Title: We Shall Not Forget

Author: spookycc

Classification: V, A, DRF, borderline DRR, Doggett!Torture (only 
because I love to see him comforted ;-D) 

Rating: Prolly PG-13, same as the eps

Spoilers: No specific spoilers - assumes basic knowledge through US S9

Timeline: October, 2003

Summary: Doggett takes Reyes to a place he can't forget.

Dedication: To Doggett's Bitch: best friend, mentor, beta, soulmate, 
and to "her" Prez. ;-) This fic was written esp for DB. 

To Girlassassin, survivor and dear friend. To Robert Patrick, the man 
behind The Noble Dogg. ;-)

Archival: I'll take care of Gossamer and Ephemeral. Anyone else who 
wants it is welcome to it - just let me know where it's going. XFMU, 
DTA & OBSDS member sites, it's yours if you want it, no notification 
needed.

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. Not that CC or 1013 
will use the characters *I* write about anymore. ;-P



> ****

October 22, 2003
Berkeley Hotel
Beirut, Lebanon


I settle down in the bed, and flip on the television. Not much on, 
but the hotel rooms are comfortable, even by American standards. It's 
not like the FBI ever puts its agents up in hotels rather than 
motels, so it's actually nicer than I'm accustomed to. The FBI isn't 
paying for these rooms, though - John is. 

He asked me only a week ago to accompany him here. He told me the 
reason for the visit, and I knew he'd need someone with him. And I'm 
not kidding myself - I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. 

I finally decide on an old movie, and relax with a cup of tea, to 
settle in for the night...

Some hours later, I sit up with a start. I heard something - or I 
thought I did. Perhaps it was in a dream...

Then I hear it again - it's coming from John's room.

I throw open the connecting door. John is tangled in his sheets, 
thrashing wildly. I reach in to try to wake him up, but a glancing 
blow from one of his strong arms throws me sprawling on the floor.

"Help! We're down here!" His cry is guttural, almost feral.

I pull myself off the floor, and rush back to wake him up. I'm able 
to catch one of his flailing arms, and hold it down.

"John!" I try to break through his nightmare. "John!!" I slap his 
face, not too gently. 

After a moment, his thrashing slows. His eyes open, and he looks 
puzzledly at me.

"It's OK, John. It's me, Monica."

He heaves a huge sigh. His muscles relax, and I take his hand in 
mine, and sit beside him.

"You were back there again, weren't you?" I ask quietly. "In the 
barracks?"

He nods, and lets his head fall fully back on the pillow, his eyes 
closing lightly. Tears glimmer unshed at the corners of his eyes.

I get up to get him a wet washcloth - but his hand tightens on mine 
immediately - almost frantically. "Please - don't go."

"Easy, easy. I'm right here." I sit back down, and rest a hand on the 
side of his face. Why does John's past haunt him? He finally laid his 
son truly to rest last year, but he is still plagued by nightmares. 

I sit beside him, running my fingers across the furrows of his 
forehead. His chest rises and falls more slowly as his breathing 
evens out. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask quietly.

"No." 

When he loosens his grip on my hand a bit, I give it a gentle 
pat. "Hang on. I'll be right back."

I step into the bathroom, dipping a hotel washcloth in cool water, 
and head back into his room. He's half-sitting now, leaning against 
the headboard, and his eyes follow me as I return to the bed.

I sit back down beside him, and use the washcloth to gently wipe the 
sweat from his face, slicking back his hair with the wet cloth. He 
sighs gratefully and rests a hand on one of my arms.

"Maybe it *would* help to talk about it," he says quietly.

"I'm here. I'm a good listener," I smile encouragingly. 

The words do not come quickly, but I let him take this at his own 
pace. 

"It was 06:22. It was a Sunday. Most of the guys were still asleep..."

His hand finds mine, and grasps it tightly. 

"Staff Sergeant Luke Robinson and I were on sentry detail inside the 
south entrance. We never even heard the truck coming." John shakes 
his head slowly. 

I read about the bombing, when I learned that John was there. I 
remember that it was a Mercedes truck, with 2500 pounds of explosives 
in it. 

"It felt like an earthquake. The truck knocked out all the support 
columns." He pauses, and his eyes look darker, sadder.

"The whole damned building just fell down. All those men..."

John looks up to meet my eyes, "Robinson and I were both trapped. We 
could hear each other, but we couldn't see anything.

"We laid there in the dark - all we had were each other's voices to 
hang onto. I thought they'd never find us..." His voice trails off, and 
I wait for him to go on.

"They finally dug far enough down, to where we were." John's voice is 
low and somber.  

He lowers his head. "Robinson was dead."

I pull his head to rest on my shoulder, and he leaves it 
there. "There was nothing you could have done, John. You said you 
were trapped, too."

I feel him nodding slightly. 

"We weren't even fightin' a war, Mon. We were there as 
peacekeepers..."

I feel his shoulders tremble against me, as soft sobs wrack his body. 
I run my hand through his hair, softly reassuring him. 

After a short time, his body relaxes, and he snuffles a bit. I lay 
him gently back onto his bed, and pull the covers around him. I place 
a soft kiss on his forehead. As I turn away from the bed, he reaches 
for my hand once more. 

"Monica?" His voice is quiet, gravelly. 

"I'm here, John."

His voice is even softer, lower. "Please stay." 

"Sure." I settle in next to him, resting my arm across his chest. 
Within a half hour, he is snoring softly beside me...


> ****

October 23, 2003
Former Battalion Landing Team headquarters
Beirut, Lebanon


John Doggett stands beside me. I've never seen him in any "uniform" 
other than a dress suit before, but he fills out his old Marine 
uniform like he hadn't been discharged twenty years ago. The dawn 
light sets off his profile. 

"Twenty years," John says quietly, shaking his head. "I can hardly 
believe it..."

I pull his hand into mine, and he looks at me with gratitude in his 
eyes.

I came with John to this solemn ceremony, which marks twenty years 
since a terrorist attacked his Marine barracks here, in 1983. 

Father John Callahan says a blessing over the crowd, almost all 
marines or former marines. Several survivors, some still in active 
service, speak with soft but impassioned voices of the horror of that 
day. It was so long ago, yet it lives all too vividly in their 
memories. 

They don't sound like soldiers, to me. They don't seem hardened, just 
sad...

The group grows even quieter as the Marine Corps Band strikes up the 
Star Spangled Banner. All the men and women stand just as John does. 
Head lowered, hand on his heart. I look more closely at John - a 
single tear wanders down his cheek. I long to reach over, to take 
that away for him, but now is not the time, and here is not the 
place. He needs to grieve, just as the rest of these people do...

The American flag flies proudly, a USMC flag right below it. 

After the last chord fades into silence, I hear the Sergeant Major 
softly barking orders to the drill band. Pages turn, and the next 
song we hear is "Hail to the Chief". 

All heads rise at this, and we are joined by the President, who was 
not scheduled to attend. His Secret Service Agents are close by. 

George W. Bush speaks to the marines and guests like he's speaking to 
old and cherished friends. There is no pretense of self-importance - 
he speaks to them as equals, and extols their heroism in the first of 
what, sadly, would become many terrorist attacks in recent memory. 

His eyes sparkle - not with mischief, but with intensity and concern, 
and conviction. 

As the President speaks, I let my eyes drift over the crowd. Spirits 
are lifted by his presence, by his words of confidence. Hopefulness 
replaces grief on the faces around me. 

I look over to John, to see if he is as moved by the president's 
words as I am. But he is not looking toward the podium, and I follow 
his gaze off into the crowd...

The next minutes play out before me as if in slow motion. "Gun!" I 
hear John's voice, even as he leaves my side. I see SS men pulling 
the President down onto the ground, protecting him with their bodies. 

John throws himself atop the shooter, and I hear a gun discharge. 
Both men are physically covered by Marines.

Before I can even move in that direction, I hear one of the men 
yell "Man  down!" My heart is heavy with dread.

The Marine security detail pulls the gunman off John. I can't pull my 
eyes from what I can glimpse of John's still form. Marines crouch all 
around him, and I push my way through security to kneel with them. 

No. God, no. 

The Marines have already ripped open John's coat and shirtfront. He 
was hit in the abdomen. And I can only see the entry wound. Blood 
spreads on the ground beneath him. So much blood...

I take John's hand in mine. He's not responsive - he's unconscious. 

The wail of a siren signals the approach of an ambulance. It seems 
like hours between the time I first hear the siren, and the time they 
pull in right beside us. 

We allow the medics their room to work. They pull off John's coat and 
shirt, and place pressure pads on the entrance and exit wounds. An 
oxygen mask is slipped over his nose, and they slide a board under 
him, to load him in the ambulance. 

I notice all these things without even really watching. My thoughts 
are with John. I push my way into the ambulance after they strap him 
in, and the medics don't argue. 

I try to stay out of the way in the confined area, but I need to be 
with John. If - *when* -- he wakes up, I want him to see a familiar 
face...



> ****

Sahel Hospital
Beirut, Lebanon


I sit in the waiting room, my head in my hands, my heart in the 
operating room with John. 

This is the way John would want to go. Protecting the leader of the 
country he loves. The country he fought for, defended, until 
terrorists took him from the action. 

I can't think like that. He'll be fine. He's always fine, right? I 
keep telling myself how strong he is...

A doctor comes out into the waiting area, and approaches me. "Miss 
Reyes?" he extends a hand. I briefly wonder how he knows who I am, 
then remember that I'm John's listed next of kin, and the only 
American sitting here.

"My name is Ibrahim Fakih. I am the surgeon who is helping your 
friend."

I take his hand. "How is he, Doctor?" 

The doctor is soft-spoken, but goes straight to the point. "He lost a 
great deal of blood, when the bullet nicked the abdominal aorta. It 
also perforated the small intestine, and we've repaired both of those 
surgically. We've also administered massive blood transfusions, to 
replace what he lost."

"Will he be ok?" I appreciate the information, but I really just need 
to know the bottom line.  

The doctor nods. "It's a little early to tell, but we think so. He 
was brought in quickly after the shooting, and that was a great point 
in his favor."

"When can I see him?"

"We're sending him from recovery to the intensive care unit after he 
comes out of the anesthesia. You can try later this evening."

"Thank you." The doctor leaves, and I settle back in to wait...


> ****

The afternoon drags endlessly, and I doze on and off, between visits 
to the nurses' station to check on John's condition. I'm awakened 
early in the evening by someone tapping my shoulder. I look up into 
the face of a very serious, very American man in a suit. 

"Agent Reyes?" 

I rub my eyes. "Yeah."

He reaches into his coat, and withdraws a Federal ID card. Secret 
Service. "How is Agent Doggett?" he asks.

"They think he's going to be ok. He should be in ICU soon."

The man nods, as the elevator opens and more "suits" head to join 
him. Behind them, virtually hidden by suited agents in front and 
behind, is George W. Bush. 

I stand immediately, stifling a schoolgirl urge to salute, or 
something. It's not like Special Agents have a lot of contact with 
the Executive Branch. The SS Agents part, and I'm face to face with 
the President of the United States. 

"Agent - Reyes, is it?"

I smile. I'm sure I look like a groupie at a Styx concert in the 
70's. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"Is Agent Doggett all right? Can we see him?" he asks.

"They haven't let me know yet, but I'm sure they'll let *you* in, 
sir." 

He smiles, a warm genuine smile that puts me immediately at 
ease. "Don't be so sure. My office doesn't carry as much weight in 
these parts as it does at home. And I don't want to disturb him, if 
he's not awake yet."

One of the SS men asks at the desk, and he's informed that John has 
just been moved, and we can see him. They direct him to the correct 
wing and room number, and I fall into step with the Presidential 
entourage. 

Two SS agents enter John's room first, closing the door behind them, 
then return with an "all clear". 

When the rest of us enter, we find John already awake. Despite the 
unusual visitors, his eyes find me first, and he flashes me a 
reassuring, tired smile. 

The President strides purposefully to John's bedside. He lays a hand 
on John's shoulder. "I came by to thank you, Agent Doggett."

I step a bit closer to the bed, and I can see that John is surprised 
but nonplussed. "Just doin' my job, sir." I'm not surprised that's 
what he says. It's so "John". I hear the tiredness in his voice.

"Catching the bullet?" One of the SS men smiles down at John. "That's 
our job, man."

John shrugs, and smiles wearily. "What can I tell ya? It's a reflex."

"A reflex. You know, I pay these guys very handsomely," the President 
gestures to his SS men. Then his face turns somber. "Thank you - for 
saving my life."

"You're welcome, sir." John is gracious, as always.

The President shakes John's hand - the one without an IV start - and 
pats his shoulder. It strikes me as a fatherly gesture, even though I 
know that George Bush is not that much older than John. 

The President turns to me, takes my hand for a moment, and I return 
his smile. One of his men checks the hallway, and then he and his SS 
men are gone, like leaves on a windy day. 

I sit on the edge of John's bed, and watch as his expression changes 
from puzzled happiness to weariness. He reaches his free hand up, and 
I take it in mine in what has become a familiar and comfortable 
gesture...

"How about that, huh?" I smile down at his tired face.

"Yeah," he says. "How about that..." His voice trails off.

"You know," I turn serious. "If you hadn't reacted as fast as you 
did, today would have been as black a day as the one we're here 
commemorating."

He nods. "I couldn't let that happen." His grip tightens on my hand 
for a moment, and his voice lowers as sleep struggles to claim 
him. "Semper Fi..."



~fini~



Feedback: Love it. spookycc@earthlink.net

Slams on Dubyah will be sent to Doggett's Bitch, and dealt with 
accordingly. .

<[DB] cracks knuckles [...] while Ty grumbles softly and licks 
all 97 of his teeth :)>



Author's Notes:

The hotel and hospital in this fanfic are actually located in Beirut, 
Lebanon. The date and time of the terrorist bombing are also 
accurate. I do not wish to belittle the tragedy in any way, or the 
men who were killed and injured there, so all the characters (except 
Dubyah) are fictional.  

I have NO idea if the Secret Service is as overly protective as I 
depict them herein, but I would damn sure be if *I* was guarding 
Dubyah. Especially after 9.11...