an. And the plot thickens!

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December 13th, 2018—USS Nathan James—0037 Hours

The tip of the spear sliced effortlessly through the Florida Straits, devouring the miles toward its goal of refueling and garnering supplies for the push south. Two of its former Captains stood on the bridge wing outside the pilothouse, the dimmed lights glowing red in the night behind their silhouettes. One had moved on, bound now to the land, but the other was shipless. Orphaned. The object of his pride resting in a watery grave, destined to rust until every trace of its breadth was consumed by the very oceans it was built to traverse. Mike focused on his ship, puffing on a cigar instead of his very possible loss. The weight was too heavy. Feared it might twist him into something else, something he couldn't come back from.

"I'm sorry, Mike." It was honest, raw. It lingered in the air between them unsaid. It had been Burk who'd pulled Tom aside. Clued him in on the loss of Rios, who'd died stemming the flow of blood from Andrea's wounds, enough to get her to the base hospital, a chance to save her life. A chance that Tom would have prayed on; if he'd still believed that is. As far as Tom was concerned, God had left them a long time ago. Right around the time Ruskov nuked an entire country just to cut him off.

With arms braced on the railing before him, Mike hissed in a breath, head bobbing with regret. "I'm starting to think we're cursed." Bitter and sullen, glad that the ball cap shielded his face. This was the closest he'd been to the edge in a long time.

His counterpart grimaced, words cutting closer to truth than was comfortable. "I can't think like that, Mike. You know that." Couldn't consider them both being destined to repeat the losses of years prior. The same ones they'd sworn not to open themselves to again while standing right here, on this very spot. The parallels were uncanny.

So, it had already come to that then, Mike mused. The denial. "When's the last time you heard from her?" He redirected, needing a mental timeline of how long they had before Tom's denial made way for something else. Something more sinister and volatile. So he could watch for the signs, make sure Tom didn't go full Cowboy on them. If anyone could trigger it, it was Sasha, and he figured Tom was probably regretting his little confession right about now. The one he'd made exactly four days prior.

'I can't breathe without her, Mike.'

Tom glanced at his watch, and the speed with which he answered showed as much. "Seventy-Eight hours." It was quiet, precise, and Mike didn't doubt he was counting the minutes too. Tom would utter not one more word about it. Refused and focused on pushing away the voice that had counted the days—all fifty-three of them since she'd left.

"The kids?"

"Safe. Headed to Charleston. Debbie and Frankie too."

Mike was glad about that. Not just for Tom, but for Kara. They had some peace of mind, at least. They lapsed into silence, accompanied by the hum of the engines, the noise of their wake, and the puffs of cigar.

Tom had stretched his duties as far as they could go, puttered until he could no more. Time, he recognized, was his worst enemy. It was late—or early—depending on how you defined it. His sock-clad feet lay crossed on the bed, legs bridging the gap between it and the chair where his body sat melded; had declined the offer of Captain's Cabin, both portside, and at-sea.

'Humility always did look good on you.'

And there she was, haunting him—intruding when he didn't mean for it. Recollections triggered by the most inane of things, like picking a stateroom. Before him, his duffel sat unopened. The bed freshly made. Four perfectly folded towels next to it, and the requisite standard-issue toiletry kit left on top. Everything in order. Everything as it should be.

It was wrong.

His mind fought for purchase, knowing silence to be a foolish hope. Everything competed for attention, everything but solace. There was none to be had. Should he continue to plot strategy for another twelve hours when he'd just spent as many doing that? Or did he worry about his kids? Lament that he couldn't be with them in St. Louis to celebrate Ashley's birthday as planned. Did he worry about Mike? About Andrea, Anita, Kara, his crew? Should he think about Granderson, or Rios, or Don?

Or her, that voice whispered, and his heart yearned. So much so he reached forward, slowly unzipping the duffel to retrieve his cell. For several minutes he thumbed through photos, crow's feet wrinkling around tender eyes until they saddened. Thumb hesitating before pressing play.

Wild hair lay splayed across plush pillows like dark mahogany silk. Long lashes closed against her cheeks, coffee-colored freckles more pronounced without makeup, and covers drawn up to her chin, burrowed in sleep. There came the sound of a stifled snort as her snores broke the image of serenity. And whether it was those senses tingling or perhaps his laugh, she stirred. A different noise, one of awakening that had interrupted the rumbling sounds that fell from her slack-jawed lips, followed by sleepy blue eyes squinting up at him—caught in the act. They blinked groggily as she shifted, a hand covering her face and rubbing away sleep as she mumbled.

"What are you doing—" and the smile could be heard in his voice when he answered.

"Gathering evidence."

The footage blurred in a flurry as hands snatched at the phone, obscuring the view for short seconds before she was back in the frame. "You didn't!?" an indignant response with an expression of sleep softened shock that made her so precious to him.

"You told me to prove it."

And she was up fully, kneeling on the bed. Fierce and indignant, flimsy camisole slipping from one shoulder. Midriff exposed where the fabric bunched, and her pajama pants hung low. Her head shook slowly as that expression morphed, fighting the smile she wanted to give. Body preparing to attack, and his hand entered the frame, holding up a finger to ward her off.

"Wait—"

"I am gonna shove that phone so far up your ass Thomas!"—she surged forward again, this time fast enough to grab it while he barked with laughter—"you're gonna need sonar to fucking find it." The sounds of more laughter, and rustling, a blurred flurry of indistinguishable mess before it stopped.

That was it. A forty-five-second-long video was all he had. There was fire in Tom's throat. He'd never missed her more.

December 13th, 2018—Darién Gap, Panama—0235 Hours

They were stopped. Did so every few hours to rest, take a piss, or catch twenty minutes of sleep before they were up again and pressing on. This pit stop was unremarkable, like all the others, fraught with unspoken tension and the focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Marco spun up his radio, listening for updates with it pressed close to his ear.

"Anything?" Danny asked him, bringing the metal canteen down from his lips.

Marco nodded, still listening to the streams of Spanish. "Si, Gustavo has put a bounty on your heads. One hundred thousand pesos each."

Danny pursed his lips. Nothing they could do about that. "What about the fleet?" he pressed more quietly.

From her seat on the ground, Sasha listened, eyes drifting in their direction though not making contact. She'd been avoiding looking at any of them all night, ever since Danny had started silently pleading with her to get on his plane of denial. She wanted to; she really did—but the need to protect herself from hope was too great.

Marco's body language tensed. "They're saying it's destroyed—the command center too, Tavo is taking credit."

Danny's posture slumped and outwardly, Sasha's reaction was nothing more than the trailing off of her eyes. Moving them away from her counterparts to study the thick mud caked to her boots. They were glassy, unfocused as the words percolated.

And the way Danny looked now… Well, that's exactly why she didn't want hope.

USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida—0800 Hours

Meylan and Jeter sat with stiff backs in a conference room awaiting the arrival of their Commander-In-Chief. A visit that both felt was ill-advised, though the logic Reiss gave upon their objections was hard to rebut. Simply put, if there were agents working inside of the US government, it didn't matter where he was, they'd find a way to get to him. The door swung open, and before they'd made it out of their seats as was customary, The President's hand waved them down aggressively.

"I wanna talk to Tom Chandler." Wasting no time in issuing his demand.

Meylan glanced at Jeter before responding, both of their asses still hovering above chairs because it had been so fast. They sat down again, much in the manner as they'd risen—rigid, and tense and Meylan laced his fingers together, resting them on the marble surface. "Sir, the Chief of Naval Operations is at EMCON. In his absence, I have been briefed and am more than—"

Reiss cut him off with an aggravated expression and another wave of his hand. He'd already heard the spiel from them yesterday, in fact, the words were identical. "Look, I get it. No one respects the guy more than I do"—Russ fought to stop himself rolling his eyes because he could name 205 of them right off the bat—"hell, they even tried to run him for President and he refused, but I am still the Commander-in-Chief!" He rammed his finger against the table to accentuate himself.

Meylan ducked his chin. "Sir, I understand your frustration—"

"My frustration!? I am more than frustrated, Admiral. I am about to declare War on Central and South America, the body count just surpassed a thousand, I am two generals down, the world thinks we assassinated the President of Panama, and you're telling me that the head of my military is on radio silence?"

Meylan figured the best response at this point would be nothing because the only answer he could give was "yes" and that's clearly not what Reiss wanted to hear. No matter, he could take the heat.

"And what about this Octavio? Have we found anything?"

Russ cleared his throat, "Sir, we're still gathering intel, but we were able to access his phone records. There's a number, it's local—only thirty minutes from base. Property is registered to Elli Baker, likely a girlfriend or spouse. We're bringing her in now for questioning."

Reiss pursed his lips, resting a hand on his hip while he glared at them. Sarcasm dripped from his voice. "Well, at least we've got something right."

Kelsi bit her nails waiting for the line to pick up–they'd just taken her sister, probably would have arrested her too if she hadn't been in her car down the street. Everything was happening, just as he'd said. They were framing him, using him as the scapegoat, lying about Panama. About everything they'd done and been doing for years.

"Hola."

Her heart raced. "Hello?"

"Si, hello." They switched to English, though the accent was thick.

"I-I have information for Tavo. About the Americans in Panama." Eyes scanning constantly for fear of the military rolling in, paranoid that they were tapping this call.

There was a pause and some shuffling. "How did you get this number?"

"Octavio told me to call when it happened. He said you'd know who I am and that you would help me when they come for me. They just arrested my sister!" Another pause, long enough that she pulled the phone away to see if the call had dropped.

"You are Kelsi, Si?"

She snapped it back to her ear. "Yes."

There was more rustling, more silence before a different voice spoke. "Kelsi, I am General Hector Martinez of La Gran Columbia. Tell me what you know, and you will find yourself under the protection of La Gran Columbia and Tavo himself."

She pursed her lips. "How can I be sure you'll do what you say?"

"Tavo does not leave those loyal behind. There is a safe house, with brothers and sisters of the Empire who will help you. I will send you there." Martinez was smooth, and confident.

She hesitated for a few more seconds, chewing her lip weighing her limited options and coming up stuck. "The woman in Panama, Sasha Cooper… I think she's Tom Chandler's wife."

USS Nathan James, Florida Straits—1400 Hours

Well, I'll be damned, a Corvette Class Warship.

Burk, Slattery, Green, and Chandler stood huddled around a navigational map in the CIC. Around them, their crew listened and watched, using every available resource they had without radar to detect movement. Kara was braced on the console, Tom with arms crossed loosely as they all waited for the pattern to emerge.

Beside him, Burk spoke. "Gustavo's taking out merchant ships to disrupt trade. It's a classic wartime maneuver, German U-boats did the same thing."

"He's letting everyone know Gran Columbia owns these waters." A terse observation from Kara.

Wright called out "—Relative bearing 2-2-0—" and Mike dutifully marked a red X on the chart.

"Heading south again—definitely a search pattern," Mike confirmed, straightening up and sparing Tom a look. One that communicated they were in trouble; the island chain wouldn't mask them forever.

"Probably wasn't expecting to find us," Burk added, leaning both fists against the hunk of metal. "At least at this range, they may not have ID'd us yet."

Tom inhaled, let his head bear left a touch. "They know who we are"—came the low rasp, all heads turned to him—"They smell blood in the water. Not activating fire-control radar, shooting down their missile with CWIS—we tipped our hand." Cool, calm, collected.

Mike nodded. "Agreed."

Kara removed her palms from the console and straightened. "We're faster. We can make a run for it—"

"And we lose our chance to refuel and resupply," Burk countered, and Kara made a regretful expression because he was right. They could not push south without it, and they hadn't even joined the fight yet.

"Last they saw, the US fleet was burning. Seeing a warship out here's gotta have em' wondering," Mike inferred, tipping his head to the side as he looked up at Tom.

The curve of Admiral Chandler's lip communicated that they were on the same wavelength. "How many did I miss?" Tom finished for him, drawing his arms away from his chest.

Kara peered between them, nodding her understanding. "They're looking for one ship." There was a slow glint in her eye, steadily growing.

Tom bobbed his head, looking down at the Captain, the same intensity of purpose swirling in steely blue. "Let's show em' we got a whole fleet."

Tavo Compound, Undisclosed, Columbia—1400 Hours

Tavo squinted, dressing down his general with his eyes. "¿Por qué no le dijo esto a Octavio antes?" Why did she not tell Octavio this before?

"Dijo que no recordaba la nota hasta que la vio en las noticias," Hector responded readily. She didn't remember until she saw her on the news.

Tavo peered, interlacing his hands together as he formulated and thought. His elbows came to rest on his desk, leaning forward somewhat as his general stood steadfast under his glare.

"Flores?" he pressed. Flowers.

A smirk pulled at the general's lip. "Si, en su oficina. Por su aniversario." In her office, for their anniversary.

One simple mistake. Forgotten to dispose of them before she'd left for Panama. Left in a vase for three weeks until Kelsi had stumbled upon the wilting petals on her first day. It had been so long since she'd seen roses. They caught her eye as she'd dropped a copy of a report on her desk as instructed. Nosy eyes spying a post-it stuck to the vase.

These took me three weeks to find. Happy Anniversary—Tom

Tavo sucked on his cheeks as his mind conspired. "Enmiende la recompensa. Triplicalo. Y la encontré, vivo, a Héctor." Triple the bounty, I want her alive.

"Si"—Hector pounded his chest before extending his arm—"Viva Tavo!"

USSOUTHCOM, Mayport. Florida—1838 Hours

Russell Jeter gestured with his head for Joseph Meylan to find a way to excuse himself from the presence of their President. The almost imperceptible nod from Meylan confirmed he understood, and it was not long before they were both huddled in a small, secluded office room.

Russ wasted no time once the door closed in starting. "We've got a problem." He pulled up the folder in his hands, passing it to Joe whose brow had already deeply furrowed. "The sister used to work at the White House."

Meylan snapped it open to read its contents, and Russ saw the exact moment it dawned on him, the Vice CNO's eyes going wide. Meylan lowered the file, voice weighted with precedence when he spoke. "We need to break EMCON."

USS Nathan James, Gulf of Mexico—1900 Hours

Tom stalked into the communications room, anxiety churning because there were very few reasons worthy of breaking EMCON, yet his Admiral had done just that. He reached the long-range HF, donning a headset. Pointed to the specialist to hand over the pencil and paper they held ready to record and dismissed them from the room.

"This is CNO, you have the book?"

"I do. Chapter 1, Paragraph 5, line 12, word 17."

Tom scribbled the instructions. "Continue."

Chapter 1, Paragraph 3, line 2, word 1."

The instructions proceeded, word by word until Meylan confirmed he was done, and Tom had decoded the intel. 'Old Whitehall assistant found imbedded.'

"Is the message clear?" Meylan asked, and Tom breathed. Lips tight and stare stern as he responded.

"Yes. The message is clear."

"Are you saying they've been planning this for three years?" Mike asked incredulous as Tom paced the side of the wardroom table. The bad news just kept on coming, and any victory Tom had felt sinking that Corvette evaporated astonishingly fast.

"I'm saying they could have everything"—his tone laced with disgust—"centers of gravity, fuel operations, fleet plans, troop levels, bases..." Tom closed his mouth, cursing silently in his mind. Couldn't believe how right Sasha had been. How many times now? He'd lost count. Tom trusted her implicitly, had switched assistants within the month, but Hughes wouldn't let Kelsi go. Told Sasha they were being paranoid in the wake of Shaw, a point she couldn't contest with zero evidence outside of her gut. Somewhere deep in Tom's psyche, a thought formed, coiling like an over-torqued screw. What if Kelsi knew? What if they hadn't been as careful as he'd thought?

And Mike saw it, the moment where the denial, gave way to that something else. His gut sank.