an. Once again, thank you for the reviews. This installment is the one I am most nervous about getting right, so they are definitely appreciated!

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December 14th, 2018—Darién Gap, Panama

Beads of sweat rolled down the back of her neck, tickling a path between her shoulder blades in the stifling humidity. They'd set a blistering pace, cumulatively stopping for perhaps four hours in the past two days. Delirium would come in a few short hours, though that was not unexpected, nor something they weren't trained to push through. The journey was filled with none of their usual banter, seemingly each lost in their own heads—or rather Danny and Sasha were. Wolf and Azima had each other. There was comfort in that, a fact that was lost on neither of them.

Marco halted on the invisible track he seemed to follow. To them, there was no discernable path. The sections of jungle he followed looked just the same as the last, and the parts before that… and the ones just ahead. Endless, maddening tangles of vegetation that sapped twice the energy in a single step to traverse. He held up a hand and pointed to a stalk, marked by a machete.

"We're getting close." He spoke in hushed tones; Vulture Team having halted their progress to observe.

Danny flinched, weapon at the ready—could have sworn he heard a noise. One that sounded distinctly like a foot snapping a twig. Sasha tensed in response, bringing her weapon up with him but pointed in the other direction, and Wolf and Azima followed suit. Eyes keen as they peered into the jungle, trying to make sense of the dancing shapes of green—impossible even without the added sleep deprivation that fogged their brains. Marco stood frozen, straining to make out anything over the sounds of insects, the never-ending bird cries, and howls of monkeys.

They were about to move, convinced it must have been an animal when a flurry of movement and yelling occurred. The trees erupted with bodies, and they found themselves surrounded by no less than a dozen men—every last one of them pointing guns at their heads.

Marco thrust his hands up, shouting at them in Spanish—pleading for their lives, Sasha discerned—before he was smacked with the butt of a rifle. His lip split, oozing blood down his face, and he silenced. These troops knew, and they were here for them. There could be no doubt.

"¡Americanos, bajen sus armas!"

Danny scrunched his eyes together in defeat. There was no way in hell they could take them. Wasn't all too interested in being captured either, and for a painful second, he found himself truly considering going out in a blaze of glory—of letting go, saying fuck it, and raining bullets until they shot him dead.

"¡Hazlo!" the soldier shouted again, pushing the barrel of his gun until it hovered mere inches from Danny's face. The anger was causing his body to shake visibly, could see it as he bared his teeth and complied, the rest of Vulture Team doing the same, their weapons falling to the ground.

A Colonel appeared behind the soldiers, wearing a Columbian badge. An evil and satisfied grin contorted his scarred and weathered face and he stepped forward, addressing them in English. "Tavo has been looking for you. Three hundred thousand pesos each." The glee at his bounty was clear—he looked around to his soldiers, gesturing to them as if they were a gift that he'd delivered rather than stumbled upon.

"¡Los encontramos! Es tu dia de paga."

Danny watched as malicious smiles broke out on the other men's faces. He glanced to his left, to Sasha, to find she was already looking at him. Her chin tucked low and lips together tightly. He didn't need a translation to understand they were fucked.

"Traerlos!" The Colonel commanded, and their hands were forced behind their backs before being bound.

Tavo Compound—Undisclosed, Columbia

Hector burst into the room, ignoring the glare Conchita gave at his interruption. Tavo frowned, his anger clear but Hector interrupted him.

"Los hemos encontrado!"

Tavo peered, eyes black and intense for a brief moment before a smile covered his face. He pounded the table with his fist, impassioned by the news, before clapping his hands together once. "¿¡Dónde!?" Where.

"Veinte millas del Puente." Twenty miles from the bridge.

Tavo's fists clenched again before rounding the table to stand before Hector. "Este es nuestro momento Héctor. Los estadounidenses creen que ganarán porque tienen esperanza. Debemos quitarles eso. ¡Exponga sus crímenes al resto del mundo, no ceda! Debemos mostrarles que Chandler es débil. Una vez que hagamos eso, el continente será nuestro." Tavo spoke with passion, stepping into Hector's personal space. He placed both hands on his General's shoulders. This is our moment Hector. The American's believe they will win because they have hope. We must take that from them. Expose their crimes to the rest of the world, do not relent! We must show them that Chandler is weak. Once we do that—the continent is ours.

"Si, Tavo," Hector said, nodding as his own twisted smile spread upon his lips.

December 15th, 2018—USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán

Kara walked through the p-ways, navigating the narrow corridors with ease. Knew them better than her own home at this point. The walk from the bridge was spent wondering if it might be best to turn back. Head to her quarters instead, but she was almost there, and right now, it seemed that only one person on this ship could understand her predicament—a burden she had never experienced until now. Kara knocked before her resolve vanished and waited for permission to enter.

"Come in."

Taking a deep breath, Kara entered, noting the door's faint protest—she'd have someone fix that—Captain Green ran a tight ship, and any kind of material breakdown was inadmissible under her watch.

Tom was leaning back in his chair, one elbow propped on the desk holding something in his fist that she couldn't discern. The only source of illumination in the darkened room came from a table lamp, the shadows only adding to his imposing demeanor. His feet lay crossed in front of him, out straight, and he drew his head up and back a fraction to acknowledge her. A little concern colored his features.

"Captain," he greeted with a small nod. "What can I do for you?" He didn't move an inch from his position.

Despite herself, Kara still felt every bit the Lieutenant who'd broken the rules in that moment, through no action of his own. Simply put, Admiral Chandler's presence demanded it. Perhaps that's why she struggled to answer. Finding she hadn't thought this far—a regretful oversight on her part. Admiral Chandler's eyes narrowed considerably, reading her, trying to ascertain the reason for her visit. Calmly, he waited, and she struggled through her thoughts before matching his gaze.

"It's difficult—having the choice and choosing differently every day." She winced at the words, not expecting to be so frank—or vulnerable for that matter, but the Admiral had always listened. Had always been fair, and more importantly, he had always been kind—human, in the face of their struggles. Strong, when they didn't know how to be, and humble when he'd fallen from grace. She swallowed, brows drawing together. "I think you might understand that better than anyone."

The softening of his eyes, hollowing of cheeks, and tilt of his head conveyed his understanding and Kara hadn't anticipated the relief she'd feel at just being seen. The ache was still there. The worry. The unrelenting thoughts about how she would tell Frankie that his father was never coming home… The vice in her throat slipped tighter, and she dropped eye contact, reading instead the charter map laid on the desk.

There were markings, notations of distances, circles drawn around particular locations, and it dawned on her that he was searching. Trying to retrace Vulture Team's steps with the very minimal intel they'd gained. She wanted to ask; the question burning so deep it frightened her. But she doubted her own resilience to keep making that choice if the Admiral had even a fraction of an idea where Danny might be.

He noticed, of course, ever perceiving, and murmured, "I do, and you're doing it admirably." Kara's eyes snapped up, meeting his again, and she blinked a few times. "That was a great speech, by the way," he added casually. Referring to the address she'd given her crew the night of the attack. Mess deck full of rookies looking to her for guidance and giants whose footsteps she was now destined to repeat.

A small smile pulled at the corner of her lip, though not quite filling her features in response to his affirmation. "I had a few examples to draw from." For a beat of silence, his features warmed, lip tugging into his trademark non-smile. He ducked his chin against the praise—still appearing uncomfortable living upon his pedestal. "What do you know?" She finally asked, unable to ignore the burning any longer. The direction of her gaze toward the map, indicated what she was asking for.

Chandler considered her for a moment before he moved, drawing his legs to cross under him, rather than in front. Kara stepped closer, hovering at his left shoulder. He dropped the fist he'd kept closed for the duration of their interaction and placed the thing he'd been holding softly on the surface—Sasha's ring, Kara recognized.

"Not much." It was quiet, regretful. "Depending on which way they went, and assuming they haven't been caught, they're either in Costa Rica by now or somewhere in the Darién Gap."

Kara saw now that the numbers were travel times. Calculations of how long it would take the James to offer extraction from their position in the strait. "What does your gut tell you?"

Tom pursed his lips as he stared at the map. "South," he rasped.

Exactly the direction she'd been hoping against. The travel time percolated in her mind; even with the Helo, they were more than a day from offering support, and that was only if they were able to defend the strait. If Cuba and Mexico joined the fight. If they survived.

If, if, if.

"Toward Columbia?"

"Easiest place to hide. North means roads, checkpoints, and borders. Gap belongs to the rebels; it's no-man's-land. The smugglers have planes—" Chandler trailed off before recounting the requisite and obvious dangers. She didn't need to be told; they were obvious.

Kara jerked her head in way of response—his logic had always been sound and so had his gut… Descending into a mess before her CNO was not an option, though, with this information, it's precisely what she wanted to do. Vulture Team were on their own, and her hands were tied. Chandler knew enough to reasonably execute a search operation. If they went south, maneuvered the James offshore, and listened for centers of gravity, they could map activity. Narrow the search area and send VBSS teams, signal to their people, send the Helo and RHIB's—they could find them.

Kara's ache was unbearable. The mission was to hold the Strait and take back the gulf—secure the canal. Protect the fueling station. Show Columbia that the US was strong and give others a choice to join them in resisting. This was about saving her country, not her husband's life.

Kara drew back. "I see." Voice no stronger than a murmur. Clearing her throat, she rectified her posture. "I'll leave you to it." Made for the door. Stopping only when he called her back.

"Kara." It caught her off guard, she couldn't recall the last time he'd addressed her by name. Her eyes tightened as she twisted back toward him, glassy in a way she couldn't hide. "My door's always open." It was the softness rather than words that got her, and she ducked her chin when her lip trembled. After taking a few seconds, she nodded and turned; escaping just as precipitously as she'd arrived.

Tom stared at the door for a time, processing the visit before he exhaled. Long and slow through his nose. Shifting his legs to their original position, he palmed the ring again, running it from knuckle to knuckle like a coin, and stared back at his map.

Darién Gap, Panama

Tavo's men had marched them through the Jungle for hours until they reached a camp. Unceremoniously, they were thrown into the back of a truck, surrounded with guards and their hands and feet secured to the posts of the canopy backing. It left them with very little ability to mount an escape. So far, they had not been questioned nor approached, and while that should bring comfort—it could only mean one thing. The soldiers were either waiting for someone to arrive before they were interrogated. Or they were being transported elsewhere.

Waiting, they realized, was a torture in and of itself. They were careful not to communicate out loud. The flimsy canvas did little to insulate noise. They listened instead to garner any useful intelligence from the streams of Spanish and broadcasts on radios. Marco and Sasha, doing most of the work simply because they understood, and the others focused on the words that came in English. So far, it seemed they were near a bridge—and thousands of troops were expected to start moving across it in two days. From there, an unrestricted path lay right up to the border of Mexico, and if Mexico fell? Well, it didn't bear thinking about.

They'd been shackled for hours, moved only for one bathroom break at gunpoint. The guard making no secret of ogling both women as they went, something which left Sasha's skin crawling for hours. Everyone knew what happened to female prisoners of war, and he'd made clear what was in store for them. In hushed tones, the team had surmised their odds; non-existent against the fifty or so men that formed the platoon. And that was without considering the troops gathered on the opposite side of the bridge.

With every passing minute, it sank in that they didn't stand a chance. Barring a miracle of undefined proportions, Sasha wasn't going home. None of them were. This was the end of the line, and she'd never felt her own mortality more surely since Asia. The team's morale was not much better; the reflection of her fears mirrored within their faces. It was then that Sasha succumbed to the thoughts kept at bay for three days now. If she was going to die, the least she could do was spend her remaining time in the comfort of thinking about Tom.

December 16th, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

Joseph was getting tired of being yelled at; that much was for sure. He was only half pretending to listen as the President ranted, once again, that they'd failed in their duties for letting Tom Chandler leave. Something about him being the face of the war, the public needing to see him front and center for morale—one of dozens of reasons. Mostly, Joe was beginning to think the President just needed him as a popularity device.

"And I'm to believe you're using a 19th-century novel as some kind of codebook?!"

Meylan rose an eyebrow, tuning back in just at the right moment to respond, "Yes, Sir. Moby-Dick."

Reiss made an incredulous face, jaw going slack as he processed it. "I hated that book."

Meylan humored him, though the smile he gave appeared more as a smirk and failed to reach his eyes. "It is a bit of a slog, Sir."

The door opened behind him, and Reiss snapped at the intrusion, "What is it Master Chief?" the frustration in his tone not hidden. They were present number one and number two on his shit list.

Russ stood stiff at attention, arms tight at his sides in full stance. "Sir, excuse me. We just heard from Nathan James. Admiral Chandler's managed to bring Mexico and Cuba together to blockade the Yucatán Strait."

Reiss failed to look impressed. "Terrific"—he paused, slamming down the pen he'd been tapping on the table for effect—"and I imagine we'll coordinate the mission through a careful reading of War and Peace?" He spat with sarcasm. Meylan tucked his chin and remained silent. Seemed to do a lot of that lately. Reiss ground his jaw before leaning back and regarding them both sternly. "Make no mistake; I don't mind replacing every damn one of you, Chandler included. But you need to finish what you started and prove to me that I have the right team in place. Move the army into Mexico. Save that oil complex."

USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán

Mike was beginning to lose his cool. His mess deck was a mess—pun intended—Fuentes and Aguilar were still bickering like children, even after agreeing to assist, and he'd just been summoned by Commander Green for a closed-door meeting. Never a good omen.

Kara stood when he entered her cabin, pulling herself out of the desk chair in which she'd been sitting. Tom, who had been perched stoically on the sofa, also stood, clasped his hands behind him. Didn't take a genius to read the room. Mike swallowed, stomach rolling,

"Might wanna take a seat," Tom announced.

"I'll stand," he dismissed, mostly wanting them to spit it out.

Tom nodded once sharply in acknowledgment, sparing one side-eyed glance at Kara before continuing. "Andrea's in a coma. There were complications after surgery. There's some brain activity, but the doctors say there's nothing more they can do. She has a chance, but it's slim. Less than 10 percent." It was soft, direct, just as Tom would want to be told if the situation were reversed—no need for mince words. "I'm so sorry, Mike."

"The Helo's yours if you want it. Just enough range to drop you at Key West. Master Chief can get you to Mayport from there," Kara offered, green eyes round and empathetic.

Mike's expression became tight, head bobbing while he processed. The unmistakable burn of anger, regret, and sorrow blasted its way up his sternum. Clearing his throat, he wrestled the words out, "I'd like a minute." And they both moved. Responsive and respectful.

"Of course," Kara said, making for the door with Tom on her heels. "Take as long as you need."

In the silence that followed their departure, Mike shrank. Like a wave as it hit him, he shriveled, a few stunted sobs forcing themselves out as he sank into the sofa.