"The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(9/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part 1 for headers, archive info, etc.




~~~~~

USS George Washington
In the Adriatic Sea
As Daniel Saw It

~~~~~

Christ, it was hot out. 

I pretty much had Vulture's Row to myself -- no one in his right
mind wanted to venture out that evening, with the Adriatic boiling
under the late afternoon sun and storms brewing everywhere. The sea
was getting nasty, too, and the deck was beginning to pitch enough to
make even the more seasoned aviators nervous.

I didn't care what the damn weather was like. I just wanted to get
topside. Things had been so busy in the two weeks since Lt. Commander
Donaldson's death that I hadn't had a minute just to be alone and
reflect on things, to watch the sunset, to think about Fox and wonder
how he was doing.

I had to wonder, too, because I hadn't had a letter or an e-mail for
a week, from him or from Dana, and the last one was sketchy, at best -
- it said he had to go out of the country on an investigation and
he'd write when he could.

Thanks, Fox. That's so reassuring. Now, you want to explain that
damn song snippet? Or tell me how Dana's doing? Or even just tell me
how the fucking weather in D.C. is? Something? Anything?

Jesus, I was lonely, and there didn't seem to be anything I could do
about it. Seeing Jim for such a brief visit, under such bad
circumstances, was like getting one sip of water in the Sahara -- it
just made my loneliness the rest of the time that much harder to
take. 

God, I missed that little brat sometimes -- now being one of those
times. 

If it hadn't been for Jill's letters, I think I might have shriveled
up and died from emotional starvation.

Yeah -- it was a strange sort of coals-of-fire punishment, wasn't
it? Jill had turned out to be my emotional mainstay on this cruise,
as she had on every cruise I'd ever been on. Her letters were the one
thing I could depend on. I knew that when the COD arrived, if there
wasn't a letter today, there'd be one tomorrow, or sometimes two, and
when I logged on to check my e-mail, there'd always be one from her.

That was my Jill -- no longer my wife, but still my colleague, my
friend and my unwavering support. I don't know how the hell she did
it.

I'm not blaming Fox, okay? He was just being a guy, which he does
very well, and which is one big thing I happen to like about him. It
just doesn't translate very well into the kind of long-distance
relationship it takes to keep a guy feeling warm and cozy on a long
voyage, you know?

And, I have to admit, one of the things that was feeding into my
little pity party was knowing that Ensign Knox was getting letters
from her Amy day after day after day. 

But at the same time, Kim Knox was the closest thing I had to a
friend on board.

I had colleagues, sure -- the medical officers and dental officers,
the nurse anesthetist, the medical service officers -- there were
plenty of other officers in medical with whom I could talk day after
day. The trouble is, I couldn't be friends with any of them. I could
be friendly, but only up to a point.

They were under my command. Close relationships of any kind would
constitute fraternization.

End of story.

Kim and I didn't talk privately -- she'd obeyed my order on that,
hard as it was for both of us -- but once in a while we'd allow
ourselves to sit at the same table at evening mess, and we'd join in
the general conversation. Other times, I'd see her in the wardroom,
reading over her letters, with a lovely smile on her face that told
me exactly who those letters were from.

Sometimes she'd catch me looking at her, and we'd make eye contact
just for the briefest moment; she'd smile, and I'd smile back, and
sometimes I'd imagine whole conversations in that one-second
exchange: 

(Is that a letter from Amy?) 

(Yes. It is.)

(How is she?)

(She's fine. She loves me and she misses me. She can't say that in
the letter, of course, but it's there, between the lines. How's Fox?)

(He's okay ... I guess. He loves me and he misses me. Of course, he
can't say that, either ...)

(I know ...)

And then she'd look away, look back down at her letter, and I'd be
sitting there wondering if I'd imagined the whole thing.

It's not that she was the only one on the ship besides me who was
gay. I could have pointed out a dozen officers and five times that
many enlisted men and women who were gay, and that's just the ones I
knew out of the 6,000 souls aboard.

I didn't doubt that some of them could tell that I was gay, too.
They just weren't going to say anything to me; it wasn't a good idea
to talk about it, especially not to an officer as senior as I am.

No, Kim was the only one who'd had the courage to come out to me,
and she'd done it solely because she thought I needed a friend -- and
to all appearances, she hadn't held it against me when I told her I
couldn't accept.

She was one hell of a lady, that one. I hoped Amy knew just how
lucky she was.

So between them -- Jill in her way and Kim in hers -- those two
women kept me going, and I was grateful. I was very, very grateful.

It just couldn't make up for what I was missing.

I knew Fox had a hard time writing to me. That was clear from the
very first letter he wrote. That didn't matter, though. Not much,
anyway. I was happy just to hear from him, no matter what he wrote or
how little. 

I mean, I would have liked to have letters filled with his wit and
insight, with written versions of his long, introspective monologues,
even with the occasional expression of affection, but mostly, I just
wanted him to write to me.

All I got was awkward, dry recitations of the facts of his work or
heart-rending pleas for my help, help that I couldn't give him.
Lately, I'd gotten nothing at all. I'd been missing him in bed for
months, since the first night I'd spent without him, really, but now,
without even a letter to cling to, that ache was becoming almost
intolerable. Even my ever-increasing fatigue couldn't keep it at bay,
and physical release alone wasn't nearly enough. 

I just needed him. I needed his arms around me, needed his hands on
me, needed him making love to me in all the ways there are that we
make love to each other.

I told him once that having to live straight was like trying subsist
without protein, but after five months out here, I'd decided that
living without him was more like living on bread and water. I was
damn near starved for him, emotionally and physically, and I had no
guarantee that it was going to end anytime soon. I still had no word
on whether I'd be going back to Bethesda when the carrier group
returned to its homeport. I could find myself assigned to this ship
for a long, long time.

That was a depressing thought, wasn't it? It gave me reason to be
glad that I was so goddamn tired all the time. That way, I didn't
think about it so much --I just worked, ate and slept.

Oh, yeah, I kept working. I'll always do that. Even in the worst
days of my life, I kept working. In those days, I was putting in a
full day at Bethesda, then going to my ex-gay prayer group for an
hour before going home to Jill and then, more and more often, going
out after dinner with my boyfriend and coming home after midnight,
sexually sated but sick at heart and filled with guilt that wouldn't
go away.

I didn't do any clinical work in those days. I wasn't that crazy --
I could have killed someone, given my state of mind. I did research,
I did some additional training, but I kept working. I was constantly
looking over my shoulder, waiting to be outed, waiting to test
positive for HIV, waiting for Jill to confront me about my
infidelities, waiting for the day I'd finally go completely insane or
blow my brains out -- but I was working.

Things are different now. I am what I am, and I'm finally okay with
it. I love Fox, I love medicine, and I love the Navy. I'll keep all
three as long as I can, but I won't give Fox up and I won't do that
kind of psychological violence to myself again. 

I mean, I have to be realistic ... I'm probably going to be outed
one day anyway. If I'm lucky, I'll get to retire quietly and keep my
pension. If not... well, it's not like I'll have a hard time finding
a job. In fact, I'd make a lot more money in private practice. A
whole lot more, in spite of all the extra pay and allowances I get as
a surgeon. 

There are only two things that matter: Fox, and my own self-respect.
I won't lose him because of the Navy, and I won't fall back into that
horrible self-loathing again for anyone or anything. 

And it's only because of him that I can say that. I owe him so much
... far more than I'll ever be able to tell him. 

That would be all right, though, if I could just get him alone and
make love to him, make him come until he's just exhausted and watch
him fall asleep next to me ... I wouldn't have to tell him anything
then, because I'd be able to look at him and see that he knows. 

But good Jesus Christ, I need him ...

I was jolted out of my trance by the sound of a watertight door
slamming. I turned toward the sound; there was someone in flight
gear, wearing a ball cap and the Diamondback patch of Fighter
Squadron 102 -- the F-14 squadron of the air wing.

Pretty good signal it was time to go below. The last thing I felt
like doing was talking shop with flyboys. They tend to think that the
ship's primary mission is also the rest of the crew's primary
interest -- sort of, "But I've been doing all the talking --now, what
do YOU think about my wonderful flying?" conversations.

Hate to disappoint you, guys, but my mind's on inspecting sleeping
quarters, checking shot records and making sure the master-at-arms is
there to watch while you daredevils pee in a cup tomorrow morning.
I'm betting there are a few other people on board who also have
duties that occupy their minds, strange as that may seem to you.

With a sigh, I straightened up and started for the door.

"Commander Reilly?" a soft voice said.

I looked again. It was Kim Knox.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. I'll go
below."

You know, I almost told her to go, which is what I should have done.
I still don't know why I didn't.

"No," I said, shaking my head. And then I smiled at her. "It's
okay," I said. "Stick around for a minute. It's such a lovely night."

She laughed. "Right," she said. "Sea state best defined as
miserable, sir. Are you sure it's all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure," I said, leaning on the railing again. "This cruise
is almost over; I think we can afford to spend a few minutes talking.
What brings you up here anyway, ensign? I thought you'd be flying."

"I flew all day, sir," she said, resting her arms on the railing
about two feet away from me. "I was the photo bird on an ATARS
mission. Click's beat and so am I. Just thought I'd come up here and
watch the recoveries."

Click, I knew, was her RIO, Ensign Pete "Click" Ashbrook. He got
that callsign in flight school when he let a door slam behind him and
thus locked himself in a classroom overnight. That's how a lot of
callsigns are born -- as commemoration of some truly embarrassing
incident. 

Kim's, of course, was a no-brainer, given her last name, as was the
one hung on my brother-in-law, Lt. Howard Hull, who is called
"Peanut." And yes, he does hate it. No one really cares, least of all
me. In fact, I've got other names for him.

"Any particular reason you're watching tonight?" I said, looking out
toward the horizon, which -- between the clouds and the oncoming
night -- was almost impossible to see.

"Oh, you know, sir," she said, trying to sound casual, although it
was actually almost pathetic how happy the two of us were about this
chance encounter. "Bad night, pitching deck, some of the Diamondbacks
are still out there -- you worry."

"Yes, I suppose you do," I said, still not looking her way. "You
seem to have a long list of people you worry about, ensign."

She laughed. "I've been told that before, sir," she said. "It's just
my nature, I suppose."

"Well, unless my ears deceive me, that's a Tomcat coming in now," I
said. "Start worrying."

I looked toward the opposite horizon; sure enough, there was a
pinpoint speck out that way, growing larger. Definitely an F-14.
They're huge, and you can see them from a long, long way off.

They're also fast, and this one was coming home in a hurry. He was
already lining up his approach.

"Any idea who that is?" I said.

Knox shook her head. "Too far away to tell, sir," she said. "Could
be Lowdown and Surfer; they're up, and Lowdown's usually the first
one out of fuel."

"Bit of a flat-hatter, is he?" I said, with some amusement.

"No apparent fear of death, sir," she said, a bit stoically. "But a
good stick just the same."

"I thought the two were mutually exclusive," I said. "At least, they
are as far as the air boss is concerned."

"Not always, commander," Knox said, smiling that pretty smile of
hers. "After all, if you're afraid of dying, what the hell are you
doing in an F-14 in the first place?"

"You do have a point there," I said, smiling back at her.  "So I'm
guessing Lowdown is a friend of yours."

"We've gotten to know each other," Knox said. "He's not a bad guy."

I had to laugh. Aviators. I honestly think they'd rather die than
admit to any real human affection for anyone. 

"Not a bad guy, huh?" I said, shaking my head. "Bearing in mind, of
course, that you can outfly him any day of the week?"

"That goes without saying, sir," Knox said, still smiling, but then
I noticed that her smile was fading. She had her eyes fixed on the
incoming Tomcat. "Sir," she said, "he's not going to make this trap."

"What do you mean, ensign?" I said. 

"I mean he's way high and lined up left," she said. "Look over at
the LSO platform. You see what's going on over there?"

I looked. The landing signals officers did seem to be busier than
usual.

"That's it," Knox said, slamming her hands against the railing in
disgust. "They're waving him off. He's got to go around. God damn
him. Why doesn't he just fly the damn ball?"

What Kim was complaining about was exactly what the LSOs seemed to
be sending instructions about; Lowdown, instead of keeping his eyes
on the ball -- the Fresnel lens that would guide him to the recovery
area -- was watching the deck. It's a natural mistake, but it's a big
one, especially when the deck is pitching around. 

The landing signal had gone from green to red, instructing the pilot
not to land, but the F-14 continued to approach, tailhook and landing
gear down.

"Oh, shit," Knox said, and she sounded genuinely alarmed. "He's
ignoring the wave-off. What the hell is the matter with him?"

I turned my attention back to the aircraft, which was still
descending toward the flight deck.

"I think they may have waved him off too late," I said. "He can't go
around. He's got to take his chances and try to trap."

"I wouldn't mind if we weren't taking our chances along with him,
sir," Kim said. "Someone could get hurt."

That turned out to be an understatement. 

The aircraft passed the ramp, still making a slow, smooth descent,
but drifting left to right in a terrifying fashion.

It was one of those moments when time stands absolutely still. Every
LSO on the platform turned at the same time, almost like a corps de
ballet, watching as the Tomcat passed all four arresting wires, still
drifting left. There was nowhere for the tailhook to grab now. 

Time for touch and go, fella, I thought. Touch 'em down and get that
bird back in the air fast. Come on, they taught you how to do that at
Oceana.

I wasn't breathing. I was pretty sure no one else was either.

The F-14 touched down, just past the number-four wire. The engines
roared and the blue fire of afterburners blazed as the pilot dumped
fuel directly into the engines to gain enough power to take off
again. The aircraft leapt forward, looking like some strange red and
blue bird in the glare of the wave-off lights that bathed it and
everything around it --including a KA-6 tanker parked off to the side
with its plane captain in the cockpit, doing a little routine
maintenance.

The horrible realization of what was about to happen came to
everyone on that flight deck in the same split second.

I heard someone yelling, "Hit the deck!" I'm not sure if I grabbed
Kim or she grabbed me. I just know we were both on the deck damn
fast, just before the tanker took the full impact of the Tomcat's
right wing and a massive fireball exploded over the flight deck with
a sound so loud I felt it more than heard it.

I looked up again quickly, just in time to see the RIO's ejection
seat fire. The seat rockets ignited just as the burning F-14 left the
flight deck, sending him at a sideways angle over parked aircraft and
into the dark water off the starboard side. The Tomcat kept going and
snap-rolled right into the sea after him.

I didn't see the pilot eject, and there was no chute on the horizon. 

Things speeded up then, and I mean really speeded up. The ship
changed course immediately; whoever was watching on the bridge had
turned her so the wind would direct the flames away from the flight
deck. Crash alarms were blaring and the loudspeakers were
transmitting signals to all parts of the ship.

"Fire, fire, fire! Fire on the flight deck! All fire-fighting
personnel report to your damage control stations!"

I still don't remember getting to my feet. I don't remember how I
got down to the flight deck. I just know that one minute I was on
Vulture's Row and the next I was on the flight deck and the
loudspeakers were blaring again:

"General quarters! General quarters! All hands man your battle
stations! This is not a drill!"

The rest of that night seems like some kind of nightmare when I look
back on it, or a movie, or it's confused in my mind with one of the
dozens of drills we held, except that in the drills, there's no
fireball, there's no smoke or twisted metal, there's no smell of
burning jet fuel ...

And there are never any screams like the ones I heard that night.

~~~~~

As Mulder Saw It

~~~~~

"My apartment's been under an electronic surveillance for at least 2
months," I said. "Look at this, courtesy of the U.S. government."

I handed her Ostlehoff's ID card.

Believe me, I didn't feel anywhere near as calm as I sounded. I think
I was in shock. My mind kept running over everything that I'd said or
done in my apartment for the past two months or so, from scratching my
butt to jerking off while watching "Buff Boys of the Beach," and I was
getting sicker and sicker by the minute. That's without even getting
to what discussions Scully and I might have had, or any telephone
calls they might have tapped.

For the first time, I was glad that Daniel was gone. What if these
Defense Department assholes had gotten tape of him and me making love?
Jesus... 

"That's the dead man in your apartment?" Scully said, looking at the
ID.

"Yeah," I said. "He works ... he worked for the Department of
Defense."

"How did he die, Mulder?" she asked. 

She was so calm, so level -- but she looked so damn pale, and she
still had the marks of Kritschgau's beating on her face. I guess I had
one moment of thinking I should make something up, try to protect her,
but that thought didn't last. Whatever crap I'd pulled, whatever shit
fate was dumping on the two of us, this was Scully -- my partner, my
friend, my other half -- and she deserved the truth.

"Gunshot wound to the face," I said, as calmly as I could. 

Months later, when I had time to think about it all, I actually cried
when I remembered that moment. I stood there in Scully's bedroom, I
looked her in the eye and confessed to murder, and she never wavered,
she never said one word of blame against me. From the moment the words
were out of my mouth, she was on my side.

She just asked me if I'd contacted anyone at the Bureau, and when I
told her I couldn't, she accepted that. Just like that. She was calm,
rational and completely supportive through the whole thing.

I didn't deserve one goddamn bit of it, but I got it. 

The only time she seemed to be the least bit upset, in fact, was when
she asked me how long this whole web of lies had been going on.

"Maybe since the beginning," I said, "since you joined me on the X-
Files."

"That would mean that for four years we've been nothing more than
pawns in a game, that it was a lie from the beginning," she said, and
I could hear the anger and the tears that she was struggling to
control. "Mulder, these men ... you give them your faith and you're
supposed to trust them with your life."

But you can't trust them anymore, can you, Scully?

And I think some of them are named Fox Mulder.

I wanted so badly to take her in my arms ... I would have given
anything if I could have turned back the clock and made things the way
they used to be, so that she'd feel safe with me, so that I could go
lie down with her and hold her and make her feel safe with the whole
world just for a little while, but I'd ruined that with my asshole
stunts in Rhode Island. I didn't dare touch her. I just knelt down
next to her.

"There are those who can be trusted," I said, softly, hoping that
somewhere deep in her heart, she still believed that I was one of
those. "What I need to know is who among them is not. I will not allow
this treason to prosper, not if they've done this to you."

Not for another minute, I added, silently. I've killed one man today.
If I find out who was behind this, I can just as easily kill another.
I'm beginning to find it doesn't bother me much at all -- not when
it's for her sake.

If it meant Scully would love me again, would trust me again, I'd
track down and kill every last weasel in that goddamn conspiracy and
laugh while I did it, even if it meant I wound up dead myself.



~~~~~
NOTE: The F-14 accident described here is a fictionalized version of
one that took place on the USS John F. Kennedy some years ago.
Miraculously, the pilot, RIO and the plane captain on the tanker all
survived without serious injuries, thanks to some truly heroic
actions on the part of the Kennedy's crew. My hat is off to them. SJ
~~~~~

END "The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(9/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)