques, and a model of an F-14 Tomcat he’d never had the heart to part with.

The secure line on his desk phone clicked as he connected the call.

“Garrison,” came the gruff but familiar voice of Captain Jonathan Garrison, commanding officer of USS Hellcat.

“Captain, it’s Rabb.”

“Harm! Was wondering when I’d hear from you.” Garrison’s tone was lighter than usual, but still carried the crispness of a career carrier skipper. “I take it you got your new orders?”

Harm leaned back in his chair, glancing at the folder on his desk. “Yes, sir. They came through last night.” He paused, then smirked. “Cresswell decided to make a show of it this morning—presented my captain’s boards and administered the oath in front of the whole office.”

Garrison chuckled. “Damn well about time. Congratulations, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Garrison’s voice turned businesslike. “So when are you heading down to Florida?”

“I’ll be closing up my apartment over the weekend,” Harm replied. “Figured I’d hit the road Monday.”

“That gives us a little time to get things sorted before you arrive,” Garrison said, his tone thoughtful. “We need all hands on deck down here. Hellcat is still in rough shape.”

Harm nodded, even though the other man couldn’t see it. He reached for a notepad. “I’ve been looking into that. Started researching some candidates who might be able to help with the boiler repairs.”

“Good. We need them. The number two and number four boilers are still down, and if we don’t get them operational, we’re looking at serious delays in bringing Hellcat back into fighting shape.”

“I might have a lead,” Harm said, flipping through his notes. “Chief Engineer of the USNS Mercy, guy by the name of Raymond David. He’s out in San Diego.”

Garrison was silent for a moment. “Never heard of him. What makes you interested in him?”

“David’s got a reputation,” Harm said, shifting in his chair. “Knows those Foster Wheeler steam plants inside and out. He’s been Chief Engineer on the Mercy for over ten years, and he’s taken her through multiple vessel assessments and maintenance availability periods.”

Garrison listened intently. “That’s promising.”

Harm continued. “Mercy was originally built as the oil tanker, the SS Worth, in 1976. Her boilers are the same vintage as those on Hellcat.”

That got Garrison’s attention. “Now that’s interesting. If he’s been keeping that ship running for a decade, he might be exactly what we need.”

“That’s what I figured,” Harm agreed. “I’m going to try giving him a call next.”

Garrison’s approval was evident in his tone. “Do that. If the guy looks good, I’ll tell Admiral Weatherly we need to work with Military Sealift Command to get him assigned TAD to Hellcat. MSC has some pull when it comes to their engineers, but Weatherly can grease the right wheels.”

Harm smirked. “I take it the Admiral’s still eager to get Hellcat back to sea?”

Garrison huffed. “Eager doesn’t cover it. We both know how things are heating up in the Sea of Japan. He wants us operational yesterday.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Harm said, checking the clock. He needed to wrap things up here soon.

“I know you will,” Garrison replied. “Alright, I’ll let you get to it. Looking forward to having you aboard, Captain.”

“Likewise, sir. See you soon.”

As the line disconnected, Harm exhaled, his mind already shifting gears. He reached for his phone again, flipping to the next number on his list. Time to see if Chief Engineer Raymond David was up for a challenge.

A knock at the open door pulled his attention. Commander Sturgis Turner stood in the threshold, cover in hand, travel bag over his shoulder.

“You got a minute?” Sturgis asked.

Harm smiled faintly. “Always.”

Sturgis stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room—the empty walls, the desk half-cleared, the subtle, unmistakable weight of a chapter ending. “You’re really doing it,” he said. “Leaving JAG.”

Harm shrugged, setting a picture frame into the box. “Guess it was time.”

“I wanted to stop by before I hit the road,” Sturgis said, voice steady but with a quiet undertone. “Heading to Columbia in about an hour. Westinghouse fuel facility.”

“Looking forward to digging through hundreds of pages of reactor specs?” Harm asked with a smirk.

“Oh yeah,” Sturgis replied dryly. “Living the dream.”

They shared a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it felt like old times—before rank, before politics, before scars.

Sturgis’s expression softened. “I meant what I said the other day. I know things got tense between us… but I’m glad we had the chance to clear the air.”

A faint smile tugged at Sturgis’s mouth. “We both had growing pains.”

“Yeah,” Harm said, chuckling softly. “But we always came through. For the Navy. For each other, when it counted.”

Sturgis glanced at the desk. “Captain Rabb,” he said, the rank with a smile. “I never doubted you’d get that fourth stripe. You’ve earned it—more than most.”

Harm looked down, brushing a finger along the edge of the box. “Thanks. Still feels surreal.”

“It won’t once you’re on the deck of that carrier,” Sturgis replied. “You’ll walk through that ready room, hear the engines winding up for launch, and it’ll hit you. This is where you’re supposed to be.”

Harm gave a quiet nod. “Maybe it is.”

Sturgis hesitated at the door. “You and Mac… you two okay with how this is playing out?”

Harm’s jaw flexed. “As okay as we can be, I guess. We’ve both got our assignments now. Different coasts, at least at first. Different commands. But we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Sturgis offered a thoughtful look. “Don’t wait too long. You’re both running out of ‘somedays.’”

Harm smiled wryly. “I know.”

Sturgis extended his hand. “Take care of yourself out there, Harm. The Hellcat’s lucky to have you.”

Harm took it in a firm, steady grip. “You too, Sturgis. Bring back something solid. I’d rather not see half the fleet drydocked over a mystery no one can explain.”

“You and me both,” Sturgis said, then stepped back. “Fair winds and following seas, Captain.”

“And to you, Commander.”

They shared one last look—respect, camaraderie, history all wrapped in a quiet moment—before Sturgis turned and walked out.

A few minutes later a quick knock at the door. “Come in,” Harm called without looking up.

“Hey, sir.”

Harm turned, and there stood Bud Roberts, uniform crisp but his eyes betraying the kind of fatigue only long days aboard a damaged carrier—and longer nights of interviews and incident reports—could bring.

“Bud,” Harm said, smiling as he stood. “Back from the Pacific and already heading out again?”

Bud nodded, stepping inside. “Barely had time to check in with Harriet before Turner and I got orders for Columbia. Westinghouse.”

Harm raised an eyebrow. “They’re not giving you a minute to catch your breath.”

Bud smirked and shrugged. “JAG tempo. One reactor crisis at a time.”

They shared a laugh, but there was gravity beneath it.

Harm motioned to the seat across from his desk, but Bud remained standing, adjusting the strap of his shoulder bag.

“I just wanted to stop by before I head out,” Bud said. “Didn’t feel right leaving without saying something.”

Harm’s expression softened. “I appreciate that.”

“You settling into the idea of leaving JAG?” Bud asked.

“I’m getting there,” Harm replied, casting a glance at the half-filled box beside his desk. “Still feels strange. Like I’m stepping off a moving train and hoping I land on another set of tracks.”

Bud smiled. “Well, I’d say you’re landing on a flight deck. And between you and me, the Navy’s lucky to have you back out there.”

Harm tilted his head, his voice warm. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Bud hesitated, then added, “You know, especially early on, I’ve learned more from you than I ever expected. Your example—your integrity—it helped shape who I became as an officer.”

Harm gave a soft chuckle. “I remember a young Ensign Roberts, who knew, but didn’t follow the protocol to get in a car with a staff officer.”

Bud grinned. “I did mess it up.”

“Maybe. But you figured it all out,” Harm said gesturing across the JAG office. “That’s what mattered.”

The two men exchanged a quiet, knowing look—the kind that needed no further explanation.

“Sturgis and I will see what we can dig up at Westinghouse,” Bud said. “If there’s a flaw in those reactor cores, we’ll find it.”

Harm nodded. “I know you will. Just be careful. Something about this whole thing doesn’t feel right.”

“Yeah,” Bud said, exhaling. “That thought’s crossed my mind too.”

He turned to go, pausing at the doorway.

“Hopefully I’ll see you again soon,” Bud added. “San Diego isn’t that far from the pier. If… things fall into place.”

Harm smiled faintly. “Looking forward to it.”

“Fair winds, Captain.”

“Safe travels, Commander.”

Bud disappeared down the hallway, leaving Harm alone in the quiet once more. He stared at the door for a long moment, then turned back to the box on his desk.

Secure Conference Call – JAG HQ, Pentagon, USS Gettysburg, and Joint Legal Service Center Southwest - Still Early ZULU

The secure video conference was already in progress when the screen blinked and resolved into six separate feeds—each bearing the face of a senior leader in the United States Navy.

At the center of the Pentagon feed, Secretary of the Navy Edward Sheffield sat behind a polished mahogany desk, his expression as unreadable as ever. To his right was Admiral William Mordorman, the Chief of Naval Operations, arms crossed and jaw tight with barely concealed frustration.

Vice Admiral Emilia Navarro, Commander of the 7th Fleet, appeared from her command suite in Yokosuka, Japan. She sat upright in full dress uniform, the wall behind her emblazoned with the seal of U.S. Pacific Fleet. Her dark eyes were cool and steady.

Rear Admiral James Weatherly, calling in from the flag bridge of the USS Gettysburg, was in standard working khakis, sleeves rolled up. The steel and fiber optic glow of the CIC behind him added to the tension. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in two days.

From JAG Headquarters, Major General Gordon Cresswell leaned into his secure video terminal, expression flat but voice clear. Next to him, appearing via the Joint Legal Service Center feed from San Diego, Colonel Sarah MacKenzie sat upright, headset secure, folders and digital briefings neatly arranged in front of her.

“Colonel MacKenzie,” Sheffield began without preamble. “Let’s hear it.”

Mac nodded once. “Yes, sir. As of this morning, we’ve completed all shipboard interviews aboard the Patrick Henry. We’ve reviewed emergency shutdown logs, SCRAM sequence data, and reactor compartment telemetry. All shipboard systems behaved as expected under emergency protocols. Reactor safeties activated, control rods deployed, and boron injection was used as a final measure to prevent meltdown.”

“But you still don’t know why the rods didn’t fully seat,” Weatherly cut in, his voice strained. “That’s what we need. That’s what the sailors aboard my carrier need.”

Mac didn’t flinch. “No, sir. Not yet. The engineering logs indicate no mechanical blockage. The actuators and control rod drive mechanisms passed diagnostics. The materials were within spec. Based on everything we’ve seen so far, the system should have functioned flawlessly.”

Navarro spoke next, her voice firm. “Are you telling us we still have no root cause? The carrier’s reactors came within minutes of catastrophic failure, and we’re still in the dark?”

Cresswell leaned forward, taking the heat off Mac. “Vice Admiral, with respect, the Navy’s nuclear safety record is nearly unblemished for over half a century. That’s not by accident—it’s because we’re methodical. Thorough. We don’t jump to conclusions, and we don’t rush investigations like this one. If this was easy to diagnose, it would’ve been obvious from the start.”

“Sir,” Mac added, glancing between screens, “we suspect the failure originated not in the shipboard systems, but in the components themselves—specifically the reactor cores or control rods. That means the problem could trace back to the manufacturing or design stages.”

Mordorman exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re talking about tearing through years of procurement, fabrication, quality control—”

“Correct,” Mac said, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Westinghouse’s nuclear fuel division in South Carolina manufactured the cores. Commander Turner and Commander Roberts are en route there now. They’ll be working with Naval Reactors and DOE to access original production data.”

Sheffield narrowed his eyes. “How long until we have answers, Colonel?”

Mac hesitated a beat before answering. “Sir, I don’t want to give you a false estimate. If it’s a procedural oversight, we may know soon. But if it’s a systemic defect buried in manufacturing or testing, it could take weeks—maybe longer—to find and verify.”

“That’s time we don’t have,” Sheffield snapped. “We’ve been able to hold off the press by calling this a ‘minor systems failure’—but that line won’t last forever. Once the Patrick Henry is in Yokosuka and offloaded, the press will see she’s under tow, reactors shut down. They’ll start connecting the dots.”

“We’re already prepping our Public Affairs strategy,” Navarro added. “But we need something concrete. A cause. Even a theory would help us shape the narrative.”

Cresswell’s voice dropped into a firmer register. “With respect, Admiral, I’d caution against shaping any narrative until we have hard evidence. This isn’t about managing headlines. It’s about ensuring we don’t have a flaw that could compromise every nuclear carrier in the fleet.”

“I agree with General Cresswell,” Weatherly said suddenly. His tone had shifted, less angry now, more focused. “The men and women serving under me—they deserve answers. But they deserve right answers, not fast ones.”

Sheffield’s jaw tightened. “Understood. But I expect daily updates from this point forward. No delays, no bureaucratic stalls. If Westinghouse so much as hesitates to hand over documentation, I’ll have a congressional subpoena in their inbox before the next sunrise.”

“Yes, sir,” Mac replied.

Mordorman leaned in. “Keep digging. If this is a design flaw, we’ll have to brief the entire Joint Chiefs and likely suspend RCOH activity fleet-wide. If this is sabotage…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Cresswell gave a slight nod, his tone even. “We’ll find out what it is.”

There was a moment of silence on the line—just the low hum of the encrypted connection and the heavy weight of what was at stake.

Sheffield finally spoke. “Alright. Keep your teams moving. MacKenzie, I want your report by 0700 ZULU tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

“Dismissed.”

One by one, the feeds blinked out until only Cresswell and Mac remained.  Cresswell let out a slow breath and gave Mac a tired but resolute nod. “We’re in the deep end now, Colonel. Keep swimming.”

Mac gave a faint smile. “Yes, sir. We’ll find the bottom.”

JAG Headquarters – Harm’s Office

Harm tapped his pen against the desk as he listened to the line ring. The base operator picked up after three tones.

"Naval Air Station North Island, this is Petty Officer Garcia. How can I direct your call?"

"Petty Officer this is Captain Rabb XO on the Hellcat, I need to get in touch with the USNS Mercy, currently berthed at Pier One. I’m looking for Chief Engineer Raymond David," Harm said crisply.

There was a brief pause. "Sir, Mercy is currently undergoing a Maintenance Availability (MTA). Communications might be limited. Do you have a direct extension?"

Harm exhaled. "If I had one, I wouldn’t be calling you first. Can you patch me through to the ship’s comms center?"

"One moment, sir."

The line clicked, and then came the inevitable hold music—a tinny, distorted version of "Anchors Aweigh." Harm rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. This was going to take a while.

After nearly three minutes, another voice answered, this one younger, uncertain. "Uh, Mercy Comms Center, Seaman First Class Martinez speaking."

"Seaman Martinez, this is Captain Harmon Rabb, United States Navy. I need to speak with Chief Engineer Raymond David."

"Uh… sir, the Chief is kind of busy right now—he’s in the middle of the MTA."

Harm took a breath. "I figured. Look, I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important. Let him know Captain Rabb needs a few minutes of his time. I can hold."

Martinez hesitated. "Uh, roger that, sir. It might take a few minutes."

"I’ll be here," Harm replied, settling in for what would likely be another round of hold music.

Deep in the belly of the Mercy, Raymond David was ankle-deep in troubleshooting a stubborn feedwater pump. Sweat beaded on his brow as he leaned in, flashlight in one hand, grease rag in the other. His assistant engineer, a young seaman fresh out of maritime academy, looked on nervously.

"See this?" Raymond pointed at the fine sediment clogging a valve. "That’s why the flow’s been erratic. Micro-particulates in the water. What’s that tell you?"

The seaman shifted. "Uh… possible heat exchanger contamination?"

Raymond grinned. "Good guess, but wrong. Means the filters aren’t catching the sediment. We’re gonna backflush the system and check the strainers."

A voice crackled over the ship's internal comm system. "Chief, call for you in the Engineering Office. The XO, Captain Rabb, from the carrier Hellcat, says it’s important."

Raymond wiped his hands on the rag and muttered, "Why is XO of an aircraft carrier calling me?"

The seaman smirked. "Maybe he needs a band-aid."

Raymond grunted. "Somehow I doubt that. Cover this while I take the call."

He walked briskly to the small engineering office, plucked the phone from its cradle, and leaned against the bulkhead.

"Chief Engineer David speaking."

Harm’s Office – JAG Headquarters

"Chief David, this is Captain Harmon Rabb, United States Navy. I appreciate you taking the time."

"Captain Rabb," Raymond repeated, his voice gravelly but intrigued. "I assume this isn’t a social call."

"Not exactly," Harm admitted. "I’m about to transfer to USS Hellcat as her new executive officer. She’s undergoing major repairs right now, and two of her boilers are down. I started researching engineers with experience in Foster Wheeler steam plants and came across your name."

Raymond chuckled. "My reputation precedes me, huh?"

"More like it speaks for itself," Harm replied. "I understand you’ve been Chief Engineer on Mercy for over a decade, taken her through multiple vessel assessments and maintenance availabilities."

"That’s right," Raymond said. "Been with Military Sealift Command since the ’70s. Started on oilers, did my time on fleet auxiliaries, and Mercy has been my home for the past ten years. But I assume you didn’t call just to go over my resume."

"You assume correctly," Harm said. "I need someone who knows these steam plants inside and out. The boilers on Mercy are the same vintage as Hellcat, and I was hoping to get your insight. You ever have trouble keeping them lit?"

Raymond shook his head. "No, but that’s because we stay ahead of the problems. Boilers like these are a labyrinth of potential pitfalls. With an inexperienced crew, that maze gets even more treacherous."

"Walk me through it," Harm said, grabbing a notepad.

"Alright," Raymond said, shifting into teaching mode. "First off, fuel oil heating—if your fuel isn’t reaching proper viscosity, atomization suffers. The spray pattern gets inconsistent, and next thing you know, your burners are choking on half-atomized fuel."

Harm nodded, jotting notes. "And if that happens?"

"Flame instability," Raymond said. "Worst case? Flameout, unburned fuel in the furnace, and if some poor bastard tries to relight it without purging, you’re looking at a furnace explosion."

Harm winced. "Not ideal."

"Understatement of the year," Raymond muttered. "Then you’ve got microscopic blockage in the spray nozzles. You’d never see it with the naked eye, but even the smallest clog changes the atomization process, messes with your combustion efficiency."

Harm tapped his pen. "So it’s all about precision."

"Exactly," Raymond said. "Boilers like these don’t tolerate laziness. You’ve gotta treat them like a high-performance engine—every part, every variable matters. You get one lazy watchstander who doesn’t bleed the air properly from the fuel lines, and suddenly you’re chasing down pressure drops and flame instability for days."

Harm let out a low whistle. "Sounds like you run a tight ship."

Raymond chuckled. "Damn right I do. I don’t babysit. I teach my engineers to anticipate problems before they happen."

"That’s exactly the kind of mindset we need on Hellcat," Harm said. "We’re trying to get her boilers back online, but we’ve been running into issue after issue. We need someone who knows these systems cold."

Raymond exhaled. "You trying to recruit me, Captain?"

Harm smirked. "Let’s just say I’m laying the groundwork. My CO is already considering pushing this up the chain. If we get clearance from Admiral Weatherly and MSC, would you be willing to do a temporary assignment?"

Raymond was silent for a moment. "Depends. If it’s just patching holes, I’m not interested. But if you’re serious about getting those boilers running the right way, I’d consider it."

Harm nodded. "We’re dead serious. Hellcat isn’t just another carrier—she’s about to be the only conventionally powered one left in the fleet. We need her ready."

Raymond sighed, but there was a hint of excitement in his voice. "Alright, Captain. I’ll be expecting a call from someone with stars on their shoulders soon. In the meantime, tell your engineers to check their atomizers. If they’re running into instability, that’s where I’d start."

"Appreciate the advice, Chief," Harm said. "And hopefully, we’ll be talking again soon."

"You know where to find me," Raymond said. "Good luck with those boilers, Captain."

Harm hung up, already making notes. This was exactly the kind of expertise they needed. Now, he just had to get the right people to sign off.

Harm leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before picking up the phone again. He dialed the number he had memorized over the past few days—the direct line to Captain Garrison aboard the USS Hellcat.

The line connected after two rings. “Captain Garrison.”

Harm sat up. “Captain, it’s Rabb.”

“Ah, Harm. You’ve got news for me?” Garrison’s voice was as steady as always, but there was an edge of anticipation.

“I do. I just got off the phone with Chief Engineer Raymond David from the USNS Mercy,” Harm began. “He’s the guy we need to get these boilers running right.”

“So, what did he say?” Garrison asked, getting straight to the point.

Harm confirmed. “He knows those Foster Wheeler steam plants inside and out. He’s been Chief Engineer on Mercy for over a decade—been through more VAs and MTAs than I can count. He’s worked through every boiler-related headache you can think of. Fuel oil heating, atomization, spray nozzle blockages—you name it, he’s dealt with it.”

Garrison exhaled, clearly relieved. “Sounds like a perfect fit.”

“That’s what I figured,” Harm agreed. “Now, we just need to get MSC to approve a TAD assignment. He’s a civilian under their authority, but if we get help from Admiral Weatherly, we can request a temporary reassignment.”

Garrison let out a sharp breath. “That could be a fight.”

Harm nodded. “It might be, but I think we can make the case. Hellcat is the only conventional carrier we’ve got left. If she’s not running at full capacity, the Pacific Fleet has a major hole in operations.”

“Agreed,” Garrison said. “I’ll get Admiral Weatherly to light a fire under NSC. They’ll need to move fast, but this is too important to drag their feet on. We need David onboard yesterday.  If we get approval, when would he come aboard?”

“I say we have him join us in Florida,” Harm said without hesitation. “Let him work with the engineering team while we transition to San Diego. That way, by the time we get there, he’ll have a handle on what’s needed to bring those boilers fully online.”

Garrison grunted in approval. “I like it. And while we’re in San Diego?”

“That’s where my second idea comes in,” Harm said, grabbing a new notepad. “We need to get in touch with the Naval Inactive Ship Maintenance Facility at Puget Sound.”

“The mothball fleet?” Garrison asked, curiosity in his tone.

“Exactly,” Harm confirmed. “They’ve got USS Constellation stored there, and she’s got the same Foster Wheeler boilers as Hellcat. We should have them on standby to pull any parts from her boilers we need, do any refurb work needed, and have them ready for us when we dock in San Diego.”

“That’s smart thinking,” Garrison said approvingly. “If we end up needing major components, I don’t want to wait weeks for fabrication. Get them on standby now.”

“Agreed.” Harm said. “While you push Weatherly, I’ll reach out to Puget Sound.”  He continued, “I’ll also reach out to Hellcat’s engineering team and let them know to prepare for David’s arrival.  David said we need to take a deep dive on the atomizers. If they’re running into instability, that’s where he’ll start."”

“Sounds good.  Keep me posted,” Garrison said. “And, Rabb—good work on this.”

Harm smirked. “Figured I might as well earn that promotion.”

Garrison chuckled. “I’ll buy you a drink when you get to Florida. See you soon.”

Harm hung up, exhaled, and reached for his notepad. Time to call Puget Sound.

CHAPTER 16

USS Gettysburg (CG-71) – Pacific Ocean

Aboard the flagship of Carrier Strike Group 1, Admiral Scott Weatherly stood in his private quarters, a steaming cup of coffee forgotten on his desk. The hum of the Reagan’s powerful engines was a constant backdrop as he listened to Captain Garrison lay out the situation over a secure satellite link.

“So, you’re telling me this boiler guru, David, is exactly what you need to get Hellcat up to full steam?” Weatherly asked, rubbing his temple.

“Yes, sir,” Garrison replied. “Rabb did the legwork. David knows these steam plants inside and out. We can’t afford trial and error here. If MSC can cut the red tape and get him on TAD, we’ll have him in Florida when Hellcat is ready to get underway.”

Weatherly let out a sharp breath. “Alright, I know just the guy to make this happen.” He reached for a notepad and flipped through it. “Rear Admiral Thomas ‘Tommy’ Callahan. Runs MSC. We were in the same NROTC unit at Notre Dame.”

Garrison let out a relieved chuckle. “So you’re saying you have leverage.”

“Damn right I do, I helped him pass Calculus,” Weatherly said. “Let me work my magic. I’ll be in touch.”

Garrison added promptly, “Thank you Sir!”

Weatherly ended the call and immediately keyed up another secure line. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his stiff shoulders as the secure line connected to the Pentagon. The hum of the carrier’s operations buzzed behind him, but his focus was squarely on the man about to pick up the line.

A sharp click, then a familiar voice.

“Callahan.”

“Tommy,” Weatherly said smoothly. “It’s been too long.”

Rear Admiral Thomas Callahan let out a low chuckle. “Jim? Well, this is a surprise. You never call just to chat—what do you need?”

Weatherly smirked. “Oh, you know, just a little favor.”

Callahan sighed, half amused. “Damn it, I knew it.”

Weatherly chuckled. “Alright, alright, hear me out. I need you to cut orders for Raymond David—Chief Engineer on USNS Mercy—to go TAD to Hellcat. I need it done now.”

Callahan’s easy tone turned skeptical. “Come on, Scott, you know how this works. I can’t just pull a civilian mariner off a hospital ship and throw him onto an old carrier on a whim. What’s so special about this guy?”

“He’s the boiler expert we need to get Hellcat fully online,” Weatherly said. “Without him, she’s not deploying, and we both know what kind of problem that creates.”

Callahan exhaled slowly. “Look, I get that you need boiler techs, but why him specifically? There are other engineers out there.”

Weatherly rubbed his temple, knowing the hesitation was just bureaucracy rearing its ugly head. He let the silence hang for a second, then smirked as an idea hit him.

“You know, Tommy, I could pull the usual strings, but if you really want to do this the hard way, I guess I could always remind you about the Calculus disaster of ’78.”

There was a pause before Callahan let out a full laugh. “You would bring that up.”

Weatherly grinned. “Damn right, I would. I seem to recall spending hours making sure you didn’t flunk out of Notre Dame’s NROTC program. I kept you from getting reamed out by the old man, and if I remember right, you promised me a favor in return.”

Callahan groaned, but he was still laughing. “Jesus, I hated Calculus. I swear, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t pulled me through that class.”

“That’s right,” Weatherly said smugly. “So, do I need to cash that chip in, or are you going to listen to why this is a fire drill?”

Callahan sighed in defeat. “Alright, alright, you win. Let’s hear it.”

Weatherly’s tone turned serious. “Here’s the deal. Patrick Henry is dead in the water after a dual reactor failure. That means our Pacific carrier presence just took a major hit. Hellcat is the only thing we can get moving in time to fill that gap, but she’s down two boilers. The only way we get her operational in time is if we bring in David—he knows those old steam plants like the back of his hand. If we don’t move fast, we’re looking at a serious power vacuum in the Pacific.”

There was a long pause. Callahan wasn’t laughing anymore.

“…Damn,” he muttered. “I heard about the Patrick Henry mess, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“It is,” Weatherly confirmed. “If we don’t get Hellcat moving, Beijing and Pyongyang are going to start thinking they’ve got a free pass. I don’t need to tell you what happens next.”

Callahan exhaled sharply. “Alright, you made your point. I’ll call over to MSC and push this through. I’ll get David’s orders cut for TAD as a high-priority operational necessity.”

“That’s what I needed to hear,” Weatherly said, finally taking a sip of his now-lukewarm coffee.

Callahan chuckled. “You still drink that jet fuel they serve on carriers?”

“Always,” Weatherly replied.

“Alright,” Callahan said. “Give me an hour, and I’ll have this locked down. I’ll send confirmation as soon as it’s done.”

“Appreciate it, Tommy,” Weatherly said. “And don’t worry—I won’t bring up Calculus again. For now.”

Callahan laughed. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Weatherly said with a grin. “Stay safe, Tommy.”

“You too, Jim.”

As the call ended, Weatherly immediately dialed back to Garrison.

“Callahan’s got it,” he said. “David’s orders are being cut as we speak. Expect confirmation soon. Have Rabb reach out to David again and tell him to pack his bags.”

“Understood, Admiral,” Garrison said. “We’ll be ready.”

Weatherly finally leaned back in his chair, looking at the map of the Pacific pinned to the bulkhead. At least one problem was on its way to being solved. But they needed to get Strike Group 1 back on station.

JAG Headquarters – Falls Church, VA

Harm settled into his chair, the packed boxes around him a constant reminder that his time at JAG Headquarters was coming to an end. But for now, his focus was squarely on the mission—getting Hellcat back in fighting shape.

He picked up the phone and dialed the Naval Inactive Ship Maintenance Facility (NISMF) at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. The USS Constellation had been out of service for a while, but her boilers might still have the parts they needed. If they could get ahead of the process, they’d be able to strip what was necessary and have everything waiting by the time Hellcat docked in San Diego.

The line clicked, and a sharp voice answered.

"Naval Inactive Ship Maintenance Facility, Puget Sound. Petty Officer First Class Daniels speaking."

"Captain Harmon Rabb, U.S. Navy," Harm said crisply. "I need information on the USS Constellation’s boilers. Who can help me with that?"

There was a pause. "Sir, Constellation was stricken a while back. What kind of information are you looking for?"

Harm kept his tone measured. "We’re working to get Hellcat fully operational. I need to know what condition Constellation’s boilers are in and if they can be salvaged for parts."

"Understood, sir. But I don’t have that level of detail. You’ll need to speak with someone higher up. Let me transfer you to Chief Warrant Officer Ramirez."

There was a brief silence, followed by the telltale click of a transfer. Then, after a few rings, a gruff but professional voice came through the line.

"Ramirez speaking."

"Chief Warrant Officer, this is Captain Harmon Rabb. I need boiler specs on the USS Constellation. We’re looking at pulling parts for Hellcat."

Ramirez let out a thoughtful hum. "That old girl? She was stricken in December of ’03—she’s a Category X now."

Harm leaned forward. "Which means?"

"Minimal upkeep, sir. Before that, she was Category C, meaning she was kept as-is in case she needed reactivation. But for the last year and a half, no one’s fired up her boilers or done any real maintenance. That said, they were in decent shape when she was decommissioned."

That was better news than Harm had expected. "Are the boilers still intact?"

"As far as I know, yes," Ramirez replied. "We haven’t stripped them for scrap or parts yet. They’ve been mothballed, so they’re sealed up. That means if there’s any corrosion, it should be minimal—nothing that can’t be dealt with. If you’re looking for components, they’re likely still in solid shape, but I’d need a team to inspect them first."

Harm exhaled, nodding to himself. "That’s what I needed to hear. If we need to strip components, how quickly can that happen?"

"Depends on what you’re after, sir," Ramirez said. "If we’re talking fuel atomizers, burner assemblies, and primary steam drum components, we can pull those fairly quickly—within a few days once we get approval. If you need full boiler sections, that’s a bigger job, but not impossible."

Harm’s mind was already working through the logistics. "Let’s start with the burner assemblies and atomizers. If the boilers were sealed up properly, they should still be usable. I’ll work on getting the official request pushed through."

"That’s a smart play, sir," Ramirez said. "I’ll have my guys take a preliminary look and let you know what’s viable. If you can get approval fast, we’ll be ready to pull what you need as soon as we get the green light."

Harm allowed himself a small grin. "That’s what I like to hear, Warrant. Keep me updated."

"You got it, Captain."

As the call ended, Harm set the phone down and made a few quick notes. This wasn’t a worst-case scenario after all. Constellation’s boilers hadn’t been stripped yet, and if they could move quickly, they could have the parts ready in time.

Now, he just needed to get the right people moving. And if there was one thing he had learned in his career, it was how to make things happen.

Westinghouse Nuclear Fuel Facility – Columbia, South Carolina – 1630 Hours LOCAL

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Bud Roberts and Commander Sturgis Turner sat hunched over a steel conference table cluttered with binders, laptops, and sealed engineering schematics stamped CONFIDENTIAL – NAVAL NUCLEAR PROPULSION PROGRAM. Beyond the glass wall, technicians in lab coats moved through rows of terminals and diagnostic workstations, murmuring quietly over data streams from decades of naval reactor manufacturing.

A pot of stale coffee gurgled in the corner, half-drained. The day had dragged into the afternoon, and the stack of records on the A4W reactor core used during the Patrick Henry’s recent Refueling and Complex Overhaul (RCOH) didn’t seem to be shrinking.

Bud rubbed his temple. “Okay, so we’ve confirmed every weld log, dimensional check, ultrasonic test, eddy current scan, and neutron flux simulation. Every one of these assemblies passed QA protocols with zero deviations. Nothing in the fabrication or assembly jumps out.”

Sturgis, flipping through a digital record on his laptop, sighed. “I’ve been cross-referencing component serial numbers with the reactor control software logs we pulled from the Patrick Henry. Control rod actuation times? Nominal. Drive motor current draw? Normal. Boron injection pressure? Within tolerance.” He looked up. “Everything on paper says this core should’ve been flawless.”

A knock on the door broke their concentration.

It opened to reveal Dr. Glenn Rogan, a senior nuclear engineer from Westinghouse and a technical liaison to Naval Reactors. His lab coat was unbuttoned, tie loosened, and dark circles ringed his eyes.

“You wanted a sit-down on the failure scenario modeling?” he asked.

Bud motioned him in. “Please. We’ve reviewed everything we can from the QA side. But the emergency SCRAM procedure on the Patrick Henry didn’t work. Both reactors entered uncommanded power excursions before the boron injection halted the reaction. That means something systemic was wrong—something the documentation didn’t catch.”

Rogan stepped in, setting a thick manila folder on the table. “We just finished reviewing the real-time data the Patrick Henry’s reactor control system recorded up until the moment of the SCRAM.”

He opened the folder, revealing plots of power output, core temperature, and neutron flux. “Look at these three-second windows,” he said, pointing to a rising slope of core temperature followed by a steeper slope of reactor power.

Turner leaned forward. “Wait—power increased with temperature?”

“Exactly,” Rogan said gravely. “Both reactors demonstrated an inverted temperature reactivity coefficient. Instead of the usual negative temperature coefficient—where rising temperature causes power output to decrease—we saw a positive feedback loop. Core temperature rose… and reactor power climbed with it.”

“That’s not just wrong,” Bud said, his voice tense. “That’s impossible. The entire point of the A4W’s design is to self-dampen. Thermal expansion of the moderator should decrease neutron moderation and slow the reaction. That’s Reactor Safety 101.”

Rogan nodded, grim. “It’s how we’ve always ensured naval reactors are inherently stable. Negative Temperature Coefficient—NTC—is baked in to the core physics. In every pressurized water reactor we’ve built.”

Sturgis shook his head. “So you’re telling us both reactors on the Patrick Henry—independently—developed positive reactivity feedback? What could cause that?”

Rogan hesitated, flipping another page. “We’re still running simulations, but… something fundamentally altered the way neutron absorption was occurring inside the core. The control rods didn’t fully seat, yes—but that was a result rails warping due to the temperature increase beyond design limits—but that had nothing to do with the reverse of the NTC on its own. ”

Bud narrowed his eyes. “Then what would? What could cause the power output to increase uncommanded with temperature? What could defeat the reactor’s most basic safety behavior?”

The room fell quiet.

Sturgis looked between Bud and Rogan. “We’re talking about a physical change to the core geometry… or a material failure.”

Rogan nodded slowly. “Possibly. But even more concerning—if it’s not a mechanical failure, and not a control systems bug... we may be looking at something far more dangerous.”

Bud glanced toward the glass wall of the lab.

“We need to know,” he said quietly. “Now.”

The dull hum of the overhead lights blended with the steady ticking of the wall clock, each passing second sharpening the weight of the silence that had fallen over the room. Bud Roberts sat still, elbows on the table, hands steepled just in front of his lips, his eyes distant in thought as Dr. Rogan reviewed another data sheet on his laptop. Sturgis Turner stood, stretching with a grunt.

“I’m gonna hit the head,” Sturgis muttered, already halfway to the door.

“Wait!”

The word burst from Bud like a gunshot.

Sturgis paused, turning. “I’ll just be a minute, Bud—”

“No, I mean wait—didn’t you find something at Newport News about a change to the coolant chemistry? Something about an additive?”

Turner paused, thinking. His brow furrowed. “Yeah… something to do with a new thermal management protocol. It didn’t seem significant at the time…”

Turner’s brow furrowed as he stepped back into the room and his eyes narrowed. “There was a note buried in one of the RCOH engineering logs. A recent modification to the primary loop coolant—something to do with corrosion resistance and thermal stability. Hang on…”

He rifled through his tablet, fingers tapping quickly. Bud was already pulling up his own notes. “Zirconium… something,” Bud muttered, eyes scanning furiously. “Zirconium tungstate!”

Sturgis blinked. “Zirconium what?”

Bud’s eyes widened as he looked it up ” ZrW₂O₈.”

“Zirconium tungstate,” Bud said again, already flipping through his notebook. “ZrW₂O₈. I made a note when I saw it but didn’t think much of it either. It was described as a nanofluid suspension introduced into the primary coolant loop.”

Dr. Ethan Rogan, seated nearby and reviewing telemetry outputs, perked up. “Did you say ZrW₂O₈? You’re telling me the Navy put zirconium tungstate into a pressurized water reactor coolant system?”

“Yeah,” Bud said. “Why? What's wrong with that?”

Rogan leaned back slowly in his chair, his expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief. “Zirconium tungstate has negative thermal expansion properties. As it heats up, it contracts. That’s extremely rare. It’s been looked at for use in aerospace applications… not in a nuclear reactor.”

Sturgis stepped back toward the table, his interest piqued. “Wouldn’t that help reduce thermal stress?”

“In theory,” Rogan said. “But contracting particles suspended in coolant? That increases overall coolant density at higher temperatures.”

Bud leaned in, his mind racing. “So… more dense coolant... more moderation of neutrons?”

Rogan shrugged. “Increased moderation means more neutrons slowed to thermal speeds—better chance of sustaining the fission reaction.”

Turner’s eyes darkened. “Which means more power. Uncommanded power.”

Bud’s voice dropped, low and cautious. “So instead of the reactor’s power decreasing as it gets hotter—which is what we design it to do—it could actually increase with temperature?”

Rogan hesitated, considering. “I mean... in theory. But the coolant system isn’t pure fluid—it’s a high-pressure loop, running through titanium-alloy tubing, pump-driven at 2,200 psi. The volume change from nanoparticle contraction wouldn’t be that significant. Not enough to trigger an instability.”

Bud’s brow furrowed. “But would the effect be constant?”

Rogan looked up. “What do you mean?”

Bud sat forward, the gears turning in his mind. “Would the zirconium tungstate’s behavior change with repeated heat-up and cool-down cycles? Could the nanoparticles agglomerate? Settle in uneven distribution zones? Increase local moderation over time?”

Rogan paused, his lips parting slightly. “That’s… I don’t know.” He turned to his laptop. “I haven’t seen any long-term cycle degradation models for that material in a live-core environment.”

“But could it happen?” Turner asked. “Could this explain a delayed failure—reactors running fine for months post-RCOH and then going into runaway?”

Rogan’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, unmoving. Finally, he spoke, his voice much quieter than before. “Yes. It’s possible. Especially in regions where coolant flow slows or changes direction—like in the baffle regions or dead zones near the bottom of the core. If nanoparticle clustering occurs there... moderation would spike. You’d get unexpected neutron feedback. And if the coolant contracts under heat, the density change would reinforce it—instead of damping the reaction.”

The three men stared at each other in stunned silence.

Bud broke it. “We need a test. A full-core simulation with nanoparticle suspension over multiple thermal cycles.”

Rogan nodded slowly. “We’ll have to pull some strings. This wasn’t in the standard fuel certification models. This change—if real—defeats the entire reactor's safety coefficient.”

Turner looked down at the reactor diagram again, then up at Bud. “This is it.”

A heavy silence fell over the room again. Turner turned and gestured toward the core response data. “That still doesn’t explain why the SCRAM didn’t work.”

Bud nodded. “Right. Even with positive reactivity feedback, once the shutdown signal hit, the control rods should’ve dropped in and shut it all down.”

Rogan’s expression turned grim. “I’ve been looking at that. The rods did initiate insertion... but the rate dropped halfway through the descent. The sensors showed partial insertion—then a stall.”

“Stall?” Turner echoed. “They got stuck?”

Rogan nodded. “More like jammed. High-resolution bore temperature sensors showed core barrel temperatures exceeded 650°C during the spike—that’s well past the normal thermal envelope for the structural guide channels. Combine that with overpressure in the primary loop—north of 2,500 psi at the peak—and you’ve got a deformation scenario.”

Bud leaned in. “The rails warped.”

“Exactly,” Rogan confirmed. “The CRDMs tried to force the control rods down, but if the guide tubes were expanding out of alignment due to heat stress and overpressure? You’d get misalignment—rods binding against the guide walls.”

Sturgis’s voice was low. “The reactor was designed with a negative temperature coefficient in mind. None of the stress models anticipated a loop defeating it.”

Rogan added, “Once the NTC is neutralized—or reversed—you enter feedback terrain the core logic isn't coded to predict. The system saw rising power and did what it was supposed to—signaled an emergency SCRAM. But by that point, the rails had already begun to flex. It couldn’t insert the rods fast enough, or fully.”

Bud exhaled sharply. “So the reactors became unstable. Power up, heat up, moderate harder, power up again.”

“A closed loop,” Rogan said grimly. “Exactly what the design was meant to prevent.”

They sat with that for a moment—the weight of it settling in like radiation under lead shielding.

JAG Headquarters – Falls Church, Virginia - 1830 Hours 

The phone on General Cresswell’s desk rang, sharp against the hush of the mostly empty JAG Headquarters. He pressed the speaker button and leaned back in his chair.

“Cresswell.”

“This is Roberts and Turner, sir,” Bud’s voice came through, slightly tinny over the line. “We’ve got Colonel MacKenzie on as well.”

“MacKenzie here,” she said, clipped and professional from her office in San Diego.

“All right,” Cresswell said. “What do you have?”

Bud launched into it without preamble. “Sir, we’ve traced the cause of the reactor instability aboard the Patrick Henry. The problem began with a new coolant additive—zirconium tungstate. It was introduced during her RCOH as part of a new chemistry package. The intent was to improve the lifespan of reactor components and reduce maintenance requirements, improving overall operational efficiency and extending the carriers service live.”

“But instead,” Turner added, “it created a dangerous feedback loop. Zirconium tungstate contracts when heated. This was known and accounted for, but what was know was after numerous cycles nanoparticle clustering occurs.  It caused the coolant to become denser under high temperatures, which improved neutron moderation—more fission, more heat, more contraction. The cycle accelerated.”

“Negative temperature coefficient was defeated,” Bud said. “Something the reactor design isn’t supposed to allow.”

There was a pause.

“Only Patrick Henry had the additive?” Mac asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bud confirmed. “It wasn’t installed in any other carrier that’s already completed RCOH. We’ve confirmed that much.”

“That at least puts a boundary around it,” she said. “But it’s still a massive problem.”

“It is,” Bud agreed. “But it wasn’t just the chemistry. We’ve confirmed a second failure: mechanical. When the core overheated, the control rod insertion rails expanded unevenly. They warped—just enough to misalign the guides.”

“And the rods jammed,” Turner added. “A few entered partially. Others didn’t deploy at all.”

Cresswell’s brow furrowed. “Thermal deformation? That’s a serious design flaw.”

“Never anticipated, sir,” Bud said. “The system was built around stable core conditions and traditional failure modes. Nobody thought to simulate a runaway density loop on a naval reactor.”

Mac’s voice cut through the line. “So the rods didn’t drop because the guides warped. The system failed physically, not digitally.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Turner said. “The software did everything right. The hardware couldn’t keep up.”

Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his voice quieter. “This wasn’t just a system failure. It was a failure to imagine the impossible. And we almost paid for it with a carrier and her crew.”

Bud said, “Yes, sir.”

There was another pause. Cresswell’s tone softened, though it carried just as much weight.

“You may have just saved the next ship. And the one after that.”

“Thank you, sir,” Turner said.

Cresswell exhaled slowly. “How fast can you get me a draft?”

“Twenty-four hours,” Bud said. “We’re already putting together a formal reconstruction and recommendations with Westinghouse.”

“I want it in my hands tomorrow night,” Mac replied. “We’ll start the review process from there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now the Navy, Westinghouse, and Newport News will need to figure out if those control rod rails can be replaced in carriers that already finished RCOH,” Turner said. “But that’s above our pay grade.”

“No kidding,” Mac said dryly.

There was a brief pause on the line. Everyone knew how close disaster had come.

“You’ve done well,” Cresswell said at last, his voice low but firm. “You caught this before anyone could die for it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bud said.

“We’ll keep pressing for accountability,” Turner added. “The fact that no one the chemistry change in this failure mode—someone’s head is going to roll.”

“The SECNAV will probably want JAG to investigate that,” Cresswell said. “Chain of approval, technical oversight, procurement review—the whole trail. Someone signed off on this without understanding what it could do. We’re going to find out who.”

“I’ll start compiling a list of decision points,” Mac said. “And the officers and civilians involved at each step.”

“Do it,” Cresswell ordered. “We’ll coordinate with OGC and NAVSEA once the draft is in. Until then, this stays tightly contained.”

“Yes, sir,” came three voices in unison.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

Cresswell ended the call, the speaker going silent. He sat in the stillness of his office for a long moment, the weight of what he’d just heard settling across his shoulders like lead.

Later, the long corridors of JAG Headquarters had fallen silent, steeped in the hush of an office that had gone home for the night. The fluorescent lights had dimmed to their evening setting, casting soft shadows across the rows of empty desks and file cabinets. Only the distant hum of HVAC and the occasional clatter of cleaning carts disturbed the stillness.

Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. sat alone in his office, staring at the darkened screen of his computer. The overhead lights were off—just the desk lamp illuminated the room in a warm, amber hue. Everything he’d chosen to leave behind was packed neatly into a cardboard box on the edge of his desk. His nameplate. A framed photo of his father. A small F-14 Tomcat model, wings swept. A few commendations and personal keepsakes. His wings of gold—still gleaming after all these years.

Earlier that morning, he'd spoken with Raymond David, the Chief Engineer of USNS Mercy. David confirmed he'd be flying out to Mayport to meet USS Hellcat tomorrow. The engineering support was locked in.

And just an hour ago, Harm had received confirmation from NISMF Puget Sound: the burner assemblies and atomizers were cleared for removal from USS Constellation. The work would begin at 0600.

That part of the mission was underway. It was time to make another call.

Harm picked up the phone and dialed the now familiar number for his new CO.

He heard “Garrison,” ask the line connected.

“Rabb here.  Raymond David is on his way, he’ll report to Hellcat tomorrow.  NISMF gave the green light, burner assemblies are being pulled off Constellation starting tomorrow,” Harm said into the phone, pacing slowly near his window. “Atomizers too. They’ll be staged for transport within 48 hours.”

On the other end of the line, Captain Garrison exhaled—relief mixing with renewed focus. “That’ll buy us the time we need to get the propulsion systems stable. Hell of a thing, Harm. Hell of a thing.”

Harm nodded, even though Garrison couldn’t see him. “I’ll be wheels up for Mayport tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got a CNIC Fleet and Family Readiness appointment in the morning—packing out my personal effects. Getting everything moved to San Diego.”

There was a pause—brief, thoughtful.

“I know leaving JAG behind is hard,” Garrison said finally.

Harm didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, it’s hard. But it’s time,” he said. “Time to start the next chapter.”

The day had rolled by in a blur after that, but now there was only the goodbye.

Harm stood, stretching slightly as his chair rolled back against the wall. The box felt heavier than it should have. He took one last slow look around his office. The framed mission posters were gone, the shelves bare. The desk he’d sat behind through court-martials, debriefings, and more late nights than he could count now sat cold and empty.

His hand brushed lightly over the surface as he turned to go. The memories clung like dust in the corners—unspoken but never forgotten.

The halls were nearly dark, the overhead lights now down to emergency mode. Coates had secured for the evening a while ago. The bullpen sat quiet, chairs pushed in, monitors off. Harm walked alone, his bootfalls echoing softly as he approached the office of the Judge Advocate General.

He knocked once, firmly.

“Come in.”

General Gordon Cresswell looked up from behind his desk. A single reading lamp cast a circle of light over the red folder he was reviewing. His uniform jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, but he was very much still on duty.

“Captain Rabb.”

“Sir.” Harm stepped inside, box in hand. “Just wanted to let you know—I’m flying out tomorrow. I’ve got everything squared away. Meeting with CNIC in the morning, then Mayport.”

Cresswell rose, adjusting his reading glasses, his expression unreadable at first.

“It’s where you need to be,” he said after a moment. “You’ve given more to this command than anyone had the right to expect.”

Harm stood at ease, shoulders squared but voice quiet. “Thank you, sir.”

Cresswell stepped around the desk and extended his hand.

“You’ve done this office proud. We won’t forget that.”

Harm shook it. Firm, steady, respectful. But beneath that formal exchange was something deeper—recognition, and maybe a little grief.

There was a beat of silence between them.

“I’m going to miss this place,” Harm said softly. “She’s in good hands.”

Cresswell gave a slight nod. “And you’re heading into the fire again.”

Harm gave the faintest of grins. “Wouldn’t feel right otherwise.”

As he turned to leave, Cresswell stopped him one last time.

“Captain?”

Harm turned back.

Cresswell’s voice was quieter now, but no less commanding. “Be careful with those Chinese and North Koreans. And bring that carrier home.”

Harm’s grin widened a fraction. “Aye aye, sir.”

As Harm exited the building the night had fully settled over the capital, a cool breeze rustling the bare tree limbs outside the building. The streetlights cast pale cones across the pavement, and the last Metrobus of the night hissed past down the road.

Harm descended the steps of JAG HQ slowly, his box of belongings in his arms. He paused at the base of the steps and turned back for one last look.

The great seal above the doors caught in the dim light—a symbol of law, duty, and order. A place where he’d once found purpose. A place he’d served with everything he had.

He gave it a final nod.  Then he turned and walked into the night.