Santa's Other Helper

Tammy Wilkes opened the door cautiously, and stared at the man standing in the glow made from the light reflected off the falling snow. The light next to the door made a halo of glittering prism for five or six feet around the doorstep. It made his white-blonde hair and trim white beard glow as well.

"Yes?" she asked, warily. It was late, and the man was dressed a bit oddly. She had never seen a sheepskin coat of red before, especially not with red cargo pants. Through the open front of the coat, between the snowy white pillows of the white wool lining, she could see a red and green plaid flannel shirt. Not even the fact he wore a Santa's hat overcame her concern.

"Hello," he smiled gently. "I know this will seem strange, but I need your help. I don't want to intrude on your Christmas Eve, but I was hoping you'd help me deliver a special Christmas gift."

Tammy narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, but was immediately diverted by the six year old little boy who came to see who was at the door. The boy held onto her leg as he looked at the man with intense interest.

"Hello, Timmy," the man smiled. He squatted down. "I was hoping you and your mom would help me give your daddy a special Christmas present."

"My Daddy died," Timmy replied, as Tammy tried to draw him back behind her.

The man looked sad and nodded. "I know. But I was talking about your other daddy."

Timmy's eyes got wide as Tammy stiffened.

"We're not supposed to talk about that," Timmy whispered to the man. "If they find out, they'll kick him out and he won't be able to protect us anymore."

"I know," the man nodded sagely. "But it's Christmas, and I know he misses you and your mom very much." He pulled an object out of his pocket, as well as a digital camera. "You see this? See how it looks like a little TV screen? I can plug it into the camera, and record a video of you, and then it will play the video for him." He inserted the small, thin, squarish object into the camera, and panned the camera back and forth between Tammy and Timmy. He unplugged it, and pushed a button on the device. The short video played before their eyes, on the two-inch-wide screen. "And nobody will think it's strange if he has a video of the two of you saying Merry Christmas, will they? I'm really sorry, but I don't have a lot of time. If I'm going to get it to him on time, I have to do this fast." He looked up at Tammy, and she was struck suddenly by the intense sadness in his eyes. "Will you help me?"

"Mommy, please?" Timmy asked.

Tammy ruthlessly shoved her suspicions and the years of lies aside as she opened the door wider. "Can we do this in front of the tree?" she asked, her heart pounding in her ears.

The man smiled, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. "Of course," he nodded, standing back up slowly. "Wherever you like. By the way, I wanted to tell you that I was very impressed with your bravery. Not many women would have done that for their brother."

"Well, we always had similar taste in men," Tammy shrugged, embarrassed, as she closed the door behind the man. "I just wish ... Danny never got to see his son." She brushed a tear from her eye.

He smiled at her. "I think he sees Timmy all the time," he chided. "I'm sure of it."

"Who the hell are you?" she asked, as more tears ran down her face. "Some sort of angel?"

"Think of me as one of Santa's less well-known helpers," he said, looking away from her, embarrassed.

---

Patrick Cannon stared at the man in front of him. The grizzled old man, clad in old jeans and a stained undershirt, tried hard to speak, but his mouth simply moved without sound.

"We haven't talked in years," he said finally. "I don't think he wants to hear from me."

"You know better than that," the man in red told him. "Please, I don't have a lot of time. I can tell you, he's thinking of you right this minute."

"How can you-" Patrick gulped. "Where is he?"

"He's about forty miles outside of Baghdad right now," the man said, as he looked off into the dark, towards the east. "It's quiet, for now."

"Oh, god," Patrick breathed. "I- Yes, please. God, I can't believe he's still in the service. It must be hell. What- What should I say?"

"Whatever you do, don't mention why you fought," the man replied. "I know that you feel differently now. I've... seen... what you've been doing and saying. The Human Rights Campaign, the Servicemembers' Legal Defense Network, P-Flag. Your son would be proud."

"I should put on something," Patrick decided. "I look like hell."

"I have enough time for you to put on a shirt," the man shrugged. "But don't get dressed up. He loves you the way you usually look, you know that."

Patrick nodded bravely, as tears streamed down his face. But for the first time in six years, he moved with purpose and determination, a lightness in his step of a man whose soul was no longer bearing an insufferable burden.

---

"I don't have much time," the man repeated. "Please, this is no trick. I have no way to prove it to you. But your heart knows I'm telling the truth."

Captain Jimmy Tsao clenched his jaw and glared at the man. But something was happening inside him. He was so damned lonely tonight, and there was nobody else he wanted to be with. He'd already left the base's Christmas party early, because he'd gotten sick of the fake smiles and false gaiety.

"I won't say anything that will get him in trouble," he said hoarsely. "I don't care what NCIS does to me, but they're not going to get him."

"I haven't said any names," the man told him. "And if you don't either, well, it could have been going to anybody, couldn't it?"

Captain Chou blinked, and grinned. "Jesus Christ," he breathed. "You're right... Damn. I have to be dreaming."

"In fact, you're not even wearing your uniform right now," the man pointed out.

"Shit," Chou swore, grinning widely. "Get on in here, then. Like you said, there isn't much time."

---

"You don't know shit," Wilma Richards told the man belligerently. "And I don't celebrate Christmas."

The man sighed tiredly. "She's sitting aboard that destroyer right now, listening to everybody else talk about family and friends, reading letters from home," he told her. "I know it's hard to understand. But if I'm going to do this, I have to do it now. I'm not with the Marines, or the Navy. I have no interest in harming anyone. I wish I could show you the other ones I've collected tonight, but that wouldn't be fair to those people, now would it?"

Wilma ran her hand through her short, kinky jet black hair, trying to calm herself. If he is NCIS, I'll wind up in prison for attacking him, she thought with a small bit of clarity.

The man sighed again. "Here," he said, sticking his hand out. "Go ahead."

Wilma looked from his face to the hand, and back. "Go ahead, what?" she demanded.

"Break my hand," he told her. "Light it on fire. Do whatever you like. But whatever you're going to do, do in the next five minutes. That's all the time I have. There are others I still have to visit. And I'm sure that some of them actually care about their lovers."

Wilma grabbed his hand and brutally twisted at two of his fingers, pouring her burst of anger into it. Briefly, she was fiercely glad to hear the crack and pop as the joints gave way.

But the man's face didn't change. He just gazed at her with that sad look. Too late, Wilma realized what she had just done, and she released his hand.

The man flexed his fingers, and she felt very afraid. There was no indication that she had harmed him at all.

"Are you done yet?" he asked her, holding out his hand again.

"What- Who the hell are you?" she demanded, horrified.

"Somebody who understands," he replied. "I've been where you are, Wilma. But the knock on my door wasn't from a friend. I didn't get to send a gift, or a message. They didn't even let me have the folded-up flag."

Something broke in her at that. He'd just named her nightmare, spoken it out loud. That someday, something would happen, and she wouldn't even have a scrap of fabric left to cry on.

"I only have three minutes left," he told her.

---

"Sarge!" a hushed voice said, suddenly, from beside her. Staff Sergeant Maria Vicario looked to the woman seated next to her in the mess hall, bored. She'd been concentrating on reading the study guide for the upcoming promotion tests.

The female corporal was staring at something on the other side of the thick book Maria was studying. Maria lowered the edge of the book, to see a white box, slightly larger than her fist, tied with a gold and red ribbon.

"It- it just suddenly was there," Corporal Tina Guiterrez whispered. "Just- pop!" she gestured with her hands.

Maria rolled her eyes. "Tiny" Guiterrez was well-known for "seeing things". Oddly enough, it never became a problem. On a few occasions, her quirk had alerted the rest of the squad to things they might have missed otherwise.

Maria sighed and picked up the box. It was probably a "secret Santa" gift, and Tiny hadn't seen the person sneak it over in front of her. She'd opted out of the whole thing this year, but wasn't surprised that she'd been ignored.

She opened the box, and there was a folded up note on top.

The note was signed with a gold, Gothic letter 'S'.

Beneath the note was one of those key-chain devices, the digital photo albums that every drug store seemed to sell these days. But when Maria pressed the button, the screen displayed a video, rather than the usual slide show of pictures. And a voice came from the tiny speaker.

"If this gets to you, I'm going to start going to church again," Wilma told her. She was standing in front of the mantel of the fake fireplace at home, and there was even a poinsettia plant next to her on the mantel. "Because he must be some kind of angle. I hope you're having a nice Christmas. It's Christmas Eve here, right now. It's been kind of boring." Wilma looked away for a second. "The cat misses you, a lot. Can't stop crying, since you've been gone. She wishes you a merry Christmas too. See you when you get back."

Maria stared at the screen. "The cat" was a code they used, in those rare moments when they had to share something private. Wilma hadn't wanted the message to get into the wrong hands, so she'd covered her own feelings with references to the fictitious cat.

"An angel!" Tiny whispered, her eyes wide.

"Knock it off, Guiterrez," Maria growled.

"How else could it have gotten here?" the corporal asked. "Christmas Eve there. Sarge, it's still Christmas Eve there!"

Maria glared at her and slipped the device into her pants pocket. She went back to concentrating on the study guide, but not a single word on the pages made any sense, for some reason.

---

Major Brian Cannon stopped and stared, and looked around suspiciously. He had stopped and put his paper down on the table before heading to the line for breakfast. The hot desert wind ruffled the edges of the paper, and played with the loose ends of the red and gold ribbon on the small white box. He set his tray down next to it as he sat down, and opened the box.

He read the note with some consternation, and stared at the gold Gothic letter 'S'.

He pushed the button on the device, and was amazed to see his father, wearing that same old damned blue workshirt.

"I've been thinking about you a lot," his father said. "And I miss you. I hear you're over there, never mind how. But I want you to know, I was wrong. I'm proud to have you as my son, and I mean that in every way. I've been keeping up with the news, and, well, let's say I've been sending some money to some people, charities I think you might appreciate. Anonymously. But when you get home, we have a lot to talk about. And I think I have a lot of listening to do. I love you, son. You have a Merry Christmas, and come home soon."

Some of the men nearby, who knew Major Cannon as a hard-bitten, tight-assed bastard, were surprised to see tears flowing down his face. They looked away, to give him his privacy.

"It's an emotional time of year," a First Sergeant shrugged.

---

"Oh, for cripe's sake, Wilkes, turn off the damned light!" one of the men called, from a nearby bunk.

Petty Officer First Class Thomas Wilkes raised himself up on one elbow. "What the hell?" he mumbled. Then he saw the white box, with a small white led light attached to the red and gold ribbon, laying on top of the blanket.

The white light was handy to read the note inside, and Thomas, Tommy to his family, felt cheated somehow, because it didn't make any sense at all. But then he pushed the button on the little device.

The picture showed his sister Tammy, in front of a Christmas tree that had been lopsidedly over-decorated along the bottom few feet.

"I'm not sure how this is getting to you, but that's not important," she said bravely. "There's somebody here who wanted to say hello. And this seems much better than a letter or card."

A little boy came into the picture, and Tommy caught his breath. The little boy was the spitting image of somebody Tommy had loved with all his heart.

"Merry Christmas!" the little boy cried out joyously. "It's Christmas Eve, and we really wish you were here. But I know you're over there protecting us, and that's the best Christmas present I could ask for. I can't wait for you to come home."

Tommy stared at the screen, and then realized that several of the men were peering over at him with interest.

"Who was that?" the man above him asked, peeking over the edge of the bunk.

"My sister and her little boy," Tommy replied thickly. "My nephew," he lied.

"If that was taken Christmas Eve, how did it get here so fast?" one of the men asked, perplexed.

"Don't know," Tommy replied, rolling over to face the bulkhead. "And I don't really care." Whoever you are, thank you.

---

Commander Steve Collins sat in the cockpit of the F-15, on the hangar deck of the aircraft carrier, and played the video again.

"Hey, buddy, been pretty boring around here without you as my wingman," Jimmy Tsao said with a mischievous grin. "The old place don't seem the same without you. But I'm sure that you're having a great Christmas, you're probably terrorizing the cathouses out where you are. Have a few drinks on me next time you're on liberty. See you the next time we get a chance to catch up to each other. And watch your six, hotdog."

Steve kept grinning. Like every other gay couple in the service, they had worked out their own private codes and double-talk. The message Jimmy had given him had nothing to do with alcohol, prostitutes, or flying. Even the innocuous phrase "watch your six, hotdog," had it been translated for an NCIS agent or anyone else, would have caused a heart attack.

Because Jimmy had just told him precisely what he planned to do to Steve the next time they "caught up to each other."

---

Lieutenant Mary Applegate stared at the little white box in the middle of the navigation chart. She'd turned away for less than a minute to take a cup of coffee from the Coast Guard cutter's steward. She looked around, but she was still the only one paying attention.

She slipped the box into her pocket, and made her way to the head one deck down from the bridge.

"I know you're not that far away, but that doesn't really seem to matter," her lover told her with a twinkle in her eyes. "I'll have to tell you about it when you get back in a few days. But I have to agree with him, you deserve to get a Merry Christmas anyway. You be safe out there, and watch those civilians. You know how they can be, always causing trouble."

Mary stifled a giggle. They had met when the other woman, a civilian, had "caused trouble" by getting caught in a nasty squall while sailing her boat by herself.

---

"I know you're retiring in a couple months," one grizzled Marine was told by his lover. "You'll find it's not so bad. Lots of things you suddenly have time to do. I've been keeping busy myself, getting this old farm back into shape. Did some remodeling, the bedroom was too damned small, reminded me of bachelor's quarters at Quantico. You'll have to stop by after you get out, get yourself some fresh air and some sleep for a change. You have a good Christmas, Gunny. I'll be having a Guinness for you."

Gunnery Sergeant Elijah Forrester thought back to the bachelor's quarters at Quantico with a fond smirk, and almost laughed out loud.

---

Across the world, gay and lesbian service members received one of the little white boxes, all with the same note inside. The video Christmas cards, often with commentary in their personal code and double-talk, did a lot to lighten the load of spending Christmas away from their loved ones.

---

Sam appeared back in his little cabin nestled in the woods of northern Minnesota. He gasped for breath and staggered, exhausted, to the worn easy chair in the corner.

The gasping was only partly due to his exertions in the past 24 hours. Tears flowed down his face, and he sobbed into his hands for several minutes. He ignored the fact that the droplets were running into his short curly beard.

"Oh, god!" he cried. He turned to look at the framed picture on the table next to him, of the handsome young man with red hair and an even redder mustache. On one shoulder was the rank insignia of a Gunner's Mate First Class, along with the patch that declared him to be part of the crew of the USS Iowa.

He reached for the picture, and froze. There in front of the frame was a white box, tied with a ribbon of red and gold, just like the ones he'd been delivering all night.

Sam gaped, trying to remember if there had been anyone he'd forgotten. But that wasn't possible, he had not been storing the boxes and ribbons, or the small video players, here at the cabin. He'd used an abandoned warehouse for that, hundreds of miles away.

It seemed that his mind just kind of froze, and everything around him as well.

He didn't know what had happened to him, after that night. After months of crushing grief at Kyle's death in Turret Two, he'd finally decided that life was pointless. He'd gotten drunk, taken the pills, and laid down with Kyle's picture in his arms.

But he'd woken up, here in this cabin. And he'd discovered that he could do things he couldn't before. Like traveling instantly to far off places, listening to conversations and thoughts far away, seeing events from the past and present.

The one thing he hadn't been able to do, was kill himself. And he'd tried, many times. A few times he'd found himself wandering strange streets full of homeless and hungry people.

Time seemed to start back up, and he opened the box. He unfolded the note.

Sam stared at the signature in ornate, fanciful red letters at the bottom.

He shakily removed the device from the box, identical in every way to the ones he'd delivered. He pushed the button on the device.

To the music of "I'll Be Home for Christmas," a slideshow of pictures flowed across the screen. Tears flowed down his face as he recognized scenes from the times he and Kyle had managed to steal together, between duty assignments and deployments.

A weekend in San Francisco. The two days in San Diego. The holiday in Portland. The clandestine dinners in various ports-of-call.

Except there had never been any such pictures. There had been nobody either of them had trusted enough to take such pictures, and some of these had been taken as if there had been an invisible photographer in the room.

He had only the one picture of Kyle, and that only because he had stolen it from Kyle's apartment before the family arrived to pack up his belongings. And in the aftermath of the Navy's attempt to accuse Hartwig of the disaster, he hadn't wanted to give them an actual gay sailor to target.

He looked up, and far away. A smile crossed his lips, and he stood up, still cradling the picture of Kyle and the device.

"Yes, Petty Officer Virgil, there is a Santa Claus," he told the picture in his hand quietly. He turned off the light and disappeared from the cabin.