1 JUNE 2003
ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

"Fire!"

Her body began shaking as the first rifle volley rent the oppressing silence. This, more than the horse-drawn caisson or the flag-draped coffin resting in front of them, convinced her that this was real. Shortly, her Flyboy was going to be placed in the dark ground, his warm grin and his beautifully expressive eyes never to be seen again.

From her left, Sergei slipped a trembling hand into hers, squeezing tightly as the tears began silently falling from her eyes. The funeral had been delayed several days – with Trish and Frank's agreement - while she had fought to get Sergei back into the country to say goodbye. There had been issues, in spite of the circumstances and for what reasons she still wasn't entirely sure, obtaining his visa. Finally, Mac had had enough and had resorted to threatening Clay, still laid up in the hospital, with dire repercussions if he didn't fix it fast. You owe Harm this, she had reminded him. You'd be dead if it weren't for him – we both would - and those Stingers would still be out there somewhere, ready for Sadiq to use them.

When Clay had tried to protest that he was practically persona-non-grata with both the CIA and State and would have little to no influence to get what she wanted, she had retorted with something that she still couldn't quite believe she'd said. I thought you were a friend, were Harm's friend, she had angrily shouted right before storming out of his hospital room, slamming the door behind her. I was wrong. It should be you in that coffin, not him.

Even after Sergei had called her later that night, telling her that he had been notified that his visa had finally come through and he would be on a flight from Moscow the following day, Mac couldn't bring herself to apologize to Clay for her outburst. While she'd been on the phone with Sergei, getting the details of his flight so she could pick him up at the airport, call waiting had alerted her to another call. She'd ignored it after she saw on the caller ID that it was from the hospital where Clay was a patient.

Later, after much internal debate, she'd finally listened to the rambling message he'd left on her voice mail. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn he was drunk. He'd claimed to love her and that he would help her get through the pain of Harm's death, that Harm would want her to go on. She couldn't believe the audacity of the man – how dare he say that to her under the circumstances - and had quickly deleted the message.

If Clay hadn't roped her into this, Harm would have never had reason to resign his commission and to follow them to South America. He never would have killed God knows how many men – according to the story she'd later drug out of Gunny on the flight home - trying to get to them. He never would have been in that crash that had cost him his life. She should have known better from the beginning, after the fiasco with her uncle. They'd always skated away clean from Clay's half-baked schemes before, but not this time. Clay's actions had cost her the person most dear in her life. For that, she knew she would never be able to forgive him.

From her right, Frank placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently as she trembled with the rifle shots, his other hand tightly clasping Trish's as they both struggled to contain their own emotions. Had they always suspected this day would come, Mac wondered, or had they managed to convince themselves what nearly everyone else had come to believe, that Harm was near invincible? Could they ever truly know or understand how and why this day had finally come? Would they ever be able to know what he had died for?

Everything that had happened in Paraguay was highly classified and that had caused another argument, this time with the Admiral, over funeral arrangements. She was sure he had been pressured – probably by the SECNAV himself – to convince Harm's family to go for a low-key funeral. She'd been incensed, even more so than she had later gotten with Clay over the visa flap, when Frank had called her to discuss funeral arrangements and she'd been told that Harm wasn't going to be permitted the burial he deserved in Arlington, nor as a fallback choice, a military honor guard at a funeral in Pennsylvania on his grandmother's farm.

They'd not really been given a viable excuse for the former, had been told a lack of personnel would prevent the latter. Despite her first instinct to bury him with his family, Trish had decided she wanted him buried in Arlington, where his father had once expressed a wish to be buried himself. What she had never been able to do for her husband, she was determined to do for their only child. After they'd gotten the runaround from the Navy, Frank had convinced her to let him call Mac, to see what she could find out.

After another long sleepless night and little caring for the consequences to her own career, she had stormed into the Admiral's office after the staff meeting the morning after that call, insisting that Harm would have his funeral at Arlington with the full honor guard and flyover as befitted his rank, his status as a Naval aviator, and his years of service to his country. He was entitled to it in spite of his resignation. Naval officer or not, he had given his life for his country, stopping what would have been a major terrorist attack in the process. She'd threatened to go over his head to the SECNAV to argue the case, even to the press if necessary. She'd tell the world exactly how and why Harm had died. He could court-martial her for it, but she could not make herself care. Compared to what Harm had lost, she thought it a small price to pay.

Without a fight, A.J. had acquiesced, calling the SECNAV while she listened over the speakerphone, informing him that Harm's family was insistent on burial at Arlington and that it would be easier for everyone involved to let them have it rather than try to explain why the Navy was turning their back on him. The SECNAV had blustered and reminded him that the entire office was still on thin ice after Lindsay's report, no matter that it had been thoroughly discredited, and the circus surrounding Harm's trial, but he'd finally agreed after AJ had threatened the same thing Mac had, to go public with the true story of Harm's death, regardless of the consequences. He didn't care, A.J. had said. It was probably past time for him to retire anyway.

Then A.J. had surprised her by insisting on one more thing that Mac hadn't even dreamed was possible and hadn't even thought to ask for. He wanted Harm's commission reinstated, his resignation wiped from the record. It wasn't so much the survivor's benefits, which would mean little to Harm's parents with their wealth but would probably be of great assistance to Sergei, as it was the fact that Harm deserved all the honors they could bestow on him, not to have the government he'd served so loyally wash their hands of him like he was some kind of embarrassment. The SECNAV had ranted some more, but had agreed to that as well after realizing that A.J. was not going to back down and after probably calculating the public relations disaster if the story did come out.

Before Mac could escape from his office with the grim satisfaction that at least she'd gotten Harm this much, A.J. had insisted on something from her. Handing her some papers, he'd ordered her to counseling. He hadn't sent the paperwork to Bethesda yet, telling her that he would keep it off the record if she would agree to talk to Chaplain Turner. As a retiree, he wouldn't be required to make reports that would be entered into her permanent record. It would remain between the three of them.

Mac had stood there in stony silence while he pressed the point, arguing that she was on the verge of a full-blown case of PTSD. Everyone had noticed how tense she was, how strained her nerves were, how she started at the littlest thing and snapped at everyone who came near her. Several people had come to him, afraid for her. Finally, he'd laid down his ace – Harm would want her to get help before her life collapsed around her.

Don't you dare tell me what Harm would have wanted, she had retorted at that, bristling, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms. Later, she would be surprised that she hadn't drawn blood. Don't you dare throw that in my face. You would have let Clay and I die down there if Harm hadn't resigned his commission.

Instead of arguing the point with her, he had told her bluntly that she had an appointment with Chaplain Turner the following day after work. If she didn't keep the appointment, he would submit the counseling paperwork to Bethesda and force her to take medical leave until a Navy psychiatrist cleared her to return to duty.

Realizing she had no choice, she'd angrily agreed to meet with the chaplain. At least if she could continue working, she wouldn't have as much time on her hands to consider the ruins of her life and everything she had lost in the jungles of Paraguay. She'd had two meetings with Chaplain Turner since then. She'd managed to talk in general terms about what had happened in Paraguay, but had so far resisted his every effort to talk about Harm's death and how it was affecting her.

As the crack of the rifle shots faded into the air, replaced by the lonely wail of the bugle playing "Taps", she couldn't take it anymore, bowing her head and squeezing her eyes shut as heart-wrenching sobs shook her body. Sergei released her hand, wrapping his arms around her, his embrace and Frank's hand on her shoulder the only things holding her upright in her chair. Harriet reached over from behind them, handing Sergei her own handkerchief to give to Mac, but she had simply balled the fabric in her fist, pressing it against her mouth in an effort to keep from crying out.

As the final notes drifted off into the clear, blue distance, she sensed the movement of the pallbearers as they carefully folded the flag that had draped the coffin. After a moment, she heard A.J. a few feet away as he held out the flag to Trish. "On behalf of the President of the United States," he said, a slight tremor detectable in his voice, "the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your son's honorable and faithful service."

As Mac lifted her head, Trish took the flag from him with trembling hands, clutching it to her chest as A.J. stepped back and turned on his heel, returning to his place among the rest of the JAG staff as the roar of jet engines rumbled overhead, the bright sun glinting off gray metal. Trish could take no more either, sagging against her husband's side as a solitary F-14 peeled off in the classic missing man formation.

The burial ceremony concluded, Frank helped Trish from her seat, leading her to the coffin to say a final goodbye. Sergei followed a couple of steps behind, his arms still around Mac as she leaned heavily against his slight frame, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. As they reached the coffin, she leaned down, brushing her hand over the cool metal top. She called to mind her first sight of him, striding down the sidewalk outside the Rose Garden with the Admiral and Bud, the bronze of his Distinguished Flying Cross gleaming in the sunlight against his dress blues.

But another image superimposed itself on the memory, that of his body, stiff and unmoving after she'd returned to the plane they'd crashed, having appropriated a truck from the terrorists. She'd choked off a scream as the truck screeched to a halt and she threw the door open, jumping down and racing to his side, knowing what she'd find even before she'd pressed trembling fingers to his neck, searching for the pulse no longer there.

Somehow, she'd pulled his heavy unmoving form from the cockpit. Although she could say that it had taken eleven minutes and thirty-seven seconds to hoist his body out of the plane and down to the ground, she was unable to recall how she'd ever found the strength to accomplish the deed. Laying him out on the ground next to the plane, she'd tried for fifteen minutes and seventeen seconds to perform CPR, willing him to start breathing again, swearing to God or whoever might be listening that she'd tell him she loved him if only he'd open his eyes.

Finally, she'd paid heed to the insistent voice inside her head – his voice, soft and low against her ear – telling her that it was finished, that there was nothing she could do. Her surge of strength had finally left her and she'd collapsed against him, laying her head against his unmoving chest, sobs wracking her body as she'd held onto him for the final time.

Gathering her strength once more, she'd eventually managed to drag him into the back of the truck, covering his body with a tarp, gently kissing his cool, still lips one final time before pulling the fabric over his bloody face. Driving to the nearest town, she'd caught up with Gunny and Clay, somehow managing to get through the story of the flight, the Stingers, the crash, her leaving Harm behind – and still alive – as she'd gone to find help only to return to find him gone. Clay had tried to offer her comfort, but she'd slapped his hands away as he'd reached for her, insisting that there were things to be done, arrangements to be made. She couldn't break down in front of them, she wouldn't. Harm still needed her.

Gunny had swiftly taken charge, calling A.J. to inform him what had happened and to make arrangements for their return to the U.S. Clay had blustered that there was work to be done going after Sadiq, but she and Gunny had stood up to him, insisting that Harm was their primary concern and the CIA could clean up their own mess now. Less than twelve hours after the crash, they were all on a plane back home, a simple wooden coffin ensconced in the cargo bay. Somehow, Gunny had even come up with an American flag, helping Mac drape it carefully over the coffin before they'd carried Harm's body aboard the plane with the help of the plane's crew.

Once they'd landed in Washington after a layover in Miami, they'd found Trish and Frank waiting on the tarmac with most of the JAG staff, exhausted after having just arrived an hour earlier on their own flight from San Diego, the lack of sleep since they'd been informed of their son's death etched on their faces. Clay had quickly been whisked off in an ambulance arranged by his mother, almost immediately forgotten by the others, while the JAG staff had moved in to take care of the man they still considered one of them.

Together with Bud, Harriet, Sturgis and Tiner, Gunny and Mac had carried Harm's flag-draped coffin from the belly of the plane into the waiting hearse. The rest of the plane's passengers had watched through the windows of the plane as the transfer had taken place, held back from deplaning by the crew. Their flight's captain – a former Air Force F-15 pilot – and the first officer – a retired Naval aviator who it turned out had served with Harm back in the late 80s in Norfolk – had joined the rest of the JAG staff and Harm's parents on the tarmac, offering a silent salute to a fellow aviator.

"Come, Mac," Sergei said softly, breaking into her reminisces. "It is time to go." She let him lead her away from the gravesite, joining Trish and Frank under a nearby tree as the rest of the assembly filed past the coffin, saying their own goodbyes to their friend.

"Trish, Frank," Mac began, breaking off as her voice caught in her throat. She couldn't make the words come, could find nothing to say that would ease their pain.

"It's okay, Mac," Trish said softly, reaching out to brush the tears from Mac's cheek. "You know my son loved you."

Mutely, she nodded, biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling. As she'd clung to his body next to the crashed plane, she'd heard the words in his voice, like a whisper on the wind, caressing her as her tears had fallen against his cold skin. "I loved him, too," she cried softly. "I never got a chance…." She broke off, unable to finish. She couldn't tell them, burden them with her regrets, with all the things she'd now never be able to make right.

Trish reached into her purse, withdrawing a slim velvet case, holding it out to Mac with the folded flag. "Harm would want you to have these," Trish said, pressing the items into Mac's hands when she refused to take them.

Shoving the flag in Sergei's direction, Mac snapped open the case, gasping as she caught sight of the miniature medals and insignia from Harm's mess dress. The full-sized medals were on his dress whites, which he would now wear for all eternity. Just the night before, she had opened the lid of his coffin, fingers shaking as she'd unfastened and refastened his medals, ensuring they were straight, scrubbing his wings with a soft cloth until they gleamed on his chest.

With a trembling finger, she traced the outline of the miniature wings, remembering the brightness of the full-sized version on his uniform. Once, those wings had symbolized everything that had come between them. Now, it tore a hole in her heart as she realized she would never see him wear them again.

Shutting the case, she held it back out to Trish. "I can't," she cried out, stumbling over Sergei as she tried to back away. "It's all my fault. Don't you realize? Your son is dead because of me." She held out her hands, still seeing his blood staining her fingers. "His blood is on my hands. I left him and he died. Oh, God, I left him…."

Finally, the events of the previous two weeks overwhelmed her and she sagged, Sergei and Frank just barely managing to catch her between them before she hit the ground. The case of Harm's medals fell from her hand, falling forgotten to the grass at their feet.

Dimly, she heard the voices surrounding her, but she couldn't open her eyes, respond in any way. She couldn't make herself do anything anymore. She was now just a spectator, watching while life spun on around her.

"Mac, Darling, wake up."

"Sergei, let's lay her down. We need to open her jacket and loosen her tie, let her get some air."

"People, back off. The Colonel needs some space."

"Admiral, I've got a bottle of water. Sergei, where's that handkerchief I handed you earlier? Wet it and press it against the back of her neck."

"Dad, do you think we should call an ambulance?"

"Give her a few minutes, Sturgis. Let's see if she comes around on her own."

"Matthew?"

"I don't know, A.J. It could just be the tremendous amount of stress she's been under the last few weeks and this is her body's way of clearing out. I'll start to worry if she doesn't come around in a few minutes. But…."

"Admiral, Chaplain, what if Harriet and I took her home with us after this is over? I don't know if she should be alone and maybe little AJ can help comfort her."

"Admiral, maybe we should call for that ambulance that Commander Turner suggested."

"Go ahead, Tiner. Tell them she doesn't seem to be in physical distress, but she fainted and won't come around. Let them know we're in section 43 of the cemetery."

"Come on, Mac. Where's my kickass jarhead? Come on, Sarah. It's time for you to wake up. Please, Sarah. Please wake up."

1 JUNE 2003

MAC'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN

"Harm!"

Mac jerked straight up in bed, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath. Unable to control the tremors engulfing her, she nearly tumbled out of bed as she fumbled for the light switch, blinking her eyes in the sudden brightness.

God, it had been so real. She could still hear his voice in her head, feel the way he caressed the syllables of her name, the strident tone he had taken with his last plea to wake up. She could have sworn she could feel his touch, his fingers against her cheek as he'd tried to rouse her.

Blinking back tears, she nearly slid from her bed, stumbling across the room to the dresser, nearly tripping over a slipper sticking out from under her bed. Yanking open drawers, she grabbed the first clothes she could lay her hands on and threw them on over the tank top and panties she had worn to bed.

Throwing on a pair of sandals and scooping up her keys from her desk, she staggered out the door. Racing out of the building to her car a block away, she prayed that she could somehow find the strength to do what she needed to do.

To be continued in 'Restart'

Author's notes- Here's the first part of the post-Paraguay story that I mentioned the last time (in the author's notes for part 12 of Lean on Me). Instead of the two-parter I'd originally talked about, it's going to be three, with the other two parts being called 'Restart' and 'Recovery'. Even from the beginning when I'd first conceived of this story, I struggled to come up with a title that would really convey what I was trying to say with this story. There was no line in the story that seemed to just summarize everything, no poem or saying or line from a song that I could find that would fit.

Finally, last night I was watching 'Top Gun' and it came to me while I was watching the scenes of the crash and subsequent inquiry. Since flying is such a part of Harm and his relationship with Mac, it seemed to make sense to use aviation terms to encapsulate the story, especially since the story begins with the aftermath of the crash at the end of 'A Tangled Webb Part I'. The first part represents the shutdown of their relationship (like the engine stall that caused the spin in 'Top Gun'), the second part will be an attempt at an engine restart and part three the recovery of the flight.

Also, given that brief synopsis I just gave you, DON'T PANIC when you read the first part. Remember my mentioning that the story was depressing - most of that comes in the first part, although it will linger into the second part. I hope that knowing that much will not lessen the emotional impact of the first part. But this first part is necessary because Mac needed to be put into a place where she is forced to face her feelings. Honestly, as much as she tries to force Harm to open up and face what he's feeling, she's very bad at doing the same for herself (which is part of the reason why I place more blame on her for what happened in Paraguay than him). It's a two-way street but very often, it seemed it was her way or the highway, otherwise, she would have realized what "not yet" meant in Sydney or wouldn't have thrown that crack about her having one foot out the door in 'Lawyers, Guns and Money' or any number of other things. Running to another man when she doesn't get the immediate response she wants from him isn't very mature (John Farrow, Mic multiple times, Clay, even John again in Harm's fantasy in 'What If?'). In some ways, she needed to grown up and mature even more than he did, and unfortunately, TPTB did almost nothing for her in that regard.

And that's more than I ever really wanted to say on the subject of Paraguay. There's a reason I've avoided writing about what happened after Paraguay - it still makes my head hurt to think about it. Nothing that happened there or afterwards was about character development (except maybe Mattie, and some of that was half-baked) or coming up with organic situations based on who Harm and Mac were as characters to explain why they were apart. Harm's focus on flying to the exclusion of all else at the end of season four *was* character-based. By the end of season eight, TPTB were so desperate to keep them apart that they used plot to do it, which is poor storytelling indeed. Let's see, they had been growing closer during the end of season seven and first part of season eight, then all of a sudden it's "you're only interested in me when I have one foot out the door" and "never" with no explanation of how we got from point A to point B? To paraphrase the late Douglas Marland (who wrote soap operas for years - probably the greatest writer in the genre - and who wrote 10 tips for not wrecking a show which was published shortly after his death in 1993 - almost 20 years later, I actually still have the issue of Soap Opera Digest that appeared in), if your audience can't figure out why, then you have failed. I had the same problem with the sudden death of Renee's father in 'Adrift Part II' (as some of you may remember from my rant about that episode way back then). Coming out of the relationship with Mic, it could have been easily explained why Mac wasn't ready for another relationship, even with the man she really loved, without resorting to such a cheap plot device.