an. This is the fourth installment in my New China universe. Though it can be read as a standalone, you'll be missing a fair bit of background without first reading those. This is an AU version of events, based around the major plot points of what we saw with several important changes. I hope it's not too difficult to follow and removes some of my (and others) hate for what transpired on screen. Probably the most important thing to note; there's no Battleship in my world. I can't get around the plot holes of it going missing, and no one realizing when there are only four left in the US. Also, it was stupid, so. Tom will not be chasing an imaginary battleship in my universe.
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Sasha's feet rested against the balconies railing. A commotion of noise drew her attention to the pool below, reflexes ever sharp and on edge to respond at a moment's notice—just a couple rowdy kids trying to whip each other with wet towels. She relaxed, back slouching again in the flimsy patio chair. The computer in her lap chimed, an e-mail. She opened it instantly, scanning its contents. A satisfied smirk tugged at her lips, and she fired back confirmation of their orders over the secure network. Command had just approved Vulture Team to approach El Presidente, and now, they had a mission to plan. Picking up the burner, she typed out a quick text, thumbs deft upon the tactile buttons of the old Nokia phone.
Meet for drinks?
When and where?
Green Room at 6?
See u there.
Flickering to the time and seeing she still had a few minutes of privacy left, she closed the laptop and moved inside to use the sat phone. One hand rested on her hip while she waited for an answer.
"Hello?" Came a cautious voice.
"Ash, it's me." Sasha could practically hear the stress melt away on the other line.
"Oh hey Sasha—you got my e-mail then?" It sounded like she'd stepped into a different room, the pronounced sound of a door closing in the background.
"I did. What's going on?" A current of concern underlaid Sasha's approach while her hands busied themselves setting out blueprints on the small desk. There was a weighty sigh on the other side before Ashely answered.
"It's Sam. He wants to live in St. Louis with me."
Sasha exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's uh… why?" she landed upon, a little agitated, her blueprints now overlooked. She knew things weren't ideal, not by a long shot, not since the fight, but they'd been improving. Communication helping to lessen the damage of undisclosed resentments between Tom and his kids. This was the last thing any of them needed right now.
"He hates that school. Everyone in Norfolk is obsessed with Dad, you know that. It's all they ever talk about. He said some of the new kids aren't great—the ones who moved there because of the base? Last week he got in a fight because one of them said something about us—"
"What do you mean? What did they say?"
There was a hesitation before Ashely answered. "They asked him what it's like to know your Dad picked a mission over his family."
Sasha hung her head, eyes closing as she deflated. A nervous hand ran through her hair, an agitated motion, an attempt to dispel the uncomfortable emotions attached to that particular moment. Her mouth hung open while she struggled to respond. "That's not even close to being true… why would they say that?"
"I guess one of his parents served on Hayward. It's kind of common knowledge that Dad ignored the order to come home." Ashely's tone was flat. Like this wasn't the first time she'd been put in this predicament.
"What the hell is wrong with people?" Sasha cringed over her own outburst and reeled it back in. Getting emotional wouldn't help, and she had less than five minutes for this call. "Does your Dad know?"
"No. That's why I wanted to talk to you first. Sam said he's not doing so great, and he doesn't want him to think it's his fault. And I don't either because it's not. That kid's an asshole, but you know how Dad is. I don't know what to do."
A spasm of guilt radiated. The knowledge that a considerable part of Tom's weariness this time belonged exclusively to her, not lost. A profound yearning had been growing since leaving for Panama. A wish for a simpler life, one not constantly lambasted by their commitment to duty and the greater good. For once, Sasha wanted to be selfish, to be able to walk away instead of answering the call every time it came. A crease formed in the center of her brow, eyes round and sad. Her next words were breathy and quiet.
"Can you guys do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Can you wait until I get home?" She didn't bother hiding the fatigue, nor the cautious optimism that they might. "I should be back in a few weeks, maybe even before Christmas and we can talk about it. Together?"
Ashley sighed again. "I figured you'd say that." The dejection was noted.
Sasha drew her bottom lip between her teeth before concluding that honesty was best if she wanted them to heed her request. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious, Ash." She hesitated before adding quietly, "Your Dad's not in a good place right now. He's hurting."
"I know... but Sam's been talking about this for a while. I think he's really serious this time," Ashely warned.
Sasha winced. "I get it. I'm not saying convince him to stay—just—ask him to wait? Just a few more weeks until I'm home. Things are moving here I should be done soon." There was a pregnant pause, and she imagined Ashely's sullen expression on the other end of the call. The sound of the keycard beeping alerted her to the team's arrival, and Sasha straightened, drawing her features back to neutral. "Listen Ash—I have to go, but please—think about what I said. I can call you again in a few hours—"
"No. No, it's okay. I'll get him to hold off."
Some of the tension left Sasha's body, her relief verbally evident. "Thank you. I'll make it up to you guys, I promise—and get me that kid's name." She glanced at Danny when he passed. The team's chatter mulled, allowing her to finish her call in relative silence as they made themselves busy with gear.
"I'll send it to you. Be safe Sasha, bye."
"Bye."
Danny's brow quirked as he observed. Cooper had a good poker face most of the time, but now they were close and he could tell something was off. Joining the group, her eyes settled on him for a moment.
"All good?" he inquired while checking the chamber of his Beretta.
"Yeah, everything's fine." Her tone was a little too bright to be truthful. He wasn't buying it, that much she could tell, but they had bigger issues to focus on. Deflecting with ease Sasha addressed the room. "We're in business. POTUS approved the opp. We're good to make contact with Asturias."
"About fucking time," Wolf drawled, drawing a few chuckles.
"No shit," Danny grumbled.
"The party is our best insertion point. I say we point out his security flaws then offer our help. He won't believe he's in danger unless we can show how easily they can get to him," Sasha suggested, glancing at her counterparts.
Danny nodded, folding his arms over his chest. "Shouldn't be too hard for us to slip past security. You guys—" he made a vague gesture between Sasha and Azima "—need tickets, though."
Sasha grinned. "Already on it. I set up a meet with my contact tonight—he should be able to get us in. Gives us a few days for planning and a chance to get eyes on Martinez."
Danny tipped his head and smirked back. Just like her to be two steps ahead, putting the chess pieces in motion even without the official green light. "Shit, we might even make it home for Christmas."
A spark of joy that she didn't see often enough caught his eyes. Her brow rose, a cautious yet hopeful expression gracing her features. "We do this right—we might be home by the end of next week."
Home was a large subject as of late. They'd talked about this a few times at length—hours spent while they scoped the Presidential Palace from rooftops coming to terms that their heydays were over. It was time to move on from the missions, time to come home. Preferably while there was still a home left to come back to.
Kara and Danny appeared to be doing better much to Sasha's relief. He'd put in the work, realized before it was too late what he stood to lose and Kara had been patient. Incredibly so, in giving him space to find himself again. Danny had never been so profoundly aware of how lucky he was. On Sasha's part, seeing the Greens work so hard to save their family weighed heavy. The parallels not so different from her own. Their root issues were different, of course, but the corrosive effects were no less damaging. Simply put, Sasha needed to choose for all their sakes—Sam and Ashley included—for it was becoming clearer every day that she was killing Tom every time she left.
Later that evening Sasha stepped out, secluding herself on the balcony while the rest of the team watched novellas on the shitty little TV. The weather was pleasant. A temperate light breeze rustling the canopies of palms beneath her.
"We won the game, 38-32." Came his expectant answer, and just like that the sound of Tom's voice rendered her tender.
At this precise moment, Sasha had never been so ready to be done. Though she didn't want to tell him that—not over the phone. She wanted to do it in person. Wanted to bask in Tom's reaction when she told him she was taking his name. No more undercover work. No more long-term missions, risking her life getting shot at thousands of miles from home while he worried himself sick. Just her. Sasha. Sasha Chandler.
"Well then, happy birthday." Her soft grin could be heard.
"Almost. There is one thing that's missing..." His tone was light, and she played along. An unspoken agreement that they wouldn't broach the heavy topics outside of emergencies while she was gone. The subtext was there though. Tom missed her—quite desperately at times.
"Hm, Cigars?" she teased.
Tom chuckled. "I think Mike's gonna solve that later."
A wistful look took over and Sasha leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing. She tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could pick and the threads of her shirt. "When are you heading out?" Imagined Tom checking his watch for the time.
"Soon actually, dinner's at eight."
"Well, I won't keep you then. I just wanted to say hi and happy birthday... and I'm sorry I didn't call earlier. Today's been busy."
"How is it?"
"Hot. Getting hotter." And just like that, she felt the shift. The easy banter making way for the weight of the unsaid—the ache of things beyond their control. Sasha sighed, closing her eyes while she inhaled. "You'll say hi to everyone for me?" Deflecting bak into safer territory.
"Of course," he answered. As if that were even a question.
"Alright, I'll call you when I can then. Have fun tonight, I love you."
Tom sighed. Something was off with her, had been for this entire mission but he couldn't put his finger on it. Didn't want to bring it up for fear of distracting. He needed her focused. Focused was the only way to come home alive. Tom swallowed, eyes narrowing against the burn of everything he so desperately wanted to say.
"Be safe," he told her just before she hung up.
December 12th, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida
Russell Jeter turned and stood to attention as the CNO arrived, honored as ever to serve under his command. It was nice having the crew back together for Fleet Week. There were the familiar faces, of course, those Tom saw on occasion at relevant functions. Others when they made port in Norfolk. But for people like Mejia who'd left the service after returning from Greece, it was a homecoming of sorts. Tom had flown in the prior weekend, finding himself enjoying being together with them again. There'd been a dinner on Sunday night in celebration of his Birthday. An evening where he'd drunk a little too much and smoked several cigars with Mike while they reminisced long into the night. Hashed out memories from before the world had gone to shit—Tom's counterpart even moving so far as to discuss Andrea and that he'd come to accept his family was gone.
Tom had listened with rapt attention, thoughts drawn as ever to his own. And whether it was the rare display of vulnerability from Mike, the alcohol, or perhaps sentiment creeping in just as surely as he felt his age, he'd felt the need to confess. To ask whether he was being fair in wanting Sasha to stop, mostly because he didn't want to worry anymore. If it was fair to place so much of his happiness on her shoulders or perhaps codependency was manifesting itself. After all, he'd left Darien for most of their marriage, and he'd survived. Why did it feel like he couldn't breathe when Sasha was gone?
"Russ," Tom greeted with a nod. He'd been down at the docks playing his part. Smiling, shaking hands and giving interviews when summoned back to command. Judging by the solemn mood, it wasn't good news. Tom's gaze traveled, briefly meeting Vice CNO Joseph Meylan's who offered a subtle though serious nod in return, and with stinging clarity, Tom knew. Felt compelled to order they spit it out because the one thing he couldn't do was wait.
His face and tone betrayed the bitter and ruthless terror devouring his mind. "What is it?"
Jeter glanced once at Meylan, picking up a remote and switching the conference glass frosted before answering. "Sir, the team in Panama has been compromised." Pressed a different button and Tom switched focus to the screen on the wall. Right there, Sasha and Green stood. Front and center. Wolf and Azima were partially obscured but still pictured, and the words 'America assassinates Panamanian President, manhunt in progress' scrolled by.
Panic gripped. Coiling in the pit of Tom's gut. "Have they made contact?" Externally calm, though the storm was beginning to cloud his eyes.
"Satellite communications just went down, we're rebooting the system—but as of five minutes ago, we lost all coms and weapons defense systems connected to the network," Meylan responded.
Tom squinted in reaction, his mind moving rapid-fire, an age-old stance drilled into him over years propelling itself to the forefront.
Coincidence and conspiracy.
He jerked his head up. "Lock it down. No one in, no one out—get word to the fleet however you have to. I want all civilians off that port, we're under attack. I need to make sure POTUS is secure!" He was already on his way to the door.
In a flurry of motion, Jeter and Meylan responded. Russ following no more than two steps behind Tom as they both ran to the communications room. Paces from reaching their destination, a gunshot rang out followed by the screams of their personal. Everyone in the war room scattered in search of cover. Tom and Russ reflexively ducked, each diving behind two adjacent consoles as round after round was fired. Tom's eyes darted around, taking stock of the situation. In the chaos of bodies and bullets, he couldn't yet locate the shooter, but he could see no less than five people on the ground already. Noted grimly that the doors were locked, remaining so even as various staff attempted to open them with keycards and in their panic, forgot as they threw chairs, that there was no way to break the glass—it was bulletproof for a reason.
Russ and Tom's eyes collided, the same focus reflected in each while they attempted to locate a means to get the situation under control. Tom knew the closest weapon was locked via safe in the communications room. Regretfully, he could now see that the shooter was one of their own, and was in possession of said gun. It wasn't a stretch to assume they'd taken the additional mags stored alongside it too. That meant their attacker still had fifty rounds before he was out—more than enough to massacre the room.
Their only option was to restrain him with brute force. Tom recognized the moment Russ came to the same conclusion, a small nod in his direction communicating his MPCON's readiness to act. Tom pointed two fingers where they would move next—a console directly behind the Ensign's position—close enough for them to have one opportunity to end this. Russ nodded once more in confirmation, and Tom held up three fingers as the chaos ensued around them. By now, their armed security was attempting to break through the doors, all number of tools being shoved into the metal in a desperate attempt to manually pry them apart.
Three.
Two.
One.
They burst forth from their positions. Jumped over bodies and toppled chairs before skidding into the console unnoticed in the commotion. It was then that Tom saw a pool of blood around a dark-skinned hand visible through the door of the communications room. His heart lurched. Forced himself to tear his eyes away. To focus instead on restraining their assailant. Tom saw his chance and sprung forward, using his entire body to barrel into the Ensign. Enough force to knock the gun from his hands and send them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of fists.
Jeter deftly picked up the weapon and pressed it hard against the Ensign's temple. "Enough!" he commanded, and the Ensign stilled.
Tom's knee pressed against down against his chest, hands fisting their attacker's uniform, the rage was so complete that it caused them to shake. "Who are you!?"
Ensign La Paz laughed, face becoming red because of the restricted flow of air under Admiral Chandler's weight. He seemed to make an unusual gesture with his mouth as if his tongue were digging for something, and Tom recognized a little too late what was going on. Forced his jaw open in time to watch La Paz crack a cyanide pill. The taunting laughter continued.
"Who! Who do you work for?" Tom demanded again, watching as red, bloody saliva began to froth and gurgle from the Ensign's mouth.
La Paz had an evil soulless stare. Holding Tom's eyes as he struggled out—"Viva… Tavo"—before succumbing to the poison.
Tom's breathing came in labored puffs, piercing the tinnitus in his ears. The sounds of crying and desperate affirmations—"You're gonna be alright"— and—"Keep breathing"—surrounding him. Chest heaving, Tom released his grip and looked at Russ. They stared at each other for a moment before sense spurred Tom into action again. Leaving the body, he stood and went to the communications room, knowing as he approached that he was about to discover Alisha Granderson's corpse. There'd been too much blood for her to survive.
Russ followed and skidded to a horrified stop when he encountered her dead lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. La Paz had fired point-blank, straight through her forehead, and he could not suppress the harsh gasp that drove itself from the depths of his lungs. Tom slipped slightly in the slick blood, and he shot out a hand to steady himself on the console. Recovering fast and flicking switches to move to the analog broadcast channel before ripping the handset free.
"Attention fleet, this is your CNO. Command is under attack. I say again, Command is under attack! All satellite systems are down, including weapons and radar. Man your battle stations!"
On the bridge of the James, Kara frowned. Her heart, which had been soaring as they cruised the harbor, sank into the depths of her body when she heard Admiral Chandler's voice penetrate their comms. Around her the triumphant mood plunged into suspense so thick you could hear a pin drop. Kara wet her lips and sprang into action.
"Get these civilians out of here! I want eyes at every watch station—OOD, get us within CWIS range of the port but do not put us in harm's way. Master Chief—set general quarters, I want all gunners on deck, and ready the five-inch, now!" She ripped the comms handset up to relay firing instructions to CIC.
Mike checked his watch again and fiddled with his belt buckle, cursing the press for what felt like the hundredth time this week. He was tired. Yes, it was great to celebrate the commissioning of their new fleet—but the number of interviews was loathsome and he was pissed at Tom for assigning the bulk of them to him. Payback, no doubt, for that ceremony he'd missed.
"I'm so sorry, we're still having issues with the satellite," the reporter said—again.
Mike inclined his head and grinned, or rather grimaced in an attempt to remain polite. Strawberry blonde hair caught his attention, and he felt himself wanting to break into a smile. In front of the crew and press that wouldn't be appropriate—no matter, though—the expression upon Andrea's face killed his momentary happiness and filled him with dread instead, finding he didn't have to work to stop that smile after all.
Andrea stepped forward and spoke directly into his ear. "Command is under attack—all satellite-based systems are down including weapons and radar. CNO's ordered an evacuation and all gunners to battle stations." The shock registered upon his features for a matter of seconds before he got it under control. He squeezed Andrea's shoulder and found the stage, urgent as he strode to it. Once there he hopped up with ease, his appearance causing the performer to stall, readable in their confusion. Mike snatched the microphone from the singer's hands.
"Can I have your attention, please?" he bellowed. Waited as the crowd turned. The milling subdued. "I need everyone to remain calm, there is no need to panic"—already the threadbare precipice between chaos and order was shifting—"we're experiencing a temporary systems failure and for your safety as well as the fleets, I need all civilians to evacuate port." Mike spied Burk through the crowd and gestured for him to raise a hand. Burk complied, palm splayed and arm up high. "My good friend over there"—Mike pointed in his direction—"will guide you, along with our other Lieutenants."
Mike watched Burk spring into action, gesturing and hollering for people to follow him, now standing on top of a large speaker, as to be more visible to the crowd. Hesitantly, and with confusion, people began to move. Their murmurs of protest like a hive of bees humming before an attack. "Please, remain calm. You're in great hands. This is just a precaution! Everyone else, report to your ships and man your stations." He hopped down, intending to assist Burk in ensuring the civilians evacuated before heading back to his own ship. Cut that reporter off fast when she tried to argue with a firm instruction that left zero room for discussion. "That means you too—I need you off this deck—now."
In hindsight, if they'd had just a little more warning, maybe even five minutes more, they might have been spared, but such was the nature of life—cruel and ironic as it was—for at that precise moment, Mike heard the unmistakable drone of engines on the horizon. Didn't need to turn to know what he was about to witness. The sound of a CWIS somewhere just off the coast—the James, he recognized—fired into the sky, and the murmur of the crowd turned into screams.