an. As always, thank you for the reviews and those of you that are still with me in this verse of stories. There are only 1-2 chapters left in this installment before we reach Season 5. I am considering which to tackle first, that or a pre-series fic. As it stands I have a few scenes written for both, and basic storylines but both are far from completion.
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Friday, June 23rd, 2017 – St. Louis, Missouri
"Ash, Sam!?" Tom called through the open door. It was hot, it was humid, and he was getting impatient. Not a winning combination. Possibly the only saving grace was the fact that Sasha was wearing yoga pants, and they made her ass look great. He admired it as she floated past him, arms laden with a few last-minute supplies – bottles of water, phone chargers, and some snacks for the journey. He patted her behind, firm enough to sting a little but not to hurt, and Sasha snapped her head around quickly, shaking her head with a breathy laugh when he simply winked at her. He was leaning casually against the hood of his truck, smirking.
"Ew," Ashely said, having arrived just in time to see it. Her footfalls were heavy as she dutifully climbed into the backseat of the truck, slamming the door with more force than was necessary. Tom rolled his eyes and put his sunglasses on. He opened the passenger door for Sasha, holding a few of the items while she settled herself before handing them back for her to organize.
Ashely's meltdown yesterday, when she'd been forced to say goodbye to Justin, had been epic as much as it was dramatic, and he was done with the attitude. She'd only be gone for six months before graduating and starting college. Likely in St. Louis, though her moods seemed to change as much as the wind these days, everything was subject to reversal when it came to her.
"You have everything buddy?" Tom asked as Sam approached; he simply nodded, climbing into the backseat. Sam was also tired of Ashley's bitch-fits as he so lovingly called them. Something he'd been reprimanded heavily for. Tom handed Sasha the keys to turn on the AC while he went to do a final walkthrough of the house. They were Norfolk bound, having found a nice home close to their old stomping grounds. They'd decided to relocate the Naval Academy to the existing colleges there. Much of the old academy had been destroyed during the outbreak and subsequent instability, and with their still limited manpower, it made more sense to relocate than to rebuild. Strategically and geographically, Norfolk still made the most sense to function as a joint task force and training center in conjunction with Southern Command.
Recruitment efforts for all four branches were in full force. Fundraisers, press briefings, galas – you name it. The President had the heroes of the Nathan James working double-time to drum up support for their armed forces. There were even talks of a book amongst the seemingly endless interviews that they'd all rather avoid. School curriculums across the country were churning out students at sixteen instead of eighteen. President Oliver was even forming the beginnings of a congress, something between the State system of old and Michener's regional leadership model.
All things considered, they were making progress. The famine declared officially beaten one-month prior, global crops now at a sustainable level, and the fuel treaty holding steady. The Michener was two months from completion, a hodgepodge of retrofitted parts that would form an amphibious assault ship and become the flagship of the new fleet. A command that Tom intended to give to Garnett, along with a promotion to the rank of Captain. Their first set of new sailors were set to join the James for training soon, and though he hadn't voiced it yet – the concept of retirement had started percolating in his mind again. Maybe in a couple more years, once they'd churned out a few more classes of sailors and fully established operations at the command centers.
Sasha watched as Tom closed the door, leaving the keys in an envelope under the mat for their landlord to collect. Never one for attachments to places, having moved so consistently for her entire adult life, she wasn't sad to see it go. It had served a purpose – most all of the homes in the neighborhood were used by the administration to house personnel and their families. An annex of sorts, and it had never truly felt like "theirs." Just a pit-stop until they inevitably moved on. Norfolk, though, was the closest thing to a home next to Charleston she'd ever had.
"All set?" she asked when Tom climbed in, taking a moment to appreciate the golden tan he'd developed over the past few days spent loading things onto their trailer.
"Yep," he confirmed, reaching his hand behind the headrest as he reversed out of the driveway.
They were several hours into the fourteen-hour trip; both kids fast asleep in the back. Sasha attempting but failing to do the same. Tom's hand squeezed her thigh slightly where it rested – a silent question. He could feel the tension in her body, practically hear her overthinking, though she reminded perfectly silent. Sasha exhaled softly, opening her eyes and letting her head roll to the side to look at him.
He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. "What's going on?"
"Thinking about Brown," her tone was careful. Controlled, though the regret was evident and unspoken between them. His thumb stroking over her leg served as his response – understated, quiet, yet enough, because she knew he understood. His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought back, remembering the night.
The sound of the sat phone buzzing pulled him from sleep, and not three seconds after he registered it, did the icy implication strike fear into his soul. A brief glance at the clock on the bedstand told him it was a little after three. Something had gone wrong. No one would call at this hour otherwise. Within two rings, he'd snatched the phone from the table and clicked, breath frozen while he awaited a voice on the other end.
The words she'd planned to say stuck in the back of her throat, and instead of a greeting, she took a shaky breath. The scenarios racing through Tom's mind didn't bear thinking about when he heard it.
"Sasha?" he questioned urgently.
It snapped her out of the momentary stupor, the fear in his voice urging her to respond. To set his mind at ease. "I'm here, I'm okay –" her breath hitched, and she broke off. Simultaneously, the abstract panic settled in Tom's gut gave way to floods of relief, short-lived, however, when he realized that while she might be physically okay, she sounded off. She sounded exactly like someone who'd just watched a person die.
"What happened?" he asked carefully, sitting upright in the bed and leaning his back against the headboard.
"Brown. We lost Brown." It was quiet, laden with failure, and Tom pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to her careful breathing on the other end.
"I'm sorry, Sash," he sighed, the silent ache of her absence growing in intensity.
"I've never – " she started before coming to an abrupt stop. Unsure of how to effectively communicate that she'd never been responsible for sending someone to their death before. This was her operation, her team, and he'd died on her watch. She'd meant it all those years ago when she'd told Tom she ran solo. Never had to bear the weight of responsibility the way he did. Until now.
His eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher what she meant with so few words before it finally dawned on him. Tom clenched his jaw, trying to process a response – to think of something that might help, yet failing because it was too shallow of a wish. He still struggled with the weight of the dead and the ghosts that haunted him, and no number of platitudes would change that. Sasha heard a long exhale, and she knew he'd figured it out.
"Franklin Benz was the first." Tom told her gently. "He was exposed during a refueling mission. Took his own life, right in front of us. I ordered him on that cruise ship, but I couldn't make him put the gun down – he disobeyed me." His tone was regretful. Flat.
"Frankie?" her question was somewhat breathless as she made the connection to Danny's son.
"Frankie." Tom confirmed. A beat of silence passed between them before he continued. "You always remember the first." Sasha swallowed, considering his words for what they were. The simple truth, and somehow – it was exactly what she'd needed from him.
"It's the job," she repeated his words from the James, and he tucked his chin down to his chest.
"It's the job," he confirmed, eyes narrowing as a lump settled itself in his throat. Another beat of silence lay between them, companionable in nature, while she gathered her thoughts.
"I miss you," she breathed, voicing the words usually left unspoken. Words they avoided in favor of more productive sentiments like, "I'll be home soon," or "Be safe," but tonight, she needed to say it. Thankful that she still had that luxury. They'd come close today, too close. Not that she'd ever let him find out just how narrow their escape had been. Part of the reason Sasha had slipped away from the others upon reaching the safe house. The need to hear his voice overwhelming prevalent over the dozen other things she had left to do.
Tom blinked a few times, "I know, baby. Me too." He sighed, his eyes wandering of their own volition to the empty space beside him. The sheets still neat and perfectly made, amplifying her absence. "How much longer will you stay?"
"Not long, it's getting too hot now. Probably best to move up our timeline." She mused quietly, and the pit of ill-ease gnawed at his gut. She heard the mattress shift under his weight as he threw his legs over the side of the bed. No use pretending sleep would come now.
Sasha sighed as she spoke, "I'm sorry I woke you."
"Don't be. You can call me anytime – you know that." And she did, she really did. Knew from the kids that he had that sat phone practically attached to his hip whenever she left. Just waiting for her to call – never letting it ring more than twice before he picked up.
Sasha swallowed. Her back was pressed against the weathered wood of their ramshackle safe house, splinters snagging on her vest. Slowly, she tipped her head toward the sky, observing the stars. Twilight would come soon to take them away, an hour or so sooner than it would for him – but for now, they were both blanketed by darkness. Sasha could feel the pull of wanting to stay on the phone with him indefinitely – even in silence. Just to hear the sound of his breathing on the other end, and she pursed her lips.
"Tom – " she stopped herself again, closing her eyes tightly. Clenched her jaw because the longing in her tone caught her off guard, and she couldn't allow herself to drown right now. This was neither the time nor the place to wax lyrical about her love for him. About how lucky they were to have each other still. Something she thought about increasingly as of late. Tom squinted, his lips parting as she left whatever she'd meant to say unsaid.
Sasha found control again and pushed herself away from the wall. "I'll be home soon, okay?" The moment effectively gone, and he drew his lips together again tightly. Tucking his head a little.
"Okay," he responded, knowing he had less than ten seconds left with her before she was gone.
"I love you," she said, rendering silent the part of her that wasn't ready to let him go yet.
His voice was tender as he responded. "I love you too, baby. Be safe," and she bit her lip because he really only called her that when he knew it was bad. Even if she wasn't capable of voicing it herself. Sasha forced herself to hang-up, taking a few seconds before she put herself back in the game, and strode with purpose into the house.
Tom lingered long after the call. The sat phone back on the bedside table and her wedding band between his fingers instead. Brooding, as Sasha labeled it, while he twirled the metal methodically in his hands and thought of her. For all his paranoia about missions, that phone call had all but confirmed his gut feeling about this one.
Tom was reasonably sure he'd almost lost her tonight, and that thought terrified him.
Tuesday, August 8th, 2017 – USS Nathan James, Mayport, Florida
"Admiral Slattery," Kara greeted her Captain with a nod as she stood next to him on the Bridge. Now that Garnett was Captain of the Michener and Maylen promoted Vice Chief of Naval Operations, the James needed an XO. A position Chandler and Slattery saw fit to give to her. In fact, a little birdie had told her that their CNO intended to promote her to Captain just as soon as their second destroyer was retrofitted. The USS, Michael O'Connor.
They were headed on a weapons training mission with their newest group of wide-eyed, young, eager recruits, and Kara was reminded in an instant of everything she'd loved about the Navy.
"Commander Green," he nodded back in greeting, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. "Why don't you do the honors?" She smiled softly, eyes twinkling with happiness as she addressed their crew.
"OOD, set a course for our coordinates, all ahead flank." She commanded, the rush of pride swelling within her chest and reflected on Slattery's face.
Thursday, September 14th, 2017 – USNORTHCOM, Norfolk, Virginia
Tom was working in his office, commissioning plans for the fleet, when his assistant drew his attention. A sharp and urgent knock at the door rang out, and immediately, he knew something was wrong by her flushed appearance and insistent entrance.
"Excuse me, Sir. I have an urgent communication from the White House," she strode over to the desk, somewhat breathless having almost run from the communications center where she'd been summoned not three minutes ago. Tom took the file in silence, flipping it open and scanning its contents. His jaw went slack, and his eyes widened.
"I need a plane to St. Louis," he instructed. "Yes, Sir," she responded, and he inclined his head in a subtle nod. Eyes watching as she made haste down the hallway to hail General Kirk. Tom glanced at his watch, snapping the file shut, along with his laptop, which he secured and locked in his top drawer.
A few minutes later, in the adjacent wing, he spied Sasha through the open blinds of her office. The small smile on her face upon seeing him short-lived when she registered his expression, and she stood reflexively. Her fingers splayed on the desk before her, touching it with just the tips – giving her some sort of purchase as she waited with bated breath to find out what was wrong.
Tom closed the door, and subsequently, the blinds quickly after he entered. Not more than a beat of silence passing between them before he informed her, "POTUS was declared dead as of ten-minutes ago."
Sasha blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. "What?" she breathed, completely flabbergasted.
"He had a heart attack. Paramedics pronounced him dead when they arrived on scene. Chief of Staff wants me in St. Louis to assist. They'll be making a statement to the press within the hour." He continued calmly, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Sasha's eyebrow quirked slightly as the shock played out across her face. This was the worst possible timing – Oliver had her scheduled on a Diplomatic Mission to China. She was due to leave tomorrow. Tom's eyes followed her as she stepped around the desk, coming to stop before him, arms crossed across her chest.
"When are you leaving?" she asked.
"Soon as I find a plane. Amanda's working on that now. I'm gonna swing by the house, grab a bag of clothes, but I wanted to say goodbye first."
"Yeah, okay," she acknowledged. Her tone was distracted, her mind still preoccupied with the ramifications of what losing Oliver would do to their progress. Sasha liked him. He was a fair, just, and competent leader who was respected not only amongst their peers but key foreign leaders as well. Tom stepped forward, drawing her lips to his in a short but firm kiss, and her hands reflexively came to rest on his biceps as he did.
"I'll call you when I can?" he said quietly, the pad of his thumb caressing her cheek.
Sasha nodded her head. "Go. I love you," she told him, leaning forward to give him one last kiss – ever mindful of the fact that at any moment, her own assistant would likely arrive with the same news.
"Love you too, be safe."
"Ash? Come quick. Dad's on the TV," Sam yelled from the living room. Sasha rounded the kitchen island, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and turned the volume up. They were assembled outside of the doors of the President's Office, the Chief of Staff front and center prepared to give an address to the press junkets. Sasha glanced at Ashely, who joined her in standing behind the couch, the grim expression mirroring her own.
"Good evening. As you are all now aware, President Howard Oliver suffered a fatal heart attack this afternoon while serving in office. It is a great loss for our country. A loss that comes as a shock to many, but for those who were close, his untimely passing serves as a stark reminder to us all of the work still left to be done. Howard Oliver's death was preventable. The result of a heart disease that was easily managed prior to the pandemic with a simple, widely available medication. Had such access to life-saving medications not been stalled by foreign nations, particularly those in Asia, I would not be standing before you today delivering this tragic news."
Sasha raised an impressed eyebrow and quired her head slightly. Kelly had always been a spitfire, but calling China out directly for their ongoing spat was a ballsy move – even for her.
"President Oliver leaves behind a legacy of healing. A legacy of hope. His actions, before taking office, as the Mayor of St. Louis, saved hundreds of thousands of lives. His courage, and tenacity in the face of an attempted Coup, along with the leadership of Admiral Chandler, delivered this country from the brink of collapse."
Sasha watched as Tom looked down at the floor upon mention of his name. His eyes narrowing slightly, almost imperceptibly, before he returned his gaze reticently to the press assembled before them.
"His subsequent handling of the aftermath, and shortly thereafter the global famine, will stand throughout history as nothing short of extraordinary. This administration intends to continue executing his vision and honoring his legacy with the utmost transparency through this difficult transition. To that effect, Vice President Joshua Reiss is en-route to the White House as we speak, where Judge Gross will administer the oath of office, live, in front of you all. Admiral Chandler, along with myself and other key members of the cabinet are on hand to bring Vice President Reiss up to speed quickly. Secretary of Press Garcia will be releasing details regarding services for President Oliver tomorrow, and in the meantime, we can assure you that our progress will continue. Thank you."
A plethora of voices assaulted them upon the end of Kelly's speech. Each one drowning out the other in a gaggle of noise, camera flashes now going wild illuminating.
"Ms. Hansley! Will this administration continue the tradition of rolling terms without an election that we saw after Michener?" A reporter called, loud enough to break through the crowd and be heard.
Sasha scoffed quietly and shook her head. Crossing her arms across her body as Ashely looked over curiously by her side.
"We intend to do everything we can to ensure a smooth transition – as you all know, President Oliver was working on re-establishing congress because he felt strongly that the people of this country deserve to be heard. Both locally, and federally. We plan to continue toward achieving that goal, but in the meantime, we are following the line of succession as set forth by the constitution." She deflected easily.
"What about Admiral Chandler? Surely your administration knows the importance of leadership we can trust – especially in light of recent failures. The people know nothing about Vice President Reiss. Where was he when the Red-Rust hit? During the pandemic? He wasn't even a member of cabinet until three months ago." The reporter continued, undeterred.
Tom glanced at Kelly and stepped forward, affixing the charm he could possess to shut that train of thought down.
"While I'm flattered that you'd suggest I run for President, I can assure you – that won't be happening. I intend to give the Vice President a chance to prove himself, and I'd ask that you all do the same."
"They want Dad to be President?" Sam asked, his tone hard to decipher, something between apprehension and astonishment at the prospect. If he thought it was hard being Tom Chandler's son now, it would be nothing compared to being the son of the President of the United States.
"He won't do it. He's there now for credibility. So people can see that he's part of the transition, and it won't end up like last time." Sasha assured him gently. Catching Ashley listening intently from the corner of her eye.
"So can we move back to St. Louis then? If Dad has to be there to help the new President, it doesn't make sense to stay here." Ashely suggested, and Sasha looked down. Biting her lip slightly to hide the smirk – sometimes tact was not her strong suit.
"I hate to burst your bubble, but he'll only be there for a few weeks at the most." Sasha said an amused but regretful expression on her face as she watched the indignation settle back into Ashley's stance.
"Well, whatever – I'm going back to my room. This stuff is boring anyway."
Sam rolled his eyes from the couch and shook his head in exasperation, which Sasha caught. She sighed. Seems like she would be doing damage control on all fronts, both professionally and personally. Wouldn't be surprised if Kelly's jab toward Asia had officially canceled the meeting she'd been brokering for months now.
It was late when Tom called. Sasha was propped up in their bed, clearing out the explosion in her inbox.
"Hey," she answered flatly.
"That bad, huh?"
It caught her, and she huffed out a breath, a small smile pulling at her lips. Not particularly surprised that he so easily deciphered her mood with one word. "Well, I won't be going to China tomorrow. So that's one less thing to worry about, I suppose." The cynicism not lost on him.
"Ah, the comment Hansley made?"
"Mmm." She hummed in confirmation, lips tight with tension. "What about you? How is Reiss? I only met him once in passing." The sigh she heard on the other end of the phone telling her most of what she needed to know.
"Cocky. Needs some work."
Sasha scoffed slightly, shaking her head in exasperation as she worked her jaw in a circle to dispel some frustration. "Every goddamn time, Tom. One step forward, two steps back." The words tasted bitter.
"How are the kids?" he asked, changing the subject.
"One of them's worried you're running for President, and the other is using this as an excuse to pitch moving back. I'll let you figure out which one's which." Her tone was wry, and she heard him laugh softly under his breath.
"Sounds about right."
Friday, September 22nd, 2017 – White House, St. Louis, Missouri
The weather was muggy, humid, and oppressively hot, hovering around 95 degrees. Sporadic clouds provided some relief from the beating sun, but for the most part, it was miserable – the present event aside. Tom walked dutifully with the procession, the wool of his uniform suppressive and itchy. He'd been on the hook for a speech – yet another eulogy that failed to effectively capture all that they'd lost since this hell began.
Sasha was floating somewhere, cautious as ever to remain discreet. Had spied her unmistakable stance near the back of the crowd from his place atop the podium, seemingly having materialized from thin air. Something she managed remarkably well. He still hadn't figured that out – how she could simultaneously capture attention by merely walking into a room yet remain conspicuously missing from every photograph, broadcast, or article. Like a ghost, or a spook, he reminded himself.
Finally, the procession of mourners reached the steps of the White House, having laid President Oliver to rest in the gardens. His casket buried beside Michener and Rachel. The parallels not lost on him. His mind forever haunted by the ghosts of bullet holes long since patched. Even so morbid as to wander for months which room Sasha was in when her sat phone caught that gut shot. When he'd come within two inches of ordering her death – the thought still eliciting a chill down his spine.
Tom loaded a plate of food, thankful for the brief respite from the seemingly endless number of people who wanted face time with him. As was her proclivity, she appeared. Graceful, and silent as ever – using the guise of getting food for them to have an inconspicuous conversation.
Tom looked at her from the corner of his eye, finding her returning the gesture with the ghost of a smile upon her lips. Discretely he looked her over, appreciating the fitted, high neck cap-sleeved dress she wore. Yet another piece from her pre-pandemic wardrobe that he'd never seen before. Her hair was in a sleek ponytail, and she was wearing gold bar earrings that made his fingers itch to touch her impossibly long neck. Actually, the neanderthal of his brain wanted nothing more than to place a hand in the curve of her back, just so people would know she was his.
"You didn't have to come," he said softly, though he was glad she was here. Despite his insistence that this wouldn't send him into the depths of self-loathing again, he couldn't deny his discomfort. Nor the guilt that he didn't think would ever truly be gone.
Her glance was coy as she spoke, "And miss seeing these women throw themselves at you at a funeral?" earning her the brash chuckle and half-smirk she'd wanted. No need to discuss the elephant in the room – there'd be plenty of time to unpack baggage later in private.
"You're not exactly unpopular yourself," he reminded her lightly, and she looked down, suppressing her smile while she continued to place food on her plate. They moved down the buffet, stealing glances at each other, and she took her opportunity when he reached for a napkin—allowing her fingers to brush his for a fraction of a second as she did the same. Tom's breath hitched almost silently, a jolt of longing working its way excruciatingly through his heart. Suddenly struck by how much he wanted to hold her. To be a normal man who could greet his wife with a kiss after not seeing her for a week. They straightened at the same time, finally turning to face each other. Plates and Napkins in hand, and her eyes became serious, soft as she spoke.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world." It was quiet, uttered so only he could hear, and Tom had to clench his jaw to stop himself from saying he loved her. Forced instead to tell her with his eyes. They lingered for as long as was safe before Sasha smiled regretfully, wetting her bottom lip and dipping her eyes unconsciously.
"Admiral," she said in parting, excusing herself just in time for Secretary Fuller to approach. The heat of Tom's gaze following her retreat into the crowd as she went.