Disclaimers, notes, etc., in part 1

I'm turning the corner into my parking lot when the sight of a dark blue government sedan makes my gut twist in wrenching pain. I know that car, or at least that kind of car; it's the casualty assistance officers coming to tell me that my Sarah is dead…

I'm already tearing up when I shut off the Corvette and open the door; it takes me a moment to get myself under control before I lever myself up and out of the low-slung car and slam the door behind me with force that would ordinarily have me screaming at the perpetrator of such an assault on my pride and joy. I just don't give a damn at the moment.

There are two people in the sedan, I notice, but only one is in uniform, and Marine at that. I hear them getting out as I unlock my back door through stinging tears that refuse to fall. I will do that in private.

"Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.?" The feminine voice that calls out to me thankfully bears no resemblance to Sarah's soothing timbre.

"Yes," I say without turning, and push the door open to go through. I should let them in first, but I don't give a damn about good manners right now. They can figure it out.

Not until I hear the door close behind my two unwelcome guests do I bother to turn to face them so I can hear the news which will end my life.

Except that the other of my guests is Clayton Webb and he's grinning from ear to ear. And he obviously recognizes the look on my face because he starts talking before I can even put a foot out toward him to wring his secret agent neck.

"Harm, I'm just the messenger – I really had nothing to do with this at all. No one consulted me until a little while ago when I was told that one of the al-Qaeda captains we've been looking for got captured by a Marine observation post outside of Baghdad early Saturday morning– and that the initial identification and interrogation went so smoothly because a Farsi-speaking lieutenant colonel happened to be there."

I sag against the kitchen island with relief; Mac was at least alive yesterday. "And?" If he thinks that's all he has to tell me, he's got another thing coming.

Impossibly, the grin gets bigger. "I managed to trump Mac's initial assignment. If you hurry, you can be at Dover to meet her plane. She's on her way back for debriefing now, but we don't need her until 10 o'clock tomorrow morning."

I'd hug him, but something about the Marine captain beside Clay makes me think she wouldn't understand that. I wonder if she's an Intel weenie, too. "Thanks, Clay," I manage.

"He's very persuasive," the captain says sourly, and I realize then that she's probably part of the team which initially demanded Mac's services. "We may still require Colonel Mackenzie's services after the CIA is finished with her."

Clay and I trade looks. The gleam in his eyes tells me that he can fabricate ways for the CIA to need Mac's continued presence in DC for a long time. I'm usually jealous that he's so attracted to her, but in this instance I can live with it because it means she'll be safe. Then it hits me.

"Dover?" Dover Air Force Base in Delaware is where the casualties land.

"Relax – that was the first flight we could get her on. She's fine. And she'll probably add to her collection of medals, too. But she'll be able to wear this one. Dover at 10:20 tonight." He looks at my casual clothes. "You'll have to change, though. Military personnel are only being allowed to meet casualty flights in dress uniform."

I'd forgotten that; we met Bud's flight in our summer whites before the regs changed again. "Thanks," I say to Clay and the unnamed captain with him, and move to usher them through the door.

Sarah's alive!

I spend the entire 2-hour drive to Dover – I hate that it actually takes 2 hours on these busy roads! – working feverishly to put the words that I need to say in some coherent order. I refuse to let myself back away from this, even as I hear a voice in my head saying, "She's safe, you don't need to do this now. You've got more time."

I have time now, but what if it hadn't been Clay and a Marine Intelligence officer in that car but exactly who I expected it to be? What if instead of Clay's exuberant beaming face I had been confronted by a somber Marine Corps colonel expressing the deepest sympathies of a grateful nation? I cannot let another day pass without telling Sarah that I've set myself free, that my heart is no longer a prisoner of my own selfish immaturity, even if it takes me all night to do so.

I realize as I wait for the armed guard at the main gate of the base to examine my military ID that I should have called Chloe, the admiral, Bud and Harriet, and Sturgis. But something is holding me back, and I think that it's just a tiny shred of doubt that Clay is right that she's alive and unharmed. What if his information was wrong and what will come off that plane is my Sarah on a stretcher with horrendously grave injuries – or worse, in a flag draped coffin?

Get a grip, Rabb. The CIA wouldn't be that cruel to one of its own, and their information would have been triple checked on the ground long before it came to DC. I pray.

The signs directing visitors to the arrival area are clear, so I have no trouble finding the hangar. A few men and women have gathered just inside, probably by a portable heater to help fight the early spring chill. None of them are in uniform; all are wearing dark clothes under jackets and coats and I can see the look of pained disbelief in several dry eyes even as others wipe at the tears that have obviously been falling for days. I feel slightly guilty that I'm waiting for someone who will be able to walk off the plane unaided.

I've only been waiting about five minutes when the unmistakable sound of a very large jet aircraft on final approach causes all of us to look up toward the horizon and the black hole in the star-lit sky that is the plane we all await.

I fly fighter jets; these monstrous C-5's that lumber through the sky scare the hell out of me. They are sitting ducks for both ground- and air-launched anti-aircraft weapons, despite the numerous counter-measures the planes have and what has to be a stupendous amount of evasion training for the pilots. On the other hand, there's a certain beauty in the way the craft appears to float to the ground; the pilot must be extraordinarily confident because there isn't even a puff of smoke as the nose wheel kisses the ground; he – or she – allows the flaps to slow the plane initially and applies the brakes and reverse thrusters only after the plane has rolled another 200 feet down the runway. The jet glides to a crawl as it taxis toward the loading ramp outside our hangar. Trash hauler or not, it's a beautiful piece of flying.

I know I'll have to wait a while before Sarah can deplane; I see the honor guard forming up for their march to the rear of the Galaxy and a small mixed-service formation of officers marches smartly toward us. When the six officers and their commander halt in front of us, I see that the ranking officer is an Air Force Chaplain, probably a staff chaplain for the Armed Forces Mortuary here, and that the others are staff officers from the Army and the Marines. These casualty assistance officers escort the waiting families out onto the tarmac and position them so that they can see the coffins off-loaded with full military honors.

The chaplain salutes me then motions for me to follow him; we go and stand at attention beside the back of the first hearse. When the honor guard sets the first coffin into the vehicle, we salute until the door closes firmly and the honor guard, too, renders honors; we drop our arms at the command of the sergeant leading the detail. We repeat this twice more, and only after the third hearse has pulled away does the Air Force officer beside me turn to introduce himself.

"Gene Caldwell, Commander. What can we do you for tonight? There aren't any wounded on this flight…"

"No, Major. I'm actually meeting a passenger."

He frowns; obviously his briefing didn't include this piece of information. "If there are any passengers, they'll be deplaning with the crew shortly. In the mean time, you're welcome to come and wait in the crew office, sir."

"Thank you, Major, but I think I'll wait out here."

"Okay." He looks more closely at my dress blue uniform. "What do you fly, if you don't mind me asking, sir?"

"Tomcats."

"But you're also a JAG officer." Not every blue suiter can read the insignia on our sleeves. I'm impressed.

"Yes."

"Nice to know there are other fighter jocks with dual designators," he grins, and only then do I see the silver wings that denote an Air Force pilot.

"Eagles or Falcons?" We may wear different color uniforms, but fighter pilots are still fighter pilots.

"I'm rated for both, sir, but I prefer the -15s. I've been flying BARCAP out of Andrews since 9/11 in my spare time." His young face splits into a grin at the thought of all his hours in the air.

"PAX River," I nod, and I feel a smile on my face, as well. "How'd you get to be a chaplain?"

"My wingman died in a training accident and I was pretty shaken up by it. The squadron chaplain was an ex-pilot himself and he really helped me get through the ordeal, so I looked into getting some training in Critical Incident Stress Management and found myself drawn to seminary in the process. It took me five years of night and intensive classes, but I had some encouragement and support from both the Air Force and the United Church of Christ, so here I am. How'd you get to be a JAG?"

It's a fair question, and although I am getting antsy for the crew to deplane, I know I'm better off talking through my mounting nervousness than being alone. So I give Major Caldwell the broad strokes of my odd Naval career, only to be interrupted as I'm getting to our post 9/11 adventures by the man's shout of laughter.

"You're the one who let that dirty nuke lock onto your exhaust pipes last year, aren't you?"

"Uh, yeah," I admit. I never know if I'll be congratulated for my bravery or castigated for my stupidity. Sarah's the only one who regularly does both.

"You, sir, are one cool dude. Here's the crew, so I'll leave you to meet your friend. Have a nice night, Commander."

"I plan to," I say before I think about it, and the other man's mind goes exactly where I inadvertently led him.

Caldwell salutes but drops a wink at me before he turns sharply away toward the hangar and an undeniably warmer environment.

I look up toward the enormous aircraft to see that about ten people have gathered at the top of the forward ramp – it's more than a little disconcerting, by the way, to see the nose of an airplane raised over the cockpit windows – while someone whom I can only assume is the load master confers with the ground chief at the bottom of the ramp. And then I see my Sarah, looking out of place amongst the Nomex-clad aircrew in her olive dress uniform; she has her sea bag on her shoulder as though it's feather-light, but I know it isn't because I know what has to be in there by regulation, never mind the allotted weight for personal items that in Sarah's case is always books.

I hope there's nothing breakable in that sea bag because it's going to hit the ground about ten seconds after she steps off the end of that ramp.

It's actually 6 seconds because she spots me as she comes down the ramp and runs to meet me half way, dropping the bag and throwing herself into my embrace. Obviously neither of us care that we're engaging in a brazen act of Conduct Unbecoming in hugging this way; her slender form melts against me and I wish once again that we could melt into each other so this could never happen again.

Before I can gather my courage to say what I need to say, she tips her head back a fraction and looks up at me with a bright tear hanging on each lash. She doesn't give me time to get lost in her eyes, though; she's got something to say through those beautiful rose lips that smile at me.

"How'd you know? Marine Intel said I'd be met and sequestered until I've been debriefed."

I discover that my voice is thick as I try to talk, and it takes me a couple of tries to get going. "Clayton. He scared me to death first, of course." I'll tell her about my terror later. I have something much more important to say to my Sarah. "But I'm okay now."

"So am I," she admits, and we stand in silence for a few moments before she speaks again. "Harm?"

Damn, it's her "you're crying" tone again, and sure enough, the tears are flowing unnoticed down my cheeks. The words I so carefully crafted on my way here have flown out of my head; all I can do is pray that what comes out of my mouth next makes sense. "Sarah," I whisper, forcing myself to talk first and kiss later.

"Sarah, I have to let go. You took my heart with you to Iraq and I've been dying since you left. I can't let another minute pass without you knowing how much I love you." Well, I hadn't been able to string those three words together earlier; this must be better. I keep going. "I've been holding myself prisoner for so long and now if I don't let myself out I'll wither and die. Marry me, have my children, grow old with me, just say you'll always be with me, please."

Her dark brown eyes have gone wide and tears now fall from them, as well. Her lower lip is trembling as though she's trying to hold in a sob and the sight sends me over the edge. I have to make her understand how serious I am.

Reluctantly, I move one arm from her waist to bring my palm to her cheek. I trace that trembling lip with my thumb; her eyes close and she pulls closer to me. "I love you, Sarah Mackenzie. I will give up anything you want me to just to have the chance to make you happy for the rest of your life."

Her fingers are twining through the hair at the nape of my neck again as I feel the gentle pull she's exerting. I move my hand to the back of her head and meet her lips with my own in a bruising, soul-baring kiss that leaves us both breathless after several long moments.

"Harmon Rabb, I love you," she whispers against my ear, and I know that I am truly a prisoner set free.