Originally posted to the SentinelAngst list.

Thanks to my betas, JoanneG, Shellie, and Jane for helping to make this a better story. As always, the guys don't belong to me, but I *do* own bits of them of which I am quite proud! Dedicated, of course, to Dawn, her themefic for February 2000. It only took me 18 months or so to post it!

Note: As Shiloh and Beth are fond of saying, "The events of The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg never happened."

Blair-2K
(a themefic for Dawn)
By Mackie

Okay, it really sucked bigtime. But there was nothing Blair Sandburg could do about it except go along, not if he wanted to retain his observer status and remain Jim Ellison's partner.

Still, it really sucked.

The mandate had come down from the Mayor's office: all police officers would be on duty New Year's Eve. Seattle had made a total hash out of the World Trade Organization conference a few months before, and Cascade's leadership was determined to avoid a similar embarrassment by being caught unprepared for any rioting caused by the dawn of the new millennium (or the end of the current one, whichever). So, all cops would be on duty. All vacations were cancelled. Plain clothes officers who could still squeeze into their uniforms would do so in order to help maintain a highly visible police presence. Essential personnel not assigned to the streets would man the infrastructure of communications and technical support.

So, just how did this ruling from on-high affect one lowly, ride-along police observer?

Simple. The directives had been hastily prepared and all-encompassing in their generalities. Every member of the Major Crime Division was to be on duty. The order also covered Robbery/Homicide, Burglary, Fraud, Special Crimes, etc. etc. and ran the gamut of job descriptions. There were no exceptions.

This sweeping umbrella managed to snag a few unsuspecting participants: Blair Sandburg and Rhonda, Captain Simon Banks' assistant, whose personnel records displayed the magic four-digit code for Major Crime. Rhonda, of course, should have been designated administrative staff, but somewhere along the way, perhaps soon after she'd become Simon's assistant, her job code had been inadvertently changed. And observers assigned to the department were so few in number they didn't even have a special designation.

So here they sat, glowering at one another across the bullpen, each with other, better places to be.

As Blair had already said more than once, it really sucked.

"This sucks."

Rhonda gave him one of her patented you-really-don't-want-to-piss-me-off-right-now looks.

He grimaced. "Sorry." There were dozens of celebrations going on at the U, and he'd been invited to many of them. Since Jim had suspected all along he'd be on duty, they hadn't made any special plans. Blair had spent many happy evenings musing over his options.

Until the order from the Mayor had crossed Simon's desk and filtered down through the ranks.

The captain had laughed. Jim had laughed.

Blair hadn't laughed. He thought it sucked.

He could have been drifting pleasantly from one party to the next, toasting the New Year (not the millenium, he was quick to point out; that didn't happen until next year, thank you very much) with friends and co-workers, sharing the stroke of midnight with a special someone who even at this very moment was probably in the arms of one of said friends or co-workers....

Sometimes, life just wasn't fair. Still, it didn't do any good to gripe and inflict his bad mood on others.

A good internal pep talk recovered his normally cheerful nature, and he rose both to his feet and to the occasion.

"Okay," he said briskly, delving into the bags and boxes of "survival" gear he'd carted in from the loft. "No more complaining." A battery-powered lantern and portable radio emerged from one of the boxes and were placed on Jim's desk. "Just in case everyone's wrong and we're really not prepared for Y2K," he explained a bit sheepishly to a skeptical Rhonda. These items were followed quickly by chips, homemade dips, sparkling cider, sandwiches, and all the utensils required for them to partake of the mini-banquet.

Rhonda laughed and added plates of brownies and cookies to the stash. "Where's the party?"

"Right here." Then he amended the statement. "Well, how about in the hall outside Communications, since they can't go too far from their radios?"

Within a few minutes, they'd hauled a table out of the breakroom and set up a buffet line. Investigating the noise, a dispatcher from Communications opened the door and grinned when she saw what was going on. Propping open the door, the dispatchers added their own contributions to the table. Streamers and party hats soon gave the corridor a festive air, and phone calls to other departments brought others from around the building. Even when they were all gathered, it was a surprisingly small number for such a large precinct; almost everyone was on the street, insuring the mandated "strong police presence."

As the minutes counted down toward midnight, Blair suddenly remembered the officers downstairs in the lobby and the property room, neither of which could be left unattended. "Help me fix some plates," he said to Rhonda. "I'll run 'em downstairs and be back up here before midnight."

Rhonda worked quickly. "You'll have to hurry. It's already five 'til."

"I'll make it," he answered confidently, although he had his doubts. Still, what did it matter if he toasted the New Year with the guys downstairs or up here? He'd be doing a good deed, and that was the important thing.

Balancing several plastic-wrapped paper plates and a cardboard box with glasses and a bottle of sparkling cider, he went to the elevator and hit the button with his elbow.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again, but the in-use light remained stubbornly unlit.

Okay, if the elevator was going to be uncooperative, Blair wasn't going to argue with it. He'd learned long ago that it was best to concede defeat and take the stairs at the first sign of conflict with one of the mechanical cages. Shouldering open the stairwell door, he started down as quickly as his burden would permit.

Mid-way down, he heard faint, echoing cheers from upstairs and paused on a landing. "Happy New Year," he muttered to himself. "Celebrating alone on the stairs. Perfect."

A moment later, the lights went out, briefly plunging the stairwell into blackness until the battery-backup kicked in. The glow from the emergency lights was much fainter than the normal bright overheads, and it took his eyes a minute to adjust. He was thankful he'd been stopped on the landing and not trotting down the steps. He would have taken a header for sure.

"Looks like there's something to this Y2K thing after all," he observed aloud, then frowned. "Nah, the power wouldn't just go out spontaneously at the stroke of midnight. The city ran all the scenarios months ago." Cascade's electrical service was certified Y2K-proof. A failure somewhere in the enormous power grid of the northwest could ultimately result in Cascade going dark, but such a catastrophic failure wouldn't reach them precisely at midnight.

So, the power outage and Y2K were unrelated. Coincidental. Mere happenstance.

Yeah, and Jim Ellison had volunteered to dance Swan Lake at the Center for Performing Arts.

Setting his box and the plates of food on the floor, Blair made it down the last few flights in record time. He reached the exit to the lobby and cautiously peered through the small glass window inset into the door. There was no sign of the two officers who should have been on duty there. Feeling his heart begin to pound from more than the effects of his physical exertion, he examined as much of the lobby as he could see through the window, then carefully opened the door and crept into the room.

Except for being deserted, the lobby looked completely normal. The double, bullet-proof glass doors leading to the street were closed. A counter separated the visitor portion of the lobby from the police portion. A pleasantly frosted glass wall with clear glass transoms at the ceiling was actually bullet-proof glass in a strong steel frame. It insured that any attack through the deceptively friendly looking front entrance could be repelled long enough to permit the forces of law and order to take cover and conduct a counter-assault. A heavy steel plate could be activated to come down from the ceiling, closing off the open space above the counter.

Blair smiled slightly when he saw the glow of streetlights outside the main entrance. The power outage was confined to the precinct building, and that meant only one thing: someone was up to no good and trying to use Y2K as cover. Satisfaction turned to renewed concern as he debated his next move. The frosted glass door leading to the area behind the counter was magnetically locked; it could only be released if someone behind the counter pushed a button. So he climbed over the counter, half of his brain telling him to call out a cheerful "hello" because he was probably going to get himself killed by a cop returning from a bathroom break, but listening instead to the other half warning him to keep silent.

Blair dropped quietly to the floor on the other side. He nearly had a heart attack when one foot trod on something soft. He'd found the two officers assigned to the lobby; they were unconscious, bound, and gagged. Checking them quickly, he was relieved to find they were drugged, not dead.

It was time to call up reinforcements. Picking up the nearest telephone receiver, he wasn't surprised to find the lines dead. Communications both internally and externally had been severed, although the people upstairs would be unaware of it because the radio room was still operating normally.

At least this time, he was prepared. Pulling out his cell phone, he was about to turn it on when he heard a noise from the rear of the building. In the back was a second entrance used by authorized police personnel who didn't come in through the underground garage. It was the way prisoners were brought to the holding cells or evidence was delivered to the property room.

Blair put his phone away, walked to the door leading to the rear corridor, and peered through the glass insert. The hall was empty, so he opened the door and slipped through, every nerve taut with apprehension. Directly ahead were the booking area and holding cells. To the right were the locker room, weight room, weapons storage lockers, and muster rooms for the uniform officers who worked out of Central Precinct. To the left was a smaller locker room used by the detectives, a warren of administrative offices, the records archives, and the property room, where evidence was logged in and kept until it was required.

The noises he heard were coming from the property room. Creeping up to the glass window, he peered inside and saw the officers assigned there bound and unconscious just like the ones in the lobby. Several men were dropping plastic-wrapped packages into two large satchels. Abruptly, Blair remembered the huge drug bust of the previous week, where several hundred pounds of processed heroine had been seized along with barrels of chemicals for making PCP and other designer drugs. It had been the biggest single haul in the history of the Cascade PD.

Now someone was stealing it right from the police station in a daring robbery.

Before Blair could formulate a plan, he heard a noise from behind him, back toward the lobby. Quickly, he dashed farther down the corridor into booking. It was an area of wire cages and locked doors, and he felt extremely vulnerable crouched by the wall just inside the entrance. There was no place to hide if someone entered the room. To his left was the rear access to the building. Through the door, he could see the back end of a small U-Haul truck, its overhead sliding door open to an empty cargo bay, ready to receive the goods.

He heard the door to the property room open, and then voices.

"Everything quiet out there?"

"Yeah. I checked the street, too, and everything looks normal."

Blair sighed. His entrance into the lobby must have coincided with the speaker's foray into the street. They would have missed each other by seconds....

"Take the next barrel out to the truck."

He looked around frantically, but there was no place to hide in the booking section. He had no choice but to go outside into the cold, slip past the truck, and dash down the alley to the entrance to the underground garage. At some point in all that dashing, he had to use his cell phone to summon help. Even before he heard the sound of a handcart being wheeled down the corridor, he was easing out the rear door onto the narrow platform beyond.

The cold sliced through the exposed flesh of his face and hands like the talons of some predatory bird. Somewhat slower, but no less acute, was the creeping chill that burrowed through the scant layers of flannel and cotton of his clothing to begin leaching the heat from his body. The temperature was still several degrees above freezing, but he wasn't dressed for the outdoors. His warm parka and gloves were upstairs in the bullpen. Within moments, he was shivering from the cold.

There was no hiding place out here, either, but thoughts of slipping past the U-Haul were dashed when he heard both the driver and passenger doors opening. Seemingly against all odds, he'd managed to get himself surrounded.

********

For the second time in as many seconds, Blair cursed the curiosity that had compelled him to check out the noises coming from the property room instead of racing back upstairs to get help. Sure, the thieves would have gotten away, but at least he wouldn't now be faced with two very unpromising options: he could surrender and hope the thieves would simply drug him instead of kill him, or he could attempt to hide in the only place available and pray he remained undiscovered long enough to call for help.

The first fate was too uncertain. The second had the satisfying potential of snaring the culprits and recovering the drugs, but it too came with a downside. With only a moment to decide, he lunged up the short exterior ladder to the luggage rack atop the U-Haul. The closing cab doors masked the sound of his ascent.

Lying flat atop the metal roof, he realized just how terribly cold it was. Without gloves, the skin on his hands actually felt as if it were burning as he gripped a thin metal tie-down rack that ran around the edges of the roof. He lay as motionless as possible while the barrels and satchels were loaded into the cargo area.

"Hurry up," a voice urged. "We've been here too long already. Our luck can't hold out much longer."

Blair fervently hoped his own luck would hold. Several of the men climbed into the back of the truck. The door rolled down with a racket, and then the cab doors opened and closed again as the driver and his companion climbed inside. A moment later, the engine rumbled to life, and the truck headed down the alley toward the street.

His plan had been to jump from the roof when the truck passed the entrance to the underground parking garage. Quickly, he vetoed the idea: the distance to the ground looked much too far from his present vantage point, and the truck was moving too quickly to risk it.

Now, with the truck in motion, he had to contend with a serious wind-chill factor. Hypothermia was a definite danger. Within minutes, perhaps no more than an hour, the cold would numb more than his body; the onset of hypothermia would also numb his ability to think clearly.

Forcing one hand to release its death grip on the rail, he fumbled for his cell phone and managed to pull it out without dropping it. He hit the speed dial and prayed for a speedy response.

"Ellison."

The background noise was loud and festive. Wherever Jim was handling crowd control, the throngs sounded boisterous and happy.

Blair was nearly breathless as frigid air streamed across his face. "Jim. The property room's been hit. They stole all the drugs."

"Where are you?"

Blair smiled slightly. Bless you, Jim. Not, "Which way did they go? Did you get a plate number? How many? How long ago?" No, Jim had immediately asked about his whereabouts, his concern evident in his tone.

His eyes watered as he raised his head to check for landmarks. His chattering teeth made speech increasingly difficult. "We're heading west on Commerce Boulevard, just passing Center Street."

"Okay, I'm already at the truck," Jim promised. "I'll call for backup. You drop behind a bit and keep them in sight. I don't want you too close if there's trouble."

His answer wasn't going to please the Sentinel. "That's not p-possible, Jim," he admitted reluctantly. "I'm not following the truck. I'm -- I'm on top of it."

His partner swore with vigor and imagination. "Sandburg, I thought your New Year's resolution was to stay out of trouble."

"C-can't help it," Blair answered, surprised at how much concentration it was taking already to make coherent speech. "I didn't want them to get away." The truck was speeding along the nearly deserted boulevard. Central Precinct was located in what had once been Cascade's downtown. However, modern high rises to the northwest had shifted the business center, and the area around the station was now composed of smaller, mostly professional, business offices. Due to the late hour and the holiday, the streets were virtually deserted.

In the distance, toward the city park in the center of the new downtown district, and farther out toward the harbor, fireworks erupted in the night sky, their dazzling brilliance imprinting on his eyes and giving him a sickening sense of disorientation. With the wind chill, it was well below freezing, and his scant clothing was no defense against the strength-leaching properties of the cold. It seeped into his belly, creating a deep, penetrating ache he wouldn't have believed possible. Violent chills wracked his muscles as his body sought to generate heat. "C-can't talk any more," he stuttered. "Gotta hold on." More fireworks blossomed in the sky. They were pretty....

"Stay with me, Sandburg!" Jim's voice snapped him back from his meandering thoughts. "Where are you now?"

"Uh -- " He looked around blearily. "Still on Commerce -- " Damn, it came out 'commurh', " -- passing Starbuck's. Sons of bitches are hitting lights -- green." He winced. "I mean g-green lights. Freeway s-soon, and then I'll freeze to death for sure."

Jim's voice took on an ominous tone. "Freeze to death? Don't you have your jacket?"

Blair heard a sound escape his lips that sounded somewhere between a twitter and a moan. "N-no t-time, d-didn't know I was g-going joy-r-riding."

He heard a siren then, very close, and suddenly the truck was slowing. He raised his head again and saw a solid line of police cars blocking the street ahead. The flashing red and blue of their light bars reflected off the granite and glass facades of nearby buildings. Behind the line of steel, officers crouched with pistols and riot guns aimed uncompromisingly toward the truck.

The U-Haul stopped. More patrol cars shot from side streets and blocked any possibility of retreat. At least the truck was stopped. Blair felt a deceptive flush of warmth in the sudden absence of wind. He ducked his head against the roof and waited for the thunder of gunfire.

Instead, he heard the rear door of the truck roll up, and then shouts from the police ordering the occupants to drop their weapons and come out with their hands up....

"J-Jim?" he said into the cell phone still clutched tightly in one frozen hand. "Jim? I t-think it's over."

"It's over all right, partner," Jim assured, suddenly beside him. "You can let go now."

"Can't. F-frozen."

Gently, Jim pried the cell phone loose and turned it off. The heat of Jim's hand against his numb flesh made him yearn for more warmth.

"S-so damned c-cold."

He felt Jim's heavy uniform parka drape over him. It was hot with body heat and felt wonderful against his skin. Desperate for more of its warmth, he was able to coax his other hand into releasing its grip on the rail. With Jim's help, he sat up and pulled the coat tightly around himself. Jim drew him close and worked to massage some circulation back into his pale, frozen fingers.

"We need to get you off this roof and into a car. Your feet are probably getting frostbite."

"Can't feel 'em," Blair admitted, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep inside the snugness of the parka. It was amazing how enervated his violent bout of shivering had left him. "Don't think I can climb down."

"Come on, try. I'll hold onto you from up here. Simon's down below to help."

At Jim's urging, he managed to crawl across the metal roof of the truck and get his body turned around to climb down the narrow ladder. With strong hands guiding him from below and Jim supporting him from above, he was able to navigate the rungs with minimal awkwardness.

Once on the ground, he started to sag, but someone propped him up. He craned his neck back and peered up into the concerned face of Simon Banks.

"Hi ya, Simon," he mumbled through lips that didn't want to cooperate.

"Hi yourself, Sandburg." Simon's voice rumbled. Blair could feel the vibration against his cheek where it rested on Simon's chest. "I was hoping you'd teach Jim a little caution, not adopt his reckless streak of heroism."

"Hero?" he echoed. "Me?"

The captain's tone was gruff. "Just don't milk it."

Several men in handcuffs were being herded into various patrol cars. One of the men stared at Blair. "Where the hell did he come from?"

Jim reached the ground and turned toward the speaker with a grim smile. "Your Y2K plans met with our B2K."

Even thought it hurt his lips, Blair couldn't stifle a faint laugh. "You make me sound like a fast-food sandwich."

Jim put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. "Let's get you warmed up."

A moment later, he was bundled into the back seat of a car. Jim propped him up enough to slide in beside him, then pulled him down to lie across his lap. He continued to knead Blair's hands to get them warm.

The engine started, and the heater wafted hot air.

Blair started to drift again.

"Hospital?" Simon asked from behind the wheel.

"Mmm, no," he protested feebly, curling up and snuggling closer to the warmth emanating from Jim's body. "Home."

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Captain, I think he'll be okay after a hot shower and a good night's sleep."

"Warm -- hot -- sleep," Blair echoed dreamily, his muscles finally starting to relax. "Home." He smiled. "Happy New Year, Jim."

He heard the answering smile in the Sentinel's voice. "Happy New Year, partner."

THE END