Jag: Sarah

Sarah Ch. 2: The Farrow Years

Disclaimer: JAG and its characters are the property of Donald Bellisario, Paramount and CBS. All other characters are mine and fictional.

Fall 1987

Futenma Marine Air Station

Okinawa, Japan

She was a lean, mean fighting machine.

Private First Class Sarah "Mac" MacKenzie slowly disembarked the transport at Futenma Marine Air Station, and scanned the tarmac for her ride to Camp Butler.

To say that she was excited would have been a gross understatement. Fresh from "boot camp" at Parris Island, the thought of her first Marine posting filled the stalwart 19-year-old with the promise of things to come...a new life... a chance to start over again. Camp Butler would give her the opportunity to reinvent the Sarah MacKenzie whose youthful lack of judgement had almost cost her everything. It was a new beginning.

Mac turned to her companion and fellow "leatherneck". "Hey PC... see the sign over there?" Mac pointed to the logo, posted prominently above the terminal door. It read simply: "DIE FIRST THEN QUIT - SEMPER FIDELIS"

Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, Mark "PC" Wilberts let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, I guess we're not in Kansas anymore, 'ToTo'. Think that might be our "Limo" over there?"

Mac looked beyond the chain-link fencing and saw a blue and gold bus pulled up at the curb. "That's as good a guess as any, I suppose. Let's get security clearance out of the way, and we'll find out."

Okinawa was hot...not the dry heat that Mac was used to in Arizona, but an oppressively humid heat that felt like stepping into a subtropical sauna. PC however, a native of South Florida, thrived on this type of climate and appeared to feel right at home.

As she and her lanky friend boarded the bus for Camp Butler, Mac couldn't help but notice how different the area was from Parris Island.

Briefly, the young female Marine scanned the sea of red-tiled roofs, stretching out as far as the eye could see, some sporting shisas... local rooftop gargoyles. Here and there, she spotted rice paddies and pineapple fields adding to the colorful patchwork that spread before her, and giving her new home a flavor all its own.

While there was a decidedly oriental atmosphere, it was apparent that this was also a city which catered to the many American military bases in the area. MacDonald's and Taco Bell-type franchises abounded as the bus traveled along the wide thoroughfare known as "Gate 2 Street." It was a bustling community, a juxtaposition of cultures...she liked it immediately.

By comparison, the locale around Parris Island, South Carolina had been sedate and tourist-attractive, illustrating the mellow essence of the South. Its balmy climate and sandy beaches would have been a dream come true, if not for the thirteen rigorous weeks of "Hell" they'd gone through in basic training.

But they'd survived it, and it was with no small degree of satisfaction that Mac now found herself one of "The Few"... truly able to call herself a United States Marine

As Mac looked past PC at the gently rolling hills of Camp Butler, she couldn't help but remember the first time she'd seen him.

They'd actually been on a bus similar to this one, traveling for the first time to their respective barracks at "basic". A computer addict, PC had carefully placed his "portable" computer in the overhead storage for the ride across the base, and taken the seat next to her. The look he'd given her was a familiar one...one that Mac had gotten from men since the beginning of puberty.

"Back off, recruit!" she'd growled, menacingly.

He's looked at her, smiling hesitantly. "Mark Wilberts." he said, offering her his hand. "They call me 'PC' back home, 'cause that's where I always am...on my personal computer".

"Sarah MacKenzie," she'd replied, shaking his hand, realizing the young man hadn't meant anything out of line. "Sorry for jumping on you just then. It's just..."

"Just that you don't need a 'fan' at the moment?" he offered tactfully.

"Yeah...something like that." she replied, the edge leaving her voice.

"Well, then..." he continued, "If I promise to behave myself, could you use a new friend? I know I could."

Sarah Smiled. "I think we could work something out...maybe, one of these days, you could even show me around that pile of circuitry you've got up there," she said, hesitantly.

"Done and done." he'd agreed, and from that moment on they'd been firm and fast pals.

Although PC still called her "Sarah", somewhere along the line her unit at Parris Island had come to call her "Mac". At first it had been disconcerting, but as the days wore on, it seemed to suit her new "kick-ass" image, and she'd decided to keep it. And so...thirteen weeks after her arrival, "Mac" had left South Carolina a new woman...self-confident, capable and "Marine green" to the core.

0800 HOURS - The next day

Legal Services Office

Headquarters and Service Battalion Building

Camp Butler, Okinawa

The H&S Building was an L-shaped, single-storied affair, embracing a central parking area, and lined with an almost uncountable row of flags fluttering before it in the early morning breeze. It gave the impression, and rightly so, of both military might and unwavering efficiency. In short, it was totally intimidating.

Suck it up, Marine, Sarah thought as she donned her "Mac" facade. Today you carve your niche in the "real" world.

It was going to be a long day...

1200 HOURS

H&S Cafeteria

Camp Butler

Following her arrival at Legal Services, Mac had been shown to a desk in what appeared to be a clerical pool, and had been introduced to some of her coworkers.

The commanding officer of her unit was a tall, aggressive Judge Advocate named Major Chaffee. Chaffee had introduced himself, and offered to shake her hand...an innocent enough gesture. But the blatant look of impropriety in his eyes was anything but innocent.

He was easy to "read". It was the kind of look one got at the end of a hot date, when the issue of a late-night cup of "coffee" was at hand. It made her uneasy. HE made her uneasy. Given his rank and their relationship in the chain of command, she hoped that Chaffee wasn't going to be a problem.

The morning had been filled with office protocol. Her initial trainer, Lance Corporal Sam Wayne, had been both professional and efficient, and by lunchtime, Mac felt that at least her filing duties would soon be under control.

She was starving. Grateful for the break, Mac queued through the cafeteria line, choosing a burger and chef salad, then searched for a free table at which to rest her whirling consciousness. To her dismay, the cafeteria was full, and most lunch goers were now asking for their meals "to go" and leaving the premises.

Suddenly a familiar voice pierced the din. "Hey, Mac...over here."

She turned, and was relieved to find that the voice belonged to none other than her new trainer, Corporal Wayne.

"Need a place to sit?" he offered. "Here, take this table...I'm almost through, if you don't mind a little company for a few minutes."

Mac was more than glad to comply. Until she knew the ropes her options were limited, and she was too hungry to "pass" on a meal at this point.

"Yes, Sir." she replied. "I'd like that, Sir."

"Listen," the young lance corporal replied, "unless we're in a situation where the form of address would be an issue, why don't you just call me Sam. Everyone else does."

"Do they, Sam? I thought I heard some of the staff calling you 'Duke' this morning."

"Oh. That. It's a nickname...sort of a joke, I guess. You know...Wayne...Duke... Some people are just desperate for a laugh."

Mac looked at her lunch companion. The nickname wasn't due solely to the resemblance of his surname to the famous actor, there was actually somewhat of physical resemblance as well. His easy smile and comfortable manner only made the similarity all the more apparent. Mac knew they were going to get along nicely.

"So where do you hail from, Mac?"

"Arizona, for the most part, Sam. How about you?"

"Actually, I'm sort of a local. I suppose. My dad was a thirty-year man with the Corps, and he spent most of his time stationed here. For all extents and purposes, Okinawa is the only home I've ever known. When my dad retired, we moved stateside, but I couldn't wait to get back...so here I am."

"You sound like a man who'd know his way around this place. Mind if I pick your brain every now and then?"

Sam smiled. "Anytime, lovely lady...anytime."

1900 HOURS

One Week Later

Globe and Anchor Club

Camp Butler

Friday night had come none too soon to suit Mac. It had been a hectic week, and she badly needed to unwind. In seven short days, she had learned, if not mastered most of her duties at Legal Services; signed up for a full load of "distance delivered" undergraduate courses at the Camp Butler Education Center; and gotten her SOFA driver's license.

Her new roommate, Private First Class Tricia Montrose, had proven to be a real "gem". It had been her idea to have a "ladies night out" at the Globe and Anchor, the local enlisted men's club, and Mac had heartily concurred.

Tricia was a willowy, twenty-year-old blond from the great state of Alaska. She had requested an assignment in Okinawa in order to "thaw out", and meet men without beards and flannel shirts. According to her tall tales and girlish gossip, she had not only thawed out, but was currently melting most of the male population at her current duty station, the base infirmary.

Life, to Tricia, was light and uncomplicated. She loved everyone, and they seemed to love her back. It was rare for Mac to find her "roomie" at home before taps was sounded, and it seemed like notes were constantly being slid under the door with messages directed to the smiling blond from the frozen North.

Mac envied her roommate the open and easy way in which she handled her romantic liaisons. In Tricia's world it seemed like everyone came out a winner, and none, including Tricia, were the worse for wear.

Mac thought of Chris Ragle, the husband she had deliberately omitted on her enlistment papers, and her own angst-ridden life.

Life with Chris had been trying, at best. At seventeen, Chris had been her first lover, and had tapped the wellspring of her youthful sensuality one night under the Arizona sky, bathed by the light of the unseeing moon. He was exciting...ruggedly handsome...hungry for life.

It was his "Bad Boy" image that had drawn her to him, and the realties of his life that had driven them apart. If only they could have lived life in the confines of each other's arms, they might have made a success of their marriage. But life... real life...required a certain degree of compromise with the conventional world, and Chris was either unable, or unwilling, to cope.

She could still remember their last night together. Chris had pulled his aging, black Harley Softail up to the front of their rented trailer on the outskirts of Yuma, and taken her for a ride beneath the full, Arizona moon. Together they had flown mindlessly across the barren desert landscape, the Softail rumbling sensuously between her thighs, until finally, Chris had pulled up under an ancient cottonwood and dropped, catlike, to the sand.

She wondered at first why Chris had stopped there, the engine running, far beyond the edges of civilization. But the fire in his eyes, and the bulge in his jeans, left little doubt.

Smiling, Sarah had begun to dismount and join him, but placing his hand on the bare expanse of thigh which was exposed by her cut-offs, he'd held her in place.

"No." he'd said simply. "Stay there."

She'd been confused, a little nervous, but she'd stayed.

Chris reached beneath her and opened his black leather saddlebag, removing an engorged bota bag and aiming a warm stream of wine between his open lips.

"Don't you want to turn off the engine?" she'd questioned, tentatively, but he hadn't replied. Instead, Chris had remounted, facing her this time, guiding her body backwards against the rumbling leather seat, his throbbing erection pressed tightly against the juncture of her thighs.

He reached for her, his lips claiming hers, his tongue probing urgently as his hands fumbled with the buttons of her blouse.

Silently, Chris peeled the covering from her body and dropped it to the sand at her feet. Then, drawing her to him, he unclasped her bra and added it to the pile.

Sarah leaned back and closed her eyes, arching her neck, losing herself in the wild sensations he evoked. Voraciously, Chris trailed his tongue down the length of her throat, touching, tasting, claiming first one nipple then the other.

She heard a gentle pop. and felt a sudden release as Chris opened the top of her jeans and slowly lowered the zipper. She shivered in anticipation as his fingers slide sensuously across the firm plane of her abdomen, and came to rest in the downy softness between her legs, advancing, receding then advancing again.

The incessant rumbling of the engine invaded her body as Chris once more dropped to the sand beside his machine. Gently, he raised her hips, tugging her jeans and panties down the length of her supple legs, his eyes feasting hungrily on her naked flesh.

Then, quickly shedding his own clothing, he mounted once more, and again raised the bota bag to his mouth. Sarah watched as he sucked greedily at the aperture, his Adam's apple rising and falling in the dim light, his engorged manhood pressing insistently between them.

Chris aimed the spout between her lips, and she opened her mouth to accept his offering. The warm, fragrant wine rolled headily down the length of her throat, throwing caution to the wind, lighting a fire deep within her. She brought her legs up behind him, capturing him between her thighs, seeking to draw him deep inside the desperate, rumbling heat of her body. But, once again he pressed her back against the leather seat, and raised the bota bag.

This time, to her surprise, Chris began to dribble minute streams of tepid wine between her breasts and over her nipples. She shivered as the warm liquid ran sensuously down her abdomen, encouraged by the vibration of the engine, and became mixed with the heated juices which flowed uncontrollably between her legs.

She gasped as Chris lowered his head, brusquely lapping the wine from her bare breasts, sucking greedily at her nipples as though to quench an insatiable thirst as old as time.

Maddeningly, she thrust her hips against him, and felt the hardness of him nudge the opening between her thighs, but still he refrained from consummating their union. A low rumble escaped her throat, in perfect pitch with the harmony of the engine. Now...she thought...now!

Slowly, Chris licked the rivulets that had escaped down her body until he came to the moist, quivering triangle between her legs, Then pushing himself backwards on the seat, he buried his face between her pulsing thighs.

Demandingly, his tongue probed her inner core, devouring the heady mixture pooled heatedly within her, sucking gently on the sensitive nub of her desire. Suddenly, inescapably, she felt the fragile remnants of her composure shatter around her, her voice rending the night air, rising over the low rumble of the engine and piercing the darkness of the night as passion overcame her and shook her very being.

Chris sat erect, and closing his hands around her quivering thighs, he pulled her writhing body forward, straddling his hips, and thrusting the hardened length of him deep into her molten depths.

Firmly he grasped her buttocks, pulling her against him, plunging over and over again into her heated core, driving her beyond sensation to a place filled only by the joining of their bodies.

Finally, with one last powerful thrust, he buried himself deeply within her, bringing the world tumbling around them, leaving them naked and trembling beneath the inquisitive stars...and the Harley rumbled on.

Chris had been an excellent lover. That, she readily admitted. The problem with Chris, however, was indeed complicated. She didn't know why she hadn't listed him as her spouse in her initial paperwork. Maybe it was because she'd deeply needed to sever herself from his catastrophic influence at the time, maybe not. At any rate, Chris was now serving a 3-5 year sentence for armed robbery at the Florence State Prison in Arizona. To admit her deliberate deception to the Corps at this point, might precipitate a dishonorable discharge, a fate she desperately wanted to avoid. Somewhere, sometime, she'd quietly file for a divorce, but here and now might bring about more repercussions than she was able to handle. And so, she buried her secret in a dark hole within her, making sure that it never saw the light of day.

A country/western band began to warm up, filling the lively meeting place with the rhythmic twang of western-style guitars. It made Mac smile...this was one of the few aspects of "home" that she actually missed.

"Sarah!" a voice called from across the empty dance floor. "Hey, Sarah! Is that you? I almost didn't recognize you out of uniform." It was PC, and he'd apparently been sampling the local beer for a while.

"PC!" she greeted. "Sit down here, and take a load off. Have I introduced you to my new roommate, Tricia Montrose?"

PC sank into a nearby chair. "Tricia...Tricia...Trish..." he babbled inanely, his eyes never leaving her face. "A sweet, sweet name, for a sweet, sweet lady!"

Mac couldn't help but smile. She'd never seen PC drunk before...it seemed to bring out the idiot in him.

"PC, just how many of those brews have you chugged tonight?" she questioned.

"Too few to hurt me, and too many to care." he said, laughing at his own cleverness. "Hey! I think they're gonna open up the dance floor in a minute, Tricia -Tricia. Can I interest you in a few spins around the room?"

Tricia glanced over at Mac, looking for her reaction to PC's inebriated pick-up line.

Mac responded by rolling her eyes, sending her roommate a message that read: "Suit yourself...we're just friends."

With an elaborate bow, and the wave of a nonexistent cowboy hat, PC escorted Tricia to the dance floor and began to twirl his partner in ways that no country dancer had ever seen.

Mac sat alone, sipping her root beer, watching her two friends laughing and "carrying on" from one end of the dance floor to the other. She was just beginning to feel the slightest bit sorry for herself, when she felt someone approach her from the rear.

"Mac! Well I see you've found the local watering hole. Are you here all by yourself?" It was Sam Wayne, looking lethal in tight, black jeans and a Force Recon t-shirt.

Mac was glad to see a friendly face. "Not quite...Do you see the guy doing the Tango to the Two-step music? Well, he's a friend, and the blond he's dipping is my roommate. We're having a 'Ladies Night Out'. Can't you tell?"

"Looks to me like you're at least one lady short, Ma'am. Would you object to company from someone of the opposite gender?"

Mac glanced at her friends. It didn't look like they were returning any time soon.

"Sure. Why not, Sam. Pull up a chair."

"What's that you're drinking?" he asked. " It doesn't look like anything I recognize."

"Root beer." she replied. "I don't drink. It doesn't agree with me."

"Well," he offered gallantly, "Can I buy you another root beer?"

"No thanks." she answered, wanting to beep the relationship on an even keel. "I'm fine...but you go ahead and order."

Sam ordered a local draft, then settled down to enjoy her companionship.

"So...I hear Chaffee's been giving you problems at the office." he stated without preamble.

Mac was taken aback. How did he know? Was her life already the latest tendril on the "grapevine?".