Gas Mask Required (fic for the NCIS Big Bang)
This is a project that has absorbed a lot of my summer and I'm excited to now post it (all betaed and shiny):
Title: Gas Mask Required
Author: Dha (twenty_til_12)
Pairing: None, but there certainly is subtext for any pairing
Rating: PG-13 (mainly for the nightmare in the last chapter)
Word Count: 20,277
Spoilers: Set mid-Season 5, so anything pre-Internal Affairs
Warnings: Mainly just for the nightmare: Gore, disembowelment, etc.
Summary: When Ziva and McGee witness a murder first-hand, they and their team must work against the clock to prevent a bioterrorist attack that may claim the life of one of their own.
Notes: There’s a little cameo by the SRU from Flashpoint (another CBS series), but you don’t need to know who they are. Also, I am not a scientist but I have worked hard to make the “science” in the fic as factual and realistic as possible. And finally, I try to mimic the choppy style of the show and yes I decided just to post it in two giant posts because I was too lazy to separate it further [Chapter 5 is split into two pieces]
Link to Fic: Part 1: [Below] Part 2: Here.
Link to Art: http://community.livejournal.com/shorikurai/24222.html
You can find the big bang here: http://community.livejournal.com/ncis_bigbang/
---
Act One:
McGee was grateful when the time for his lunch break finally rolled around. The day had been slower than usual, with the team working only cold cases, and the constant annoyance of paper balls from Tony had steadily grown to a full-out war, which Ziva was winning, despite her initial protests to getting involved. The officer snuck around with guerilla tactics that the geek had only seen a few times prior during cases, but he could easily see her expertise in the area. He wished for something, almost anything to break up the monotony of the day. Holding up his hands, McGee attempted to negotiate a cease-fire, for the sake of their stomachs.
“Is anyone else getting hungry?” he proposed, standing up from behind his desk, hands still held up.
A paper ball from Tony hit McGee square on the temple.
“At the buzzer and DiNozzo makes it!” the older agent cheered himself on, fist pumping in triumph.
“DiNozzo,” came the familiar warning as Gibbs turned the corner and strode into the bullpen, coffee in hand. “Is there a reason why you aren’t working?”
“No leads on the cold cases, boss, but I’ll keep looking,” Tony said quickly before pulling to his desk one of the large brown filing boxes that littered the bullpen.
Gibbs glanced over to McGee, who was talking to someone on the phone rather quickly, before turning to Ziva, who filled out paperwork while checking some of the other papers that covered her desk. Smirking a little at the effect he had on his people, the older agent strode over to his desk to begin work on his computer.
“Take an hour for lunch McGee,” he said, stealing his eyes away from the computer for a few moments to direct the order to the younger agent.
“Boss?” the computer expert asked before Gibbs gave him The Look. “Right, taking an hour for lunch.”
“Ziva!” Gibbs called over the space between their two desks.
“Yes, Gibbs?” she asked, wondering what Tony had potentially drug her into.
“Go with McGee.”
Ziva got up from her seat, grabbing her bag and her gun as she went and joined McGee on the way to the elevator, smirking at Tony as she passed him. Tony looked up from his desk, wondering when he would get his own personal invitation to go get lunch.
“You’re with Duck, DiNozzo. He needs some help with moving the new equipment around, check with him for details, ” Gibbs continued before turning back to his computer. “You can get lunch later.”
“But Boss---” Tony attempted, glancing from the pair stepping into the elevator and his boss.
“DiNozzo,” Gibbs had the impressive ability to tame even the most wayward of agents with a single word.
“Going to help Ducky, right. On it boss.”
Tony quickly hurried to the elevator, whose doors were quickly closing. Sticking a hand between the two metal plates in a way he had seen Ziva do, Tony halted the doors and as they slid back open, he clambered onto the elevator, ignoring the grins on the other agents’ faces. Ziva, especially, took a certain joy in knowing that Tony would be performing some menial legwork when he constantly bragged about being the senior agent.
“C’mon Tony,” McGee said, still grinning in spite of Tony’s dark glare. “Helping Ducky won’t be that bad.”
“Yes, he is always full of such invaluable knowledge,” Ziva added, adjusting the strap of the backpack slung over one of her shoulders. “You never know what you might learn.”
Tony turned to reply but the doors opened behind him and he heard Ducky call, “Is that you Anthony?”
“Have fun,” McGee said, picking at Tony as the older agent left the elevator and trudged into autopsy.
Ziva barely restrained a snort of laughter as the elevator doors closed again and the car moved down towards the parking lot. It was incredibly fun to poke at Tony, especially since he dished out as much as he took; there were few days when the Italian did not say something borderline inappropriate. Some days it was all she could do to not smack Tony upside the head in a fashion not too different from Gibbs. However, the boss bore the uncanny ability to know when Tony said something head-smack worthy and normally handled the comment in a manner most appropriate.
“So where to for lunch?” McGee asked when the doors opened, revealing the bright sun on a very hot day in D.C. “As long as it’s air-conditioned, I don’t care.”
“Tony told me about a restaurant on K Street,” Ziva replied as the two walked through the lobby of the building, their shoes clacking a little against the faux-marble floors. “Between 1st and 2nd streets, I believe. Called the Kneel…?”
“Yeah, I know the place,” McGee continued as he flashed his badge to the security officer at the checkpoint. “It’s The Keel, which is another name for a boat. A real popular place for those who work here at the Navy Yard or across the river at Anacostia Naval Station.”
“Is it any good? Most of the places Tony recommends are fast food.”
“No, The Keel actually has some pretty good food. I’ve been there once or twice. Mainly serve the typical American foods like hamburgers, chicken fingers; we can probably bring something back for Tony.”
“And miss him whining like a little snitch?”
“Uh, Ziva, the term is---“
“I know the term, McGee. I am trying to be nice.”
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
Ziva and McGee sat at a table in The Keel, a nautical-themed restaurant that had little to boast about. Despite the typical upscale look of many D.C. restaurants, the small pub looked more like it had suffered some blows from a decrease in business. The wallpaper peeled slightly and the tables wobbled a little when leaned on, but overall bore a much homier feel than many of the other venues in the area. All over the walls were pictures of people with boats, taken by patrons who regularly ate at the small restaurant. Some of the photographs were faded and yellowing from time, but some were new and McGee could swear he saw one of Gibbs and an unfinished boat in a basement.
Despite the hour, the traffic in and out of The Keel was light. Ziva and McGee were two of only a handful of people in the restaurant. One civilian worked on a laptop with a fervor that intrigued McGee while a couple uniformed officers sat at another table, talking good-naturedly about the new uniforms the Navy was issuing that year. One of the servers addressed a dark-haired officer among the bunch before placing one of the restaurant’s brass mugs on the table.
“Have you worked anymore on your book?” Ziva asked as she tore off a piece of her chicken finger and put it in her mouth.
“I was supposed to, “ McGee admitted, munching a little on one of his fries. “My editor’s deadline was a few days ago but I can’t get anything out.”
“We are not inspiration enough to you?” the Mossad officer commented, more in an attempt at humor than an accusation.
“It’s not that Ziva,” McGee defended, feeling a little insecure about the insinuations of her comment. “The muse is a tricky thing to deal with.”
“And who is your ‘muse,’ McGee?” Ziva tore another chunk off of her chicken finger.
“It’s more of a what than a who,” the geek continued, his face turning a little red as he remembered Tony’s reaction to his pipe.
“Your pipe?” Ziva recalled an incident when her co-worker had accidentally brought the item from home, much to the delight of Tony, who made fun of it to no end.
McGee did not reply and instead turned his attention to the table of petty officers. The dark-haired officer he had seen drinking from one of the brass mugs was rubbing his chest a little. Another of the petty officers, female and redheaded, glanced at her colleague with concern but continued to engage her fellow officers in the conversation. Ziva, however, interrupted the geek’s gaze.
“Do not let what Tony says bother you,” the Mossad officer accosted, finishing the chicken finger and leaning across the table a little to steal a fry from the agent. “He does it to cover his own ass, which is not that good-looking in the first place.”
“Trust me Ziva,” he replied, pulling his food away from the woman, although he got a feeling that it would not matter how far it was from her. “What Tony says doesn’t bug me.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Ziva retorted, smiling as she still managed to steal another fry. “What is it that Tony calls you? Probie?”
However, their conversation was interrupted by the loud coughing of the dark-haired petty officer, whose companions were doing a mix of patting him on the back and asking him what was wrong. As the man began to lose the ability to breathe, the coughing cease and the petty officers became more fervent in their attempts to figure out what was going on with their colleague. Ziva glanced to McGee before the latter pulled out his cell phone as the Mossad agent got to her feet and hurried over to the table where the petty officers were sitting.
“We have a petty officer who is experiencing difficulty breathing, and---“ McGee began before the mentioned petty officer fell out of his chair and began to seize. “He is seizing. We need an ambulance right away to The Keel at K and 1st street.”
“He’s not breathing!” the redheaded woman shouted from where she knelt on the floor near her convulsing colleague.
“Stop shouting,” Ziva ordered, trying to take control of the situation. “Move the tables, we need to give him some room. Does he have epilepsy?”
McGee continued to talk to the emergency dispatcher as he took quick glances between the other patrons of the small restaurant and the troupe of naval officers who were now clearing some of the tables from the vicinity of their convulsing friend. Ziva was moving the incapacitated petty officer into the recovery position, gently turning him on his side and trying to keep his head from hitting the floor with his spasms. The dark-haired petty officer vomited and the Mossad officer turned away as the substance splattered onto her clothing.
“Victim just vomited, and we think he might not be breathing,” McGee added as he heard the dispatcher calling to another to ‘hurry the hell up and get an ambulance over to The Keel.’
“Sir, I need you to stay on the line for me,” the dispatcher replied calmly when she returned to the conversation.”
“McGee, he’s not breathing,” Ziva said as loud as she dared.
“My partner has just confirmed the victim is not breathing.”
“Do not administer mouth-to-mouth,” another voice came on the line and McGee assumed it was a paramedic who joined the conversation from a headset on the ambulance. “I repeat. Do not administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
“Ziva,” McGee called over to the Israeli, who was trying to move into a position where she could help but not be vomited on. “Paramedic says to not administer mouth-to mouth.”
The convulsions started to cease and Ziva reached to the man’s neck to feel for a pulse. When she found no beat under her fingers, she turned the unconscious man to his back and tilted his head back a little before moving her hands to his breastbone.
“McGee, beginning CPR,” the Mossad agent said as she initiated chest compressions.
“My partner is beginning CPR,” McGee relayed to the dispatcher and the paramedic.
“Alright, but do not administer the rescue breathing,” the paramedic ordered before explaining. “We believe that he may be another among a series of deaths resulting from a mystery illness we’ve been encountering. Our ETA is two minutes.”
“ETA is two minutes. And he may have been exposed to some mystery illness, they think.”
“Great,” the Israeli muttered as she finished her first round of thirty compressions before touching her fingers to the side of the man’s neck again. “Still no pulse. Beginning second round of compressions.”
When the ambulance finally arrived, the besieged man was too far-gone and was pronounced dead on arrival. McGee’s stomach dropped out of him as he realized that his wish had been granted. Ziva , despite being decently covered in vomit, established a perimeter before making the call to her boss.
“Gibbs, we have a case.”
---
Act Two:
“This reminds me of once when Anthony wore that jumpsuit. He looked quite stunning, I assure you, but it was much too short for him, if I recall. His clothes had been soaked when he saved a crime scene from Mother Nature.”
Ziva tried to smile as she pulled at the dark blue medical examiner’s jumpsuit, her dark and wet hair pulled back into a loose braid. The ill-fitting material was uncomfortable to say the least and the Mossad officer wondered how Ducky and Palmer could wear the jumpsuits regularly. However, she had to agree that the jumpsuit was better than wearing vomit all day. The image of the much taller Tony in a jumpsuit this small, though, made the Mossad officer grin.
When Gibbs and Tony had arrived in the sedan, the older had immediately ordered Ziva out of her clothing, much to the Italian’s amusement. However, to Tony’s dismay, the Israeli showered in a chemical shower in the back of the restaurant and changed into the jumpsuit she currently wore once Ducky and Palmer arrived. Her clothing was then quickly bagged and tagged as evidence. Obviously this had not been the first time that vomit had been taken as evidence: Tony told her the story of his first case with Kate in which Gibbs had made the Secret Service agent throw up in an evidence bag before cleaning herself up.
“I do believe that Anthony has learned his lesson to try to stand between what Mother Nature wants and what we want,” Ducky interrupted her musings as he knelt on the ground next to the dead petty officer. “But I think that if Gibbs were to ask him to do it again, Anthony would.”
“If the victim was a beautiful woman,” Ziva replied with a smirk as she took her final photographs of the body, her concentration refocused on the task at hand.
“So many would think,” the coroner countered as he glanced to her for confirmation that she was finished with her photographs. “Anthony certainly is deeper than some like to admit.”
Ziva was put a little off balance by the older man’s rebuttal. Sure, some days she could easily admit that there was more to Tony than what met the eye, but on the same token, there were days when the Italian acted more like an older brother trying to get one up over her. As she looked over to where Tony was questioning one of the witnesses with Gibbs, Ziva could not help but notice the pointed look the boss gave his senior agent.
“Shutting up now boss,” Tony defended as Gibbs nearly outright glared at him before turning back to the redheaded petty officer. “Now, Miss Lane, did Petty Officer Kent show any signs of a serious illness?”
“No sir,” the woman replied curtly, her expression somber and closed off. “He was as healthy as the rest of us.”
“Have you been in foreign combat where new bio agents may be present?” Tony continued in the line of questioning that was required of him when even any sort of hint of bioterrorism had occurred; if he could have his way, he would have asked more meaningful questions like, ‘Have you seen The New Adventures of Lois and Clark?’
“We’ve been stateside for about a year now,” Petty Officer Lane continued, looking more like she wanted to run for cover than talk more about her colleague. “Sir, are you meaning to insinuate something?”
“We’re just covering all our bases, ma’am,” Tony assured the redhead, scribbling onto the notepad as Gibbs took over in questioning.
“What was your relationship with Petty Officer Kent?” he asked, shifting his weight to get a better look at the woman and discreetly observe her body language as she spoke.
“Clark and I were co-workers and friends,” she explained, looking to the older agent who was watching her. “We went for a few drinks every now and then but we weren’t particularly close. I know he had plenty of other friends than those just in our company.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to kill him?” Gibbs proposed and earning the usual reaction.
“No sir. Clark was a good guy. I can’t think of anyone who even dislikes Clark, much less would want to kill him.”
Tony nodded in acknowledgement and left with the usual, “If you need us or remember anything else, just give us a call.”
As he and Gibbs turned away from the redhead, the younger agent smirked.
“Is it just me or is everyone a good person who could never have a reason to be killed?”
Gibbs half-smiled before smacking his senior agent on the back of the head, relaying just exactly what he thought. Tony grunted lightly with the gesture but still managed to grin when he noticed McGee looking a little uneasy as he photographed the food on the table near the dead petty officer. The younger agent had seemed a little peaked and Tony could not entirely blame him. The Italian was more surprised that Ziva kept her composure, despite being puked on by a dying man.
“Hey McGoo,” Tony teased, grabbing some evidence bags and moving to start bagging the food on the table. “Looks delicious. I bet that was a bacon cheeseburger before it came back up.”
As the senior agent motioned to the vomit on the floor, McGee paled even further.
“Not funny, Tony,” the geek complained, putting his hand over his mouth quickly.
“You not feelin’ well, probie?” Tony asked in mock-sympathy. “Must have been tough. I mean, the guy puked a good twenty feet from you.”
“Yes, Tony,” Ziva interrupted as she sauntered over to them. “We are aware that I was thrown down on.”
“The phrase is ‘thrown up,’ “ Tony corrected, smirking as he looked at McGee. “Which is what the probie looks like he’s gonna do.”
“But the vomit is expelled down onto the ground,” the Israeli argued, ignoring McGee as he continued to pale. “Why is it ‘thrown up’? “
“Because, Ziva,” Ducky added as he pulled the liver probe from the body of the dead petty officer. “The contents of the stomach are forced upwards,” the coroner motioned to his own esophagus and stomach, “by the muscles in the lower intestine, through the relaxed pyloric sphincter, stomach, esophagus, and out of the mouth.”
McGee placed the camera he had been holding on a nearby table and took off for the restroom.
“Oh my, was it something I said?”
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“And then McGoo just blew chunks,” Tony finished his story, grinning at Abby as he set one of the crates of evidence down on the table between her computer and her various pieces of forensic equipment. “You should’ve seen his face.”
The forensic tech laughed a little as she sighed and began removing bags from the crate, signing each label to keep the chain of custody. She knew how much Tony and McGee worked each other for laughs and sometimes she even got into it with them. However, once she joined, Gibbs had a tendency to catch her and she could never figure out how; it was like the older man had ninja senses or something.
“What’d Gibbs do?” Abby asked, giggling a little as she imaged her own version of the scene in which the boss delivered a swift kick to DiNozzo’s backside.
“Gave me the usual head-slap,” Tony muttered, rubbing the back of his head and frowning at the lab tech, who smirked.
“Aw, poor DiNozzo,” she cooed in mock-concern, unable to keep from smirking as she picked up another bag to sign and doing a double take. “Aren’t these Ziva’s pants?”
“Yes, Abby,” the Israeli said as she too carried in a crate of bagged evidence. “Those are my pants.”
The lab tech glanced at Ziva and noticed that she was wearing the jumpsuit she’d seen Tony wearing once. While it certainly fit the Mossad Officer better than it had Tony, the dark blue jumpsuit just never seemed to look good on anyone but Ducky. Perhaps it was just something that the coroner bore some special skill for. Ziva set the crate on the table next to the crate Tony had brought in before looking across the table at her pants in the evidence bag.
“I got thrown down on,” the Israeli explained before correcting herself. “Thrown up. I was thrown up on.”
“It was real delicious looking too,” Tony added, moving over to Abby’s desk to sit down in her chair. “McGee thought so too.”
“If you say anything about McGee throwing up again,” Gibbs interrupted as he carried one last crate of evidence in, causing Tony to jump up from Abby’s chair in start. “I’m goin’ to slap you so hard your grandkids’ grandkids will feel it, DiNozzo.”
“Leaving now to go work,” Tony muttered as he quickly left the lab, wanting to avoid at least one head slap.
Gibbs let out a puff of air as he slammed the last crate on the table, glancing over at Abby, who quirked an eyebrow as she grinned, before leaving himself, following DiNozzo to the elevator. The Goth looked over to Ziva who was again trying to make the jumpsuit more comfortable by pulling it out of places she knew fabric was not supposed to go.
“You know,” the lab tech suggested, not looking up from the bag she was signing. “I have an extra outfit or so if you’d want to get out of that potato sack. Not that you don’t look great in it.”
“You do?” the Israeli asked, surprised but curious as to what exactly the Goth had in mind; she welcomed anything to get out of the jumpsuit.
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“McGee, do you know anyway around this red tape? It’s bugging the heck out of me,” Tony grumbled as he pecked at the keys, one finger at a time. “My searches keep coming up with Kent being an only child but no parents involved.”
McGee worked silently on his computer, trying to ignore the older agent as he worked. Tony had already moved the trashcans from several other desks to sit by the geek’s in the classic overboard fashion. McGee never understood how Tony could take one joke and just keep beating it like a dead horse. The first time had been the jab and would have been funny if McGee had not felt as if his insides were trying to become his outsides. Now, the joke had fallen into the ‘crossing the line’ territory and McGee did not want to even acknowledge the older man’s presence.
“Oh c’mon McBarfbag,” the Italian persisted, glancing up from his keyboard. “You’re the MIT graduate. You could do this in a snap.”
McGee had to smirk because he had already danced around the red tape; the records were still the same even without the blaring oddities. The petty officer had been disowned at a young age for joining the Navy right out of high school. While there were no legal papers of any sort explaining this, a quick look through the petty officer’s phone records showed no calls to anyone related to him, not even distantly. Most people McGee knew, even those who claimed themselves as fiercely independent called home every now and then. The next of kin on Kent’s medical records was his commanding officer and emergency contact his close colleague Petty Officer Second Class Pete Ross.
“You could do it too, DiNozzo if you weren’t so busy makin’ fun of McGee,” Gibbs grumbled at the senior field agent as he passed the desk to grab his badge and gun.
“Boss, I have Petty Officer Pete Ross’s address right here,” McGee stated as he quickly scribbled down the address on a post-it before grabbing his badge and gun. “He’s listed as Kent’s emergency contact.”
“You and Ziva go--- where’s Ziva?” Gibbs ordered before stopping himself and glancing around for the Mossad Officer. “McGee, find Ziva and take her with you to interview Ross. Tony, you’re with me. We’re going to Ross’s CO Commander Perry White.”
As Tony reached into the bottom drawer on his right side, he noticed Ziva walking into the bullpen and only spared a glance before needing a second. The Israeli realized Tony’s stare and frowned. To say the least, the Mossad Officer looked very different when dressed out in a white short-sleeved dress shirt with a black tie on the pocket, a black pin-striped mini-skirt, and a pair of knee-high black boots with white stockings peaking out above. However, despite her hair pulled into a half ponytail, she still bore a striking resemblance to the lab tech who usually sported such attire.
“I did not want to wear that jumpsuit all day,” Ziva furiously defended herself, now catching the eyes of Gibbs and McGee.
Gibbs just smirked before moving around his desk and motioning for Tony to follow him to the elevator. The two left, but not before Tony gave a smirk that resulted in the telltale head slap.
“But Boss, I didn’t even say anything!”
“Not with your mouth.”
---
Act Three:
“I can’t believe Clark’s dead.”
Ziva tried to smile sympathetically as she pulled at her skirt again, trying to keep it over her legs as much as possible to keep as many of the male sailors as she could from leering at her. McGee had offered her one of his overcoats as they left the office, but the sun burned too hot and as much as the Israeli wanted to cover herself, she did not want to die of heat stroke. So, instead, she had walked into one of the buildings on the Anacostia Naval Base and almost immediately caught the eye of nearly every male she passed.
Currently, however, she and McGee spoke to Petty Officer Pete Ross, a longtime friend of their victim Petty Officer Clark Kent. McGee could barely even believe how the names seemed to line up perfectly and took relief in that Tony had yet to make the connection; once he did, there would be no end to the puns involving Superman and kryptonite.
“How well did you know Petty Officer Kent?” Ziva asked, as she continued to try and ignore the stares she felt on her.
“We’ve been pals since I don’t know when,” the black petty officer explained, a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. “We grew up together out in Kansas. He lived on the farm with his folks, well, until he joined the Navy. His parents wanted so much more for him; they had dreams of him working for a newspaper in a big city. He loved writin’ like it was his job.”
“Did he write often?” McGee curiously questioned, relating to how the victim’s love of writing but taking another job to pay the bills.
“Oh, all the time, sir,” Ross continued, eager to talk about his friend. “Mostly short fiction. He could’ve done great writin’ for the New Yorker or anythin’ of that sort. But, he couldn’t go to college without a good scholarship. So, he decided that he’d go into the Navy then go back to college after he served a couple tours.”
“And his parents did not approve?” Ziva could not believe that a family would not want their child to go into the military, especially to pay for college tuition.
“They wanted him to live his own life, but they didn’t want him risking it for people he didn’t even know. They thought I pressured him into enlisting.”
“Did you?” Ziva butted in before McGee could even open his mouth to ask.
“No ma’am. I had no interest for college. I’m not nearly as smart as Clark. But the Navy’s treated him right. He’s always been in really great shape and with his intelligence he’s risen through the ranks. He was gonna get promoted next week to CPO and assigned to a new company. We were plannin’ to celebrate at The Keel today.”
“But you did not go,” Ziva countered, remembering only seeing the victim, Petty Officer Lane, and two others, none of whom were black.
“I’ve been working on getting the new uniforms for everyone in the building, ma’am. We’re supposed to adopt them by fiscal 2008. We just got a shipment this morning and I couldn’t spare time for lunch. Wish I had though.”
Ziva’s gaze softened as she recognized the loss the petty officer felt, knowing how time lost could never be regained. Now his friend was gone, Ross would never get a chance to say so many things and the Israeli could not help but feel a knot develop in her stomach as she recalled her failed attempts to revive the young Kent. McGee also noticed the remorse Ross felt and instead decided to change the subject.
“Tell us about your CO,” the geek stated, knowing that Tony and Gibbs were in the other room interviewing the Commander.
“Commander White?” the black seemed almost surprised by the change in subject. “He’s stern but compassionate. He knows what he’s doing and makes sure that we all know that. I think he just got reassigned from overseas a couple months ago.”
“You think?” Ziva picked up the line of questioning, hoping that this could be a lead.
“Yeah,” Ross replied, watching the Israeli suspiciously. “I don’t know the exact day. There’s some serious reassignment going on right now. Commander White said it had something to do with the change in plans for Iraq.”
“So, he treats you fairly?” Ziva continued, not giving McGee a chance.
“Yes ma’am,” the black looked more and more uneasy as the Mossad Officer seemed to grow more aggressive. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“What my partner is trying to imply is,” McGee glanced over at Ziva, who crossed and recrossed her legs, trying to move herself into a position that would attract less attention to her. “Would Commander White have any reason to want to kill Clark Kent?”
“No sir.”
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“Are you new here, Commander?” Gibbs questioned as Tony stood next to one of the naval officer’s cabinets, leaning against it with a notepad in hand.
“I am,” White answered gruffly as he sat a little forward in his chair, leaning on one elbow on his desk and carefully watching an unlit cigar in a glass ashtray close to where Gibbs sat. “Who’s askin’?”
Gibbs smirked a little as he pulled out his badge and flashed the credentials as he took a once-over of the Commander. The man’s temples bore the first hints of aging and he looked as if to be nearing the end of his days in the Navy. His face bore wrinkles and the pockmarks of war, but a proud grimace kept Gibbs from wondering how age was affecting his personality.
“NCIS,” Gibbs continued, already beginning to like the commander. “Two of our agents witnessed the death of one of your petty officer’s this morning.”
“Yeah, Kent,” White replied, his face darkening a little as he glanced over to a file sitting on his desk. “He was a good kid. Young, but good.”
“That his file?”
“I’m sure administration won’t mind you borrowing it.”
Tony laughed a little where he leaned but when he received not one but two glares, he quieted and went back to taking notes.
“How long have you been here at Anacostia?” Gibbs asked as he turned back to face the Commander.
“Long enough,” White muttered as he reached for the cigar and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. “They’re callin’ me chief,” he motioned towards the door “I hate being called chief. Kent ‘specially loved callin’ me chief.”
“Are you two old friends?” Tony piped up from next to the cabinet, glancing up from his notepad.
“He served under me on one tour over in Iraq,” White explained, gnawing on the edge of the cigar, “Told ‘im to call me chief, you know to keep his morale up, try that whole mentor thing. The whole company started calling me chief.”
A gentle knock on the door interrupted the interview and the commander looked a little more than irritated as he pulled the cigar from his mouth and stuck it back in the glass ashtray. Gibbs glanced to White, who spoke to the investigator without words in a way that only ex-military could.
“Who is it?” the commander asked, following protocol, but looking more like he would rather shoot himself in the face then allow visitors.
“It’s Lane, chief,” a woman answered quietly and Tony recognized the voice as the officer they had questioned before.
“Great Caesar’s Ghost, don’t call me chief!” White cantankerously called back, rolling his eyes and giving Gibbs a grimace before continuing, “I’m busy, Lane. What’s the concern?”
“You wanted Officer Kent’s personal effects?” Lane asked, her voice sounding less steady than it had when the two NCIS agents questioned her earlier.
“Enter,” White admitted the redhead into his office and she ducked in through the door with a cardboard box of things from the dead petty officer’s desk.
Tony silently offered to take the box and she smiled graciously in reply but continued into the office as the Italian closed the door behind her. White and Gibbs both stood as Lane moved towards the desk, a look in her eyes both recognized. As White cleared a portion of his desk, Gibbs turned back to look at Tony, who seemed more sedate than usual. The eye contact spoke of the mutual agreement to say nothing and they instead moved towards the door of the office.
“We can continue this later, Commander,” Gibbs offered, remembering the loss of his own Caitlyn Todd.
“Nah, we can finish this,” White returned in a stubborn refusal to admit the pain Gibbs knew the man was feeling. “Lane, just put Kent’s things on my desk.”
“Yes chief,” the woman murmured quietly pushing an imaginary hair behind her ear after setting the cardboard box on her CO’s desk.
“Toldja not to call me chief, Lane,” the commander said softly, not the bellowing bark from before.
Tony glanced over at Gibbs and the two left quietly, leaving Commander White and Petty Officer Lane to talk. Tony knew from personal experience to give those grieving some space, especially those suffering from the loss of a friend. The death of Kate had hit the team like a bombshell; it had been sudden and unexpected. Gibbs had taken on a much nicer attitude, Abby had cried and played a maudlin dirge, and the only person who stayed their normal self was Ziva. Then again, Tony had initially hated the woman. The way that she just strutted into the bullpen asking where Gibbs was had just put him off, especially since she had sat down at Kate’s desk and assumed she could have it.
He could barely believe that Kate died almost three years ago. The time certainly had flown. Between the heavy case work, the undercover mission involving Jeanne, Tony felt he had not spent much time thinking of his former partner. He regretted not devoting as much time to prayer as he promised her ghost one night alone in his apartment when nightmares of her death tormented him. However, he returned to the present and found his boss watching him with a curious gaze. As the younger agent closed the wooden door, though, he smirked a little at the older man.
“Y’know, she’s a red---“
Gibbs interrupted the Italian with a head slap.
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
Working quietly, Jimmy Palmer pressed the films from the X-Rays onto the viewer on the wall, hooking the sheet under the edges of the machine before flicking the light switch on. He did not stay in front of the machine long and instead returned to the body, wondering exactly how Ducky did what he did. The doctor bore the impeccable ability to diagnose the cause of death within only a few clues and Palmer simply could never pick up on all of the things that the older man did. Just standing here and taking the time to look the Petty Officer over for injuries, the assistant mortician found no obvious cause of death; no gaping wounds, no bullet holes, not even bruises. But then something came to the young brunette and he moved to the head of the victim.
“I don’t know exactly what to say,” the young man began as he pulled up a chair from another table to sit on.
What could he say to a corpse? ‘Sorry, you’re dead. We’re gonna find who did this’ or would he go more along the lines of ‘we’re sorry for your loss’? Palmer shook his head as he gazed at the petty officer. Jimmy examined the well-built body, black hair, and almost flawless skin, amazed at how well a human body could be made. His admiration was not some sort of sick fascination, but instead awe at whoever or whatever created the universe.
“Um, hi,” Palmer nervously continued, adjusting his glasses and awkwardly smiling at the corpse on the table. “My name’s Jimmy and your name is Clark, I think.”
He checked the clipboard by the victim’s left hand and scanned the collection of papers to read from a pastel yellow sheet, “Yeah, Clark… Kent. Your name’s Clark Kent? That’s something DiNozzo would name his kid.”
When nothing but silence filled the autopsy room, he flipped through some of the papers on the clipboard again, more for show than anything; his brain could not produce much more conversation. He glanced to the petty officer and remembered a case a few months ago with a naval officer who looked similar.
“You know,” Palmer said aloud, trying to make himself a little more comfortable with the idea of talking to a dead body. “This reminds me of a case a couple months ago. An officer in real good shape like you are, dead for unknown reasons, like you. I can’t find anything on your x-rays to suggest that you even died in the first place.”
“But we came to realize that it was a bio-agent,” came Ducky’s weathered voice as the coroner walked slowly from the sliding doors towards the table where his assistant sat with the dead body. “A toxic gas known as GB, or Sarin.”
“Doctor!” Palmer started, jumping to his feet and knocking over the stool he had sat on. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Relax, Mr. Palmer,” the older man attempted to calm the assistant. “I was just coming to check on Mr. Kent here.”
“He’s the same, doctor,” Palmer admitted, picking up his stool from the floor and righting it carefully. “Still dead, that is.”
Ducky chuckled a little at the younger man’s poor attempt at humor before replying, “He is indeed. But Mr. Kent, I’m sure, enjoyed your conversation with him. Quite riveting.”
“Not really,” Palmer blurted out, trying to relay his awkward attempt at mimicking Ducky.
“Mr. Palmer, if you would, check in with Abby, please. I will continue here.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Palmer darted from the room, the sliding doors almost not opening fast enough, Ducky turned back to face the dead petty officer. Something about the dead man did remind the coroner of the case his assistant mentioned. The lack of external injuries and bruising provided very little in the way of an explanation of the petty officer’s last hours and, from the x-rays on the wall, the young man died of something other than asphyxiation. So far, the doctor had little in the way of a cause of death.
“Perhaps it was something similar that killed you, my friend,” Ducky admitted, leaning over the body a little to get a better look at the dead man’s face. “You should not be here on my table; that is the only thing I am certain of.”
---
Act Four
Tony smacked his computer again and glared over at McGee, who seemed to be having much less frustration with his own machine. The geek continued to type furiously, apparently working on a lead that the Italian could not seem to pick up on. Looking for sympathy, Tony glanced over across the bullpen to Ziva, who still wore Abby’s shirt and skirt; the boots were taken off almost anytime that she got off her feet. However, the Israeli too buried herself in some papers before making a phone call.
“Don’t blame it for your mistakes, DiNozzo,” Gibbs muttered as he strode into the bullpen, looking about ready to hurt someone. “Tell me, one of you has a lead.”
“Boss, I couldn’t find any parents of our petty officer,” Tony supplied hurrying to Gibbs’s side. “I was looking for maybe some family reasons to kill him, like drug smuggling history, or rich background. But there’s nothing, no family names even on the birth certificate. So it’s they’re either in witness protection---”
“Or they disowned him,” the older man finished as he glanced over to McGee, hoping the geek had a better lead.
“I went looking into Witness Protection and there’s no trace of a ‘Kent’ in the system, so I thought he might have been disowned,” McGee continued on Gibbs’s train of thought. “I called down to Agent Lee earlier to check in on the specifics, but---“
“When you’re disowned McGee, there aren’t any legal documents,” Tony interrupted, his usual smile fading as he remembered his own father disowning him in a rather dramatic fashion: announcing it to the entire extended family at a reunion before proceeding to physically kick him out of the house. “It just kinda happens.”
As Ziva sidled up to the Italian, she took care in examining him discreetly; something about the shuttered look in the usually bright green eyes allowed her to presume quite a bit about her partner, especially since she had done research on all of them for Ari only two years ago. She knew about the DiNozzo family and the large, wealthy family business in New York, knew about his father and the death of his biological mother, but, as the Italian had said, there were no legal documents that disconnected Tony from his family.
“I know, Tony,” McGee blazed onward, before picking up a remote from his desk and clicking a couple of the buttons to bring up a death certificate on the plasma between his and Tony’s desks. “Jonathan Kent, our petty officer’s father, died while Clark was over in Iraq.”
“But the death record says Jonathan Shuster,” Ziva commented, staring intently at the plasma.
“Yeah, he and his wife Martha legally changed their names while Clark was in Iraq,” the geek added, drawing in a grimace from Tony and a dark frown from Gibbs. “When Clark got back from his tour, the family farm was sold to some other family, and he couldn’t find his family anywhere. So, he moved here to D.C. and applied to work at Anacostia, where he met Petty Officer’s Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen.”
“So, maybe his parents wanted to cap him?” Tony suggested, trying to sound less hollow than he felt.
“It could happen,” Ziva admitted before launching her own theory, “ However, I called a couple contacts to see if there was any sort of chatter and it turns out that there have been some murmurs about someone working from the inside the Navy to stage a potential terrorist attack.”
“And we just found out about this now?” Gibbs turned on the Israeli, who almost immediately jumped back to defend herself.
“I have been trying to rely less on my contacts because there have been some attempts to find moles in the cells where they are located.”
“So you’re watching out for the well-being of terrorists?”
“They are not terrorists! They are reliable double agents working to keep this country safe.”
“Like Ari?”
Ziva froze in place, her mouth sealed as McGee and Tony stood almost gawking at the conflict that had just erupted between her and Gibbs. However, before anyone could so much as reply, the phone on Gibbs’s desk rang loudly and he broke the tense staring contest with Ziva to answer it. Tony quietly backed towards his desk as Ziva turned on her heel and strode from the bullpen, well as much as she could in a mini-skirt and long stockings. Tony, however, frowned a little as he thought of whom she could go to. Ducky and Abby would certainly lend their ear to Gibbs before the Israeli, and DiNozzo found himself feeling a little sorry for the woman.
Sure, her revelation had been a bit of a bombshell, but Tony knew that Ari had been in Ziva’s care when the terrorist had met his end with Gibbs’s gun. The Italian knew from personal experience that working with anyone for long formed a bond; Ziva surely had grieved the loss of Haswari, even when everyone else was gunning for him with a passion that bordered on obsession. Initially, Tony had not even taken the time to consider her feelings around his death, especially considering how well she hid her emotions, rivaling Gibbs in who wore the best poker face.
“That was Abby,” Gibbs interrupted Tony’s thoughts. “She thinks she might have something for us.”
“Boss, what about Ziva?” McGee asked, unusually timid, but understandably so when his boss looked about to kill him just for speaking.
“Get down to Abby’s lab, I’ll worry about Ziva,” the older man almost snarled, his irritation apparent.
Tony and McGee scampered towards the back elevator, glancing at each other before Tony simply shrugged and pressed the button in the elevator to close the doors. However, as the metal doors slid shut, the two agents could see Gibbs sit back down at his desk for a second before getting up again, looking sincerely frustrated.
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“Hey guys!” Abby greeted Tony and McGee as they entered the lab before she noticed the younger man’s pale complexion. “Oh, McGee. Should I get you a trash can?”
“No, Abby,” the geek said before Tony interrupted him.
“Gibbs said you had something?”
“Yeah, I do,” the lab tech added before noticing that her silver-haired fox had yet to make an appearance. “Where’s the bossman?”
Glancing at each other, Tony and McGee attempted to salvage some sort of lie to tell her, but before they could even begin to weave the fib, the Goth drew her own conclusions.
“It’s Ziva isn’t it,” Abby asked, her hands twisted into claw-like forms as if she were trying to read their minds.
When Tony nodded, she gave a loud whoop before performing a victory dance of sorts, jumping from foot to foot, causing her chains to jingle as she did so. The loud beeping of one of her machines caused her to cease and she smirked at the two NCIS agents who seemed a little calmer. The smug look on Abby’s face caused Tony to grin back, already empathizing a little but McGee still gave the impression that someone may have killed his cat.
“Our minds are no match for your powers, Abby-Wan,” Tony said, trying to ease his own discomfort.
“Ooooh! I like it!” Abby exclaimed back bouncing around again before turning back to face her computer screens and waiting only a couple seconds for her two friends to amble to the space between her computer and the plasma. “Okay, so I was looking some of the yummy evidence you guys brought back and there’s some pretty interesting stuff. First is the puke all over Ziva’s clothes.”
“It was pleasantly colored,” Tony added, taking a jab at McGee. “Isn’t that right, McBarfbag?”
“Tony,” the geek warned, his tone displaying just how aggravated he was.
“It is this really kind of cool color,” Abby admitted, trying to find the right words to describe the color of the vomit she had been swabbing earlier. “Kind of a gray-orange color, like the sunset almost. He must have had some peppers or something.”
“Or magic kool-aid,” DiNozzo joked, unable to resist the reference.
“Very, very true, Tony,” the lab tech complimented the older man. “Ducky actually told me about a theory he has. Something to do with a poison. You’d have to talk to him though to get it. He had this really elaborate explanation with words that only Ducky could say.”
As McGee turned to potentially leave, Abby stopped him with a scowl and he turned back to face the plasma.
“What I called you guys down here for was this,” the Goth explained as she pressed a few keys and a large graph with a variety of different colored bars of diverse lengths. “I took a look and what made up the puke and found the usual suspects, except for that guy on the far right.”
“I don’t think I can even hope to know what those numbers mean,” Tony acknowledged, squinting a little as if it could help him better understand.
“Isopropylamine?” McGee asked, peeking back at Abby for an explanation and she did not disappoint.
“Very good McGee! I’m surprised you even knew that. Not many know how these babies work. Anyway, it’s the stuff they use in Round-Up and other herbicides,” the lab tech clarified, swiveling around to flash McGee a grin, impressed by his quick evaluation. “But the catch is that it isn’t in a high enough concentration to do much damage. Sure, our victim would’ve had a serious bellyache, but it wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Not by a long shot.”
“So, this means….?” Tony asked, not quite following the woman’s train of thought.
“It means, Tony,” Abby delightfully explicated, a little eager to make sure they knew what was going on in her head. “that it was used in whatever killed Petty Officer Kent. The isopropylamine was not the limiting reactant.”
“Now you really lost me Abs.”
“Okay, so a chemical reaction normally can be carried out until one of the reactants runs out. In this case, the isopropylamine was neutralizing something. Once all of this other reactant was neutralized, all the leftover isopropylamine just stuck around. So, this is one part of whatever killed our petty officer. I would bet that there’s at least two other components that make it up.”
“Makes sense,” Tony consented, crossing his arms as he thought about it.
“But here’s the kicker,” Abby continued, grinning even more. “I also checked out some of the mugs that you gave me to look at. Guess what was in them.”
“The isopropo---stuff.”
“That and a couple other things,” the lab tech could not help but nearly giggle in excitement when McGee turned around to look at her, almost as anxious as she was for the answer. “isopropyl alcohol being one of them.”
She looked at the two of them, expecting them to jump all over her an answer. When neither seemed to make any sort of connection, she gestured with her hands to McGee to provide the answer. He certainly did not know, and his mouth opened and closed a few times while trying to make a connection. The silence then caused Tony to turn around to look at Abby as well. She waved her hands again in an attempt to push them to answer. However, neither did; Tony simply watched her, as if her face would give some sort of clue, and McGee found himself performing his fish imitation again.
“It’s one half of the mix needed for Sarin,” announced Ducky as he stood in the doorway, with a Petri dish in his hand.
“Ducky! You spoiled it!” Abby whined as the coroner meandered over to her, looking a little grim.
“I think that this may be another of a series of killings, my dear,” he admitted to the three gathered around Abby’s computer. “But to be sure, we will need to test this tissue sample from our dead petty officer.”
“Yeah, didn’t we have a case a couple months ago that had a guy who died from Sarin ingestion?” McGee offered, his eyes now lighting up in recognition as he remembered.
“We never caught the killer though, Timothy,” Ducky explained as Abby took the Petri dish from him and began cutting the sample into smaller pieces. “And did you finish the toxicology report yet, Abigail?”
“Still runnin’ Duck-meister,” the lab tech replied. “Have you seen Gibbs yet? I called him.”
“He has something to deal with first,” Tony stated quickly, trying to dismiss the subject.
When Abby stared at him intensely, the Italian had the feeling that if she could read minds, she would be doing so now. McGee took this opportunity to head towards the doorway. He attempted to sneak quietly away but had to stop when he came face-to-face with the boss himself. Gibbs looked pissed, beyond pissed, but Ziva stood directly behind him, so that had to count for something.
“McGee,” the older man acknowledged the geek before moving past him.
“Hey Gibbs!” the geek heard from behind him before DiNozzo joined him in the hallway.
“I can only say that it’s magic,” Tony joked, referring to Ziva. “There’s no other person in the world besides Gibbs that could piss someone off and then make it up within ten minutes.”
“We’re gonna need Ziva,” McGee admitted, knowing that there could potentially be some terrorist activity. “I’m glad that she seems okay.”
“She always seems okay, McGoo,” the Italian commented with a grin. “She’s Ziva, it’s what she does.”
---
Act Five:
“Duck, do you really think it’s Sarin?”
Ziva glanced over at Gibbs, who was currently deep in discussion with Ducky, from where she stood next to Abby, a questioning eyebrow cocked. The lab tech noticed this and pulled up a new window on her computer, revealing a space fill model of what looked to be a ridiculously complicated molecule. Abby turned to face Ziva, pulling her gaze back to the plasma. Pointing to the screen of her own computer, she then pulled up the results for the mass spectrometer next to it.
“Abby, my dear,” Ducky commented, approaching the plasma himself, “Were there any sort of identifiers in the isopropylamine?”
“Nope,” the lab tech bubbled back, “But I’m working on that tissue sample you sent me, it’s likely that if this is Sarin, other components were absorbed into the body before he upchucked.”
“Is there any serious potential that this could be an attack?” Gibbs asked, his ice blue eyes filled with a barely-contained alarm as he moved to Abby’s other side.
“What does the famous gut say?” Abby asked, curious as to the older man’s ideas.
“Abby,” the agent warned, his gaze darkening as he watched Abby’s bubbly mood become somber as she looked back to the screen then back to him.
“There is potential,” Ziva interrupted before the lab tech could even reply. “We have had three cases now with the same bioweapon responsible.”
“I’m still testing that,” Abby inserted as a caveat, “Ducky and I don’t know for sure. It’s just a very strong conjecture.”
“Quite,” Ducky added, his grimace already foretelling of the potential danger. “However, we have a very strong but.”
“Ooh Ducky, I didn’t even know,” the lab tech smirked at the mortician, her lively mood resurfacing. “Where do you work out?”
“Abby!” Gibbs brought his hand behind her head in what served to warn her of the potential head-slap. “Just because I sent DiNozzo on an errand doesn’t mean you need to fill his place.”
“Sorry bossman,” the Goth apologized, returning to the computer screen. “Well, I think what Ducky really meant was that the most important component of Sarin is pretty hard to come by.”
“How hard?”
“Well, the component I’m talking about is the methylphosphonyl difluoride. It’s a Schedule 1 substance because of its connection to making binary chemical weapons. You’d have to have some serious clearance to get some of this stuff and even more sophisticated equipment to make Sarin from it.”
“Surely there are stockpiles of nerve agents still in the U.S.,” Ziva interrupted, a skeptical look donning her face. “For research at the least.”
“Nope,” Abby turned now to face the Israeli. “DOD destroyed it all back in ’02. The Army finished first with its stockpiles. Trust me, it was a big deal, especially considering how close to 9/11 it was.”
“What if one perhaps got a hold of one of these weapons before the destruction?” Ducky asked, leaning a little on the lab tech’s desk.
“Well, most of them were M687 artillery shells and very small compact grenades,” the Goth attempted to explain, her memory of the Sarin gas limited by her standards but large when compared to any other. “The pressure has to be really high to keep Sarin in gas form,” she emulated this by miming squeezing something between her hands “I think some guy tried it a few years ago but Sarin decomposes really quickly in terms of other chemical weapons. I think the shelf-life is something like five years if the components are kept separate until they’re used, but if it’s just Sarin, it won’t last long. Like, you know how Ziva got puked on this morning? The Sarin had already decomposed by the time it hit her because of all the impurities in it. Well, that and the petty officer had already partially digested it.”
“So there’s no potential,” Gibbs summed, relaxing just a little as he watched the lab tech.
“Not non-existent, but not really huge,” Abby spoke, elaborating this point by waving her hands around, first in small circles then larger ones.
“But the chatter-” Ziva began, looking a little more than confused.
“Could be for another attack, my dear,” Ducky explained, paling a little himself as he spoke. “Which means we shouldn’t stare at this too long.”
“I’ll inform the director,” Gibbs stated matter-of-factly in a manner almost militaryesque before turning to leave, his stride quick and purposeful as he left.
“Let me know, Abigail,” the coroner said with a slight grimace, not looking forward to the wild goose chase the case was already turning out to be. “when those tissue samples are done.”
“Will do Duck-man,” the lab tech said, giving a sloppy salute as the older man departed in a slower but still equally forceful manner as Gibbs.
When Abby turned to Ziva, wondering what parting words the Israel would leave in her wake, the latter made no move to leave but instead gathered her thoughts before formulating her own question.
“How susceptible would one of us be if this is a trap?”
---
End of Part 1.
Title: Gas Mask Required
Author: Dha (twenty_til_12)
Pairing: None, but there certainly is subtext for any pairing
Rating: PG-13 (mainly for the nightmare in the last chapter)
Word Count: 20,277
Spoilers: Set mid-Season 5, so anything pre-Internal Affairs
Warnings: Mainly just for the nightmare: Gore, disembowelment, etc.
Summary: When Ziva and McGee witness a murder first-hand, they and their team must work against the clock to prevent a bioterrorist attack that may claim the life of one of their own.
Notes: There’s a little cameo by the SRU from Flashpoint (another CBS series), but you don’t need to know who they are. Also, I am not a scientist but I have worked hard to make the “science” in the fic as factual and realistic as possible. And finally, I try to mimic the choppy style of the show and yes I decided just to post it in two giant posts because I was too lazy to separate it further [Chapter 5 is split into two pieces]
Link to Fic: Part 1: [Below] Part 2: Here.
Link to Art: http://community.livejournal.com/shorikurai/24222.html
You can find the big bang here: http://community.livejournal.com/ncis_bigbang/
---
Act One:
McGee was grateful when the time for his lunch break finally rolled around. The day had been slower than usual, with the team working only cold cases, and the constant annoyance of paper balls from Tony had steadily grown to a full-out war, which Ziva was winning, despite her initial protests to getting involved. The officer snuck around with guerilla tactics that the geek had only seen a few times prior during cases, but he could easily see her expertise in the area. He wished for something, almost anything to break up the monotony of the day. Holding up his hands, McGee attempted to negotiate a cease-fire, for the sake of their stomachs.
“Is anyone else getting hungry?” he proposed, standing up from behind his desk, hands still held up.
A paper ball from Tony hit McGee square on the temple.
“At the buzzer and DiNozzo makes it!” the older agent cheered himself on, fist pumping in triumph.
“DiNozzo,” came the familiar warning as Gibbs turned the corner and strode into the bullpen, coffee in hand. “Is there a reason why you aren’t working?”
“No leads on the cold cases, boss, but I’ll keep looking,” Tony said quickly before pulling to his desk one of the large brown filing boxes that littered the bullpen.
Gibbs glanced over to McGee, who was talking to someone on the phone rather quickly, before turning to Ziva, who filled out paperwork while checking some of the other papers that covered her desk. Smirking a little at the effect he had on his people, the older agent strode over to his desk to begin work on his computer.
“Take an hour for lunch McGee,” he said, stealing his eyes away from the computer for a few moments to direct the order to the younger agent.
“Boss?” the computer expert asked before Gibbs gave him The Look. “Right, taking an hour for lunch.”
“Ziva!” Gibbs called over the space between their two desks.
“Yes, Gibbs?” she asked, wondering what Tony had potentially drug her into.
“Go with McGee.”
Ziva got up from her seat, grabbing her bag and her gun as she went and joined McGee on the way to the elevator, smirking at Tony as she passed him. Tony looked up from his desk, wondering when he would get his own personal invitation to go get lunch.
“You’re with Duck, DiNozzo. He needs some help with moving the new equipment around, check with him for details, ” Gibbs continued before turning back to his computer. “You can get lunch later.”
“But Boss---” Tony attempted, glancing from the pair stepping into the elevator and his boss.
“DiNozzo,” Gibbs had the impressive ability to tame even the most wayward of agents with a single word.
“Going to help Ducky, right. On it boss.”
Tony quickly hurried to the elevator, whose doors were quickly closing. Sticking a hand between the two metal plates in a way he had seen Ziva do, Tony halted the doors and as they slid back open, he clambered onto the elevator, ignoring the grins on the other agents’ faces. Ziva, especially, took a certain joy in knowing that Tony would be performing some menial legwork when he constantly bragged about being the senior agent.
“C’mon Tony,” McGee said, still grinning in spite of Tony’s dark glare. “Helping Ducky won’t be that bad.”
“Yes, he is always full of such invaluable knowledge,” Ziva added, adjusting the strap of the backpack slung over one of her shoulders. “You never know what you might learn.”
Tony turned to reply but the doors opened behind him and he heard Ducky call, “Is that you Anthony?”
“Have fun,” McGee said, picking at Tony as the older agent left the elevator and trudged into autopsy.
Ziva barely restrained a snort of laughter as the elevator doors closed again and the car moved down towards the parking lot. It was incredibly fun to poke at Tony, especially since he dished out as much as he took; there were few days when the Italian did not say something borderline inappropriate. Some days it was all she could do to not smack Tony upside the head in a fashion not too different from Gibbs. However, the boss bore the uncanny ability to know when Tony said something head-smack worthy and normally handled the comment in a manner most appropriate.
“So where to for lunch?” McGee asked when the doors opened, revealing the bright sun on a very hot day in D.C. “As long as it’s air-conditioned, I don’t care.”
“Tony told me about a restaurant on K Street,” Ziva replied as the two walked through the lobby of the building, their shoes clacking a little against the faux-marble floors. “Between 1st and 2nd streets, I believe. Called the Kneel…?”
“Yeah, I know the place,” McGee continued as he flashed his badge to the security officer at the checkpoint. “It’s The Keel, which is another name for a boat. A real popular place for those who work here at the Navy Yard or across the river at Anacostia Naval Station.”
“Is it any good? Most of the places Tony recommends are fast food.”
“No, The Keel actually has some pretty good food. I’ve been there once or twice. Mainly serve the typical American foods like hamburgers, chicken fingers; we can probably bring something back for Tony.”
“And miss him whining like a little snitch?”
“Uh, Ziva, the term is---“
“I know the term, McGee. I am trying to be nice.”
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
Ziva and McGee sat at a table in The Keel, a nautical-themed restaurant that had little to boast about. Despite the typical upscale look of many D.C. restaurants, the small pub looked more like it had suffered some blows from a decrease in business. The wallpaper peeled slightly and the tables wobbled a little when leaned on, but overall bore a much homier feel than many of the other venues in the area. All over the walls were pictures of people with boats, taken by patrons who regularly ate at the small restaurant. Some of the photographs were faded and yellowing from time, but some were new and McGee could swear he saw one of Gibbs and an unfinished boat in a basement.
Despite the hour, the traffic in and out of The Keel was light. Ziva and McGee were two of only a handful of people in the restaurant. One civilian worked on a laptop with a fervor that intrigued McGee while a couple uniformed officers sat at another table, talking good-naturedly about the new uniforms the Navy was issuing that year. One of the servers addressed a dark-haired officer among the bunch before placing one of the restaurant’s brass mugs on the table.
“Have you worked anymore on your book?” Ziva asked as she tore off a piece of her chicken finger and put it in her mouth.
“I was supposed to, “ McGee admitted, munching a little on one of his fries. “My editor’s deadline was a few days ago but I can’t get anything out.”
“We are not inspiration enough to you?” the Mossad officer commented, more in an attempt at humor than an accusation.
“It’s not that Ziva,” McGee defended, feeling a little insecure about the insinuations of her comment. “The muse is a tricky thing to deal with.”
“And who is your ‘muse,’ McGee?” Ziva tore another chunk off of her chicken finger.
“It’s more of a what than a who,” the geek continued, his face turning a little red as he remembered Tony’s reaction to his pipe.
“Your pipe?” Ziva recalled an incident when her co-worker had accidentally brought the item from home, much to the delight of Tony, who made fun of it to no end.
McGee did not reply and instead turned his attention to the table of petty officers. The dark-haired officer he had seen drinking from one of the brass mugs was rubbing his chest a little. Another of the petty officers, female and redheaded, glanced at her colleague with concern but continued to engage her fellow officers in the conversation. Ziva, however, interrupted the geek’s gaze.
“Do not let what Tony says bother you,” the Mossad officer accosted, finishing the chicken finger and leaning across the table a little to steal a fry from the agent. “He does it to cover his own ass, which is not that good-looking in the first place.”
“Trust me Ziva,” he replied, pulling his food away from the woman, although he got a feeling that it would not matter how far it was from her. “What Tony says doesn’t bug me.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Ziva retorted, smiling as she still managed to steal another fry. “What is it that Tony calls you? Probie?”
However, their conversation was interrupted by the loud coughing of the dark-haired petty officer, whose companions were doing a mix of patting him on the back and asking him what was wrong. As the man began to lose the ability to breathe, the coughing cease and the petty officers became more fervent in their attempts to figure out what was going on with their colleague. Ziva glanced to McGee before the latter pulled out his cell phone as the Mossad agent got to her feet and hurried over to the table where the petty officers were sitting.
“We have a petty officer who is experiencing difficulty breathing, and---“ McGee began before the mentioned petty officer fell out of his chair and began to seize. “He is seizing. We need an ambulance right away to The Keel at K and 1st street.”
“He’s not breathing!” the redheaded woman shouted from where she knelt on the floor near her convulsing colleague.
“Stop shouting,” Ziva ordered, trying to take control of the situation. “Move the tables, we need to give him some room. Does he have epilepsy?”
McGee continued to talk to the emergency dispatcher as he took quick glances between the other patrons of the small restaurant and the troupe of naval officers who were now clearing some of the tables from the vicinity of their convulsing friend. Ziva was moving the incapacitated petty officer into the recovery position, gently turning him on his side and trying to keep his head from hitting the floor with his spasms. The dark-haired petty officer vomited and the Mossad officer turned away as the substance splattered onto her clothing.
“Victim just vomited, and we think he might not be breathing,” McGee added as he heard the dispatcher calling to another to ‘hurry the hell up and get an ambulance over to The Keel.’
“Sir, I need you to stay on the line for me,” the dispatcher replied calmly when she returned to the conversation.”
“McGee, he’s not breathing,” Ziva said as loud as she dared.
“My partner has just confirmed the victim is not breathing.”
“Do not administer mouth-to-mouth,” another voice came on the line and McGee assumed it was a paramedic who joined the conversation from a headset on the ambulance. “I repeat. Do not administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
“Ziva,” McGee called over to the Israeli, who was trying to move into a position where she could help but not be vomited on. “Paramedic says to not administer mouth-to mouth.”
The convulsions started to cease and Ziva reached to the man’s neck to feel for a pulse. When she found no beat under her fingers, she turned the unconscious man to his back and tilted his head back a little before moving her hands to his breastbone.
“McGee, beginning CPR,” the Mossad agent said as she initiated chest compressions.
“My partner is beginning CPR,” McGee relayed to the dispatcher and the paramedic.
“Alright, but do not administer the rescue breathing,” the paramedic ordered before explaining. “We believe that he may be another among a series of deaths resulting from a mystery illness we’ve been encountering. Our ETA is two minutes.”
“ETA is two minutes. And he may have been exposed to some mystery illness, they think.”
“Great,” the Israeli muttered as she finished her first round of thirty compressions before touching her fingers to the side of the man’s neck again. “Still no pulse. Beginning second round of compressions.”
When the ambulance finally arrived, the besieged man was too far-gone and was pronounced dead on arrival. McGee’s stomach dropped out of him as he realized that his wish had been granted. Ziva , despite being decently covered in vomit, established a perimeter before making the call to her boss.
“Gibbs, we have a case.”
---
Act Two:
“This reminds me of once when Anthony wore that jumpsuit. He looked quite stunning, I assure you, but it was much too short for him, if I recall. His clothes had been soaked when he saved a crime scene from Mother Nature.”
Ziva tried to smile as she pulled at the dark blue medical examiner’s jumpsuit, her dark and wet hair pulled back into a loose braid. The ill-fitting material was uncomfortable to say the least and the Mossad officer wondered how Ducky and Palmer could wear the jumpsuits regularly. However, she had to agree that the jumpsuit was better than wearing vomit all day. The image of the much taller Tony in a jumpsuit this small, though, made the Mossad officer grin.
When Gibbs and Tony had arrived in the sedan, the older had immediately ordered Ziva out of her clothing, much to the Italian’s amusement. However, to Tony’s dismay, the Israeli showered in a chemical shower in the back of the restaurant and changed into the jumpsuit she currently wore once Ducky and Palmer arrived. Her clothing was then quickly bagged and tagged as evidence. Obviously this had not been the first time that vomit had been taken as evidence: Tony told her the story of his first case with Kate in which Gibbs had made the Secret Service agent throw up in an evidence bag before cleaning herself up.
“I do believe that Anthony has learned his lesson to try to stand between what Mother Nature wants and what we want,” Ducky interrupted her musings as he knelt on the ground next to the dead petty officer. “But I think that if Gibbs were to ask him to do it again, Anthony would.”
“If the victim was a beautiful woman,” Ziva replied with a smirk as she took her final photographs of the body, her concentration refocused on the task at hand.
“So many would think,” the coroner countered as he glanced to her for confirmation that she was finished with her photographs. “Anthony certainly is deeper than some like to admit.”
Ziva was put a little off balance by the older man’s rebuttal. Sure, some days she could easily admit that there was more to Tony than what met the eye, but on the same token, there were days when the Italian acted more like an older brother trying to get one up over her. As she looked over to where Tony was questioning one of the witnesses with Gibbs, Ziva could not help but notice the pointed look the boss gave his senior agent.
“Shutting up now boss,” Tony defended as Gibbs nearly outright glared at him before turning back to the redheaded petty officer. “Now, Miss Lane, did Petty Officer Kent show any signs of a serious illness?”
“No sir,” the woman replied curtly, her expression somber and closed off. “He was as healthy as the rest of us.”
“Have you been in foreign combat where new bio agents may be present?” Tony continued in the line of questioning that was required of him when even any sort of hint of bioterrorism had occurred; if he could have his way, he would have asked more meaningful questions like, ‘Have you seen The New Adventures of Lois and Clark?’
“We’ve been stateside for about a year now,” Petty Officer Lane continued, looking more like she wanted to run for cover than talk more about her colleague. “Sir, are you meaning to insinuate something?”
“We’re just covering all our bases, ma’am,” Tony assured the redhead, scribbling onto the notepad as Gibbs took over in questioning.
“What was your relationship with Petty Officer Kent?” he asked, shifting his weight to get a better look at the woman and discreetly observe her body language as she spoke.
“Clark and I were co-workers and friends,” she explained, looking to the older agent who was watching her. “We went for a few drinks every now and then but we weren’t particularly close. I know he had plenty of other friends than those just in our company.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to kill him?” Gibbs proposed and earning the usual reaction.
“No sir. Clark was a good guy. I can’t think of anyone who even dislikes Clark, much less would want to kill him.”
Tony nodded in acknowledgement and left with the usual, “If you need us or remember anything else, just give us a call.”
As he and Gibbs turned away from the redhead, the younger agent smirked.
“Is it just me or is everyone a good person who could never have a reason to be killed?”
Gibbs half-smiled before smacking his senior agent on the back of the head, relaying just exactly what he thought. Tony grunted lightly with the gesture but still managed to grin when he noticed McGee looking a little uneasy as he photographed the food on the table near the dead petty officer. The younger agent had seemed a little peaked and Tony could not entirely blame him. The Italian was more surprised that Ziva kept her composure, despite being puked on by a dying man.
“Hey McGoo,” Tony teased, grabbing some evidence bags and moving to start bagging the food on the table. “Looks delicious. I bet that was a bacon cheeseburger before it came back up.”
As the senior agent motioned to the vomit on the floor, McGee paled even further.
“Not funny, Tony,” the geek complained, putting his hand over his mouth quickly.
“You not feelin’ well, probie?” Tony asked in mock-sympathy. “Must have been tough. I mean, the guy puked a good twenty feet from you.”
“Yes, Tony,” Ziva interrupted as she sauntered over to them. “We are aware that I was thrown down on.”
“The phrase is ‘thrown up,’ “ Tony corrected, smirking as he looked at McGee. “Which is what the probie looks like he’s gonna do.”
“But the vomit is expelled down onto the ground,” the Israeli argued, ignoring McGee as he continued to pale. “Why is it ‘thrown up’? “
“Because, Ziva,” Ducky added as he pulled the liver probe from the body of the dead petty officer. “The contents of the stomach are forced upwards,” the coroner motioned to his own esophagus and stomach, “by the muscles in the lower intestine, through the relaxed pyloric sphincter, stomach, esophagus, and out of the mouth.”
McGee placed the camera he had been holding on a nearby table and took off for the restroom.
“Oh my, was it something I said?”
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“And then McGoo just blew chunks,” Tony finished his story, grinning at Abby as he set one of the crates of evidence down on the table between her computer and her various pieces of forensic equipment. “You should’ve seen his face.”
The forensic tech laughed a little as she sighed and began removing bags from the crate, signing each label to keep the chain of custody. She knew how much Tony and McGee worked each other for laughs and sometimes she even got into it with them. However, once she joined, Gibbs had a tendency to catch her and she could never figure out how; it was like the older man had ninja senses or something.
“What’d Gibbs do?” Abby asked, giggling a little as she imaged her own version of the scene in which the boss delivered a swift kick to DiNozzo’s backside.
“Gave me the usual head-slap,” Tony muttered, rubbing the back of his head and frowning at the lab tech, who smirked.
“Aw, poor DiNozzo,” she cooed in mock-concern, unable to keep from smirking as she picked up another bag to sign and doing a double take. “Aren’t these Ziva’s pants?”
“Yes, Abby,” the Israeli said as she too carried in a crate of bagged evidence. “Those are my pants.”
The lab tech glanced at Ziva and noticed that she was wearing the jumpsuit she’d seen Tony wearing once. While it certainly fit the Mossad Officer better than it had Tony, the dark blue jumpsuit just never seemed to look good on anyone but Ducky. Perhaps it was just something that the coroner bore some special skill for. Ziva set the crate on the table next to the crate Tony had brought in before looking across the table at her pants in the evidence bag.
“I got thrown down on,” the Israeli explained before correcting herself. “Thrown up. I was thrown up on.”
“It was real delicious looking too,” Tony added, moving over to Abby’s desk to sit down in her chair. “McGee thought so too.”
“If you say anything about McGee throwing up again,” Gibbs interrupted as he carried one last crate of evidence in, causing Tony to jump up from Abby’s chair in start. “I’m goin’ to slap you so hard your grandkids’ grandkids will feel it, DiNozzo.”
“Leaving now to go work,” Tony muttered as he quickly left the lab, wanting to avoid at least one head slap.
Gibbs let out a puff of air as he slammed the last crate on the table, glancing over at Abby, who quirked an eyebrow as she grinned, before leaving himself, following DiNozzo to the elevator. The Goth looked over to Ziva who was again trying to make the jumpsuit more comfortable by pulling it out of places she knew fabric was not supposed to go.
“You know,” the lab tech suggested, not looking up from the bag she was signing. “I have an extra outfit or so if you’d want to get out of that potato sack. Not that you don’t look great in it.”
“You do?” the Israeli asked, surprised but curious as to what exactly the Goth had in mind; she welcomed anything to get out of the jumpsuit.
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“McGee, do you know anyway around this red tape? It’s bugging the heck out of me,” Tony grumbled as he pecked at the keys, one finger at a time. “My searches keep coming up with Kent being an only child but no parents involved.”
McGee worked silently on his computer, trying to ignore the older agent as he worked. Tony had already moved the trashcans from several other desks to sit by the geek’s in the classic overboard fashion. McGee never understood how Tony could take one joke and just keep beating it like a dead horse. The first time had been the jab and would have been funny if McGee had not felt as if his insides were trying to become his outsides. Now, the joke had fallen into the ‘crossing the line’ territory and McGee did not want to even acknowledge the older man’s presence.
“Oh c’mon McBarfbag,” the Italian persisted, glancing up from his keyboard. “You’re the MIT graduate. You could do this in a snap.”
McGee had to smirk because he had already danced around the red tape; the records were still the same even without the blaring oddities. The petty officer had been disowned at a young age for joining the Navy right out of high school. While there were no legal papers of any sort explaining this, a quick look through the petty officer’s phone records showed no calls to anyone related to him, not even distantly. Most people McGee knew, even those who claimed themselves as fiercely independent called home every now and then. The next of kin on Kent’s medical records was his commanding officer and emergency contact his close colleague Petty Officer Second Class Pete Ross.
“You could do it too, DiNozzo if you weren’t so busy makin’ fun of McGee,” Gibbs grumbled at the senior field agent as he passed the desk to grab his badge and gun.
“Boss, I have Petty Officer Pete Ross’s address right here,” McGee stated as he quickly scribbled down the address on a post-it before grabbing his badge and gun. “He’s listed as Kent’s emergency contact.”
“You and Ziva go--- where’s Ziva?” Gibbs ordered before stopping himself and glancing around for the Mossad Officer. “McGee, find Ziva and take her with you to interview Ross. Tony, you’re with me. We’re going to Ross’s CO Commander Perry White.”
As Tony reached into the bottom drawer on his right side, he noticed Ziva walking into the bullpen and only spared a glance before needing a second. The Israeli realized Tony’s stare and frowned. To say the least, the Mossad Officer looked very different when dressed out in a white short-sleeved dress shirt with a black tie on the pocket, a black pin-striped mini-skirt, and a pair of knee-high black boots with white stockings peaking out above. However, despite her hair pulled into a half ponytail, she still bore a striking resemblance to the lab tech who usually sported such attire.
“I did not want to wear that jumpsuit all day,” Ziva furiously defended herself, now catching the eyes of Gibbs and McGee.
Gibbs just smirked before moving around his desk and motioning for Tony to follow him to the elevator. The two left, but not before Tony gave a smirk that resulted in the telltale head slap.
“But Boss, I didn’t even say anything!”
“Not with your mouth.”
---
Act Three:
“I can’t believe Clark’s dead.”
Ziva tried to smile sympathetically as she pulled at her skirt again, trying to keep it over her legs as much as possible to keep as many of the male sailors as she could from leering at her. McGee had offered her one of his overcoats as they left the office, but the sun burned too hot and as much as the Israeli wanted to cover herself, she did not want to die of heat stroke. So, instead, she had walked into one of the buildings on the Anacostia Naval Base and almost immediately caught the eye of nearly every male she passed.
Currently, however, she and McGee spoke to Petty Officer Pete Ross, a longtime friend of their victim Petty Officer Clark Kent. McGee could barely even believe how the names seemed to line up perfectly and took relief in that Tony had yet to make the connection; once he did, there would be no end to the puns involving Superman and kryptonite.
“How well did you know Petty Officer Kent?” Ziva asked, as she continued to try and ignore the stares she felt on her.
“We’ve been pals since I don’t know when,” the black petty officer explained, a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. “We grew up together out in Kansas. He lived on the farm with his folks, well, until he joined the Navy. His parents wanted so much more for him; they had dreams of him working for a newspaper in a big city. He loved writin’ like it was his job.”
“Did he write often?” McGee curiously questioned, relating to how the victim’s love of writing but taking another job to pay the bills.
“Oh, all the time, sir,” Ross continued, eager to talk about his friend. “Mostly short fiction. He could’ve done great writin’ for the New Yorker or anythin’ of that sort. But, he couldn’t go to college without a good scholarship. So, he decided that he’d go into the Navy then go back to college after he served a couple tours.”
“And his parents did not approve?” Ziva could not believe that a family would not want their child to go into the military, especially to pay for college tuition.
“They wanted him to live his own life, but they didn’t want him risking it for people he didn’t even know. They thought I pressured him into enlisting.”
“Did you?” Ziva butted in before McGee could even open his mouth to ask.
“No ma’am. I had no interest for college. I’m not nearly as smart as Clark. But the Navy’s treated him right. He’s always been in really great shape and with his intelligence he’s risen through the ranks. He was gonna get promoted next week to CPO and assigned to a new company. We were plannin’ to celebrate at The Keel today.”
“But you did not go,” Ziva countered, remembering only seeing the victim, Petty Officer Lane, and two others, none of whom were black.
“I’ve been working on getting the new uniforms for everyone in the building, ma’am. We’re supposed to adopt them by fiscal 2008. We just got a shipment this morning and I couldn’t spare time for lunch. Wish I had though.”
Ziva’s gaze softened as she recognized the loss the petty officer felt, knowing how time lost could never be regained. Now his friend was gone, Ross would never get a chance to say so many things and the Israeli could not help but feel a knot develop in her stomach as she recalled her failed attempts to revive the young Kent. McGee also noticed the remorse Ross felt and instead decided to change the subject.
“Tell us about your CO,” the geek stated, knowing that Tony and Gibbs were in the other room interviewing the Commander.
“Commander White?” the black seemed almost surprised by the change in subject. “He’s stern but compassionate. He knows what he’s doing and makes sure that we all know that. I think he just got reassigned from overseas a couple months ago.”
“You think?” Ziva picked up the line of questioning, hoping that this could be a lead.
“Yeah,” Ross replied, watching the Israeli suspiciously. “I don’t know the exact day. There’s some serious reassignment going on right now. Commander White said it had something to do with the change in plans for Iraq.”
“So, he treats you fairly?” Ziva continued, not giving McGee a chance.
“Yes ma’am,” the black looked more and more uneasy as the Mossad Officer seemed to grow more aggressive. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“What my partner is trying to imply is,” McGee glanced over at Ziva, who crossed and recrossed her legs, trying to move herself into a position that would attract less attention to her. “Would Commander White have any reason to want to kill Clark Kent?”
“No sir.”
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“Are you new here, Commander?” Gibbs questioned as Tony stood next to one of the naval officer’s cabinets, leaning against it with a notepad in hand.
“I am,” White answered gruffly as he sat a little forward in his chair, leaning on one elbow on his desk and carefully watching an unlit cigar in a glass ashtray close to where Gibbs sat. “Who’s askin’?”
Gibbs smirked a little as he pulled out his badge and flashed the credentials as he took a once-over of the Commander. The man’s temples bore the first hints of aging and he looked as if to be nearing the end of his days in the Navy. His face bore wrinkles and the pockmarks of war, but a proud grimace kept Gibbs from wondering how age was affecting his personality.
“NCIS,” Gibbs continued, already beginning to like the commander. “Two of our agents witnessed the death of one of your petty officer’s this morning.”
“Yeah, Kent,” White replied, his face darkening a little as he glanced over to a file sitting on his desk. “He was a good kid. Young, but good.”
“That his file?”
“I’m sure administration won’t mind you borrowing it.”
Tony laughed a little where he leaned but when he received not one but two glares, he quieted and went back to taking notes.
“How long have you been here at Anacostia?” Gibbs asked as he turned back to face the Commander.
“Long enough,” White muttered as he reached for the cigar and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. “They’re callin’ me chief,” he motioned towards the door “I hate being called chief. Kent ‘specially loved callin’ me chief.”
“Are you two old friends?” Tony piped up from next to the cabinet, glancing up from his notepad.
“He served under me on one tour over in Iraq,” White explained, gnawing on the edge of the cigar, “Told ‘im to call me chief, you know to keep his morale up, try that whole mentor thing. The whole company started calling me chief.”
A gentle knock on the door interrupted the interview and the commander looked a little more than irritated as he pulled the cigar from his mouth and stuck it back in the glass ashtray. Gibbs glanced to White, who spoke to the investigator without words in a way that only ex-military could.
“Who is it?” the commander asked, following protocol, but looking more like he would rather shoot himself in the face then allow visitors.
“It’s Lane, chief,” a woman answered quietly and Tony recognized the voice as the officer they had questioned before.
“Great Caesar’s Ghost, don’t call me chief!” White cantankerously called back, rolling his eyes and giving Gibbs a grimace before continuing, “I’m busy, Lane. What’s the concern?”
“You wanted Officer Kent’s personal effects?” Lane asked, her voice sounding less steady than it had when the two NCIS agents questioned her earlier.
“Enter,” White admitted the redhead into his office and she ducked in through the door with a cardboard box of things from the dead petty officer’s desk.
Tony silently offered to take the box and she smiled graciously in reply but continued into the office as the Italian closed the door behind her. White and Gibbs both stood as Lane moved towards the desk, a look in her eyes both recognized. As White cleared a portion of his desk, Gibbs turned back to look at Tony, who seemed more sedate than usual. The eye contact spoke of the mutual agreement to say nothing and they instead moved towards the door of the office.
“We can continue this later, Commander,” Gibbs offered, remembering the loss of his own Caitlyn Todd.
“Nah, we can finish this,” White returned in a stubborn refusal to admit the pain Gibbs knew the man was feeling. “Lane, just put Kent’s things on my desk.”
“Yes chief,” the woman murmured quietly pushing an imaginary hair behind her ear after setting the cardboard box on her CO’s desk.
“Toldja not to call me chief, Lane,” the commander said softly, not the bellowing bark from before.
Tony glanced over at Gibbs and the two left quietly, leaving Commander White and Petty Officer Lane to talk. Tony knew from personal experience to give those grieving some space, especially those suffering from the loss of a friend. The death of Kate had hit the team like a bombshell; it had been sudden and unexpected. Gibbs had taken on a much nicer attitude, Abby had cried and played a maudlin dirge, and the only person who stayed their normal self was Ziva. Then again, Tony had initially hated the woman. The way that she just strutted into the bullpen asking where Gibbs was had just put him off, especially since she had sat down at Kate’s desk and assumed she could have it.
He could barely believe that Kate died almost three years ago. The time certainly had flown. Between the heavy case work, the undercover mission involving Jeanne, Tony felt he had not spent much time thinking of his former partner. He regretted not devoting as much time to prayer as he promised her ghost one night alone in his apartment when nightmares of her death tormented him. However, he returned to the present and found his boss watching him with a curious gaze. As the younger agent closed the wooden door, though, he smirked a little at the older man.
“Y’know, she’s a red---“
Gibbs interrupted the Italian with a head slap.
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
Working quietly, Jimmy Palmer pressed the films from the X-Rays onto the viewer on the wall, hooking the sheet under the edges of the machine before flicking the light switch on. He did not stay in front of the machine long and instead returned to the body, wondering exactly how Ducky did what he did. The doctor bore the impeccable ability to diagnose the cause of death within only a few clues and Palmer simply could never pick up on all of the things that the older man did. Just standing here and taking the time to look the Petty Officer over for injuries, the assistant mortician found no obvious cause of death; no gaping wounds, no bullet holes, not even bruises. But then something came to the young brunette and he moved to the head of the victim.
“I don’t know exactly what to say,” the young man began as he pulled up a chair from another table to sit on.
What could he say to a corpse? ‘Sorry, you’re dead. We’re gonna find who did this’ or would he go more along the lines of ‘we’re sorry for your loss’? Palmer shook his head as he gazed at the petty officer. Jimmy examined the well-built body, black hair, and almost flawless skin, amazed at how well a human body could be made. His admiration was not some sort of sick fascination, but instead awe at whoever or whatever created the universe.
“Um, hi,” Palmer nervously continued, adjusting his glasses and awkwardly smiling at the corpse on the table. “My name’s Jimmy and your name is Clark, I think.”
He checked the clipboard by the victim’s left hand and scanned the collection of papers to read from a pastel yellow sheet, “Yeah, Clark… Kent. Your name’s Clark Kent? That’s something DiNozzo would name his kid.”
When nothing but silence filled the autopsy room, he flipped through some of the papers on the clipboard again, more for show than anything; his brain could not produce much more conversation. He glanced to the petty officer and remembered a case a few months ago with a naval officer who looked similar.
“You know,” Palmer said aloud, trying to make himself a little more comfortable with the idea of talking to a dead body. “This reminds me of a case a couple months ago. An officer in real good shape like you are, dead for unknown reasons, like you. I can’t find anything on your x-rays to suggest that you even died in the first place.”
“But we came to realize that it was a bio-agent,” came Ducky’s weathered voice as the coroner walked slowly from the sliding doors towards the table where his assistant sat with the dead body. “A toxic gas known as GB, or Sarin.”
“Doctor!” Palmer started, jumping to his feet and knocking over the stool he had sat on. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Relax, Mr. Palmer,” the older man attempted to calm the assistant. “I was just coming to check on Mr. Kent here.”
“He’s the same, doctor,” Palmer admitted, picking up his stool from the floor and righting it carefully. “Still dead, that is.”
Ducky chuckled a little at the younger man’s poor attempt at humor before replying, “He is indeed. But Mr. Kent, I’m sure, enjoyed your conversation with him. Quite riveting.”
“Not really,” Palmer blurted out, trying to relay his awkward attempt at mimicking Ducky.
“Mr. Palmer, if you would, check in with Abby, please. I will continue here.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Palmer darted from the room, the sliding doors almost not opening fast enough, Ducky turned back to face the dead petty officer. Something about the dead man did remind the coroner of the case his assistant mentioned. The lack of external injuries and bruising provided very little in the way of an explanation of the petty officer’s last hours and, from the x-rays on the wall, the young man died of something other than asphyxiation. So far, the doctor had little in the way of a cause of death.
“Perhaps it was something similar that killed you, my friend,” Ducky admitted, leaning over the body a little to get a better look at the dead man’s face. “You should not be here on my table; that is the only thing I am certain of.”
---
Act Four
Tony smacked his computer again and glared over at McGee, who seemed to be having much less frustration with his own machine. The geek continued to type furiously, apparently working on a lead that the Italian could not seem to pick up on. Looking for sympathy, Tony glanced over across the bullpen to Ziva, who still wore Abby’s shirt and skirt; the boots were taken off almost anytime that she got off her feet. However, the Israeli too buried herself in some papers before making a phone call.
“Don’t blame it for your mistakes, DiNozzo,” Gibbs muttered as he strode into the bullpen, looking about ready to hurt someone. “Tell me, one of you has a lead.”
“Boss, I couldn’t find any parents of our petty officer,” Tony supplied hurrying to Gibbs’s side. “I was looking for maybe some family reasons to kill him, like drug smuggling history, or rich background. But there’s nothing, no family names even on the birth certificate. So it’s they’re either in witness protection---”
“Or they disowned him,” the older man finished as he glanced over to McGee, hoping the geek had a better lead.
“I went looking into Witness Protection and there’s no trace of a ‘Kent’ in the system, so I thought he might have been disowned,” McGee continued on Gibbs’s train of thought. “I called down to Agent Lee earlier to check in on the specifics, but---“
“When you’re disowned McGee, there aren’t any legal documents,” Tony interrupted, his usual smile fading as he remembered his own father disowning him in a rather dramatic fashion: announcing it to the entire extended family at a reunion before proceeding to physically kick him out of the house. “It just kinda happens.”
As Ziva sidled up to the Italian, she took care in examining him discreetly; something about the shuttered look in the usually bright green eyes allowed her to presume quite a bit about her partner, especially since she had done research on all of them for Ari only two years ago. She knew about the DiNozzo family and the large, wealthy family business in New York, knew about his father and the death of his biological mother, but, as the Italian had said, there were no legal documents that disconnected Tony from his family.
“I know, Tony,” McGee blazed onward, before picking up a remote from his desk and clicking a couple of the buttons to bring up a death certificate on the plasma between his and Tony’s desks. “Jonathan Kent, our petty officer’s father, died while Clark was over in Iraq.”
“But the death record says Jonathan Shuster,” Ziva commented, staring intently at the plasma.
“Yeah, he and his wife Martha legally changed their names while Clark was in Iraq,” the geek added, drawing in a grimace from Tony and a dark frown from Gibbs. “When Clark got back from his tour, the family farm was sold to some other family, and he couldn’t find his family anywhere. So, he moved here to D.C. and applied to work at Anacostia, where he met Petty Officer’s Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen.”
“So, maybe his parents wanted to cap him?” Tony suggested, trying to sound less hollow than he felt.
“It could happen,” Ziva admitted before launching her own theory, “ However, I called a couple contacts to see if there was any sort of chatter and it turns out that there have been some murmurs about someone working from the inside the Navy to stage a potential terrorist attack.”
“And we just found out about this now?” Gibbs turned on the Israeli, who almost immediately jumped back to defend herself.
“I have been trying to rely less on my contacts because there have been some attempts to find moles in the cells where they are located.”
“So you’re watching out for the well-being of terrorists?”
“They are not terrorists! They are reliable double agents working to keep this country safe.”
“Like Ari?”
Ziva froze in place, her mouth sealed as McGee and Tony stood almost gawking at the conflict that had just erupted between her and Gibbs. However, before anyone could so much as reply, the phone on Gibbs’s desk rang loudly and he broke the tense staring contest with Ziva to answer it. Tony quietly backed towards his desk as Ziva turned on her heel and strode from the bullpen, well as much as she could in a mini-skirt and long stockings. Tony, however, frowned a little as he thought of whom she could go to. Ducky and Abby would certainly lend their ear to Gibbs before the Israeli, and DiNozzo found himself feeling a little sorry for the woman.
Sure, her revelation had been a bit of a bombshell, but Tony knew that Ari had been in Ziva’s care when the terrorist had met his end with Gibbs’s gun. The Italian knew from personal experience that working with anyone for long formed a bond; Ziva surely had grieved the loss of Haswari, even when everyone else was gunning for him with a passion that bordered on obsession. Initially, Tony had not even taken the time to consider her feelings around his death, especially considering how well she hid her emotions, rivaling Gibbs in who wore the best poker face.
“That was Abby,” Gibbs interrupted Tony’s thoughts. “She thinks she might have something for us.”
“Boss, what about Ziva?” McGee asked, unusually timid, but understandably so when his boss looked about to kill him just for speaking.
“Get down to Abby’s lab, I’ll worry about Ziva,” the older man almost snarled, his irritation apparent.
Tony and McGee scampered towards the back elevator, glancing at each other before Tony simply shrugged and pressed the button in the elevator to close the doors. However, as the metal doors slid shut, the two agents could see Gibbs sit back down at his desk for a second before getting up again, looking sincerely frustrated.
.::::::::NCIS::::::::.
“Hey guys!” Abby greeted Tony and McGee as they entered the lab before she noticed the younger man’s pale complexion. “Oh, McGee. Should I get you a trash can?”
“No, Abby,” the geek said before Tony interrupted him.
“Gibbs said you had something?”
“Yeah, I do,” the lab tech added before noticing that her silver-haired fox had yet to make an appearance. “Where’s the bossman?”
Glancing at each other, Tony and McGee attempted to salvage some sort of lie to tell her, but before they could even begin to weave the fib, the Goth drew her own conclusions.
“It’s Ziva isn’t it,” Abby asked, her hands twisted into claw-like forms as if she were trying to read their minds.
When Tony nodded, she gave a loud whoop before performing a victory dance of sorts, jumping from foot to foot, causing her chains to jingle as she did so. The loud beeping of one of her machines caused her to cease and she smirked at the two NCIS agents who seemed a little calmer. The smug look on Abby’s face caused Tony to grin back, already empathizing a little but McGee still gave the impression that someone may have killed his cat.
“Our minds are no match for your powers, Abby-Wan,” Tony said, trying to ease his own discomfort.
“Ooooh! I like it!” Abby exclaimed back bouncing around again before turning back to face her computer screens and waiting only a couple seconds for her two friends to amble to the space between her computer and the plasma. “Okay, so I was looking some of the yummy evidence you guys brought back and there’s some pretty interesting stuff. First is the puke all over Ziva’s clothes.”
“It was pleasantly colored,” Tony added, taking a jab at McGee. “Isn’t that right, McBarfbag?”
“Tony,” the geek warned, his tone displaying just how aggravated he was.
“It is this really kind of cool color,” Abby admitted, trying to find the right words to describe the color of the vomit she had been swabbing earlier. “Kind of a gray-orange color, like the sunset almost. He must have had some peppers or something.”
“Or magic kool-aid,” DiNozzo joked, unable to resist the reference.
“Very, very true, Tony,” the lab tech complimented the older man. “Ducky actually told me about a theory he has. Something to do with a poison. You’d have to talk to him though to get it. He had this really elaborate explanation with words that only Ducky could say.”
As McGee turned to potentially leave, Abby stopped him with a scowl and he turned back to face the plasma.
“What I called you guys down here for was this,” the Goth explained as she pressed a few keys and a large graph with a variety of different colored bars of diverse lengths. “I took a look and what made up the puke and found the usual suspects, except for that guy on the far right.”
“I don’t think I can even hope to know what those numbers mean,” Tony acknowledged, squinting a little as if it could help him better understand.
“Isopropylamine?” McGee asked, peeking back at Abby for an explanation and she did not disappoint.
“Very good McGee! I’m surprised you even knew that. Not many know how these babies work. Anyway, it’s the stuff they use in Round-Up and other herbicides,” the lab tech clarified, swiveling around to flash McGee a grin, impressed by his quick evaluation. “But the catch is that it isn’t in a high enough concentration to do much damage. Sure, our victim would’ve had a serious bellyache, but it wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Not by a long shot.”
“So, this means….?” Tony asked, not quite following the woman’s train of thought.
“It means, Tony,” Abby delightfully explicated, a little eager to make sure they knew what was going on in her head. “that it was used in whatever killed Petty Officer Kent. The isopropylamine was not the limiting reactant.”
“Now you really lost me Abs.”
“Okay, so a chemical reaction normally can be carried out until one of the reactants runs out. In this case, the isopropylamine was neutralizing something. Once all of this other reactant was neutralized, all the leftover isopropylamine just stuck around. So, this is one part of whatever killed our petty officer. I would bet that there’s at least two other components that make it up.”
“Makes sense,” Tony consented, crossing his arms as he thought about it.
“But here’s the kicker,” Abby continued, grinning even more. “I also checked out some of the mugs that you gave me to look at. Guess what was in them.”
“The isopropo---stuff.”
“That and a couple other things,” the lab tech could not help but nearly giggle in excitement when McGee turned around to look at her, almost as anxious as she was for the answer. “isopropyl alcohol being one of them.”
She looked at the two of them, expecting them to jump all over her an answer. When neither seemed to make any sort of connection, she gestured with her hands to McGee to provide the answer. He certainly did not know, and his mouth opened and closed a few times while trying to make a connection. The silence then caused Tony to turn around to look at Abby as well. She waved her hands again in an attempt to push them to answer. However, neither did; Tony simply watched her, as if her face would give some sort of clue, and McGee found himself performing his fish imitation again.
“It’s one half of the mix needed for Sarin,” announced Ducky as he stood in the doorway, with a Petri dish in his hand.
“Ducky! You spoiled it!” Abby whined as the coroner meandered over to her, looking a little grim.
“I think that this may be another of a series of killings, my dear,” he admitted to the three gathered around Abby’s computer. “But to be sure, we will need to test this tissue sample from our dead petty officer.”
“Yeah, didn’t we have a case a couple months ago that had a guy who died from Sarin ingestion?” McGee offered, his eyes now lighting up in recognition as he remembered.
“We never caught the killer though, Timothy,” Ducky explained as Abby took the Petri dish from him and began cutting the sample into smaller pieces. “And did you finish the toxicology report yet, Abigail?”
“Still runnin’ Duck-meister,” the lab tech replied. “Have you seen Gibbs yet? I called him.”
“He has something to deal with first,” Tony stated quickly, trying to dismiss the subject.
When Abby stared at him intensely, the Italian had the feeling that if she could read minds, she would be doing so now. McGee took this opportunity to head towards the doorway. He attempted to sneak quietly away but had to stop when he came face-to-face with the boss himself. Gibbs looked pissed, beyond pissed, but Ziva stood directly behind him, so that had to count for something.
“McGee,” the older man acknowledged the geek before moving past him.
“Hey Gibbs!” the geek heard from behind him before DiNozzo joined him in the hallway.
“I can only say that it’s magic,” Tony joked, referring to Ziva. “There’s no other person in the world besides Gibbs that could piss someone off and then make it up within ten minutes.”
“We’re gonna need Ziva,” McGee admitted, knowing that there could potentially be some terrorist activity. “I’m glad that she seems okay.”
“She always seems okay, McGoo,” the Italian commented with a grin. “She’s Ziva, it’s what she does.”
---
Act Five:
“Duck, do you really think it’s Sarin?”
Ziva glanced over at Gibbs, who was currently deep in discussion with Ducky, from where she stood next to Abby, a questioning eyebrow cocked. The lab tech noticed this and pulled up a new window on her computer, revealing a space fill model of what looked to be a ridiculously complicated molecule. Abby turned to face Ziva, pulling her gaze back to the plasma. Pointing to the screen of her own computer, she then pulled up the results for the mass spectrometer next to it.
“Abby, my dear,” Ducky commented, approaching the plasma himself, “Were there any sort of identifiers in the isopropylamine?”
“Nope,” the lab tech bubbled back, “But I’m working on that tissue sample you sent me, it’s likely that if this is Sarin, other components were absorbed into the body before he upchucked.”
“Is there any serious potential that this could be an attack?” Gibbs asked, his ice blue eyes filled with a barely-contained alarm as he moved to Abby’s other side.
“What does the famous gut say?” Abby asked, curious as to the older man’s ideas.
“Abby,” the agent warned, his gaze darkening as he watched Abby’s bubbly mood become somber as she looked back to the screen then back to him.
“There is potential,” Ziva interrupted before the lab tech could even reply. “We have had three cases now with the same bioweapon responsible.”
“I’m still testing that,” Abby inserted as a caveat, “Ducky and I don’t know for sure. It’s just a very strong conjecture.”
“Quite,” Ducky added, his grimace already foretelling of the potential danger. “However, we have a very strong but.”
“Ooh Ducky, I didn’t even know,” the lab tech smirked at the mortician, her lively mood resurfacing. “Where do you work out?”
“Abby!” Gibbs brought his hand behind her head in what served to warn her of the potential head-slap. “Just because I sent DiNozzo on an errand doesn’t mean you need to fill his place.”
“Sorry bossman,” the Goth apologized, returning to the computer screen. “Well, I think what Ducky really meant was that the most important component of Sarin is pretty hard to come by.”
“How hard?”
“Well, the component I’m talking about is the methylphosphonyl difluoride. It’s a Schedule 1 substance because of its connection to making binary chemical weapons. You’d have to have some serious clearance to get some of this stuff and even more sophisticated equipment to make Sarin from it.”
“Surely there are stockpiles of nerve agents still in the U.S.,” Ziva interrupted, a skeptical look donning her face. “For research at the least.”
“Nope,” Abby turned now to face the Israeli. “DOD destroyed it all back in ’02. The Army finished first with its stockpiles. Trust me, it was a big deal, especially considering how close to 9/11 it was.”
“What if one perhaps got a hold of one of these weapons before the destruction?” Ducky asked, leaning a little on the lab tech’s desk.
“Well, most of them were M687 artillery shells and very small compact grenades,” the Goth attempted to explain, her memory of the Sarin gas limited by her standards but large when compared to any other. “The pressure has to be really high to keep Sarin in gas form,” she emulated this by miming squeezing something between her hands “I think some guy tried it a few years ago but Sarin decomposes really quickly in terms of other chemical weapons. I think the shelf-life is something like five years if the components are kept separate until they’re used, but if it’s just Sarin, it won’t last long. Like, you know how Ziva got puked on this morning? The Sarin had already decomposed by the time it hit her because of all the impurities in it. Well, that and the petty officer had already partially digested it.”
“So there’s no potential,” Gibbs summed, relaxing just a little as he watched the lab tech.
“Not non-existent, but not really huge,” Abby spoke, elaborating this point by waving her hands around, first in small circles then larger ones.
“But the chatter-” Ziva began, looking a little more than confused.
“Could be for another attack, my dear,” Ducky explained, paling a little himself as he spoke. “Which means we shouldn’t stare at this too long.”
“I’ll inform the director,” Gibbs stated matter-of-factly in a manner almost militaryesque before turning to leave, his stride quick and purposeful as he left.
“Let me know, Abigail,” the coroner said with a slight grimace, not looking forward to the wild goose chase the case was already turning out to be. “when those tissue samples are done.”
“Will do Duck-man,” the lab tech said, giving a sloppy salute as the older man departed in a slower but still equally forceful manner as Gibbs.
When Abby turned to Ziva, wondering what parting words the Israel would leave in her wake, the latter made no move to leave but instead gathered her thoughts before formulating her own question.
“How susceptible would one of us be if this is a trap?”
---
End of Part 1.