Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I still make no money. Darn it.

A/N:  Sorry for the long wait.  Work has been murder.  Some poor unfortunate souls decided it would be fun to uninstall their antivirus software.

The Fall and Rise of Harmon Rabb Chapter 8

They say your life flashes before your eyes just as death is ready to claim you.  That is not happening to me.  Of course if I have anything to say about it, I am not going to die.  My pilot reflexes have kicked into overdrive.  I have less than a second to pull up or we are going to collide with the bridge of the Patrick Henry.  I pull up hard.  This is going to be close.  In the same instant that I pull up, I feel searing pain throughout my body.  The canopy shatters around me and I close my eyes.  Having plexy in my eyes once is enough for a lifetime.  A second later, I realize that we are still alive and have not gone up in flames.  I feel the G forces of a fast climb.  I open my eyes and feel the air drying my tear ducts.  We made it.  But did we get the Mig in time?  "This is Badman 1.  What is the status on the bridge?"  Nothing. Damn, we were too late.

"Hammer, communications are out."  Skates is breathing heavy.  I am sure she is happy to be alive.  I feel our bird performing sluggishly.  We need to land.  We do a fly by and I waggle my wings to indicate silent approach.  This is not going to be my best trap.  Going in deaf is never easy, but not impossible.  We approach the deck and I feel us land.  I go to full power before I feel the pull of the wire.  I reduce power and breathe a sigh or relief.  Skates tells me, "Nice landing Harm."

"Thanks Skates."  The crew comes and helps us out of our Tomcat.  I can barely stand and I don't know why.  I look down and I see.  A piece of shrapnel is sticking out of my thigh.  My flight suit is torn to shreds and I am bleeding from my midsection.  Realizing that I am injured, my body starts to hurt like hell.  A corpsman comes to look at me.  They pull my flight suit down around my waist.  I have cuts from what looks like shrapnel grazing me.  I came damn close to punching my ticket this time.  I am informed that sick bay is full.  I get bandaged up and I instruct the corpsman to do his best getting the shrapnel out of my leg.  My injuries are not life threatening and I can wait.  I tense myself up as he pulls it out.  Oh God! That hurts.  I scream several curses that would make any sailor proud.  My thigh is cleaned as best as possible on the flight deck and bandaged.  "What is the situation on the bridge?"

The LSO gives me the bad news.  "You stopped the Mig's suicide run but it was too close.  The bridge is damaged and we have injured crew.  The XO is dead.  The Skipper has been rushed to sick bay.  He was hurt pretty bad."  Damn it to hell.  I was too slow.  It is then that I realize the scariest thought of my career.  With the skipper out of commission and the XO dead, I am the senior officer onboard.  Holy shit, I am now the acting Captain of the Patrick Henry.

"Help me to the bridge.  We need to assess our situation and prepare for more attacks."  I have never thought of myself as qualified to skipper a boat before.  I am now responsible for thousands of lives.  At least I hope there are that many left.  We did take heavy fire from the looks of it.  Once I get to the bridge, my heart sinks.  There is blood splattered around.  The windows are blown out and there is heavy damage.  "Get every available repair crew up here now.  We need this bridge operational yesterday."

"Aye aye sir," a Petty Officer says as he snaps to and runs out.

I sit down in a chair and begin issuing orders.  We are on full alert.  I send someone to check on the Skipper's condition and send someone else to find Bud.  I don't know if I could ever face Harriet if Bud isn't ok.  About that time Bud comes in.  He has a small gash on his forehead but seems to be ok.  Thank God.   He has some kind of electronic box in his hand.  "Commander, I am glad that you are alright. I have found the source of the malfunctions, sir.  This was integrated into the system when the Patrick Henry had its last upgrade.  From what I can tell, it was designed to create small malfunctions until the systems were sent completely haywire on a predetermined timeline."  I am relieved he is ok and enraged at the same time.  Someone sabotaged the ship.

"Lieutenant Roberts, good work!  I am glad you are ok.  Your wife would have my six if anything happened to you.  Can our systems be corrected?"  We have to get this boat operational again.

"I believe we can recover the systems, sir.  That is assuming of course we can repair the battle damage."

  I wonder if the other ships have similar devices onboard.  "Bud I need you to write up a brief summary of what you found, where you found it and how to disarm it if possible.  Make it brief.  I am going to send a pilot within range of the Seahawk and warn the battle group."

"Commander?" A petty officer calls out.  "I have word on the Skipper, sir."

"What is his condition?"  My stomach feels like I am pulling seven G's while I wait for the full report on the Captain.

"He is in surgery sir.  He is in critical but stable condition."  I try to keep my heart hardened to the news. 

The PA on the ship seems to be functioning so I pick up the mic to make the announcement. "This is the CAG, Commander Harmon Rabb.  Captain Ingles has been injured and is in surgery.  The XO did not survive our encounter.  As of this moment, I am assuming command of the Patrick Henry.  With the XO dead, I am the senior officer on board.  I have hope that the Captain will survive.  I need everyone to give me no less than what Captain Ingles expects of you.  We have survived this battle but there may be others.  Focus on your duties and we will see this through.  I have faith in each and every crew member on board.  We need repair crews to focus on our main systems starting with weapons.  Let's get to work people.  We are the best ship and crew in the Navy and it is time to prove it.  That is all."

I spend the next four hours on the bridge.  Repair crews have been working non stop.  They assure me a functioning bridge within the next couple of hours.  Our weapons systems are online and ready.  We were able to recover the two flight crews who had to eject over the ocean.  They have minor injuries and are back in flight.  I have them doing tight patrols around the ship.  Bud has also learned from the ship medical staff that the crew has been poisoned.  It seems the meat has been tainted.  That would explain why some of us were not affected.  It seems I am not the only vegetarian on board.  Some people must have immunity to the poison used.  It looks like our saboteur is still onboard.  Captain Ingles has survived surgery.   I sent Tuna to the Seahawk to inform them of our situation.  Hopefully they are in better shape than we are.  Long range communications will be out for some time.  I sent word through Tuna of our saboteur and that we do request medical personnel and any pilots that can be spared.  We will evacuate only injured crew members and they are to be kept under guard.  One of them may be responsible for our situation.  We are still acting under general quarantine from the battle group as much as possible.  I don't want to give an opening for escape.  I feel like shit.  I am tired and my cuts are on fire.  My leg is throbbing.  I am starting to bleed again.  The bandages around my stomach and thigh are turning a deep crimson color.  I made a doctor come to the bridge to treat me because I refuse to leave.  He cleans my cuts and stab wound.  I am given something for the pain and I am patched up.  I had to have two staples in my leg.  Even with a local, it hurt like hell.  I had one cut pretty bad on my side.  I shudder to think at how close shrapnel came to slicing me in two.  As it is, I now have four staples in my side and some stitches across my chest.  I hope I don't have to fly anytime soon or I am going to be in intense pain.

Two days later:

I haven't slept since the attack.  I am so tired.  I have about maxed out on the Go pills.  The stupid doctor won't let me have anymore.  I am going to have to take some time soon and get some sleep.  I can walk on my leg but it is stiff and hurting.  The stitches in my chest itch like hell and I have learned the hard way on twisting my body.  The staples in my side have been there to show me to keep good posture.  Our injured have been evacuated now and we have fresh supplies.  Our communications systems are back up.  We also have more pilots.  I am also still the acting Captain of the ship.  I don't know if anyone else is available or they just think I am handling the situation.  I can't help but wonder if the Secnav is pulling strings so I can gain more experience.  If that is the case, I don't think I am going to have too much fun as the Secnav's secret agent.  I find myself wondering how Mac is doing.  I never heard from her after I left Jag HQ those few short weeks ago.  Those weeks don't feel so short anymore.  It feels like months since I last saw her.  The amazing thing about my body's meeting with shrapnel, my flight suit was torn to hell, I was ripped into hamburger, but the picture I have of Mac that I carry every time I fly was unscathed.  It didn't have a scratch or a crease on it.  I finally decide I need to sleep.  I have gone too long without it.  I need rest or I will not be able to function anymore.  I am not a midshipman at the academy, I am a tired jet jockey who is twice the age I was when I was a midshipman.  It stinks to get old.  I go for a hot shower.  It aggravates the cuts on my body but it does feel good to let the steam soak into my pores.  When I am done, I don't even bother to shave.  I am too damn tired and who the hell is going to call the Captain to the carpet for having beard stubble in a time of war?  I go to my quarters and fall on my bunk. I am feeling myself go.

Six hours later I am awake and on the bridge.  I feel a little better, but I could have used twelve hours more sleep.  I am starting to feel my skin crawl.  A cod is calling requesting permission to land.  I issue orders to communications to advise of our quarantine.  The cod keeps insisting on landing. Finally I have had enough and get on the horn myself.

"This is Commander Harmon Rabb, acting Captain of the Patrick Henry.  We are under quarantine by my order.  You are instructing to alter course and leave the area," I say with my best intimidating tone.  It is then that I find out why my skin is crawling.

"Rabb let us land.  You and I need to talk."  Webb…shit.  I have enough to deal with and now the spook from hell wants to come into my sandbox.  The problem with him is, he treats my sandbox like it is cat litter.  The bastard.

This is going to be interesting.

To be continued…