Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.

- - - - -

"Yow!" Tim winced, scooching into himself as a bullet sped dangerously close by. When you are 6' 1", as he was, it was hard to make yourself much smaller of a target. The laws of physics just don't allow mass to veer into another dimension on its owner's demand.

Ziva was doing most of the return fire for the two of them. Even though Tim was a good shot, there was no contest, in an emergency, who would be the lead shooter. "McGee! Haven't you gotten through to anyone yet?!" she yelled at him. "We're in danger of being slaughtered out here!!" Wham! Wham! Another set of bullets whooshed through; one bullet rustling her hair as it flew by.

"I'm trying!!" he yelled back in frustration. "I already told you; a lot of the cell coverage inside NCIS today is full of dead zones because most of our staff is idiotic enough to use the same carrier, whose cell tower was taken out in last night's thunderstorm!" None of the numbers he had for NCIS people were responding.

"I-Don't-Care what the limitations are! You get someone to get us out of this, or my last slug will have your name on it!"

They were in a fix; no doubt about it. Their investigation of a murdered Marine who may have been involved in espionage had lead them to this unused factory – where the FBI was also taking an interest. At least, they thought it was the FBI. Rookies, maybe? Who ever it was, they weren't taking Tim and Ziva's word that they were on the same side. The old factory had little power running, the lights were poor; the air was dust-heavy, making visibility limited. The FBI were in an area where their swoop caps were identifiable; Tim and Ziva were in a darker corner, and theirs were not. If Tim couldn't get through to someone to call off the FBI, NCIS could be down two agents very, very soon.

"Think, McGee!! Come up with a phone number!! NOW!!"

"I've called everyone except my mother!! What; do you think I have the President of the U.S. in my directory?!"

"NO EXCUSES!!"

"ALL RIGHT, ALL READY!!" Think, Tim!! The only NCIS landline phone that he knew of was the public line, and that was ringing constantly busy. Probably because no one can get through to the cells; they're all calling in on that line. He thought and thought; tightening the muscles in his face.

Suddenly an image came into his mind. He was looking at it, although his eyes were closed, as if it were on a flat surface before him. ORK ORDE, it said at the top. Almost forgetting his dangerous surroundings, he gazed at the picture, knowing it must be relevant somehow. Below those letters, he read slowly, from left to right, as if a light was gradually coming on at each step of the way: 02) 555-739...A phone number! It must be a Washington number; with the first number of the area code, 202, cut off by...was that a piece of paper covering it? And what was the number after the 9, dim and partially covered? Something round, must be a 6. What was this number? Where did his mind pick it up? He had no idea. Had Providence sent it to him? Even if it was the number of the local Starbucks, maybe they could send for help. He repeated the number to himself, three times, and let the image fade from his mind as he dialed.

- - - - -

Jenny picked up the landline phone on her desk when it chimed in three tones. "Wanda, I've told you twice now; I will not host a bridal shower for anyone who insists on the guests showing up wearing grass skirts and coconut bras! I don't care how much the bride likes Hawaii! Stop calling me!!"

"Director?! Wow!!..." He had to swallow before continuing. "This is Tim McGee. Ziva and I—"

"McGee?! What the hell are you doing on my private phone line?!"

"I don't know, ma'am! But we're in trouble; please listen! Ziva and I are pinned down in gunfire from the FBI who don't believe we're NCIS. We're shooting in their direction; not at them, but we're about out of ammo. We can't raise anyone else at all, and –"

"All right, McGee. You two try to stay safe. Give me your location and I'll fix it.." These must be the intellectual runts of the FBI litter. No one, she hoped, drowned undersized pets any more, but sometimes, she thought, the bad old ways might be wisely applied to humans...hmmm. She pulled up her electronic Rolodex and called her FBI contact.

- - - - -

"McGee. Sit down," Jenny said to him about two hours later as he entered her office. Her tone was decidedly unfriendly. She glanced behind him, saw Gibbs coming in his wake. "Jethro, I don't remember inviting you," she said in a no-friendlier voice.

Gibbs sat anyway, beside Tim on the couch. "You discipline my agent, I intend to be present."

"I didn't say anything about disciplining McGee!"

"Then why did you go through me to tell him to get up here?" Gibbs gave her a look that Tim would never dare attempt.

She sighed, knowing she'd lost this skirmish, but there would be many more. "McGee, while I am glad that you and Ziva are safe now, you're going to have to tell me: where did you get my private phone number?! Even Gibbs doesn't have it."

She looked to Gibbs for confirmation, and he nodded. "Got too many numbers in my directory now." He pulled out his phone; glared at the weak, solitary bar it raised.

Tim put his left hand over his bandaged right hand, which was throbbing. There a bullet had ever-so-slightly grazed him; it hurt, but was otherwise a very minor injury. And it didn't seem to be buying him any sympathy. "I—I don't know, Director. I didn't know it was your number when I called it."

"Why were you dialing numbers at random?!" said Gibbs, incredulous.

"Boss, I wasn't! I...I think I remembered the number."

"Impossible!" said Jenny. "I've never made it known to anyone here at NCIS." She leaned over her desk, and her voice turned deadly. "McGee, if you've been snooping in my private matters—"

"NO, ma'am! NEVER!" he cried, over her "your ass will be NAILED to my WALL!"

"Then EXPLAIN how you got my private NUMBER, McGee!"

He didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure of anything, other than the chances of him getting out of this room alive seemed to be smaller and smaller. Both Jenny and Gibbs looked ready to stone him.

"ANSWER her, McGee!" Gibbs roared.

"I couldn't get anyone else on the phone! I racked my mind for phone numbers. Then all of a sudden I saw that number..."

"What do you mean, you 'saw' it?!"

"Like...like a picture. I think it must have been a piece of paper I was reading..."

"While you were under fire, you were reading a piece of paper?! McGee!!"

"NO, boss! I saw it in my mind. But it seemed very real. Part of the area code was cut off, and part of the last number. And there were strange letters above it, what were they...? Let me see..." He had to stop to think, but within a second or two again the image was visible to him, even with his eyes open. He read it off, from left to right. O-R-K, space, O-R-D-E. And..." he strained, squinting. "I think some letters above that, but I ... only the bottoms of the letters are visible. I don't know..."

Jenny's eyes grew large. She got up and rummaged through a small safe, finally withdrawing a paper. "Did it look like this?" The paper she held out to him read, in large letters, Verizon Installations / Work Order / (202) 555-7396, and a lot of smaller type below that.

He blinked a few times to bring the image back to his mind. The fonts matched. "Yes, ma'am."

"But when, McGee?! And how?"

Again he struggled; not sure how he had known what was on that paper. A trick of the memory? Slowly, another image appeared; larger, darker, less distinct. Jenny at her desk; Gibbs facing her, on the left side of the image; Tony to Gibbs' right; a suit coat sleeve – was that his own? Yes, his old, brown tweed suit. What the hell? Ziva to his right. Jenny's desk. Papers on it. He willed himself to zoom in; found that he could, at least somewhat. There! "It...was on your desk, ma'am. You wore...a corsage. It was yellow. And a dark blue suit. We were all in your office. I think it was..."

"My first day here," Jenny said, quietly. "I was meeting all of you. And the work number for my private phone line must have been on my desk."

"There was a...something on it. A snow globe."

"A gift from my goddaughter..." She and Gibbs exchanged curious looks, then glared at Tim.

Gibbs slapped the sofa, hard. "God damn it, McGee!! Why didn't you tell us you have total recall?!"

"Boss! I don't! That's impossible!"

"You certainly appear to, McGee," Gibbs' tone was mild but his look was unsympathetic.

"That's not what I mean! There's no such thing as total recall, or photographic memory, or eidetic memory, to call it by its proper name."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't exist, yet it has a proper name?"

Tim ignored that. "It's one of those concepts that sounds really cool, but science hasn't been able to quantify it. Memory just doesn't work that way. There are some studies that say it exists, but most say it's hogwash!"

Again Gibbs and Jenny exchanged looks, but this time they broke out laughing. "McGee," Jenny said, "who do you work for?"

It's finally happened. I'm losing my mind. Maybe they have, too. "Uh...you, ma'am."

She waved a hand, dismissively. "No, no. In the organizational sense."

"Uh, NCIS, ma'am."

"Broader."

"The federal government?"

"Narrower."

"Uh...the Department of the Navy?"

"Close enough. I was going for the Department of Defense. McGee, surely you are aware that the military carries out a lot of research that is not made public. We do it, Russia does it, a number of countries do it. You may be too young to remember, but during the Cold War, there were always stories that the Soviet Union was doing tests on ESP, parapsychology, and such."

Gibbs jumped in. "Each side wants to get an edge on the other, and won't pass up a chance to study something that might give their team an edge, no matter how lunatic it sounds."

"I don't have an eidetic memory, boss," Tim said, a note of despair in his voice. Why won't they see reason?! "Don't you think I'd know it if I did?!"

"Maybe, maybe not," said Gibbs. "Didn't you have to struggle to recall that paper, and that scene? Had you thought of those since the day the Director arrived?" He noticed Tim's pained look, and only grinned.

"We'll get you tested, McGee," Jenny said, crisply. "Keep your schedule open this week."

Tim put his head in his hands. He knew his memory did weird tricks, sometimes; had known that all his life. It wasn't something he talked about. Testing? Freak show, here I come...