Pablo was cleaning his weapon methodically, trying to figure out why it had jammed during the attack. He worked with diligence, parts strewn in order over the top of a couple stacked crates, rag in hand as he wiped at the gunk. Inwardly, he was cursing the hell to which he'd been exhiled after it all went to shit. Finding Danny had prompted some stark self-reflection on just how far he'd succumbed to the 'jungle fever'. When the plague hit he'd been deployed, and for a few months, he'd denied. Pretended that the US would come for him. Take care of him just as they always had. Denial that had died a slow death while the world collapsed. Eventually, he'd decided there was nothing left waiting for him anyway, his family—fractured as they were—had long since tired of his fuckups and on the romantic front? Well. There was nothing but a string of broken one-night stands. In true Schemanski style, he'd committed to saying 'fuck it' and went all in. Full native, as Danny put it.

The jungle was all Pablo had.

But it hadn't always been that way and seeing the team work together proved just how much Pablo missed being 'in'. Having a purpose, and a country to serve borne of more than pure circumstance. He noticed Sasha leave a tent and watched her stride toward him, clearly on a mission. She wasted no time once there, inclining her head in quick greeting, and stepping close so they could speak without being overheard.

"Our contact said you have a plane?"

Pablo nodded. "That's right. With the Narco's—they make a run to Northern Mexico once a fortnight. Next one leaves in eight hours."

A sharp spark of interest crossed her features, and now that she'd cleaned the blood from her face, he fully appreciated how gorgeous they were. "That's exactly where we need to go."

Pablo titled his head toward the General. "What about him?" In tandem, Sasha and Danny—who'd just approached—glanced across the camp at their prisoner.

"He's coming with us," Sasha said—like that was some kind of simple request.

Pablo had to smirk at the audacity. She really thought he could convince the Narcos to smuggle a General of La Gran Columbia North. "That's bad for business." Head tilting to stress the point.

"I get it. Tavo's left them alone so far but they have to know they'll be drawn into the fight eventually." She paused, switching her tactic on him, and imploring with those insanely captivating eyes. "We can't afford to let him go—can't kill him either, he's too valuable."

The grimace was regretful on Pablo's dirt-ridden, bearded face and he cracked his neck—a nervous habit—finding momentary relief when the tension released. Still, he was reluctant when he responded, "I can't make any promises, but I'll try."

Sasha smiled at him then, small, and grateful. "That's all I can ask." Tapped his arm with a closed fist in an affirming gesture and went back toward the tent.

Danny watched Pablo's entire head track her departure, already knowing what the next words out of his mouth would be. "Don't." It was a warning, but his grin communicated it was said in good nature.

"What?" Pablo defended, holding up his hands in faux surrender.

"You're about to ask me what your chances are of getting laid."

Pablo mocked offense. "Well, are you blind? She's smoking." Reminded that he'd gone years now surrounded by men.

Danny clapped him on the shoulder, wrapping his arm around the back of his neck in a brotherly gesture. "No, but I am married—and she's taken."

Pablo shrugged it off. "Girl like that doesn't seem like the type to settle down. And she's not wearing a ring."

"Just trust me," Danny repeated, tucking his chin to peer at his friend with knowing eyes. "You'll see." He squeezed Pablo's shoulder once more and removed his arm, heading back to the tent.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Pablo called after him.

Danny didn't answer but turned with a flashing smile. "Nice to see you haven't changed!"

Five hours later

"What happened!?" Sasha yelled over the sound of gunfire raining down around them. Danny was struggling under the weight of Wolf's body on his shoulders as he ran him back to the safety of cover.

"Fucking landmine!"

She tried to ignore the stunted howls of pain from her teammate, but the anguish was hard to drown out. They'd just blown the bridge, but there was still a platoon at their flank which currently had them pinned.

"Shit. His tourniquets gone." She heard Danny mutter.

Grasping her own from her hip, she thrust it at Danny while the bullets rained. "Here."

Azima sprinted over, drawn by the sounds. "Wolf?" He could only grunt in response. Against the surging panic, Azima fired at the enemy, providing cover with Sasha while Danny worked to stem the flow of bleeding.

"Mate, it's no use—" Wolf panted, face ashen and covered in a deathly sheen. His blood flowed freely to the ground, pulsing from the gaping wound in his leg.

"You're gonna be fine."

"No! You need to get to the plane, warn the James—you'll never make it—"

"Stop! We're not leaving you." Danny was firm in his conviction, pulling the tourniquet as tight.

Wolf let out a loud yell. From the ground, through the surge of pain, he heard Azima's voice and bit back against the surge. Pablo appeared with bandages, helping Danny wrap the leg. A distant yell from Armando pierced the air, barely providing enough warning before some kind of explosion rocked the ground. Danny and Pablo both dove to cover Wolf, hands upon their own heads as Sasha and Azima were knocked down.

Gingerly recovering, Sasha sat up. A fine sheen of vaporized earth floated down from the sky like snow until it covered everything in its path. The ringing in her ears wouldn't stop but she could make out that Armando had leveled the last of Gustavo's guys with a grenade. The rebels were now storming the area—finishing anyone left alive on the ground. Sputtering against the dirt in her lungs, Sasha pushed herself up using the butt of her rifle, taking stock to make sure her team was alive.

Stiffly she came to stand watch while Danny, Azima, and Pablo crowded Wolf before hoisting him to his feet, Danny and Pablo doing most of the work to support his weight.

"Get him to the truck, we'll take it as far as we can and carry him the rest of the way," Sasha instructed.

Danny's muscles ached under the pressure. Grime and sweat coating what felt like every surface of his skin. His palms were clammy. They slipped on Wolf's wrist forcing the need to constantly readjust his grip. They'd been marching for over two hours, his only mantra to keep putting one foot in front of the other as they set a blistering pace. Before him, Pablo pushed the reluctant Martinez forward, seemingly every step of the way, with a barrel pressed at his neck. Directly behind them, Sasha followed, while Azima protected their six.

A little winded, Sasha checked her watch. They only had 40 minutes left to get to that plane, oppressively aware of their circumstance. "How far are we?"

"Thirty minutes," Pablo answered.

Sasha glanced back at Danny, a sorry expression on her face because they needed to pick up the pace. They were all hurting but he was doing the bulk of the work. Wolf's head hung limp, his lips a nasty shade of gray as he floated in the haze of pain and loose consciousness. Her own foot throbbed. Stinging her eyes with moisture for how sharply it protested each step—still—they pushed on. The only thing that mattered was getting to that plane.

"We need to pick it up, ten minutes is cutting it too close."

USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán

It was a beautiful night, cloudless. The moon shone round and bright against the blackened sky, and a spattering of stars dotted its canvas. It was wrong. His body was propped against the 5-inch, the cool solid metal tangible at his back. With his legs crossed in front and arms mirrored across his chest, Tom tried to focus on anything but his grief. It was hard. Impossible in the absence of an immediate crisis. Felt as if he'd been thrown back to the beginning of this nightmare. To that fateful evening when he'd punished himself with the scent of perfume and finally given in to the despair that sought to drown him. Sleep might offer some relief, but the idea of what came before it? Laying alone in the stillness of that stateroom with nothing but guilt and her ghost was oppressive. Instead, he employed every trick in the book to ignore it. To dampen the hollow ache. The blinding poker hot pain, but he was failing. Felt ready to burst at the seams and beg for help because he didn't know how to do this again. Muffled boots on the deck alerted him to someone's approach—judging by the gait and weight of the footfalls, Mike.

"Still using this bolt hole?"

Tom glanced through his peripheral but gave no other response. No matter, Mike figured this visit would be mostly silent when he'd chosen to approach. Truth be told, he needed to clear his own head as much as look out for a friend. His heart ached too, Sasha in some ways had become just as vital to his circle as Tom. More so, in their darkest hours between rebuilding America, dealing with the famine, and carrying the weight of a crew who'd been broken without their Captain. Mike settled beside him, mirroring Tom's stance. It was a long time before either spoke and when Mike did, it caught Tom completely off guard.

"Never knew she spoke Russian."

Tom's brows drew together, confused that of all things—this was the anecdote his counterpart wished to share. Surprised further still by his own choice in response, for at that moment, it dawned on Tom that he was likely the last person left alive that knew.

"Her mother was Russian." The words were quiet and Mike gave his full attention because he'd expected nothing but stoicism in response. Tom swallowed with some difficulty, a strange sense of honor flooding his heart as he weighed his next thought. "Her name's Aleksandra." And for some inexplicable reason, it felt damn important to him that someone else know so they could remember it too. Someone that wasn't him.

"Aleksandra," Mike repeated, testing the weight of it on his tongue. The corner of his lip tugged up in a smile. "Figures." Tom glanced at him, the silent question clear. "Always thought 'Sasha' was too simple," Mike elaborated, relieved to see the ghost of a smile pass over his friend's lips.

Ironically, Tom had always echoed that sentiment. Further compounded once he'd affirmed that nothing about her could be defined as such. The warmth faded. Replaced by unimaginable grief and Tom cast his gaze back to the horizon. Worked hard not to sink to his knees.

Mike looked on as his friend cleared his throat and tucked his chin. Knew that trick himself like the back of his own hand.

After several moments Tom spoke again. More to himself than anyone else, like saying it might bring her back to him. The words were strangled and quiet. "Aleksandra Petrovna Martin."

It rested between them and Mike sighed. Looked instead to the stars as they lapsed into silence again. And somewhere in the back of Tom's mind, though he couldn't voice it—he was glad not to be alone. Glad to have someone there, because he didn't think he could make it to sunrise without her.

"Ma'am, Captain Aguilar is on Chanel Two."

Confusion colored Kara's expression, and she made haste in retrieving the radio—unless their calculations had been way off, Tavo's forces shouldn't arrive until late afternoon tomorrow at the earliest. Mostly, she was just terrified that something else was about to go wrong for them all, though what that could be she couldn't fathom.

"This is Commander Green, what can I do for you, Captain?"

"Commander, I have reports from our base in Isla-Majeures that the American's from Panama are requesting passage to your ship. They say they have vital intel on the fleet headed from Columbia, they will only release it to Admiral Chandler."

A defibrillator went off in her chest, cautious hope surging like wildfire. Her mouth worked in shock for a few seconds as she scrambled to respond appropriately. Dreading the answer to the next clarification to follow. "Understood, we'll send our Helo right away—do you know how many?"

"Three and a high-value package—they would disclose nothing more to me over radio."

Moisture blurred her vision as she lifted her head to the ceiling and faced away from the crew, struggling to enact control. "Thank you, Captain—Nathan James, out." She hooked the radio back in its holster and took three deep breaths before turning to her OOD. "Get our bird in the air. Let's go get our people."

Her eyes caught Burk's who could not suppress the overwhelming ability to breathe again anchored by weighted sadness over the loss of their own. Stepping forward until he could be sure that only Kara would hear, he spoke.

"High-value package." Watching as she tightened her lips and nodded. Her eyes were empathetic and round. No one left behind, dead or alive. That was the rule.

"I'll tell the Admiral. He'll wanna be there"—she wet her lips—"Ship's yours Commander."

The sound of their Helo spinning up minutes later compelled action from Mike and Tom. In tandem, they pushed away from the 5-inch primed to respond. There was a brief exchange of silent confusion—another attack? But it couldn't be that. There was no order given to set General Quarters. They both fell into step intending to reach the bridge but Kara emerged from the hatch at the base of the deck with entirely too much emotion displayed on her face.

"Vulture Team made it to the base in Mexico, I'm sending the Helo to pick them up," she called out as they met halfway.

Tom watched the hesitation pass over her features. The way her brows drew in sympathy and bit back against the urge to order her to speak.

Say it.

Mike beat him to the punch. "Did they confirm?"

A tight nod. "Three inbound—" her breath hitched "—one package."

The twitch of Tom's jaw was the only reaction he gave. That and the clenching of fists.

"They'll be here in 30-minutes, Sir. I can clear the bay of all non-essential personnel—if you'd like to be there."

His eyes drifted down. Trailing away before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He needed to be there. Painful as it would be—he needed to be the one.

Nausea rolled unrelenting in the pit of Tom's gut as they waited at the edge of the cavernous doors. Mike and Kara flanked him on either side. The drone of their bird's engine and whipping blades echoed long before its blinking red light lit up the horizon. His dread grew tenfold with every torturous second. Desperate in his attempt to prepare himself. There'd been enough bodies in his life to know rigor was set in by now.

As soon as Sasha could see them through the window her heart plummeted. To put it mildly, Tom looked as if he were teetering on the edge of hell. It confirmed her worst fear. Danny shifted in his seat, unable to stop the moisture that had pooled at the sight of Kara. For a few precarious moments, after their bird landed, no one moved. Tom had taken to staring at the deck. Attempting to manage the bile biting his esophagus. The hands clutched behind his back were shaking. Beside him, the breathless, 'What the—' from Mike had him snapping his head up on pure reflex alone.

He couldn't breathe. The intensity of relief as it hit could only be compared to hearing Ashley's muffled cry in that stadium. It came like a bomb. Exploding in a way he felt hard-pressed to describe—any adjective inadequate to honor its weight. In one strangled inhale, gone was the poker face.

Sasha strode to him, heart hammering in her chest as she took in the raw magnitude. She'd never seen this much from Tom in her life. His arms were crushing when they encircled her. Face buried at her neck while she embraced him with equal ferocity.

"I'm so sorry." Words that Sasha whispered and choked directly into his ear.

Mike gestured for the few personnel on deck to make themselves very busy at the farthest and most opposite end of the bay. He squeezed Sasha's arm before he too moved away to give them space.

In her peripheral she saw Kara cup Danny's cheeks, his hands resting on her hips as they spoke in hushed tones, but her focus was redrawn when a stunted breathy sob ripped from Tom's chest. Anguished, Sasha cradled his head against her. "It's okay." Ignored the pain in her foot to push to her toes. Tom said nothing—couldn't—but she felt his fingers curl themselves into her back. Turning her face until her nose pressed against his cheek, she soothed again, "I'm here. It's okay." Felt moisture on her clavicle as he succumbed to the deluge.

He couldn't stop, hot thick heat in his throat as he drowned. His heart was bursting and so he did the only thing that he could—cling to her and wait for a way to breathe.

A few feet removed, Danny sniffed. Reluctant to break away from Kara but duty forced him to stand firm. His expression flattened and he turned toward the Helo where Pablo held their captor at gunpoint. "We have Martinez."

Mike's brows that had first registered shock drew into a deep and furious scowl. "I'll summon the Master at Arms." A response that sounded more like a growl before he stalked toward the internship phone.

Kara slipped into business albeit with some difficulty, unable to stop devouring Danny's form with her eyes. Still couldn't believe he was here. That her nightmare was over. Somewhere, through the emotional haze, she remembered. 'Three and one package.' She frowned. A spark of fear bursting within. "Wolf and Azima?"

"He stepped on a landmine—they're still at the base in Mexico but he's stabilized. They'll be transported back to Key-West by the Marines." He barely paused before switching gears. "Kara, what the hell is going on? We couldn't get through to anyone. Tavo's claiming he sank the fleet and took down Command, and Pablo said—"

"Pablo!?" she interjected. "Pablo, as in the member of your old team?" The rest of his words forgotten in favor of this revelation.

Danny nodded, the shock still dizzying. A broad smile broke out. "Yeah, he's here—guarding Martinez."

"Danny, that's—" Kara shook her head in awe, heart-soaring higher still. The man whose picture was still tacked to their fridge was sitting on the deck of her ship, alive. After all the heartbreak and loss she'd watched Danny endure; his parents, his friends, his hopes, his faith, finally—finally—something had been given back. "I'm so happy for you." Breathless as she basked in the unadulterated life which shone and emanated from him. He was Danny again, the SEAL she'd fallen for all those years ago in the Arctic.

He gave a watery laugh. "I still can't believe it. He saved our asses, Kara. If he hadn't shown up when he did?" His eyes drifted over to where Sasha and the Admiral stood. Kara followed his gaze, heart-clenching at the sight—Tom's shoulders jerking under the force of his quiet sobs, locked in a desperate embrace.

Kara turned back to Danny but he was still focused on Chandler. Did he not know? "We thought she was dead." Careful to keep her voice low. "They sent out a broadcast and told him to pick between confessing to some kind of war crime or killing his wife. Martinez pulled the trigger point-blank, Danny. We watched her go down—how is she alive?"

Danny shook his head, and the concern on his face deepened. Sasha's frantic behavior after that tent now made a lot more sense. "They separated us. I have no idea what happened—" the Master at Arms along with several guards stepped through the hatch at that moment and the conversation was tabled in favor of dealing with Martinez.

In her peripheral, Sasha noticed the movement, watching the transfer before he was shoved through the bay and into the belly of the James. If anything, she was thankful Tom didn't know yet because she had no doubt he'd kill Martinez with his bare hands in this state.

Clearing his throat, Tom sniffed. Tendrils of control finally within reach. He drew himself away from her neck and cradled her face, reverent, as his thumbs made tender sweeps across her cheekbones. The intensity of love proclaimed within his gaze made the air catch in Sasha's lungs. Tom pulled her forward, to kiss her forehead, lingering there for several moments, lips against her skin, eyes clenched shut as he fought to suppress another surge of tears. Sasha palmed his jaw, the strain of his Adam's apple visible in his throat while he struggled to reach the composure and strength necessary to let her go.

When they did part, Sasha wiped Tom's cheeks. Two months. She hadn't seen him for two months. Her smile was small but adoring as much as apologetic. Weighted because this stolen moment needed to end. "I missed you," she breathed, honest and raw. "They have six ships and another airwing heading this way. We don't have much time."

Tom blinked to clear the remaining glassiness. Circumstance as ever taking precedence. "Wardroom." The response was hoarse and he cleared his throat once more. Reluctant, Sasha dropped her hands and stepped back while he rectified his posture.

Discussion between both Greens and Pablo died when Sasha and Admiral Chandler approached.

"Danny, good to see you." Tom gave a stiff nod in the Lieutenant's direction.

Danny mirrored his gesture—"Admiral"—and then watched Chandler's eyes travel to the newcomer, awaiting an introduction. "This is Pablo. He was with the rebels, Sir. We used to work joint ops back in the day."

Tom's head inclined in acknowledgment but his stance did not thaw.

"He saved my life," Sasha prompted. Knowing it would go a long way to smooth whatever mistrust or conceptions Tom might have.

The Admiral's lips drew down in a modicum of respect and he extended a hand. A gesture Pablo gratefully accepted. Despite himself, Pablo couldn't deny his intimidation—never imagined himself standing on Nathan James, shaking hands with Tom Chandler—that's for damn sure. And the comment Danny had made in the jungle registered. Pablo purged whatever ideas he'd had about trying to bed Sasha Cooper with immediate effect.

"Sir," he greeted with a nod. The respect drilled into him settling back like a well-worn glove—warming in how familiar it felt. A distant home, and system of behavior he'd once known and thrived within.

The firm handshake ended, and Tom addressed the group. "Debrief in the Wardroom. Fifteen minutes."