Title: Missing Scene: JAG-athon
Author: Laurel A.
E-Mail: lalden99@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Classification: Webb Vignette
Spoilers: JAG-athon
Disclaimer: Per usual, most everything belongs to Donald P. Bellisario and CBS, et al.
Summary: Webb watches the race.
Author's Note: One of my sisters visited this weekend, and she loves
Gunny, so we watched JAG-athon to see his little competition with
Tiner. I thought it might be time for another missing Webb scene.
Not beta read, so pardon any gaffes...
After an early morning conference call to Grozny, and before my mid-
day meeting out in Fairfax, which I'm not looking forward to at all,
I decide to play hooky. My cell phone's still on, so it's not like
I'm unreachable.
I've been in town steadily for several months now, an unusual thing
for me in the past few years. Traveling has been more the rule than
the exception. As a result, the seemingly endless meetings and
briefings at Langley - made more agonizing by the political posturing
that goes hand in hand with life in DC - have been wearing on my
nerves rather quickly these days. This morning, I just feel like I
need to be outside, and not in a stuffy office. We're having a mild
fall, and the break in the oppressive humidity we've had this year is
a very welcome one.
Coffee and croissant in hand, I find an out-of-the-way bench in
Carter Park, and sit in peace. I like being outdoors in a place
where there's no ulterior motive for my presence. Like riding with
mother, it's relaxing to simply enjoy the pleasures of being alive,
for which I'm increasingly grateful as I get older.
Taking the first sip of my black coffee, I notice the bright yellow
cones lining the path in front of me. I wonder if there's a race
here today, but it seems unlikely since it's a weekday. To refute my
mental assessment, I almost immediately hear the rhythmic beating of
running shoes hitting the jogging path. A runner comes around the
corner looking less like he's jogging for his own enjoyment, and more
like he really *is* part of an organized race. I watch as the runner
goes by, and see that it's Sturgis Turner, from JAG. We haven't been
formally introduced, but I know he's the new lawyer at JAG HQ, and an
excellent runner, too, apparently. His strides look effortless; I'm
a little jealous. I'm an okay runner, but it always feels like a
chore to me.
Not too far behind the commander, come Galindez and Tiner, matching
each other stride for stride, and running really close to one
another. They're talking, no, wait; they're arguing. Gunny looks
angry, and Tiner looks more determined than I've ever seen him. They
must be in some kind of macho show-down. I smile, take a bite of
croissant, and chew thoughtfully, observing the way each one of them
is jockeying to get a few paces in front of the other man.
Not twenty yards behind the Gunny and Tiner comes Chegwidden. He's
in great shape for a man his age; and, while he looks tired, the
Admiral's gait is even. He'll have no trouble finishing the race.
A group of male runners comes along next, none of whom I recognize,
though everyone who's passed by my bench is wearing gray t-shirts
with the same graphic on them. I've no doubt now, that this is an
organized race. I wonder if it's just JAG, or some larger military
command group.
Flicking pastry crumbs off my suit, I look up in time to see Sarah
MacKenzie making good time, not far behind the Admiral. She's
winded, but appears determined, albeit lost in thought. I wonder if
she's in the middle of an investigation, or if the rumors about the
action she saw in Indonesia are true, and if that's what's on her
mind.
Not far behind Mac is a stream of male and female runners. Some of
them look familiar, but I can't place any of the faces to names.
Judging from the runners who were ahead of this pack, I guess I now
know who the real athletes at JAG are. Though, there's one person
I'd have expected to see in the lead, or at least near it, but he's
conspicuously absent.
Chewing the last of the croissant, which was a bit dry for my taste,
my pondering is cut short when I see a madly-dashing Harm Rabb fly
around the corner past my spot in the park, and disappear in the
distance. Did he miss the starting time? He's obviously trying to
catch up with the rest of the runners. I shake my head at his
competitive nature. I guess you can take the pilot out of the jet,
but not the jet out of the pilot. I chuckle to myself, at my poorly
constructed literary metaphor.
A pack of women, followed by a trailing Lieutenant Singer, passes by,
and I assume that's the end of my morning's entertainment. I crumple
the pastry bag into a ball, and tilt my head all the way back to
drain the last drops of coffee from the cup. Just as I do, I hear
the slow footfalls of one more runner. Looking to the straggling
competitor, I see that it's Bud Roberts. He looks really exhausted,
and downright miserable. I'm actually surprised to see him in the
race. I quickly reprimand myself for making a judgment based on his
body shape. I've been put through the paces pretty well by men of
his measurements, and I didn't come out looking so good, a couple of
those times.
Heaving a sigh as I lift myself from the bench, I make my way up the
path to my car. I'm a little jealous that I don't work for an agency
where they organize activities like this – footraces, picnics, or
even "Take Your Daughter To Work Day" – and I don't even have kids.
On the other hand, I'm very close to wrapping up a delicate deal to
get Sergei Zhukov out of Chechnya and over to the States, and that's
indescribably more satisfying than an inter-office running race could
ever be.
With that thought, I toss my trash into a trash can in the parking
lot, let myself into my car, and drive off to my noon meeting,
feeling much better about my day.
END