an. Yay, I'm glad you guys liked it! I've been agonizing over writing this one for a while and gone back and forth for months on where to go. I hope you continue to enjoy the ride.
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One Hour Post Attack—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida
There was chaos, and there was this. Tom's eyes drifted amidst the hum of movement, not missing the twenty or so bodies covered with black bags strewn where they'd been slaughtered. Members of their senior leadership included. To his left, Don Kinkaid's corpse still lay over a console, the blood irreversibly oozing into its cracks. Anita was hit but alive, barely, which left him once again, the highest-ranking member of the entire United States Military. His mission now was evident. A mission that could not immediately include sequestering a plane and team of Marines to storm Panama until he recovered his wife. The other immediate details were accounted for; POTUS was secure in the presidential bunker in St. Louis, and they'd regained control of their security systems. A hard reset and factory wipe having ousted the malicious code but not before storing a copy for analysis, of course—though with Alisha dead, there was presently no specialist Tom trusted enough to do it.
Reports on the ground revealed the USS Javier Cruz was sinking to the bottom of the bay, the Michener and O'Connor badly damaged but afloat, and the James unaccounted for. Hundreds of fatalities, civilian and service members alike, and the recognition that they'd been infiltrated from within. That command was no longer secure. There was only one place he could trust, one loyal group of people, and they were currently scattered in the wind with no means of communication.
The radio drew his attention, Spanish switching to English, and he moved to turn it up, Meylan and Jeter both raising their heads from the console to listen.
"I will now speak directly to our enemies in a language they can understand. Americans—you are on notice. The people of Central and South America are united. We will no longer cower in fear of your big stick, for you do not offer us protection, but enslavement. Today marks the beginning of a new equilibrium. Gran Columbia will no longer sit at the children's table of international politics. It is our turn! Be warned, if the United States wants a fight, you will lose. For in the words of Simón Bolívar, a people who love their freedom, will in the end, be free. And we are united as a continent to fight for that freedom. We are one nation under God. La Gran Columbia. El Norte, El Norte, El Norte!"
The sound of clapping and chants of "Viva Tavo" permeated; sour, bitter hatred pierced through his core, and he turned the comms off. The same ire manifested when he twisted to glare at Meylan and Jeter stiffly.
"We have no way of knowing how deep this goes," Tom stated, his voice was steel laced with death. His hands that had been resting loosely at his sides came up, one arm meeting the other in the middle of his waist, where he began to spin his wedding band. The personnel file of Ensign Octavio de La Paz lay open on the table. Its short contents picked over no less than a dozen times in the past thirty minutes. Beside it, a map of the Panamanian bay and Columbian shores. Tom's eyes drifted to it as he looked at the enlistment photo again. Stared at the face of the man who'd just murdered over twenty of their people and taken down every one of their satellite-based systems.
"We need to assume that all levels of command are compromised. I need eyes on the Battlefield. Our next move needs to be offensive, and I can't do that from here."
"You're gonna go find the James." It wasn't a question. Meylan's eyebrows lifted marginally at the fearlessness of it. However, he was not certain at this stage why that should confound him much. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten this was Tom Chandler he was speaking to.
Tom blinked once, tilting his head to the side. His version of a shrug. "Diaz said she was still afloat when he dropped those civilians off. You heard the report. Mike went with them, along with our best operators. Standard response has them sortied while they await further orders, and that's if Mike hasn't started heading South. All I need's a Helo to find em'." Steadfast in his words.
"I should be able to muster an analog one from Pensacola, Sir," Russ confirmed, nodding at his commander.
"Get it done," Tom answered with a curt nod. "Right now, you are the only ranking members of command that I trust. All communications go through you, closed-door, and you alone. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Sir," they acknowledged in unison. Tom let his hands fall, drawing them away from spinning his ring. He glanced down once more at the picture before shifting his gaze to meet Meylan's.
"Tell POTUS I'm at EMCON until I can be sure we're secure. I want every base, every service member ready to deploy. If it floats, flies, or rolls—it fights. Use the landlines, it's all we've got. I'll send further instructions once I reach the James. For now, I want every piece of intel we have on Central and South America—centers of gravity—troop levels—all of it." Tom halted before he departed, brows lifting with a quiet swagger. "Oh, and you'll need a copy of Moby Dick." He dragged the two fingers that had settled against the table away.
Russ exchanged a curious look with Joe as Tom strode out of the room. A knowing, if perplexed grin pulled at the edge of his mouth. Despite everything, despite all that they'd lost and the undoubtedly arduous path laid before them—he had unshakable belief in his Admiral.
Tom closed the door to his temporary office, unlocked his top drawer, and pulled out his cell. He'd missed no less than a dozen calls from Ashley since the attack. The line hung in dead air when he tried to dial out for the third time, and he flung the phone down. Picked up the landline instead and punched the numbers, hoping against hope that he'd be able to get through while the networks were overburdened with calls. He tried again after being met with a service failure tone.
"Oh my god, Dad? Are you okay?"
His sharp exhale communicated the relief and his eyes clenched shut against the surge of emotion before finding control. "I'm okay Ash." Calm and collected. He heard her own exaggerated exhale of stress, and further away from the receiver, 'he's okay!' to her brother, he assumed before she came back to him.
"I saw the news, we were attacked!? Sasha was on there with Danny, I think I saw Wolf and Azima too—they said she killed someone in Panama and they're trying to escape. Have you heard from her? I sent her an email and I tried to call Uncle Mike, but he hasn't answered either, is he with you? Is he okay?" She was coming at him a mile a minute, and the mere mention of Sasha's name made his eyes burn.
"Ash, slow down—Mike's okay, but I need you to listen to me. I don't know what this is, but it is not safe for you to trust anyone right now, or for you to be anywhere near the White House. I want you to take your brother and go to Sasha's house. I'm sending Debbie and Frankie there too—take the back route—don't tell anyone where you're going, and no one in or out once you get there. Do you understand me? You do not go with anyone, even if they're military. You hear me?" His instructions were firm allowing no room for dispute.
There was a brief pause as she sobered, recognizing how serious this was. Earnest in her response. "Yeah—yeah I understand."
"Good girl. I don't know when I'll be able to call you. It's not safe, but I'll contact you as soon as I can. And I'm sorry about your birthday—"
"Dad, that doesn't matter right now! You're gonna go and get Sasha, right?" She interrupted, and the hope and uncertainty in her voice crushed him. She might never admit it out loud, but she loved Sasha in her own way. As a mentor, someone she could turn to and depend upon, that she deeply respected. Perhaps not recognizing how much until this moment.
Tom's features clenched. Every fiber of his being needed to blow his way through Panama until he found her, but the situation was more complex than that. "I'll bring her home Ash." It was quiet, breathy, and he hoped she couldn't hear the waver in his voice. The unrelenting fear he could barely suppress. It didn't feel right to burden his kids with the reality of his hands being tied. The relief he heard when she answered, 'okay, we love you Dad' burned. Struck by how pure it was to still believe that 'Dad' could make miracles. As if him simply stating it would make it so. He cleared his throat against the heaviness there. "I Love you too, baby. Both of you—tell your brother that."
"I will. Stay safe, and don't worry—I've got this."
One Hour Post Attack—Panama City, Panama
Vulture Team ducked into a deserted boarded-up restaurant. The streets were crawling with Federales, and Sasha was still speculating as to how they'd been compromised. The only people that knew about this mission were the POTUS, requisite personnel at Southern Command, and Tom, and even he wasn't privy to the particulars. The kids knew nothing, just that she was gone and the entire file was redacted; need to know only. There was but a single logical conclusion; their comms weren't secure.
"Fuck, where the hell is Marco?!" Danny said, passing a rough hand through his hair while pacing in the back of the room.
"He said he'd be here," Sasha responded, the stress paralleled in her tone.
"Yeah? Well, we're about to get fucked if he doesn't show up soon," Wolf uttered, peeking through a gap in the papers that shielded the windows to the street. A soldier ran by, thankfully too shortsighted to investigate the building they were occupying.
Azima could be heard attempting to hail command over the sat phone, something they hadn't been able to do for hours now. Sasha whirled her head to look at her, frustration bubbling over as she asked, "Anything?"
Azima turned, still gripping the phone to her ear, shaking her head in response. Vulture team tensed, each drawing weapons when the door swung open, and Marco rushed in. The frantic nature of their situation reflected upon his face as he slapped his hands together several times. "Time to go, the Federales are crawling all over this place."
No Shit, Danny thought, biting back the comment by grinding his jaw aggressively.
"You have a plane?" Sasha confirmed. Marco nodded as they each stepped toward the door. "Si, Si, but it's close to the border—with the resistance. We don't have much time, we need to go now!"
They drew their weapons up, Sasha re-adjusting her backpack, and they followed single file out of the restaurant just as swiftly as they'd entered. They hurried through the back streets and favelas until they arrived at a dirt road, a rusted pickup truck with grain drums in the back awaiting them. Marco gestured, drawing the gate down with a thud, and signaled for them to approach. Sasha sighed, already lamenting where this was going. The bed of the cabin revealed a hollow floor and they stashed their weapons and gear before returning to the drums.
Fuck.
She stepped in and hunched down, using every trick in the book to quell the shivering dread, the instinctual flight response that roared through her system while she wedged herself in. Marco sealed the lid over top. Her breaths echoed in the drum, heating the stale sweat-tinged air as she struggled to discount the claustrophobia. Counted down in her head to enact some control while they elevated. There were holes drilled to provide for airflow, but the conditions were damn near suffocating. Her knees were forced into her chest, feet twisted sideways, arms squished at her sides and her lower back pressed hard against the metal. The engine sputtered to life, and alone in the darkness, all Sasha could do was need Tom.
One Hour, Twenty Minutes Post Attack—USS Nathan James, 25 Nautical Miles from Naval Station Mayport
"Ma'am, our RHIB's approaching from the South-West; it looks like Commander Slattery is with them, Ma'am." A sailor called from the bridge-wing. Kara sucked on her cheeks while she moved, exiting the pilothouse to join the Midshipmen. He stepped away so she could reach and re-position the binoculars. It was Mike Slattery alright, Burk and Diaz too, though her comfort was short-lived when she noticed the extent of blood soiling their dress whites.
Signaling with her head for the Midshipmen to hold his position again and with hands clasped behind her back, she stepped back through the pilothouse door. "OOD, send our med team to the deck."
"Aye, Ma'am." Her sailor rushed to the internship comms and relayed her directive. Hopefully, Mike could explain what the hell had happened. Knew the status of Command, if their friends were okay... If Danny and the rest of Vulture Team knew they'd been attacked yet.
Four Hours Post Attack
"Captain, we have an unidentified low, slow flier approaching. Bearing 2-0-5, range 6 miles," Gator announced.
Kara stepped closer to the windows, squinting into orange light as the sun made to slip below the horizon. She grabbed a handset. "Airship approaching, identify yourself and prepare to alter course on my command, over."
There was static for a few seconds before someone answered. "Happy to alter course on your command, Captain, but we're requesting permission to land in a minute, so don't send us too far off."
Unable to contain it, a grin broke out across her features as Mejia, Burk, and Slattery all reacted with comparable expressions upon hearing the unmistakable voice of Admiral Chandler. Kara shook her head. Relief and slight marvel that he'd somehow endured again, holding purchase. "Permission granted."
Beside her, she heard Mike whisper, "Right on time," and he left to meet Chandler on deck.
"Nathan James, this is Brawler. Much appreciated."
Mike strode in unison with Tom, both nearing from opposite ends of Helo bay one until they met just outside the threshold. Each now donned the standard working uniform over their dress whites and Tom carried what Mike identified as his travel duffel in his fist. A sharp nod and a stiff handshake served as their form of reception, certifying their gratitude that the other had survived. The very brief respite was cast aside, however when Mike plunged directly into business.
"What the hell is going on, Tom?" The demand was gruff, voice reduced so the passing Helo crew wouldn't be engaged.
Tom's features set into a grim repose. "Not here. Wardroom—five minutes."
Kara was the last to arrive, closing the door behind her as she joined the table. Admiral Chandler, flanked by her XO Burk, and now shipless Commander Slattery, stood reticent and waiting. Chandler towered from the opposite side of the table. Looking so at home—his steadfast and cool exterior imposing as ever—that for a moment, she almost forgot that she was now Captain of the James. In her mind, this ship would always belong to him, regardless of who commanded it.
"Admiral," she acknowledged, fierce green meeting steel, and he bent his head a little in way of a greeting.
"Captain, good to see you—though I wish it were under better circumstances." He spared a glance at Slattery while she pressed her lips together in a tight line. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll skip the formalities if it's all the same to you."
Kara felt her skin crawl. So it was true, the very limited intelligence they'd assembled after the initial attack—the tidbit Mike garnered from the radio broadcast about the US attacking Panama—Danny. The morose nature of Tom's stance all but confirmed it. Her heart plummeted.
"We were hacked by an agent of Gran Columbia posing as one of our own." Tom pushed one of the manila folders on the table to the center and flipped it open. A personnel file she identified, stomach rolling when she observed the picture it contained. "At fourteen hundred hours, Communications Specialist, Ensign Octavio de La Paz uploaded a virus into our satellite-based systems and security networks. Still working on the details, but our comms, weapons, radar, navigation, and flight control are down."
"Jesus," Mike uttered. "A sleeper agent?!" said in disbelief while trying to wrap his mind around it. The implications that any number of uniforms could be working for the enemy, and they didn't know it? Nothing got flagged?
Tom tipped his head to acknowledge. "He opened fire in the control room, killed twenty-two of our people, injured a dozen more before we were able to put him down. Master Chief and Meylan survived unharmed—" he paused, inhaling, and narrowing his eyes "—but we lost Granderson." The words were bitter on his tongue, and he looked studiously toward the table, jaw clenched while giving them a brief moment to process.
Kara's mouth parted and Mike cursed, 'son of a Bitch' while Carlton shifted on his feet. "Kinkaid is dead, DuFine is alive, for now. The Cruz is gone. O'Connor and Michener are still afloat but damaged, badly. And until we know more, this crew, are the only people we can trust," Tom rattled off, bringing his arms to fold against his chest. The news settled like lead upon the room. Several moments of silence following as it sank in.
There was one thing, he hadn't touched upon Kara noted, and she was sure she knew the reasons why. Nevertheless, she needed confirmation. The words were heavy and rigid in her throat. "And our team in Panama?" The shot of anguish that passed across the Admiral's eyes was answer enough.
"No news." He confirmed, internally commending her strength because her reaction was no more than the merest flutter of eyelashes and stiffening of lips before she locked it down.
"What's our next move?" Mike asked.
"We stay at EMCON, head South—figure out where to refuel and get supplies while Meylan and Russ get our troops ready. POTUS is petitioning Congress to declare war, and right now—Nathan James is all we've got." He peered over at Slattery, their eyes meeting in a stern exchange as the severity of their circumstance set in.
"Like old times, huh?" Mike concluded though it didn't lift spirits as much as he'd hoped. "We've done it before, we can do it again," he added more profoundly.
Burk responded, placing both hands on the table to lean forward. "You're damn right we can." The tenacious refusal to roll over and wail in the face of catastrophe, the same defiance they all maintained. Kara breathed and squared herself, gripping on to their sentiments—their commitment and belief internalized and made into her own. The only way to save Danny, the only way to avoid the spiral if Admiral Chandler lost a second wife, was to be ready. To fight.
They would do it; they had to.
Six Hours Post Attack—Edge of the Dari én Gap, Panama
Mercifully, the truck rolled to a slow stop, a shrill metallic whining as the worn-down breaks ground metal against metal. Sasha opened her eyes wondering if they'd hit yet another checkpoint. The hours were muddied, stretched to distortion, as she hovered somewhere not quite dormant. The adrenaline and fear wouldn't allow her that reprieve, but she'd found a trance-like state where she focused on counting to pass the time.
A thud on the side of her drum and the sound of Marco telling them to come out roused her. "End of the road, we hike from here."
Her muscles throbbed, cramping from the contorted position, the same pain visible on Vulture Teams' faces as they each struggled to will their limbs into operation again. Wolf offered his hand to Azima, supporting her climb out of the drum, and caught her stumble before she hit the deck—unaware that her legs were numb. Danny made it down first, groaning in protest as he swung his arms and did a few stretches to mitigate the cramps. As he kept watch, Marco shuffled from foot to foot, head moving every few seconds to scan the surrounding area. Theirs was the lone car on the highway that led to nowhere. Tapered off into a pitiful excuse of pothole-ridden dirt that broke off at the edge of a shanty village before sinking into a wall of jungle. He observed as Danny caught some of Sasha's weight when she hopped down from the bed of the truck. Grimace in place because her back wasn't done spasming yet, and she struggled to stand upright.
"Uh, I have some bad news," Marco said, anxious as the group halted. For a moment, he considered not telling them. "The US Navy fleet in Florida was attacked, the ships were sunk, and thousands are dead."
Danny shifted forward, his features twisting while he spoke. "What did you just say?"
Marco bounced between Danny and Sasha, whose mouth was hanging agape. "Tavo is taking credit for it as revenge for the murder of El Presidente by Los Americano's—it's all over the radio."
"And you didn't think to tell us sooner!?" Danny dragged a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth while he turned his back.
"It was too risky to stop; there were too many checkpoints!" Marco's defense was passionate, hands gesturing when he spoke.
Sasha's eyes dated around, struggling to work through the shock. "My God," she breathed more to herself than anyone else. This couldn't be happening, not now. It was too cruel, it was... she sank back against the bed of the truck.
Away from the group, Danny paced, relentless, with his fingers intertwined at the back of his head. Elbows out at a 90-degree angle. He searched the night sky. Pain erupting in his chest—insurmountable. The thought that Kara was gone, that she was dead? Completely and utterly unfathomable. So much so that he decided it wasn't true. She was too smart for that; they had warning systems, weapons. It was the fucking Nathan James; the Nathan James didn't sink. His wife wasn't dead. He refused it. Danny whirled around and strode back toward Sasha.
Shaking his head, he told her, "He's wrong. They're bluffing."
Sasha winced, the moisture in her eyes almost fell because of it. "Danny—" her voice was strangled "—it's not a coincidence… you don't overthrow Panama while the US fleet is a threat—"
"She's right, mate, this was a coordinated attack—" Wolf inserted gently, he'd never heard her like this.
The shake of Danny's head was adamant, his brows rising as he ignored Wolf's comment and directed his response solely at Sasha. "No." He simply argued. Her features knotted together, a ghastly expression that he didn't want contorting them. "It's not true." He cut her off before she started. "They're not dead. I know it. Kara, To—"
"Stop it." Her voice was throaty. Thinking about it, hearing his name—would break her in a second. And right now, at this moment, she couldn't handle it. She didn't want to hope. She didn't want to accept. She didn't want to process—she wanted to go home, and they had stolen it from her. She clenched her eyes and lips shut against the sob that threatened to rip itself from her chest. The action enough to render Danny mute, though he was still imploring her in silence to believe him. To validate his denial, for one of them to back him up. To make it not real. For several moments, no one did a thing.
Sasha titled her head back and took a long, deep breath through her nose. Let it out slow through her mouth before facing Marco. "How long until we reach the plane?" The whites of her eyes were treacherously red.
"The airstrip is a two-day hike from here."
"You said it's with the rebels?" Danny interjected, and Marco nodded.
"Si, they have a new leader. Armando Masa." In unison, they all exchanged looks. The memory of their failed mission to take him down in Venezuela—almost a year ago to the date—not lost on any of them.
"What are the odds? The Venezuelan Guerilla. The man who burns people alive," Danny said, sarcastic in response. The clichéd reality that the enemy of their enemy was now their only lifeline. They were living it.
"Si, but don't worry, Armando doesn't do that to his friends."
Danny raised a brow, just who the fuck was this guy, anyway? "And your friends with Armando?"
The kid looked sheepish. "Eh, we have some connections in common. But we need to hurry; when that plane leaves, there won't be another one for weeks."
Danny peered around as the team moved and readied themselves to hike. Sasha still refusing to meet his gaze as she shimmied her pack higher on her shoulders. Marco went back to the cabin of the truck. Grabbed some bags and his portable radio and ushered them to follow him into the jungle. They moved in silence, marching across the lone bridge that crossed a raging river. Movements camouflaged by the intense dark. There were no stars, no moon to light their way, and a single sign greeted them when they reached the threshold. Words carved into a post and stuck at the head of the path where it penetrated the dense trees.
'The End of Safety'
Danny scoffed as he read it. It was in English—probably made for tourists and would-be adventurers, he assumed. "Real nice," he grumbled as they pushed past it.