Mike had no idea how long he'd sat there. The tears had passed. Replaced with unrelenting hope that Andrea would pull through, it was the only way he could cope. The only way he could function. In the face of despair, he chose to cling to the light. Andrea was strong and resilient, and if anyone could fight, it was her. He also knew well enough that she would want him to go on. To finish the mission, and that's exactly what he was going to do. Mike was almost ready to head back to the bridge, his decision to stay made when the internship comms and all hands alarm lit up.
"All hands, set General Quarters–Man your battle stations!"
He rushed to the pilothouse. "Admiral Slattery on the Bridge," the OOD announced. The usual suspects were already there, and Tom glanced over his shoulder in response to his arrival.
"What's going on?" Mike asked, wasting no time in moving to stand at his side.
"Columbian airwing incoming," Tom answered quickly, grabbing a pair of binoculars to scope the horizon.
Darién Gap, Panama
Hector strode into the camp. Arms clasped tight behind his back as his soldiers scrambled themselves to attention. He made little attempt to hide his disgust at their disorganized surroundings, their failure to maintain the standards expected within his military, and silently he cursed Tavo for reducing his army to this. Impatiently, he awaited the Colonel; yet another buffoon he'd inherited whose appearance was sloppy and disheveled as he finally emerged from his tent.
"Donde estan ellos." His demand was immediate, and the Colonel flustered, responding rapidly to his terse inquiry.
"De esta manera, Señor." The Colonel gestured for General Martinez to follow.
The prisoners each looked up when the canopy opened, revealing a man flanked by two soldiers. A man that they all recognized as General Hector Martinez. Sasha worked to control the roll of her eyes and stared at the floor in defiance. Ignoring the heat of his smug gaze when he zeroed in on her.
"Ms. Cooper. I did not think that we would meet again so soon." His voice was smooth, a chillingly charming grin upon his face.
Sasha affixed a false toothy grin upon hers, bitter as it was sarcastic, and lifted her eyes but remained silent. "You, or your friends," he continued using a hand to gesture toward the other prisoners. Wolf jeered at him, and the inclination of Sasha's eyebrow was the only acknowledgment she gave. Hector dropped his chin, a small chuckle filling the room—it was exactly as he'd expected. American spies, they were all the same.
He deadpanned. "I must apologize for my oversight. Had I known your husband is Admiral Chandler, I would have made it a point to introduce myself sooner." The informant's suspicions were confirmed by the oppressive stillness that settled over them all. The very careful nonreaction she and the rest of the prisoners gave—save for the barest twitch of her lip. Hector's stare was unyielding, a slow, malicious curve at his mouth which left no room for misunderstanding. Sasha made it a point not to blink. After several extended seconds, Martinez turned his attention to Marco. The young man sat frozen; eyes wide as the General stared him down instead.
"llevarlo," Hector ordered.
The soldiers stepped forward and pulled Marco from the bed of the truck. Vulture Team tensed, though they could do nothing to help, and Marco pleaded as they dragged him out. Hector remained steadfast, appearing almost bored while he waited. The canopy flaps closed. Marco's cries could be heard while he begged for his life before a single gunshot rang out. A gunshot that made each member of Vulture Team flinch. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting dirt. Sasha worked hard to control her breathing, the guilt unrelenting. She closed her eyes and swallowed.
Hector smiled again. His chin lifting with pride. "You see now what happens to La Gran Columbia's enemies. Everyone must pay for their crimes." He paused, making sure to look at each of them. "Tomorrow, you will answer for yours." He settled his gaze upon Sasha again, lingering before he left the truck.
"How the hell did they find out?" Danny hissed under his breath as soon as they were alone. Sasha could do nothing but shake her head, the same shock now evident. They had to have tapped their satellite communications, surely. But how? How had they been so severely compromised with no warning?
"What the fuck is going on?" Wolf said.
Tom strode back into the pilothouse from the bridge wing with purpose. He was done playing games. "Give me long-range HF radio. I've got a message for Gustavo and I want the world to hear it."
Mike narrowed his eyes—a silent question, one mirrored in the body language of Burk, Kara, and their two foreign guests. Hell, everyone on the bridge, for that matter.
"You're live, Sir," said the OOD, handing him the receiver.
Tom turned, decisive, and committed, and caught Captain Green's small nod as he faced the room. "This is Nathan James calling Gustavo Barros."
In their enemy's camp, Sasha's head snapped up. Eyes going wide—her heart moving arrhythmically in her chest. Tom's unmistakable voice rendered near-instant silence within the camp as it boomed over a radio, the bustling chatter and movement halting within a second.
"We just took out your Airwing, and you didn't lay a glove on us, and you can mark that up with your Corvette—payback, for Mayport."
Danny sucked in air, his relief overwhelming in its intensity. A slow and reverent smile started to spread across Azima's face. They were alive.
"You may have hit us hard, but you didn't finish us. You know why? Because you can't. And now Mexico and Cuba have joined the fight."
Sasha's lip quivered as she did her best to stay in control, savoring every second of his voice, painfully aware that it would likely be the last time she ever heard it. Knowing whatever victory he felt would be so short-lived when he found out.
On the bridge of the James, Tom paused for a moment, making eye contact with both Aguilar and Fuentes before he continued. "So this message goes out to all of Central and South America. There is a choice now. Join us. Send Gustavo back into the dirt hole he crawled out of. We fight for peace but make no mistake; we will fight. And this crew? They're damn good at it. So, Gustavo—come at us again, I dare you. This is Nathan James, out."
Tavo's Compound—Undisclosed, Columbia
Conchita shook her head disparagingly as they listened to Chandler's address, rearing to her husband, "¡Los fracasos de Héctor te están avergonzando!" Hector's failures are embarrassing you. "Hágales saber a los estadounidenses que hemos capturado a su gente." Let Chandler know we have his wife.
Tavo ran a hand over her hair in a calming manner, peering at the radio as if the action alone could let him gaze into the eyes of his enemy. "No. Si lo saben, intentarán organizar un rescate. Quiero que sepa que está indefenso. Tener paciencia." His voice was quiet, firm as he loomed behind her chair. No, he will try to mount a rescue. I want him to know he is helpless.
USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán
Mike entered the wardroom to find Tom grabbing a coffee. It was late, closer to midnight if he had to guess. Tom looked up. Fingers splayed evenly around the rim of the mug as he set it on the table, inclining his head in silent greeting. They hadn't had the chance to talk about it since he'd delivered the news. Mike nodded tightly, closing the door and coming to stand on the opposite side.
"Glad you're still with us, though I wouldn't think less of you for leaving," Tom started carefully. His tone was soft as he tested the waters. There were only ever two moods with Mike: talkative or not. And despite years of working together in the most stressful situations imaginable, his counterpart was a master at hiding his emotions. A trait Tom envied if he were honest.
Mike considered his words. "It's what she'd want," he responded simply, a little tight in his voice.
Tom narrowed his eyes in response. Picked up the mug and took a long sip, "Coffee?" Gesturing with his head to the machine behind him.
"Sure."
Tom poured another mug—black with no sugar—and handed it to Mike across the table, who muttered a thanks. This wasn't the reason for his visit, however. "Picked up some radio chatter, it's not much but they're saying a local was killed for helping the American's escape Panama."
Tom paused, eyes hovering before they cast off again. "I heard." The words were breathy like a sigh as he perched himself against the table, resting an arm on his thigh while he hunched. Whether that was good news remained to be seen—though his gut was telling him otherwise.
Mike nodded and moved on. "Anything on the assistant?"
Tom pursed his lips, dissatisfaction shining through, "Nothing. She went to ground before they could find her. They're still looking"—he stopped and smirked, which caught Mike off guard—"Meylan said Reiss is pissed."
Ah, Mike gave a shit-eating grin that he hid by taking a sip of his drink. "All due respect, Reiss is an ass."
Tom's trademark lopsided grin appeared. "I don't disagree."
"Told ya you should have ran. You woulda won in a heartbeat," Mike quipped.
Tom scoffed and then deadpanned. "Can you really imagine me wearing a suit every day?"
Mike laughed. "You? No. But Sasha would make a great first lady. She has that fancy wardrobe—" and he kicked himself for the mistake. Tom's smile faltered, the weariness settling back into his features, the weight he carried visibly causing his shoulders to slump.
"We'll get her back," Mike said confidently, needing to say something to amend his faux pas.
Tom nodded, using his cup as a distraction again because the words were empty. They had no way of guaranteeing anything anymore, and they both knew it.
December 17th, 2018—Darien Gap, Panama
Sasha was dozing, head resting against the warm and scratchy canopy when they came to retrieve her. In a burst of movement, the flaps were ripped open, two soldiers' boots thundering on the metal truck bed. Danny and Wolf surged as if to stop them, though they were yanked back by their restraints and forced to shout instead.
"Where are you taking her?" Earning Danny a hit with the butt of a gun. And where she should have been scared, she felt an intense sense of calm, for she had known this was coming.
"It's okay," she told them, as she was untied from the truck and hoisted to her feet. Ignoring Danny's horrified gaze, she smiled softly at him instead. At all of them. "Whatever happens, don't let them win." It was all she could say before they pulled her out of the truck aggressively.
Her eyes squinted as they adjusted to the sudden barrage of sunlight, bound feet tripping on the rocks and debris all over the ground, one rolling her ankle in such a way that she winced. Unceremoniously, she was dragged into a neighboring tent and deposited roughly on the ground. Forced to kneel with her hands bound in front, and only then did she begin to feel dread, but not for herself. For him. Her mouth went dry, eyes peering regrettably at the camera that was set up to broadcast.
Hector smiled at her from behind it, and she swallowed.
USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán & Darien Gap, Panama
Tom didn't know why, but he was inexplicably drowning in a pit of anxiety that wound so tightly in his chest it was hard to breathe. Mexico was laying the mines, everything was proceeding as planned, Cuba was positioning their fleet as agreed. Tomorrow anything heading North would arrive and they would be ready. Still, he paced relentlessly at the Bridge. Slattery and Green tracking his movements silently with their eyes. Kara shared a look with Mike, one that conveyed she might need to request he go let off steam somewhere else because the vortex of energy exuding from him was permeating the room. He was like a caged animal, and it was putting her on edge.
Mike broke eye contact first, watching instead as Tom twirled the wedding band on his finger—one of his tells. He was about to pull him aside when Burk's voice came over their internship comms.
"CIC, Bridge—we're picking up a broadcast—" a hesitation, a deathly pause that rendered the tension so thick a pin drop could be heard. Mike, Tom, and Kara's eyes simultaneously collided. "It's… Sirs, Ma'am, I think you need to get down here," Burk finally decided upon, and Tom was already gone.
A shiver ran down Tom's spine feet propelling him on auto-pilot until he stood directly in front of the screen.
"Where is this coming from?" Mike demanded, arriving behind Tom. With wide frantic eyes, he looked at the specialist to his left.
"It's being broadcast on the long-range antenna network. We're already running a trace, Sir." Any further questioning was vetoed as her captor started to speak.
"Americans. For too long you have meddled in the affairs of foreign nations. Gone un-punished for your crimes. La Gran Columbia wants you to know that the people of Central and South America will no longer stand for such tyranny from the North."
They watched as General Martinez stepped front and center, partially obscuring Sasha from view. If Tom had to guess it was being filmed in a tent. There was nothing in the frame except the canvas structure. Nothing that could help discern the location in which she was being held. Sasha remained perfectly stoic, and to his relief, appeared to be unharmed. Her jeans were marred by dirt, and now that he looked closer, dried flora—the jungle, he surmised, confirming his suspicion; they'd gone south.
"You believe you are just. That the cause for which you fight is noble, but you have been lied to by your leaders, by the man you call your hero. Your fuel treaty was forged by the blood of our brothers and sisters in Panama! By the same agents who assassinated Fernando Asturius! Your leaders have hidden the torture and war crimes committed against Panamanian nationals in the pursuit of power, and today, Tom Chandler—you will answer for those crimes."
Sasha's gaze tracked Hector's movements as he paced impassioned before the camera, her jaw clenched tight against the wild hammering of her heart. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, drenching her in a cold and panicky sweat, their intention becoming clearer with every second. Her hands began to shake.
"But unlike our enemy—we will show mercy. You can spare her life, Admiral. Confess." The hand behind his back moved to position a gun at her temple. Sasha stilled, refusing to react as the cold metal pressed tightly against her skin. Focused on calming her breathing against the rapidly surging panic. She would not grant them the satisfaction of fear. Wouldn't go out that way. Wouldn't let that be the last thing Tom saw in her eyes.
In CIC, an unmistakable tremor began to emanate from Tom's core. His hands gripped the leather padded chair before him tight as a vice, knuckles white with the force. The hull of his beloved ship closing in like a tomb; a choice laid bare before him.
Kara's brows furrowed deeply as she worked to keep the bile down in her throat. Wondering if the rest of Vulture Team had already been killed, or if Danny was next. If she might be standing in the same spot as the Admiral in but a few short minutes, forced to execute the man she loved. Her eyes began to fill with tears.
Mike stepped closer, mouth lax anger surging and permeating deep helplessness while they watched.
My god.
Hector pushed the barrel harder against Sasha's temple causing her head to list left. "You have a choice, Admiral. Confess to your involvement in Panama, and I will spare your wife."
Despite herself, Sasha couldn't help but wince, desperate in her will for Tom to stand firm. Looked into the camera as though urging him to accept it. To remember that the stakes had always been greater than them.
"All you have to do is pick up the radio. You can save her life," Hector taunted, cocking the barrel of his revolver and pulling the trigger.
The violent flinch Sasha gave was involuntary. A natural tensing in response to the expected end, yet it didn't come.
"Confess!" Hector demanded, and nausea rolled in her gut. Two things became clear. This was a sick game of Russian Roulette and Tom was going to cave—she could feel it.
A few stifled gasps swept CIC in response and Kara lost her battle; hung her head because she couldn't stand it and prayed in earnest—something she hadn't done in years.
Mike could see the meltdown as it spiraled. Tom's breath coming in stunted puffs, veins, and tendons rigid in his neck. Eyes smoldering as he wished death upon Martinez through the screen. Visualized brutally ending his life and decimating the corpse until there was nothing left. As he crumbled under the weight of the pain—the right kind of pain—his mind cautioned. The kind Jed Chandler warned about. The kind that lost wars—sent his resolve toppling—and as Tom watched Martinez cock the gun one more, he realized he didn't know how to do this. Not again.
"Is your war really worth it? Your American pride so great that you'll let her die to cover your crimes?" Hector tormented.
"Whatever you think you're doing—it won't work."
Hector faltered, turning his attention from the camera to look at Sasha. "Silence—"
"He won't do it." She ignored him, raising her chin in defiance. Squared herself, and the absolute fury upon Tom's face started to give way to horrible, twisted despair because he knew what she was doing.
Hector sneered, pushing the barrel again and turning back to the camera. "Confess!"
"He's smarter than that. You'll kill me anyway," she poked.
Hector grit his teeth, firing another round of the chamber.
Tom flinched. Fire. Anguish. Fear. Resolve waning. He couldn't do what she wanted him to do.
Lip curled, bitter, and twisted, Sasha stared at Martinez, making clear her intention to force him to end this on her terms. She saw his lip twitch, a vein beginning to bulge in his forehead.
Returning her gaze to the camera she spoke, "Vse normal'no." It's okay.
Mike snapped attention to Tom, hoping that she was giving him something they could use. A location!? But the notion was quickly dispelled. The moisture welling in his friend's eyes was explanation enough. She was saying goodbye.
"YA lyublyu vas." I love you.
Tom's chest spasmed, an audible choking sound escaping through the sheer force of his torment.
"Otpusti menya." Let me go.
"In English!" Hector roared.
Lifting her chin, Shasha pushed the barrel of the gun until it was centered in her forehead. Her body trembled, eyes dark and ablaze. Low and quiet when she answered. "Go to hell."
Hector pulled the trigger and she fell to the ground, a thud echoing through the CIC. The feed went black.
In the moments that followed, there was only stunned and horrified silence. That, and her last words, unrelenting as they rang in Tom's head—let me go. There was tinnitus, so loud it drowned everything but the sound of his own blood. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, from Mike. Couldn't comprehend why. Wasn't aware that every ounce of color had drained from his face. Nor that he was unsteady on his feet, or that his body was visibly trembling and a cold sweat clamming his skin. Oblivious to the tear-stained cheeks of Kara when she neared, expressing something he couldn't discern over the crippling pain and crushing shock. And then his feet were carrying him. Heavy like lead weights as he moved, Mike's hand dropping away and the crew doing their best to pretend they hadn't just witnessed what they'd seen.
Still, there was no sound, no substantial or tangible purchase of thought as he stepped into his stateroom outside of her words.
It's okay, I love you, let me go.
Ripping. Ripping in two.
Didn't even understand that he was vomiting until the third heave, body hunched over the sink with hands shaking. And then he was collapsed. Somewhere between the sink and the desk. His back against the cold metal locker sinking to the floor. If he was breathing, he didn't know. He was dying. All he could see, all he could feel, was that she was gone.
Gone.
He broke.