Was the honeymoon over? Had one ever truly begun?

The way he'd slammed the log book down on the situation table in contempt, glaring at her as though she were the cause of all his problems, had been as though he'd punched her in the gut. His frustration mixed with fury had oozed from every pore. The numerous tender moments they'd shared, eradicated in one fell swoop. Rachel still saw the anger entrenched in his brutal eyes, eyes that had glowered at her as if she were the densest woman who lived. And the most vexing.

"All those labs were destroyed—what part of all don't you understand! No one escaped!"

She had half-expected him to tack on: 'You dummy.'

The gloves were off. He was on a mission now, out for Immune blood...

Where had his empathy and compassion gone? She wasn't the enemy. The venomous look he'd inflicted on her made her shudder again as she tried to control her hurt and her own anger. Thinking more calmly about the confrontation in this setting, in her quarters, she reflected on his outlay of ire. He hated what the phantom sub and its crew of Immunes had done. Rachel's campaign now seemed dwarfed by their infamy. True, she and Tom had disagreed before, many a time. This time, it felt different; the captain had been livid, bordering on apoplectic, having tried to handle his rage, barely. He had a personal ax to grind and Rachel had become invisible.

Didn't she matter to him anymore? Had the military autocrat within him gained the upper hand, imprisoning the reasonable, patient man she had feelings for? He wasn't listening to anyone but himself. What an impeding mode it was, like conversing with a wall. He alone had decided the mission was changed. They should have been traveling to Dr. Hunter's lab in an attempt to salvage any useable data from the facility. The captain's rank granted him the right to command as he saw fit, but morally, he'd run aground. Going after greater knowledge of the cure's dispersal to the masses far outweighed going after elusive renegades.

Tom's scornful demeanor dictated otherwise. Though not a usurper, telling him what to do, or what not to do, Rachel wasn't going to get her way, not this time. He was pulling rank. She wasn't in charge; he was.

The XO, among others, was on her side. Mike believed that Tom was fixated on settling a score, as did the Master Chief. The sub's captain had bested them; Chandler wouldn't rest until he evened the score. But tit-for-tat was worthless in this scenario. They should avoid the sub, staying well under its radar to keep afloat, but continue with the true mission—saving scores of lives. Dr. Scott was right. She didn't want to believe that Tom could be so shortsighted, but that appeared to be true. Sadly, the driven man, the man she was effortlessly losing herself in, had lost his way. The war to be won was that of championing the cure's advancement, the sole mission that trumped personal vendettas, fancies or whims.

Alisha had warned her, had confessed that viewing the grisly uplink would not be easy. The lieutenant's understatement hadn't cushioned the blow. Off-camera, Dr. Julius Hunter had met his end at the hand of a parasite. The Nathan James' contingency was here at the violated lab, absorbing the aftermath of the savagery. It was a page straight out of monstrosity, full force. The attackers had left the body of her bloodied mentor, a virtuoso in his singular right, to rot out in the open, along with the bodies of other brilliant ones cut down. The spectacle of this sheer madness made Rachel sick. Under her breath, she mumbled, "The carnage, what bloody waste." Tears welled up and glazed her volatile eyes. Her mind numb, she stood stone still, studying Julius' face, its surreal death mask, unable to accept that he was no more. The burning desire for vengeance writhed through her. This mortal coil was too much to bear. Bereft, left to mourn these untimely losses as if she were the only person in the room, Rachel sobbed openly.

Tom regarded her, not moving, barely breathing, the muscles in either side of his jaw rippling. He gripped his weapon tighter, visualizing what his team would have done to The Immunes if they'd been here to greet them instead of these poor defenseless scientific researchers. There was no data to recover, only the wreckage those fiends had left behind. He thought back, regretting how he'd been with Rachel over the course of these several days. He'd changed; she hadn't. She was still as beautiful, purposeful and committed as ever, committed to him and their mission. He'd dropped the ball, treating her like contagion, something to be avoided. Now, he was at a loss how to make it up to her. He could say he was sorry, but deep down he wasn't, not for making the call he'd made. He was wrong having treated her so poorly. Taking this massacre in lent him some justification. This situation demanded a hard-core military response. The horrific tableaux before them was proof positive that The Immunes aboard that sub must be hunted and expunged.

Still, what had gotten into him, chucking sand, as it were, in Rachel's eyes? Eyes he'd kill for to see them beam at him. Tom, submerged in private thought, missed Rachel's moving off into Dr. Hunter's ancillary lab. Electronic data no longer existed, yet, Rachel was thankful that the clods had not erased Julius' formulas and configurations from the whiteboards. With camera in hand, she snapped away; she must have taken at least a dozen shots by now. The more she took, the more aggressive she felt. Take that, you blackguards. His death is not in vain! His brilliance shall prevail!

Click-click-click… She muttered names of compounds and by-products as she aimed and shot. It dawned on her how much she preferred taking snapshots instead of firing a gun. Before taking her last photo, Rachel sensed someone stood behind her. The back of her neck prickled and her shoulders stiffened when who it was softly cleared his throat. He must have derived inordinate pleasure getting the drop on her. He did it so often, Rachel mused. She slapped on an impassive face, about-facing, holding her shoulders as stiffly as he held his.

They faced each other as though squaring off. Neither spoke right away, and it was as though Tom had taken up the disconcerting habit of boring into her eyeballs with his. Her lower lip quivered, ever so slightly, and she blamed herself for his having this effect on her. He could be the meaning of intimidating. Why was he being like this? Here she was, really falling for this hard-nosed, straight arrow Navy guy and he was trashing the meaningful rapport that had evolved between them. Good lord, he could be so stroppy sometimes. He wasn't the only one who could push buttons.

Her tone like lead, Rachel stood up to him as though she had become the indisputable Commander-in-Chief suddenly. Was that the faintest hint of a smile, she thought? Was that what she wanted to believe, loath to surrender what they had begun to have? Her lips pursed, she thought, didn't think so. Tom Chandler, I have a mission for you. You should relish it. It's what you've wanted to do since the discovery of that infernal sub. Pronouncing each word distinctly, not batting an eye, she ordered, "When you find them, kill them…"

Quench your bloodlust…and mine.

Tom set the assault weapon down and was at her in less than a second flat, his granite façade fractured. As eagerly as gulping down cold water on a sweltering day, she filled his arms. He'd missed her; she was where she belonged. He knew that, the way he knew every square inch of the Nathan James. "Whatever you want."

"This," Rachel said, sighing, feeling her heart pound like a hammer battering her ribcage. She hissed, "I want this…" With abandon, her hands latched onto the sides of his head, reeling Tom in. He succumbed to her demands, his lips devouring hers, tongues dueling like swordsmen, as mouth adhered to mouth. She managed to catch a breath, hissing a second time, "And you, coming back to me safely, as ever."

"You're with me, Rach. Wherever I go, you go. In here." He guided her hand to his heart's location. "Locked inside."

"As you are within mine." Though this wasn't the time, nor place to lose themselves in each other, it did feel right, supremely right. Reluctantly removing her arms from around him, as he did the same with his from around her, she smiled as a beatific smile graced his face.

"This isn't a news bulletin. I can be a real ass sometimes. As stubborn and as ornery as they come."

Close enough to an apology, which she gladly accepted. "Quite the pair we are."

"Inseparable. Come hell, or high water."

"High water I can take. It's the hell I'm having trouble with."

More to himself than to her, he murmured, "Too much has happened, too quickly. Too much to handle for just one lone ship...and so much tragedy."

"But you're not alone in this. I'm here to help all I can."

He hung his head, struggling to compose himself. "I miss her so much..."

Rachel remained still, keeping vigil. Pity parties were not her thing, but her heart went out to him. She sensed there was much he wasn't telling her about what he was going through. When he was ready, he wouldn't hold back. She too wrestled with inner beasts. "You'll never stop missing her, as it should be. She'd want you to go on, wouldn't she?" Keep calm and carry on. There was a lot to be said for the Anglo mindset.

Nodding, Tom studied Rachel's sympathetic face, then took her hand. "She would. I can't believe she's gone."

"Will you never stop torturing yourself?"

"I don't know," Tom replied, deflated.

A change of subject was needed. "I should be going with you to study these people, comparing their DNA against Bertrise's."

"Not a chance. Not on this." Tom sighed heavily. This would not be a field trip. They were going in like S.W.A.T., Navy style. "You know it isn't wise. We don't know what we'll be going up against stateside. Aside from you being the only one left to deal with the cure, I can't risk losing you for highly personal reasons. Know that."

Nodding, Rachel admitted, "I know you'd better not get killed. Know that. I wish I could be in two places at the same time."

"I bet. Double trouble."

"Do what?" His mood swings were giving her whiplash. With one of her attractive eyebrows expressively raised, she stared him down as if ready to take him on, hand-to-hand. How could he be infuriating and adorable at the same time?

"What I meant to say was, 'double teaming,' as in getting twice the experimentation and all the other important things you do, done."

"Nice save. Calculated, but stellar."

"There you go, doing that thing you do."

"What thing?" Rachel needled, meshing her fingers with those of his right hand.

"That thing with your eyes that get me in all kinds of trouble." Controlling her eye rolling had become a true battle, of late. Tom groaned, but it was thoroughly playful. They didn't have much time before the forced separation. Soon enough, his men would be approaching to break up their cozy tete-a-tete. Time wasn't on their side. Hadn't been since the clock had placed them on the wrong side of the Red Flu outbreak. Remembering the remnants of a free-wheeling conversation they'd had not long ago along the same lines, he uncorked, "Isn't that right, Superwoman?"

She returned his playfulness, scoffing, "Don't you mean Supergirl?" Rachel took a steadying breath, drinking in Tom's present disposition. Seamlessly, their banter had fallen back into place. It was getting so she couldn't do without it and its return told her they were going to be just fine.

Provided they made it through this latest turmoil.

Tom laughed, the far corners of his eyes crinkling as they did, whenever the laughter was true. He reclaimed his weapon Rachel picked up to give him. "You're both." He rested the assault rifle against his leg so he could take her hand into both of his. He brought it to his lips and winking, promised, "See you when I get back."

"You'd better…"

"Sir…" Lt. Carlton Burk deferentially appeared in the doorway. He couldn't help think, stumbling upon them cuddling, that the course of toujours l'amour had some pretty quirky convolutions aboard this boat with some highly surprising players. The captain and the doc, go figure. Would Bivas ever give him the time of day the way Rachel reciprocated Chandler's overtures? The guy had lost his wife, missing her like crazy, sure. But there was more going on here than rebound action. These two, although they thought they were doing a great job keeping their 'thing' under wraps, right, were the talk of the battleship. Some mighty spicy talk, toned down when certain ears were in earshot. As Carlton turned away, respecting their privacy, he contemplated if any potential existed for his getting serious with Ravit. She had no way of knowing that she was his kind of woman unless he came out and told her. Redirecting his train of thought, Burk turned in the doorway, mindful about keeping things moving. "Sir, it's time."