The Never Ending Story

1300 Hours
JAG Headquarters
Falls Church, Virginia


She needed a diversion.

Everyone else had one. Bud had computers, Harm had his biplane and even the Admiral seemed to have a life outside of the office these days.

Everyone except her.

Ever since Mic had turned up at the "Surface Warfare Ball", her life had become hopelessly tangled...a series of juggling acts from which she could find no relief.

At work she found herself constantly under scrutiny from Harriet, Bud, the Admiral and most of all from Harm. She returned home each night, to find her answering machine filled with messages from Mic.

Her Australian suitor seemed to be everywhere ...popping up for lunch, bringing take-out for dinner...filling her days, nights and week-ends 'ad infinitum'.

She needed a break...a chance to think. She needed time for herself without the pressures of work, without Harm's penetrating gaze, without Mic's constant presence. She needed an outlet that took her mind off of the stress of her life.

In short...she needed a hobby...but what?

A quick tap at the door brought her out of her fugue and back into the world of litigation.

"Mac? You busy?" Harm asked. "I need to go over these depositions with you one last time before you leave for the day. I never seem to be able to reach you at home anymore since Brumby..."

"...Harm don't start again!" she replied irritably. "I'm no busier than you are with Renee. You're just used to having me at your 'beck and call'. Let's just get this over with, okay?"

"Fine...fine. Aren't we testy! What's got you in a twist this time? If the mere thought of being engaged puts you in this frame of mind, just think what marrying the guy would do..."

"Harm! I said ENOUGH already! Give me the damn depositions...I'll look them over tonight and get back to you tomorrow."

Harm tilted his head as if to say "All I did was ask...it's not my fault!". Then, delivering an oblique glance, he turned and headed back out into the bullpen.

That was the last straw. Short on temper and long on stress, Mac packed her briefcase and headed for the door.

"Tiner...I'm not feeling well. I'm going home early. If you need to reach me...don't. Oh, damn," she muttered, reconsidering, "If you need me for anything, just call me at home. I'll have the machine on..."

Then, taking the stairs two at a time, she stormed out of the building and into the parking lot. She had to get herself pulled together, she thought desperately. Her personal problems were affecting her career...her life. It couldn't go on like this!

She drove erratically through the afternoon traffic, barely missing a citation by seconds and a 'bag lady' by inches. By the time she got home she'd taken the edge off of her frustration, but had become aware that venting her problems behind the wheel would serve only to make things worse...much worse.

Mac parked her car in the street in front of her apartment (so this was the time of day when parking spaces were available!), and wearily climbed the stairs.

Entering the living room, the blinking 'message light' on her answering machine caught her eye.

(Wonder who that might be?), she thought sarcastically. Then, in a fit of ire she punched the delete button. "All gone!" she informed the empty room. "Poof!"

Bone-weary, she walked into the bedroom and began to spread the contents of her briefcase haphazardly across her bed. Then, slipping into an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, she and began to peruse the Addamson depositions.

It was a simple case, and it was only her present state of mind that created problems, where in reality none existed.

Petty Officer George Addamon had been an aviation mechanic at Norfolk. When his taste in 'wine, women and song' had gotten too expensive, he had begun to divert surplus parts to a civilian fence in the D.C. area. Then, when the yearly inventory came due, the discrepancies in stock had become glaringly clear. The culprit, Addamson, was immediately suspected, and further investigation had provided all of the evidence needed for litigation.

Mac stared at a particularly poorly written note scratched on the side of one of the typewritten pages. "See St. James Wiring", or was that "Firing"...or "Winging"? It made no sense! What was that word, she wondered, trying to decipher the indecipherable? Maybe she could look the company up on the 'net. She'd try all three variations and see which hit "pay dirt".

Gratefully, she crossed the welcoming silence of her living room and turned on her computer. Then, punching "Saint James Winging Group" into her search engine, she sat back and waited for the results to pop up on the screen.

"No sites were found containing Saint James Winging Group" came the reply.

"So okay, how about this one?" she murmured, replacing "Winging" with "Wiring".

The response was almost immediate. "One site found containing 'Saint James Writing Group'" the monitor informed her.

"Writing?"...she hadn't typed "Writing"...or had she? It looked interesting, anyway, she thought, staring at her typo...and it would only take a moment to check it out...

Two hours later, Mac was completely hooked. "Saint James Writing Group" was an e-group site where amateur writers of all varieties archived their works for the enjoyment of others. Some pieces had been merely diverting...some had been positively intriguing...but all had stimulated her imagination.

She could do this, she thought, scanning yet another short story. She'd always wanted to write. Maybe this could be the outlet she'd been looking for...

The notion felt good...it felt right. It was something that she could use to transform the "sturm und drang" (storm and strife) of her life into something more bearable...an escape into a world of her own making. It was perfect!

Her momentary respite was short-lived, however, when the doorbell rang, transporting her abruptly back into the 'here and now'.

Checking the peephole, Mac opened the door reluctantly to allow Harm to enter the room.

"I thought I just left you in Falls Church." she needled, wondering why he'd followed her home.

"Well...I...needed to bring you these," he said, thrusting a battered file folder in her direction. "And I thought I'd bring you a Beltway Burger while I was at it. Tiner said that you were sick, so I didn't think that you'd want to cook tonight. Can I come in?"

"Sure." she replied, uncertainly. "I'll put on a pot of tea."

"Why don't you relax and let me do it?" he offered, deferring to her supposed ailment. "I haven't made you my special brew in a long while. Not since..."

"...Harm...don't start...please?"

"I'm sorry, Mac. I know it's wearing thin. It's just...sometimes I think back on all of the moments we've shared, and wonder if they're coming to an end. I can still remember the first time I saw you...in the Rose Garden at the White House..."

"...and you looked like you'd seen a ghost." she finished. "It was a long time before I realized why. And then there was the time, later, when you and I went up to Red Rock Mesa to talk to Uncle Matt. He liked you, you know...right off the bat...he really did."

"I liked him too. Your Uncle is a special man.

He would have had my hide if he'd known that I left you behind in Iran that time...when I flew off in the black jet."

"You're right...he would have...but it was my decision, not yours. He would have respected that."

"Remember when..." she began, strolling down memory lane with the man who had so filled her life for the past four years...

The minutes stretched into hours, the two companions sharing moments that lay etched indelibly on their lives, until the doorbell rang once again.

(Damn!) she thought. It was 1900 Hours. She knew who that would be...who it always was at 7:00.

Worriedly, she glanced at Harm. This was going to be awkward...

Mac opened the door, and Mic Brumby came sauntering into the room.

"Rabb." he acknowledged, nodding in the Commander's direction. "What brings you over to my girlfriend's place this evening...and when are you leaving?"

"My partner and I had a few things to go over, not that it's any of your business, Brumby. Some of us still have a job, you know."

"Well...some of us would rather spend our time in the arms of a beautiful woman..." Mic smiled, bathing Mac in a warm and wanton gaze. But then I guess hanging up one's own shingle in Washington could be considered a respectable pass-time in some circles..."

"Mic! You're starting your own firm?" Mac exclaimed. "You're kidding! That's incredible. When do you begin?"

"Well...right now, actually. I'm looking for a partner, Sarah. Know anyone who might like to give it a go?" he asked pointedly, his eyes speaking volumes.

"Not interested, Brumby." Harm replied, deliberately misconstruing the rugged Australian's words. "I never thought much of 'ambulance chasers'...and now..."

"ENOUGH!", Mac yelled at the two bellicose jousters. I've had enough of you two! I want you out...both of you. Just leave me alone. If you want to fight, then ... oh, just get out." she finished lamely, opening the door.

Glaring at one another, the pair of male contenders shouldered their way out of the apartment, but not before Mic turned and said..."Don't forget tomorrow, Sarah. I'll pick you up at 7:00...our usual..."'

Mac slammed the door. It was enough to drive her to drink!

If she'd needed a distraction before...she needed one even more now. Then, remembering the "Saint James Writing Group", she returned to her computer.

What if she did start to write? What would she write ...and who would she write about? Was it possible to have writer's block when you'd never actually written anything?

She remembered hearing that successful writers usually started out writing from experience. Maybe she could come up with something along that line. Maybe just getting started on anything was what she needed...the details could sort themselves as she went along. After all, she wasn't trying for "War and Peace", she just wanted to preserve her sanity. How bad could it be?

And then an idea...the germ of conception entered her mind. Well...it was a start, she thought...and that was what she sorely needed at the moment.

And so, Sarah MacKenzie immersed herself in thought and began to type...

"Dutchman's Gold" by Sarah MacKenzie
(part I)

[William's Field - Apache Junction, Arizona]


Slowly the black jet circled the field, then paused to hover, as if lost in indecision, before it began its final decent toward the tarmac below.

The landing strip, once known as William's Field, had originally belonged to the Air Force, but in an age of rampant military cutbacks, it had been retired from service and left to the lonely ravages of the Arizona desert. There, amid the cactus and tumbleweed, the Navy had chosen to build its covert prototype...a supersonic spy plane that defied radar, satellite detection, and the ever-present eyes of the intelligence community.

As the black jet, cryptically referred to as the f-111, make its way toward the refurbished military hanger, a stranger stepped out from the deepening evening shadows cast by the Superstition Mountains to the west.

He was tall...taller than most men...but his stride exuded the authority of man who was comfortable with both his height and with himself. He wore the dress uniform and insignias of a Marine Lieutenant Colonel, and the shoulder boards of a JAG lawyer... a lethal combination.

Patiently he waited as the f-111 settled into its final resting place for the night. His eyes, ever restless, took in the bustle of activity that the spy plane demanded at the end of each and every run.

It was then that Navy Commander "Cherokee" MacKinley popped the canopy and dropped gracefully to the ground, thankful for another safe landing in the problem-ridden aircraft, and mentally composing the report that would delineate the flaws that had beset her on the plane's latest run.

Distracted, she handed her helmet to one of the ground crew and headed toward her office at the far end of the hanger.

"Hey Cher!" one of the carefully selected technicians called. "There's a guy looking for you...some lieutenant colonel...JAG. You got legal problems, Commander?" he called to the raven-haired woman.

"Not that I know of, Budson. Maybe it's you he's after...maybe that cute wife of yours finally came to her senses and decided to send your 'keester' on a long furlough."

"Not a chance, Ma'am. She's mine for life." he grinned. "Besides...with two kids, I think we're committed. Hey...there he is...the lawyer...and he's coming this way."

Cher slowed as the lanky dark-haired Colonel fell into step beside her.

"You Commander Sara MacKinley?" he asked, checking a portfolio that had been tucked under his arm. "You're just the one I need to talk to. Is there somewhere around here where we can be alone?"

"That depends, Colonel," she replied, cocking her head "...just how alone do we need to be?"

Brad Harmon raised his eyes briefly from the documents before him. He'd expected a woman...that much he'd known even before he'd left Washington... but he hadn't been prepared for one that filled out a flight suit quite so...

"Colonel...my office is over here. Are you coming?" she asked, her steps laboring beneath the bulky gear. " I hope you don't mind if I change while we talk...this suit is pretty uncomfortable once you're on the ground."

Deftly, she closed the door behind her and nodded toward a chair.

"Take a seat Colonel...I'm all ears." she offered as she began to unzip the maze of enclosures that protected her from the dangers of her profession."

"Um...Commander MacKinley? Could that wait until we're through?" he asked, desperately seeking a safer focal point. I don't think this is..."

"Is what, Colonel...comfortable? For you or for me?" she asked, enjoying his discomfiture. "I'm just fine, thank you, " she smiled as she pulled on her khakis and stuffed her shirt into the waistband of her pants.

"Now I'm all set...so what can I do for you?"

Harmon was at a loss for words. This woman had him off balance...and they'd just met. What would their relationship be like by the time his investigation was over?

"Commander..."

"Call me Cher...short for Cherokee... my call sign. Everyone else does."

"Well...okay Comm...Cher. I'm from the office of the Judge Advocate General. I'm here to investigate the rumor of a security leak within the facility. We have reason to believe that one of the staff...someone in a high-security position, has been selling specifications on the f-111 to the Iranians for a great deal of money."

"And you think that I have something to do with that!" she rasped, unable to believe her ears. "Listen. If I wanted to sell classified secrets, I'd come up with something better than this! The f-111 is a piece of junk! Every time I go up in that thing, I swear that it's going to be my last...and if I keep going up it probably will be. If the Iranians want it, they can have it...but not from me."

"I see," the Colonel nodded, "...but it's not you that's under suspicion...it's your commanding officer, Admiral Albert Widden."

"Admiral Widden? You've got to be kidding! This man lives and breathes Navy. You could find out how much his spleen weighs easier than you could pry classified information from him. He's a seal, Colonel...and that should tell you a lot."

Harmon squirmed in his seat. It wasn't going to be easy to get information from her either, apparently. Maybe a change of scenery..."

Commander...Cher...it's been a long day for me, apparently for you too," he said, nodding toward the now covered aircraft. Could we grab a bite to eat somewhere? Maybe we can talk a little over dinner?"

"Maybe," she replied with distinct reservation, "...but if you think that I'm going to 'slam' the Admiral, you've got another think coming. He'd make ten of you pencil -pushers. You're way off the mark here."

"Then you have nothing to worry about by talking to me, Cher. All I want is the truth...just the truth."

"We'll see... I'll meet you at the 'Lost Dutchman Bar' on the 'Trail' in Apache Junction. I'll be there at 2100 Hours. You're buying."

And with that, Commander Sara MacKinley turned and made her way across the hanger toward the red Corvette that sat waiting by the hanger door.

It would be an interesting night, he thought...very interesting.

2100 Hours - "The Lost Dutchman Bar"


She'd changed into her civvies, he noticed immediately. Gone were the rugged work clothes that marked her as a Naval aviator. Instead, the dark-haired woman who sat before him looked like anything other than a Commander in the United States Navy. Maybe a rodeo queen, or a country singer, but certainly not a test pilot.

Harmon took in the skin-tight black jeans and the tightly cropped vest that left her midriff bare and inviting. Silver conchos adorned her hat, and the spurs on her heels jingled as she braced her boot against the bar.

"You're overdressed," she said, stating the obvious. "That outfit some kind of security blanket, or what?"

"This is business." he replied, his eyes trying to avoid the alluring dip of her cleavage. "I'm here to work."

"Well, Sugar...Colonel, I've been working all day...and I'm here to play. Welcome to my sandpile. Do you think you can unbend enough to join me in the line?" she asked, nodding toward the dance floor where a group of people were forming up for a line dance to the music of a local country band.

"I don't know..."

"Oh come on...here...finish my beer and loosen up. I'll meet you out there."

What had he gotten himself into, he thought as he downed the last of her Tecate. This woman was crazy...out of control...and he felt himself sliding right along with her.

"Oh hell," he muttered as he felt the cold brew warm his stomach. "Why not? It's as good an 'in' as any."

And so, gingerly, he slid off of the bar stool and took a position beside her in the line, just as the band began to play something called "The Bar Room Boogie". In no time at all, what had originally looked like an uncoordinated string of cowboy "wanna-bes", turned into a synchronized line of precision dancers...leaving the confused attorney in their wake.

"Just follow me," Cher ordered, grabbing his belt. "And loosen up...you're gonna break something like that, Colonel."

Harmon glanced at the hip-swinging, boot-stomping gyrations that were taking place around him. If they'd gotten any more loose, he'd be stepping over body parts, he thought.

Amid loud catcalls and coyote howls, the band played on through one ear-splitting tune and on to another, until finally they announced that only one set remained for the evening... the "Watermelon Crawl".

"Don't you ever get tired?" he asked his 'conchoed companion'. You must have been at it all day...and now this?"

"The evening's young, Colonel..."

"...call me Brad..."

"Brad...lets have another 'cerveza', and a few tequila shooters...I don't have to fly tomorrow...and besides, you're buying, remember?"

"Sure, okay, "he replied uncertainly, "but we still need to talk."

"You got it!" she smiled, patting the bar stool next to her. "Tonight anything's possible..."

But somehow, as the evening wore on, the 'shooters' began to take their toll, and the necessity of interrogating the lively Commander grew less and less a priority. Finally, as the bar tender yelled "Last call...we're closing up in ten minutes." he checked his watch.

0100 Hours! It couldn't be. They hadn't even begun to talk...the evening had been a total waste.

"Hey...don't look so glum. The world's not coming to an end...just this bar. I know another place that'll really leave you laid back." she promised. "Follow me...Brad."

0900 Hours - The Next Day
Jag Headquarters
Falls Church, Virginia


Mac entered JAG the next morning refreshed and ready to work. Her brief sojourn into the world of fantasy had done wonders!

Even the thought of Harm's inevitable backlash had lost its ability to spoil her mood. She felt as though she'd just returned from a vacation...one where men, and the trials that accompanied them, were not included.

Her respite was fleeting, however, for in no time Tiner was delivering messages...all from Mic...reminding her of their date that evening, and hinting of intimate moments to follow.

Embarrassed, she took note of the innuendoes subtly imbedded in each message, and wondered, red-faced, how Mic expected her to command any respect when he sent thinly veiled notes such as this through the office staff. But maybe that was the point. If he wanted her to leave and join him in his new firm, what better way to pry her from her old position at JAG?

No...not even Mic would be so tactless, she thought. He just wasn't thinking. Mic would want the best for her, either in his firm or at JAG. Certainly he would never stoop to...

(a knock)

"Enter" she called, then wished she could rescind the acknowledgement as Harmon Rabb strode into her office.

"Did you get a chance to look over those depositions last night?" he asked. "If not, I have some time...we could go over them now..."

"No, I didn't get to them....but now would be okay, I guess. Pull up a chair, and we'll get this over with." she said, her irritation evident.

"Listen, Mac. I'm sorry about last night. I don't know what it is about that guy...he just 'fries' me. You wouldn't really consider leaving JAG again, would you?" he continued, chancing her explosive response. "I mean you wouldn't want to leave me...as a partner. It's hard to break in someone new..." he concluded weakly.

"Harm, it would be no harder for you to break in a new partner than it was for me when you went back to active flight duty. I don't see the difference. Besides, I left once before, and you survived."

Harm thought back to the time when Dalton Lowen had lured Mac into the private sector with promises of prestige, wealth and...more. She'd been miserable with her decision. It had been a mistake...and had ultimately lead to death and tragedy for Lowen, and almost for Mac as well.

"As long as you're bringing it up..." he began, "I seem to remember spearheading your case with the Admiral when you saw the error of your ways and wanted to come back to JAG...so what's changed? You still belong here, Mac. Don't just jump into anything. I know that Australian 'dingo' wants..."

"What Mic wants has nothing to do with this, Harm. If I decide to join his firm...if I decide to...marry...him, it'll be my decision, not his...and not yours."

"I'm not stupid, Harm. I know how I felt when I left the last time...who would know better? But Mic's come all this way...given up so much for me...I can't just shut him out. I need to take this seriously, Harm. Can you really give me a good reason not to?"

There it was again, just as it had been on the ferry in Sydney Harbor. She'd turned the tables, focussed the spotlight on him and his insecurities...his inability to commit. What could he say?

When he didn't answer, she continued. "Then don't ask me to give this up, Harm, when you have nothing better to offer."

She was right..he knew it...and he had no viable defense.

"Lets get these depositions finished." he responded lamely. "I think we can plea bargain this one if we have all our ducks in a row."

And so the afternoon had gone, Harm tightly imprisoned in his own personal hell, and Mac wishing that she had the key to set them both free.

1900 Hours
Sarah MacKenzie's Apartment
Georgetown


Mic was right on time.

Somehow she just couldn't get used to seeing him in civilian clothing all of the time. She couldn't put her finger on it, but somehow he seemed 'less' to her without the uniform that had so defined him in the past.

"No Rabb tonight, Sarah? That's good," he said. "I wanted us to have some time together...alone. Your...partner seems to want to monopolize you.

He wouldn't be worried about anything, would he?"

"Oh, Mic. You didn't come here to talk about Harm, did you? Because if you did..."

"No, Sarah," he replied, his hands upraised in defense. "Just us. I want...I need to talk about us. I've got reservations at Ichi Ban.

I thought you might like something a little different for a change.

"Sushi, Mic? I love it, but I didn't know that you cared for it."

"I don't, but I want to make you happy. Always and forever, Sarah, I want to make you happy."

"Oh, Mic...that's sweet. You say the nicest things when you want to..."

"...but other times I'm a real 'ocker', right?" he concluded.

"I didn't say that. Mic."

"No, but it's true," he said, touching his lips to her forehead. "But with you I want to say the right things...I need to say the right things. Just tell me what to say, Sarah...what to do...and it's yours."

"Give me a little longer, Mic? Please? I know that you've been waiting for months, and I know the sacrifices that you've made for me...but I just need a little longer. Is that okay?" she asked gently.

"Whatever you need, Sarah, you've got it. But don't forget how much I love you..."

"I won't, Mic...I won't"

2300 Hours -Later That Night
Sarah MacKenzie's Apartment
Georgetown


"So you ordered the tempura...you coward!" she joked as he unlocked her door. "I just knew that you wouldn't go through with it."

"I go fishing with bait, Sarah...I don't eat it. Besides, I thought that I should stay alert in case I had to club your meal into submission."

"Very funny Command...er, Mic. It's so hard thinking of you as a civilian now. How are you holding up?"

"Well, it's different. I'll give it that much," he grinned. "Can't say as I'm used to it yet...but I'm hoping it'll be worth it. By the way, have you thought about becoming my partner at all? I think we'd make a smashing team in the courtroom."

"I need to deal with one decision at a time, Mic," she cautioned. You're being here...the law firm...it's all happened so quickly...so unexpectedly. But I promise I'll let you know soon. You've been patient, and I appreciate it. I won't make you wait much longer."

"I'd wait forever for you, Sarah. You know that, don't you?" he asked, attempting to draw her into his embrace.

"Mic..."

"What is it, Sarah? Not tonight, then?"

"Mic...I can't, not now. I need to have a clear head to think things out...to make up my mind. When you...we...I can't think straight when we're ...together, Mic, and right now I need to be sure that the decisions I make are for the right reasons. Does that make any sense?"

He heaved a sigh of frustration. "Unfortunately ... yeah, it does. I may not be happy with it, but it makes sense. Good thing my water bill's included with my rent. It looks like I'm going to need a lot of cold showers."

"I'm sorry, Mic. I really am. Are we all right?"

"Yeah, we're all right. I plan to spend my life with you, Sarah. My Mum used to say that everything works out in the long run, so I guess this will too. But take pity," he said as he passed through the door into the hallway, "I'm only flesh and blood, ya know."

"G'night, Sarah."

And on that note, Mac closed the door and headed toward her bedroom to change. Mic had been a gentleman, but she couldn't ask him to wait forever. It wasn't fair.

Mic Brumby could give her everything she'd ever wanted...things the law and the military couldn't provide. She closed her eyes and visualized family holidays...Christmas and Thanksgiving... being able to face these loneliest of moments with a sense of joy and fulfillment for the first time in her life. She could almost feel her child in her arms...dark-haired, lean...tall like his father."

"Tall? She was thinking about Harm! It was Harm's child that filled her dreams, not Mic's.

But Harm wasn't offering...couldn't 'Let go.', and Mic could. The choice was too hard...too confusing. She needed a break. She needed to lose herself once more in Cherokee MacKinley's fantasy world, and flee the reality of her own.

And so, once more Mac sat before her computer and began to compose...to put a distance between her and the turmoil of her life...to find an escape from the decisions that she was unable to make...

The "Buckhorn Baths" - Apache Junction, Arizona
(that night)


The sign read "Buckhorn Baths", but it was a misnomer. The "baths" were, in fact deep tubs of mineral-laced mud, brought up from far below the earth by a natural hot spring.

"You're kidding!" he exclaimed. "You expect me to get in there...with you?"

"Suit yourself...Brad. This place is a classic. If it was good enough for Teddy Roosevelt, it ought to be good enough for you too."

"Yeah, but I'll bet he didn't share a tub," the Colonel swallowed. "I don't know about this...you sure that this isn't the same mud that old Teddy used?" he asked, wrinkling up his nose at the sulfur odor.

"Aw come on...you're safe with me. Live a little." she grinned, dropping her bath towel to the floor and sinking into the oozing, bubbling morass.

It would feel good, he thought. It had been a long plane ride, and a longer day. And, they were both adults...right?

And so, indecision set aside, he dropped his towel on top of hers and backed into the warm, slippery mud beside her.

Cherry's eyes widened. Even with half a dozen tequila shooters under her belt (so to speak), she could recognize a world-class butt when she saw one...and this was one of the best. You could bounce a quarter off of it...an intriguing thought at the very least.

"Colonel...you keep your 'ass-ettes' well hidden, if I do say so myself." she teased, watching him redden. "So...are you ready to interrogate me yet?"

"Oh...uh...yeah, sure." he hedged, trying to coordinate his thoughts (God this felt good...the dark, soothing mud...oozing into places that he didn't even know existed. And this woman...so warm...so slick...so...oh...)

"Relax...relax." she coaxed, massaging his shoulders. "I have never seen a man this stiff in my life!"

If only she knew, he thought, feeling a very unprofessional reaction to the interrogation process. No wonder Teddy Roosevelt charged up San Juan hill...he wanted to get back here in a hurry. Besides, wasn't it environmentally proactive to share a bath with a friend?

"Hey...just lean back here...against me...and

'go with the flow' as the hippies used to say. Yeah, that's it." she said, tugging him backward between her thighs...stroking her fingers over the warm, slick muscles of his chest. Relax...relax."

Frankly, he'd never felt less relaxed in his life! The gentle slither of her fingers across his body...working their way downward...her thighs wrapping maddeningly around his hips...she was driving him crazy!

Then quickly (or at least as quickly as a vat of mud will allow) rising to the moment, he turned and covered her mouth with his... his tongue thrusting hungrily between her lips.

"This is wrong," he groaned. "There's a code...or something...all that booze tonight..."

"Listen, 'Sugar'" she smiled condescendingly,

"I thought Marines could handle their liquor, but if you think that I'm taking advantage of you..."

But that was all he heard...and all she cared to hear. Slowly, deliberately she once again wrapped her legs around his mud-slicked hips...pulling him close to her...drawing him deep within the intimate warmth of her body.

This would take some really creative bathing later, she thought as she felt him begin to move inside of her...but who cared. Mud baths took care of wrinkles...right? Well, she knew one place that would never get 'scrunchy'...

Buckhorn Bath Motel - the next morning


The early morning light pierced the eastern window of the Buckhorn Bath Motel, shocking him awake with a start. Was it tomorrow already?

Hell, it had been 'tomorrow' even before they'd left the Lost Dutchman!

Brad Harmon turned to assess the situation.

Beside him, Commander Sara MacKinley lay sleeping as though she hadn't a worry in the world. Well, maybe she hadn't, but he certainly did. Last night they'd drunk to the tune of the "The Caribbean Cowboy", had toe-curling sex in the mud like two abandoned teenagers, then found at least a half-dozen innovative ways to 'get the mud out' until the wee hours of the morning....but they hadn't even begun to discuss the f-111.

Wearily, he checked his watch. 0700 Hours. It would be 0900 back in Washington. They'd be wanting answers...and soon...but he hadn't a clue.

Once more he looked at the sleeping woman beside him. She looked even better in the morning, he thought...if that was possible. She looked good at night too...in her cowgirl outfit...without her cowgirl outfit...in the mud...

Dimly he felt an inner struggle to pull the covers up over them once again...to stroke her awake...to explore an exchange of information not included on his clipboard.

She was like no one he'd ever known...different... more alive. Maybe that was what putting your life on the line in a test plane did for you...made you enjoy every minute you had just that much more. Whatever it was, he knew that they'd shared more that mud last night. She'd given him a little piece of herself, and taken a little of him in return.

Let Washington push the 'pause button', he smiled, running his fingers lightly across her dusky nipples. This morning he had more demanding plans...and they wouldn't wait.

0900 Hours - The Next Day
Jag Headquarters
Falls Church, Virginia


Again the story of Cherokee MacKinley had given her just enough distance from her own troubled life to meet the day with an optimistic outlook. Too bad she couldn't just "ask Jeeves" for the answer to her problems, she thought, but then the internet couldn't replace real life...could it?

With a sigh she exited the elevator and headed toward her office, her mind already filled with the convolutions of the Addamson case.

The evidence just didn't add up. Though Addamson was being held accountable for the thefts, no one had actually seen the young petty officer committing the crime.

Granted, it was his signature on all of the requisitions, but would anyone have been so foolish as to sign their own name on a legal document, knowing full well that it would be used to facilitate an illegal act? Addamson didn't look that ignorant...not by a long shot.

So what was the answer? Addamson's signatures were clearly present on all of the documentation. The "fence', after being offered immunity, had stated that it was Addamson with whom he had done business, and a number of the stolen items had been found in Addamson's tool box. It appeared to be an open and shut case.

And yet, in spite of the overwhelming evidence against him, and a generous plea bargain on the table, Addamson still vowed his innocence...and for some reason, Mac believed him.

Once again, Mac spread the Addamson files out before her on the desk. Somewhere in here there had to be an answer...but where?

If, indeed, Addamson was innocent, then someone else had to be guilty...it was an obvious conclusion. Mentally she checked off the possibilities. The signatures on the invoices had been verified. Addamson had been picked out of a line-up by the fence...her client had been caught with stolen property in his possession, or at least in his tool box. His involvement seemed to be a certainty...unless the fence was covering for a different accomplice...one who still remained free.

But why would he lie? He'd been promised immunity from prosecution in the theft in return for his testimony...he had nothing to fear by telling the truth, and everything to lose by withholding it. It made no sense.

Mac walked back out into the bull pen.

"Gunny", I need some information. Could you get me a list of any personnel at the supply depot that had direct access to the missing equipment between these dates? "

"Yes Ma'am. I'll get right on it," he replied.

This was the part of his job that he enjoyed the most. Playing detective gave him a chance to put away the paperclips and do a little sleuthing.

"Thanks, Gunny. I'll be in my office," she nodded. "Let me know as soon as you're through."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Mac returned to her office to find Harm sitting in her chair going over her notes. "What's up?" he asked, indicating the files that lay strewn across her desk.

"Oh, I don't know, Harm. It just doesn't figure, she replied, wondering how he'd look in a layer of mud. All of the evidence points to Addamson...I know that, but he still swears that he's innocent. He even turned down the plea bargain. I just have a bad feeling about this."

"Mac." Harm began, "Addamson wouldn't be the first guilty person to turn down a plea bargain. He probably figures that he can con you into getting him off on a technicality or something.

The guy is guilty! We have everything but a signed confession. If this goes to trial he's a 'shoe-in' to be convicted...he just doesn't want to accept that it's all over for him."

Mac looked unconvinced. "Well maybe..." she replied hesitantly. I just have a few things to check out before I throw away the key, okay?"

"Sure...whatever you want. Fill me in, lets see what we can come up with. We can talk over lunch. How about the "Roach Coach" downstairs?

Their coffee's like mud, but I hear they have your favorite today...mystery meat on a bun."

Mac nearly choked. "Funny...very funny. You're on. I'll meet you there in a few minutes. I need to give Mic a call before I go."

Harn grimaced at the sound of the burly Australians name. "You're not planning on making this a threesome, I hope," he said, assessing her expression. "Because if you are, my 'dance card' is already full."

Could he be 'hacking' into her Word program? "No Harm. My nerves couldn't take the two of you at the same table. I just want to touch bases, that's all."

He frowned again. "Sounds like Brumby's got you on a short leash..."

"Is it any shorter than the rhinestone tether that Renee has on you?" she parried.

"Truce...truce." he laughed, throwing up his hands. "I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes, then...that is, if you still have an appetite by the time you get off the phone."

"I'll manage," she smiled. "Just go, already."

Then, picking up the receiver, she dialed as she watched Harm enter the elevator and vanish from sight.

"Hello, Mic?" she asked. "Is that you? You sound different, somehow."

"Just working on some renovations at the office I rented. There's a lot of dust in the air...what can I do for you, Luv? Have you finally decided to make an honest man of me?"

Mac took a seat by the phone. "Mic, you said that you'd be patient, remember? It hasn't even been twenty-four hours...you call that patient?"

"Seems more like twenty-four years, Sarah. You're all I think about, ya know..." he replied. "You should see the view from your office, Luv. You can see the Washington Monument from here. It's a great location. This building even has a day care center down stairs. See, I thought of everything."

"Mic...you're presuming again. I haven't said 'yes' ...yet." she cautioned.

"Ah, but it'll happen, Luv. It's written in the stars. I'm just waiting for you to catch up with me, that's all. In the meantime...what color do you want on your office walls?"

"Mic! Enough all ready! I just wanted to let you know that I have a lot of work to do tonight. I need to break our date. I hope that you didn't have anything special planned..."

"Oh well, I had a high tea with the Queen in mind, but she'll just have to wait. Business first, eh Luv?"

"That's English, Mic...you're Australian, remember?" she laughed. "Australian...and crazy!"

Now it was his turn to laugh. "Actually...I'm right in the middle of sanding the floors right now. I'd hate to stop until it's all done anyway, so it's just as well I suppose. 'Course I could bring my 'jammies' and come over later..."

"Mic..you're awful!" she smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay, Luv. Take care. I love you, Sarah." he finished. Then the line went dead.

Well, at least there was no doubt just where she stood where Mic was concerned, she thought, her mind straying toward her lanky partner. With men like Harm...who could tell?

Mac turned to find Gunny standing behind her, waiting for her to finish her call.

"Ma'am? I have the list that you wanted. I just called over to personnel at Norfolk, and they faxed me a copy. Is there anything else I can do?" he asked hopefully.

"No, Gunny. That'll be all, and thank you."

"Ma'am? You might want to take a look at this name...the third one on the list."

"'Smith', Gunny? That's a pretty common name. Why would that one stand out?"

"Well, ma'am, I noticed that's the same name as the fence in your case..."

"Yes, Gunny...but 'Smith'? Half of Virginia is named 'Smith'...what's so unusual about that?"

"Well, Ma'am. I did a little background check on these particular 'Smiths', and they also happen to have the same mother."

Mac smiled. So that was it! Finally, everything made sense!

Quickly she made her way downstairs, and found Harm sitting in the bright afternoon sunlight, munching some vegetable concoction on whole wheat.

"I got you a chef salad with the dressing on the side, Mac. Is that all right?"

"That sounds fine, Harm. I'm starved!" she said, eyeing some crouton-like chunks that sat atop the wilted leaves. "But we need to eat quickly...Gunny just brought me something that I think you should see."

An hour later, Mac and Harm found themselves sitting in the back room of "Surplus World", the military supply emporium of the fence, Donald Smith.

"Mr. Smith," Mac began. "Are you aware that your immunity applies only if you supply us with factual information? A lie can get you thrown into jail, Mr. Smith...for a very, very long time."

"What are you talking about? Why would I lie? I'm being offered a ticket out of this mess...why would I throw that away?" he protested.

Harm tossed the list of personnel down on the cluttered desk before them, watching as the little man nervously scanned its contents.

"So...what's this. I'm telling you the truth. I swear it!" he vowed, raising his right hand.

"Then you won't mind if we bring your brother in for questioning, will you? Of course, if we do, and we find out that you've been lying, then all deals are off. You still say that Addamson did it?"

Smith stared at the roster, his eyes registering defeat. "Okay, he said. It wasn't Addamson.

My brother and I cooked it up. He slipped a bunch of blank requisitions in with a pile of papers and Addamson just signed the bottoms without looking. Then he planted a some parts in Addamson's tool box after the inventory came up short."

"I still get my immunity, don't I?" he asked, panic rising in his voice.

"Yes, you've got it. You don't deserve it, but you've got it," Mac replied. "But we'll be watching you, Smith. If anything else turns up missing, I'm sending a platoon of Marines over to tear this place apart checking serial numbers. Do we understand each other?"

"You got it, Lady...you got it!"

Harm and Mac took his deposition...his new deposition, then headed back toward JAG, where Mac's car was waiting.

"So...how's Brumby today? Any new revelations this afternoon?" Harm asked, his expression registering displeasure.

That was all he said, but that was all it took.

"Harm...do you have any idea how irritating it is to be constantly hassled by you over this?" she snapped. "You need to leave it alone. This is my decision, not yours. You have Renee...I've backed off where she's concerned, so why can't you give me the same consideration?"

She expected a snappy come-back, or at least another 'Brumby-slam', but neither was forthcoming. Instead, Harm sat silently weaving his way through traffic, desperately searching for an answer.

"I just want you to be happy, Mac," he began.

I can't see that happening with Brumby, that's all."

Determined to 'have it out' once and for all, Mac pursued his train of thought. "Harm...I'm a big girl. Don't you think that's my decision to make? You're not my keeper, you know. I care for Mic...and he loves me...""

"Mac...that isn't what you said on the ferry in Sydney." he interrupted, heading for the off-ramp. "'I wouldn't want to think that this Brumby thing is just a rebound from..."

She looked startled. "A rebound from what, Harm? What have we had that I could rebound from? Sure I remember Sydney...all of it, and I remember what you said to me that evening as well. I won't wait forever, Harm. Do you expect me to just sit back and watch you flit from one girlfriend to another until you're finally ready? I need a life too...and Mic is offering me everything I ever wanted."

There...the gloves were off, she thought. It was time...time to have it out with Harm...time to get her life straight...time to give Mic her decision.

"Mac...I..."

"What, Harm...what? Take a stand and be honest with me." she fairly pleaded. "Stop hiding...give me a reason to tell him 'no' once and for all."

Silently, he stared into the azure sky, as though lost in a struggle that only he could understand, then finally he pulled into the parking lot at JAG and gave the only answer that he could...

"I can't, Sarah....I can't"

1800 Hours
Mac's Apartment
Georgetown


It was over...before it had ever really begun.

Harm had finally said the words that would set her free...so why was she so miserable"

Finally, after many months, she had reached a decision. Her life, and her future lay not with Harm...not with JAG...they lay with someone who wanted her, someone who had already made the commitment that Harm was so unable to make. Mic Brumby was ready...he loved her...he was offering her the world. He was prepared to make any sacrifice to give her the kind of life and family that she wanted. What more could a woman ask for?

When she saw Mic tomorrow, she'd give him her answer ...and then she'd resign her commission.

Tired and numb from the day's events, Mac packed up her briefs and headed for home. It was all that she could do not to rush headlong toward her computer, and once again lose herself in the fantasy world of Cherokee MacKinley.

Desperately she tried to focus her attention on the briefs that she'd brought home, but it was hopeless. The more she tried to work, the more she heard Harm's voice echoing the words that had ended it all.

"I can't, Sarah...I can't," he'd said, his words hanging in the air like vultures waiting to pick the bones of their aborted journey together.

Finally, the tale of the "Dutchman's Gold" won out, and Mac rushed into the welcoming and predictable embrace of the world she'd created on her hard drive.

Was this an addiction, she wondered? Was it possible to lose track of reality so easily? It didn't matter, she decided as the manuscript she'd created once again came to life. Within this fantasy world she had control...it was she who dictated the passage of time and events. Life between the lines could never be any more or less than she would allow them to be.

And so, once again Mac sat before her keyboard and began to script the adventure of Cher and Harmon in the Superstition wilderness.

"Dutchman's Gold" by Sarah MacKenzie
(part 3)

[William's Field - Apache junction, Arizona (that afternoon) ]


It was noon before they arrived at Williams Field.

Everywhere the sounds of panic flooded the air.

The f-111 had been taken out at 0700 Hours, and had vanished off the face of the globe. It had last been tracked circling over the Superstition Mountains, a wilderness area rife with the kind of secluded inaccessibility that could make even a jumbo jet drop out of sight until the end of time.

It's 'pilot du jour' had been Lieutenant Lenore Croaker, another female test pilot in a field dominated by men, and filled with enough ambition to create her own branch of the service. But now, like the f-111, she too was missing, presumably lost in the crash to which the spy plane had obviously succumbed.

"How could the f-111 have been missing for so long?" Harmon questioned. "I mean, we already know where it was last seen, right?"

"I can't answer that, Colonel," the Commander replied, her professional persona standing between them. "You may have top secret clearance, but without the Admiral's 'say so', you're just another leatherneck."

"That's not what you said last night," he reminded her, his voice seeking to open the breech between them once again, "...or this morning."

"Colonel...that was pleasure. This is business. I never mix the two. Combinations like that can get a test pilot killed, and I have a feeling that you may be particularly lethal."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop badgering my personnel, Colonel," a voice spoke from behind the hanger door. "If you have any classified questions to ask, then submit them to me...and I'll let you know."

"Admiral!" Commander MacKinley exclaimed, wondering just how much he'd heard. "Sir...this is Lieutenant Colonel Brad Harmon...JAG. He's here on a fact-finding mission concerning the f-111."

"Well, Colonel, I'd say that you're just about a day late, and more than a dollar short, because the only 'fact' we're dealing with today is 'finding' where in the hell the f-111 vanished to."

"Sir," Lieutenant Robert Budson piped in, "The Colonel was here yesterday...looking for Commander MacKinley," he supplied breathlessly, having just run the length of the airstrip to address his commanding officer. "But about the jet, Sir, I think we may have found it!"

Budson looked secretively at Harmon, wondering if he should continue in the Colonel's presence.

"Well, go on, Lieutenant, you may speak freely in front of the Colonel."

"Sir, we think it may be in a place called 'Roger's Trough', smack dab in the middle of the 'Citidel'. We can't be sure, Sir, but we've scanned everywhere else, and that's the only place that isn't transmitting any feedback. It must be the place."

Harmon scowled. "Lieutenant, let me get this straight. You think it has to be in this 'Roger's Trough' place because you AREN'T getting any feedback? How can that be?" the Colonel questioned.

Budson once again turned to his commanding officer for permission to speak.

"Proceed, Lieutenant. The Colonel apparently has the clearance...and the need to know, so go ahead."

"Colonel," the cherubic junior officer began once more, obviously warming up to a favorite topic, the f-111 in itself isn't all that top secret...in fact it's been going through test runs for a few years now. But we've made alterations that only the Pentagon, and a few of us here on base are fully briefed on. The f-111 is equipped with a prototype cloaking device the renders it invisible to radar and spy satellites. You see...it mimics the feedback around it...like birds or dust storms or...stuff like that. The only way to differentiate the real signal from..."

"Are you telling me that you made the plane invisible...and now you can't find it!" Harmon asked, his eyes reflecting incredulity. "And now, you think you've found it because you're NOT detecting it!"

"Well, Sir..."

"That'll be all, Budson. I assume that the 'helos' are heading out there now, Son?"

"Well, yes Sir, but there's a problem. The f-111 is pretty well camouflaged...down in the shadows of the trough and all...and it seems to be in a place where the 'helos' can't close in. We're going to have to go in on foot, but the nearest place to set down is on the other side of the 'Citidel"...a three-day hike, Sir. It's gonna take a while."

"Any suggestions, Commander MacKinley? You know the terrain around here better than the rest of us. Can we tighten this time-frame a bit? We have a pilot out there...maybe in need of medical assistance...I want us in there ASAP. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir. Understood. I could cut a day off that, Sir, if I rode in by horseback along the old Peralta Trail. It climbs right up the backside of the 'Citidel', and would put me near the crash site in two days at the most."

The Admiral considered her suggestion carefully. "Once you've secured the pilot, I'll need the 'black box' and the cloaking mechanism brought out as well. I don't know if we'll ever be able to get the wreckage back to base, but I don't want those items falling into the wrong hands."

"I'll take a couple of pack horses with me, Sir...and a saddle horse for Lieutenant Croaker. We'll make this work. You have my word."

"I'm confident that you could handle the situation by yourself, Commander, but if the pilot's injured, you may need an extra pair of hands. I need Budson here, dealing with the techno-garbage, and I can't spare anyone else who has the clearance for this type of mission...except..."

"I'd be glad to go, Admiral." Harmon volunteered. "It's been a few years since I rode on horseback, but you know what they say about learning to ride a bicycle..."

[Later that evening]

"So...is it starting to feel like a bicycle yet, Colonel?" Cher prodded. "You know what they say about volunteering. It serves you right. I could have handled this alone...I didn't need you along."

After only four hours on the steep and rugged trail, Brad Harmon had to agree with the old warning...never volunteer. His legs, stretched out like a wishbone, had gone numb almost an hour ago...a fate he could only wish on his butt.

"Cher...how much further do we have to go before we make camp?" he asked, hoping his torment would soon be over.

"Not much further," she replied. "We got a late start. We won't have daylight for much longer...especially down in these canyons. I'd say another hour or two. There's a creek up ahead a few miles...we'll make camp there. How's your butt?" she asked, reading his mind.

"I beg your pardon? How's my butt?"

"Yeah...your butt. You obviously haven't had it in a saddle for a long while. How are you making out?"

"I'll test my butt against yours any day, Commander." he grinned, refusing to be teased. "Winner takes all."

Cher felt a slow burn creep along her cheeks.

She remembered his butt...and his body...and his...

"So tell me, " he asked, shifting directions, "How do you know so much about the Superstitions?"

"I was raised here," she replied, "...about ten miles west of here...in Tortilla Flats. I grew up riding these trails. These mountains are my old 'stomping grounds'.."

So that explained it...the cowboy bar...the mud bath place...she was a 'local'. He'd been in her 'neck of the woods' all along.

"Quite a coincidence that you'd be picked for an assignment here at William's Field, then, isn't it?"

"Not really. I requested the assignment. The job seemed like it was made for me...so I took it."

"Being a test pilot was 'made for you'? What do you do in your spare time, drive in demolition derbies?" he joked.

""Well, actually...no. But I like speed. The faster the better, and you don't get much faster that the f-111, at least not without going into orbit."

Harmon could relate to that. He too, knew the rush that went along with 'racing the wind'. He'd done a few parachute jumps during his early Marine training, and it had addicted him for life. Now a weekend jumper, he'd considered taking flying lessons at one time...he still might. From the sound of it, flying might just be the next logical step.

"I see a creek up there," he said, hopefully.

"That wouldn't be our campsite, would it?"

"That's it. The water's good, the ground's level, and we'll be protected by that outcropping if we need better shelter. The only problem is that I won't be able to call into the base from down here...the mountains would interfere too much with the transmission... but at least we'll be able to toss out our bedrolls and just 'crash' for the night without wasting a lot of time.""

"Crash? I would think that would be a word that you'd avoid." he smiled, sizing up the rocky 'bed' before him.

"Clever. Listen...I've got MREs on the pack horse... pick yourself out a spot and we'll eat. Then we can bed down for the night. We need a good night's rest...we leave at dawn tomorrow."

'Bedding down' was a nice phrase...a great phrase in fact. Harmon liked the sound of it, even if his sore derriere didn't. "There wouldn't be another 'hot spring' around here, would there?" he asked, covering the distance between them.

"Last night put a whole new 'spin' on mud for me..."

"Forget it, Colonel. I can't...I just can't.

This is business, remember? No hot springs...no mud baths...no...you know...just NO."

Ouch, he thought, his discomfort shifting to another extremity. Oh well...she was right. This was military business, not monkey business. They needed to keep on track if they were going to get the job done.

So...quickly they ate and slipped into their bedrolls beneath the most awesome canopy of stars that Brad Harmon had ever seen.

"It's really beautiful out here." he commented.

"So tell me...why do they call these mountains 'The Superstitions'?

"Don't tell me you want a bedtime story now. Were you weaned too soon, or what?"

(silence)

"Oh okay...you got me." she sighed, realizing that he was only trying to bridge the awkward silence between them. "There are a lot of strange tales connected to this range. They date back even before 'Anglos' settled here. The most popular is the 'Legend of the Lost Dutchman".

"That sounds interesting...is it some kind of campfire fiction?"

"No, actually, it's a true story. It goes back to the old west. The old Dutchman, was actually 'Deutsch, not Dutch...German in other words. His name was Jacob Waltz, and he'd roamed these mountains all of his adult life looking for the 'Lost Peralta mine'...a legend left over from the Spanish Conquistadors."

"Then, one day he came galloping into town with his saddlebags full of gold ore...an incredible find... a prospector's dream. Well, he stayed in town for a little while...said he'd found the 'mother lode' in view of 'Weaver's Needle'...that obelisk way over there" she said, pointing to the north, "...then headed back to work his vein."

"And then? " he asked, his interest piqued.

"Then nothing. No one ever heard from him again. But he wasn't the first to vanish in these mountains...or the last. You could fill a book with all the weird stuff that's been attributed to this range...and that's why they're called 'The Superstitions'."

"That obelisk over there, you say?" he said, trying to assess the distance from their camp to the prominent rock formation.

"Yeah, that's the one, but don't get any ideas.

You can see that thing from a thirty mile radius. More than one man has vanished... just like the 'Dutchman'... trying to find his gold mine. It's rough country out here. Even Cochise was able to hold off the U.S. Army when he used the Superstitions as a stronghold."

"That's why we're having to 'pack in' to the f-111." she reminded him. "With all the peaks and ravines, they just couldn't land a helo anywhere nearby, and dropping a man by parachute would be pretty close to murder. So...here we are."

To say that he was interested would have been an understatement. But, what interested him the most had nothing to do with any gold mine.

There, in the velvet stillness of the night, he watched as the firelight played seductively over her golden skin. She was beautiful...but she didn't seem to know it. She was intelligent... but she was comfortable with it. She had the heart of a mountain lion, and the spirit of a bird in flight...was he the only one who had ever seen it?

He felt a pang of jealousy deep within his gut.

How many men before him had found their true treasure in the arms of Sara MacKinley? Were the 'Buckhorn Baths' a favorite Saturday night getaway? Did he have any right to care?

"So, what's it like...growing up around here I mean?" he asked, prodding the wound. "It must have been lots of fun with the dances, and the mountains, and the...Baths."

"Actually, I was never very social growing up. I spent most of my time out here in the mountains. And...I've only been to the Baths once before...on a dare...while I was in high school...alone. But I always wanted to *really* try it out."

"And I just 'got lucky'?"

Cher flashed him a dirty look. "Yeah...I guess so...if you want to look at it like that. Listen...I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Last night wasn't a typical 'night on the town' for me. I got carried away. If that's what you call 'getting lucky', then so be it...but it won't happen again. Do we understand each other?"

"No problem." he replied, her response both reassuring and saddening at the same time. The thought that their last night had been special for her as well, came as a welcome revelation...that it would never happen again, left him with an unnamed void that nagged at his emotions.

"Get some sleep." she snapped curtly. "We've got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow, and I don't want to have to haul your ass and mine too."

Then, rolling on her side, she turned away from him...closed her eyes...and welcomed the darkness.

1900 Hours - The Next Night
Sarah MacKenzie's Apartment
Georgetown


As usual, Mic was exactly on time.

With a serenity born of determination, Mac answered the door and ushered Mic into the living room, a forced smile spread wide across her face.

"Come on in, Mic. Get comfortable. I thought we'd eat here tonight. Is that okay?" she asked, her eyes darting nervously about the room.

"Sure, Luv, whatever you want. I'm easy. Anything I can help with?" he asked, rising to his feet and crossing toward the kitchen.

"No...no. I just need to finish the salad, that's all. I picked up some Foster's on the way home...I thought you'd like it. It's in the fridge. Help yourself."

"That was thoughtful of you. Australian beer...I'm right at home. Was that what you had in mind...I hope?"

"Of course, Mic. What else? We have a lot to talk about tonight...I wanted it to be special.

Here...clear out of the kitchen...okay? I need to finish up."

Mic was immediately on alert. 'Something special', she'd said. Apparently tonight was the night. How could he think of food at a time like this?

"Mac," he sighed softly, wrapping his arms around her. "Let the salad be for now, and come sit on the sofa with me. You can't just throw out bait like that and not expect me to bite, now can you? Talk to me, Sarah. I need to know...what's so special about tonight?"

"Oh. Mic...I wanted create a better atmosphere for this before..."

"...before what, Sarah?" he said, settling her beside him on the sofa. I don't know if I should be crushed or elated. Put me out of my misery, Luv...tell me now. Don't make me wait."

In her mind, Mac had already composed the speech that she knew he wanted to hear...an avowal of love and longing...a promise of forever. It had been her intention to enter his world completely, forsaking all others, and begin the life that she believed she wanted above anything else.

But somehow, there on the sofa with the wrong man's arms about her, the words just wouldn't flow. They froze unspoken in her heart...bound by a Gorgon's knot that was impossible to unravel.

It was then that she knew.

There was only one answer that she could ever give Mic, or any other man. She couldn't give her heart...her soul to another, because it had already been taken. It had been stolen away and locked out of sight for all eternity by Harmon Rabb. And even though he had made it clear that he didn't want it, it was no longer hers to give.

"I'm sorry, Mic." she stuttered, the words escaping haltingly from her lips. "I just can't. I love you...in my way...but it's not enough. You deserve someone who wants you completely...without reservation, and that just isn't me. I guess that's why it took so long to make up my mind."

"I know that I'll always regret this," she said, gently touching his face, "...but I can't marry you. I'm sorry."

The look in Mic's eyes said it all. In them she saw the broken shards of a shattered dream...the inextricable pain of loss and heartbreak. She wanted to console him...to soothe his agony, but she knew it was beyond her. She was the source of it all, and only her absence could offer him any succor.

"Well, that's it, I suppose." he rasped, his voice raw with emotion. I suppose you and Rabb..."

"No, Mic...not Harm and I. There's no one else...not now...maybe not ever. I just couldn't give you less than you deserve. It wouldn't be fair to either of us."

Slowly, she began to remove the ring that had held court on her right hand for so many months.

"No, Sarah...keep it...please? I couldn't bear to look at it. Keep it and think of me fondly as time goes by, will you? You know you'll always have a place in my heart..."

"Good-bye, Sarah." he said softly, as he walked toward the door. "If you ever change your mind..."

And then he was gone.

She sat on the sofa, stricken...lost in a world of mute introspection. What had she done? Why had it been so hard to get on with her life...to accept Mic's proposal and move on?

Harm had ended any chance of there ever being anything between them. It had been his decision, and like Mic, she had no control over the situation. She would spend the rest of her days near the man she loved...but never *with* him, together, yet perpetually apart. She would remain unfulfilled...a Greek tragedy until the end of time.

Only in the fantasy world of Cherokee MacKinley could she find the respite she so desperately needed. Only there, was the world manageable... predictable... under control.

Like an addict longing for a fix, she turned on her computer and waited impatiently for the door to open...the door to a world of her own creation...a safe haven in a sea of confusion.

And then she was in, and reality began to fade mercifully into the background...to vanish from sight. Once more she found herself on the trail, high in the Supersitions, alone with a surrogate who would make all things right.

Quickly her fingers flew across the keyboard, giving life where none had existed...and once again she immersed herself in the fantasy...

"Dutchman's Gold" by Sarah MacKenzie
(part 4)

[Somewhere in the Superstition Mountains]


Morning had seemed 'light' years away. Every loose rock on the trail had chosen to hide under his bedroll, and he swore that a scorpion had tried to mate with him sometime during the night.

"Pack it up." Cher ordered, her bedroll already stowed securely across the rump of their pack horse. "I've got granola bars for breakfast.

We can eat as we ride. This 'train' leaves in ten minutes...so get a move on."

Wearily, Harmon unfolded his aching body and dragged himself down to the creek. As he splashed cold water on his face, he wondered how he was going to survive another day on the trail with 'Annie Oakley'.

Already his body ached, both with the residual pains of yesterday's saddle experience, and with the memory of Cher's rejection the night before. He hoped that they'd find the plane today, and that the pilot was alive. He couldn't bear to be alone another night with Commander MacKinley ...under these circumstances, at least.

Quietly they picked their way along the narrow trail which wove precariously between the majestic peaks of the 'Citidel', pausing only to rest the horses and stretch before once again making their way toward Roger's Trough.

Lost in thought, Cher took the lead along the windswept path, then began their decent into the winding morass of high-desert mesquite and scrub pine below.

There was a time when she would have found this trek enjoyable, she thought. But now...searching for the lost f-111 and it's diminutive pilot, she found no pleasure in this journey beyond the edge of civilization. Her discomfort was compounded by the presence of Brad Harmon...the memory of his touch...so tender...so passionate, and the instant attraction that had immediately drawn her to him.

How could she blame him for thinking that she was 'loose'. She'd been more than that...she'd been positively carnivorous! He couldn't know of the reserve she maintained with most men, both in and out of uniform. He was only familiar with Cher...the 'wild mud-woman of Buckhorn Baths'. She felt a flush at the thought. The things they'd said...the things they'd done! It was hard to even look him in the eye after their night (and morning) of sensuous abandon. But she'd have to find a way. They had a job to do, and Lenore Croaker's life could very well depend on it.

Finally, as twilight once again began to fill the untamed hollows of the Superstitions, the area known as Roger's Trough came into view. It was a narrow, winding canyon, cut by eons of mountain run-off through the remote valley between two jagged peaks.

It was there that they found the wreckage of the f-111, wounded and broken...and alone.

"I don't see any sign of Lieutenant Croaker." Harmon reported, checking the cockpit. "Think she could have tried to walk out of here and back to the base?"

"I don't think she walked anywhere." replied his trusty 'scout'. "I'm not an expert about these things, but there are too many different kinds of tracks here for her to have been alone."

Cher waved her hand at the jumble of footprints scattered about the wreckage. "These over here...they're small...military issue boots...like mine." she said, matching the tread of her footwear to that of the smaller prints. "But these...that's a man-sized boot...a work boot. Lenore Croaker had company."

"Maybe somebody was camping and saw the crash? He offered, hopefully. Maybe they gave her a ride out..."

"...with the black box and the cloaking device..." she finished doubtfully, noting the suspicious absence of the two critical pieces of hardware. "I don't know...this just doesn't feel right. If this had been an accidental crash, there would be debris all over the place. Instead, the plane is damaged, but it's as though it was deliberately planned...almost controlled...the kind of crash that you walk away from, but considering the terrain that doesn't seem reasonable. It would have been risky, even for Lenore...even in a fixed-wing aircraft with hover capabilities. There would have to be a lot at stake to even consider setting down here."

"Then there's the missing equipment," she continued. "Granted, Lenore could, and should have taken them with her... but if she'd been able to do that, she could also have turned on the emergency transponder, so that the Navy could locate the wreck easier...but she didn't."

"...and then there's the mysterious 'camper'," she continued. "Do you know that you could camp out here for months and never see another soul?

Running into a 'knight in shining armor' within hours of her crash would have been nothing short of a miracle!"

"Come on...I want to backtrack and see where this guy came from." she said suspiciously. "I just don't feel right about this."

It was a short trip.

No sooner had they rounded the bend in the curved and narrow gully, than they found the recent remains of the stranger's campfire.

"He was here, all right. There are his boot prints...and hers too. It looks like he may have been here for a few days, from the look of the trash he left...like he was waiting...he even had a couple of horses with him" she nodded, indicating nearby hoof prints.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, knowing full well that they shared the same thought.

"I think that we may have found your leak...and it isn't Admiral Widden...it's Lenore Croaker."

"Damn!"

They knew that they had to follow Croaker and her accomplice...they had no choice. Already the trail would be hard to follow, but if they waited until they got back to base, or got to higher ground where they could notify headquarters to start the search, the culprits could be in the next state...or country. It had to be now.

"Well, what did they say in the old westerns?

'Let's head 'em off at the pass.'" he said, remounting his horse.

"Not tonight." she replied. "It's too late...not enough light to do any tracking until morning. Besides, they'll have to hole up for the night too...you can't travel these mountains in the dark. You'd end up falling into some gully, and only the buzzards would ever find your bones."

The more he thought about her words, the more he realized that she was right...again. They'd have to wait until sunup...or end up 'buzzard munch'...and that thought just didn't appeal to him at all.

"So...we 'crash' here tonight?" he asked, scanning the campsite in hopes of finding a rock-free spot on which to spread his bedroll.

"I think so. There must be a pool or stream or something nearby, or Lenore's 'friend' wouldn't have been able to water their horses. Looks like we spend tonight right here."

Anxious but resigned, the 'rescue party' made camp for the night. Cher laid a fire while Harmon took the horses down the winding, arid creek bed in search of water. Soon their chores were far behind, and they were able to settle down for the night.

Reaching into her saddlebag, Cher hauled the inevitable MREs out and tossed a package of spaghetti and meatballs in Harmon's direction.

"You wouldn't happen to have a t-bone in there" he asked, staring at the unappetizing packet.

"Mind if I heat this up? I'm hungry, but there are limits."

"Suit yourself, tenderfoot. What did the Marines teach you in boot camp, anyway...crocheting?"

"Hey...I can handle myself...but it makes no sense to suffer when you don't have to. Why eat cold, indigestible crap when you can have hot, indigestible crap instead?"

He had a point there, she thought, staring into the welcoming blaze. If she just propped the packet near the edge of the campfire for a few minutes...not close enough to melt...she'd have a nice warm meal in no time at all.

"Okay...point taken. It would go down a little better hot...but I need to keep them far enough from the flames to avoid melting the packets." she said kneeling beside the fire with her back to him.

"Okay, Mom." he replied, feeling anything but filial as he watched her rounded bottom bob merrily before him. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he decided to broach the topic of their aborted relationship.

"Hey...mind if I ask...did I do something to tick you off since yesterday?"

"Tick me off? Nothing that I can think of." she replied, innocently. "Why?"

"Because a day and a half ago you couldn't get enough of me...and now you act like I've got jungle rot. What gives?"

"Couldn't get enough of you! Who was it that made us late reporting for duty yesterday? Not me!"

"Oh yeah? I seem to remember you contributing to the situation. In fact, we wouldn't have been U.A. at all if you hadn't decided to play in the mud..."

"Well, there's no mud here, 'Jarhead'! So why don't you just play with YOURSELF!" she retorted scathingly.

(silence)

"I didn't mean it like that." he apologized, kneeling beside her. "I'm sorry. It's just that I...miss...the way it was. You're something special, Cher. I'd like to..."

"...hop into the sack again?" she finished, realizing that he saw her as someone who couldn't keep her pants on.

"I was going to say...'get to know you better'," he corrected. "...and hop into the sack." he admitted awkwardly.

"Is that so terrible?" he asked, his fingers stroking the side of her cheek. "I think that you're incredible...and the fact that I also think you're the sexiest woman I've ever met, shouldn't insult you. At least it wasn't meant to..."

Well, at least he was honest about it, she thought. If the truth be known, she shared the same feelings where he was concerned. But he had to understand one thing...

"I want you to know that I don't...'play in the mud' with every guy I meet." she replied, her shields beginning to fall. "But since we're being honest...I was attracted to you from the moment I saw you. What happened later wasn't planned...it was uncharacteristic of me...but I'm not sorry..."

There! She'd said it!

Cher gazed anxiously at Brad's expression. How could he be so unreadable?

Then slowly, gently, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, sending tiny shivers through her body. Then he stopped...

Cher breathed deeply, her pulse racing. She wanted him...that went without question. But they'd only known each other for three days...things needed to slow down...didn't they?

She wasn't sure...nothing seemed clear anymore.

Why had he stopped? It was as though he was waiting for something...for her. How should she respond?

Then suddenly it no longer mattered. Brad would be going back to Washington in a few days...there was no tomorrow for them. There was only today...now...and if she wanted him, then this would have to do.

Following her heart, Cher leaned forward and returned his kiss, her lips lingering, her eyes watching the firelight play across his features.

He exhaled loudly, as though he'd been holding his breath, then drew her close to him...warm in the shelter of his intimate embrace.

Then silently, with only the stars and the all-seeing moon to witness their union, they made long slow love beneath the canopy of heaven. And as she felt him enter her once more, filling her body with his, she knew that no other man would ever make her feel the way that Brad Harmon had.

Unspoken, they'd shared a vow that could never be shattered. No matter what the future might bring...tonight was theirs alone...a moment as old as time, and as vital as the beating of her heart.

They broke camp the next morning just as the sun began to clear the saddle between the peaks that surrounded them. They needed to hurry, if there was any chance of catching Croaker and her accomplice, but she felt torn...each and every step they took brought them that much closer to the moment when they would part once again. But she had a job to do. The personal pain that it brought her would just have to heal itself...there was no other choice.

Wordlessly, they followed the trail deeper into the wilderness, leaving the path behind, tracing the progression of broken twigs and hoof marks through the underbrush. Finally, as the sun began to set on their third night in the Superstitions, they came upon a recent campsite.

Bewildered, they searched the remains of what had once been. The site had been abandoned...they'd already expected that...but the way in which it had been abandoned left them puzzled and uneasy.

It was as though the occupants of the campsite were just around the corner...borrowing a cup of granola from a neighbor...and would be returning at any moment.

But the fire was dead...long dead...and the coffee pot that sat on a rock at its edge held the acrid remnants of a brew that should have been drunk many hours ago. A topographic map sat wedged beneath a rock, as though held in place against an errant breeze. In the distance they could see a pair of unsaddled horses, hobbled and foraging in the sagebrush.

But what was even more puzzling were the two square metallic boxes which sat under a tree to their left...the missing equipment from the f-111.

The area in which they'd finally come to rest was clear enough for helicopter access...clear enough even for Cher to make a call in to the base, so it was possible that the thieves had been picked up by others who were in on the conspiracy. But why would they have left the stolen equipment behind? And why were their personal belongings still scattered around the darkened fire pit?

"I need to call this in," she said, reaching for her link to the outside world. "I think I can get some kind of signal now, if I'm lucky."

The connection was much clearer than she'd anticipated. Their journey must have taken them to an area free of interference.

"This is Commander MacKinley," she began. "We have the equipment. We're in a clearing about five miles north of Weaver's Needle, near the tail end of the Lost Dutchman Trail." she directed, looking at the map that had been left behind. "There are just the two of us. Lieutenant Croaker's vanished. We'll clear an area for landing and start a fire for you to home in on. Make sure to send a wrangler for the horses. Come and get us."

Quickly Brad set about clearing scrub brush from an area in the center of the clearing, while Cher rekindled the abandoned fire pit. Within twenty minutes they heard the rhythmic "whup-whup-whup" of the helicopter circling overhead, its searchlights illuminating the ground around them.

Then, leaving a pair of Marine guards behind to secure the site, they loaded the metal boxes aboard and headed in the direction of William's Field.

She typed until the moon had risen, and shone full against the screen before her.

It was late...very late. Gratefully she recalled the fact that it was Friday, and she could "sleep-in" tomorrow...that is, if she could sleep at all.

Stretching her weary muscles, Mac rose and crossed over toward the fireplace, still lit from her encounter with Mic.

She should eat, she thought...or sleep. She should do the things that normal people did...fill her life with the banalities that so occupied civilization, but somehow she knew that 'normal' was not a word that readily applied to her situation.

"Dutchman's Gold" had become an obsession.

Had her grip on reality been usurped by a fantasy world that existed only in her mind...reduced to mere words flickering across a screen? Could she live a life of sublimation?

Sleep had become an impossible dream. And so...caught up in the events of the day, she sat on a cushion before the fireplace, pondering the ironies of her life.

She hadn't asked for Mic to give up everything and come to her, but he had. She hadn't asked him to love her, but he did. In view of everything, it was ironic that she had ultimately repaid him for his selflessness by breaking his heart, as Harm had broken hers so many times before.

She was startled from her introspection by a knock at the door. Who could it be at this hour? Had Mic returned to challenge her decision?

Peering through peep-hole, she was surprised to find Harm, his face riddled with determination, standing on her doorstep.

"Harm!" she said, opening the door. "Do you know that it's after two in the morning?"

"Two thirty-seven," he corrected, never looking at his watch. "I was driving around and saw your lights on..."

"Harm...I don't have any lights on, just my computer and the fireplace. What's this all about?"

"Well, I saw your fire on then," he amended lamely. "...and took a chance that you'd be alone. Are you? Can I come in?"

"Sure... sure come on in. Have a seat," she said crossing to flick off her monitor. "You look terrible, Harm. Let me make you some coffee.

You shouldn't be driving like this."

Harm settled on the sofa, watching the flickering gas logs fill the darkened room with a primeval light. Wordlessly he waited until Mac had handed him a cup of instant coffee, and had returned to her place by the fire.

"So what is it?" she asked with trepidation, her eyes drawn to the animated blaze. "Why here?

Why now? This isn't like you."

"Don't marry him, Sarah..." he asked simply...

...just like that. No preamble...no foreplay...just a simple request that would have changed her life if she had not already reached the same decision herself.

"Why Harm?" she asked, unable to turn away from the hypnotic pull of the flames. "Why?"

She felt him kneel beside her...sensed his presence long before his touch. "Because you don't love him," he whispered. "You love me...and I can't live without you."

Gently, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, mimicking the fantasy she'd just created...and then he stopped, as if waiting for a word...a gesture that would allow him into her life.

It was then, in a pure epiphany, that she knew.

Yesterday was a million years ago. Tomorrow lay yet unborn. This moment was all there was...and the next...and the one after that...each unique, separate yet linked, until they all ultimately wove together to form the tapestry of her life.

That was reality...one heartbeat at a time...each moment irreplaceable as it melted inextricably into the next.

Slowly, almost chastely she returned his kiss, tasting the warm coffee upon his lips, inhaling the heady, masculine scent of his body.

Closing her eyes, she felt the last of her facade fall away as he lay her down upon the braided rug before the fire...the vision of a starry night in the Superstitions playing like a dream on the backs of her eyelids. And then it began to fade...obsolete and discarded. Of what value was reverie, when the warm breath of reality surpassed your fantasy life?

Dreamlike, but not a dream, they made love in the hushed stillness of the room, before the dim whisper of the fireplace, each lost in the pleasure they conveyed. Touching...tasting...exploring, they brought each other to the peak of fulfillment...a consummation of the heart...and as he finally entered her, she knew what it meant to be complete.

Slowly he moved within her...finding her center... listening to the frantic beat of her heart. Then, gasping, she arched her back, clasping him intimately as she whispered his name over and over again.

And then she felt him stiffen, her body filling with the molten evidence of his passion, his eyes closed against the intrusion of the world beyond...against anything but this place and the two of them...against anything but the pure joining of their souls.

"Thank you for waiting for me." he said, his breath warm against her neck. "I never knew it could be like this. I guess I've needed you all of my life. Only you, Sarah."

As time slipped by, they drifted into the bedroom, and at long last sleep claimed them, curled together in the soft embrace of her big, warm bed. But as Mac began to close her eyes, she realized that she had one last obligation to put to rest before she could start anew...a chapter that needed to be closed before she could begin a new tale in the arms of Harmon Rabb.

So silently, she crept from his embrace and tiptoed into the living room to bid farewell to the friends that had taken her through so much.

And for the last time she keyed in the commands that brought Brad and Cherokee to life for one final moment...

"Dutchman's Gold" by Sarah MacKenzie
(part 5)

[William's Field - Apache junction, Arizona]


Two days had passed since their return from the wilderness. They'd been two days filled with passion, paperwork and bewilderment.

Gone were Lieutenant Croaker and her accomplice... vanished, it appeared from the very face of the earth. The military police still believed that they'd be found, but Cher and Brad were not as certain. Cher had a feeling that like so many others who had gambled and lost in the Superstitions, Croaker too would now become a part of the mystery that surrounded the area...one more legend to add to a long list.

Brad returned to Washington, and found that life was just not the same...not as complete without Cher in it. And she, much to her surprise, found that the fast lane was no longer enough, now that she'd experienced 'terminal velocity' in the arms of the man she loved.

And so the months rolled by, their days filled with unfulfilled longings, and their nights filled with e-mails, until one day Cher returned home from testing the new prototype to find a bouquet of roses waiting on her doorstep.

"Marry me?' the card read in tiny print. "There are other prototypes yet to be created..."

Cher turned to find her beloved 'Jarhead' standing in the shadows, waiting for her answer...as if she could have possibly said anything but "yes".

That winter she transferred to Marine Base Quantico, just outside of Washington, and when spring brought the cherry blossoms into full bloom they were married... pledging eternal love and loyalty until the end of their days.

Of Croaker and her henchman, nothing was ever discovered, and as the years wore on, they too became a part of the legend of the Superstitions.

It wasn't until Cher sat nursing their second "prototype" that she realized that she needed a little something more in her life...something to keep her mind busy until the kids were of school age and she was no longer "homebound".

She found her solution on the internet...at a site called "The Saint James Writing Group". Here she found a plethora of amateur writers, filling the screen with tales of intrigue and romance...and it was here that she found her outlet at last.

The very next day...when the kids were napping ...she sat down and began to fill her "Word" program with the warm outpourings of her imagination.

"She first met him in 'The Rose Garden'," she typed, creating the characters from bits of life, "He was tall, and dark, and she knew immediately that he was the man with whom she would spend the rest of her days..."


THE END