an. Cuba! Oh TLS and your squirly timelines and convenient plot-holes. Anyone ever wonder how the hell Tom knew the weapons cache landed in Havana with no radio? Much less how Lima "walked" 50 km from their landing zone to reach Havana before dawn... or that Tom needed to traverse a similar distance to make it to Güines, also just after the break of dawn... Anyway lol. This is my attempt at a more realistic portrayal of the proposed scenario, courtesy of google maps, I hope.

Response for Luna: Thank you so much, that's a huge compliment. Trying my best to balance the split-personality Tom we were given in the show within the confines of this universe. And of course, make him less of an asshole without being too far OOC. Also, Danny and Sasha friendship is my new platonic OTP. Show failed to bank on that bombass dynamic in my humble opinion.

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Silence reverberated around Ensign Swain. Disbelief, failure, regret… guilt. All culminating in rampant succession. Inexplicably feeling the look on Sasha Cooper's face from a thousand miles away. Every ounce of color evaporated, cold, clammy sweat encasing his pale skin. Hands resting limp on the console before him while he stared disbelieving at the screen.

"Our status is god damn livid, Admiral!" Her voice rang raw and broken around the stilted room. "Why the hell weren't we jamming those artillery batteries!?"

The weight was unbearable, and he couldn't speak. He'd failed. Failed them all. Clayton pulled off his headset and drew a shaking hand across his mouth. Tongue chalky and dry as his breaths came in elevated spasms.

Mike shifted his gaze lightning-fast, noting the thousand-yard stare adorning the young Ensign's face, and tried to buy time. "We're gonna get you some answers." His own shock numbing the response in a muted, canned sort of way.

Sasha tore her hand away from the Radio. Reeling and spinning and trembling. How the fuck did they let this happen!? The buzz of chatter in her ear was neither important nor registering. They'd taken every precaution, his itinerary strictly need to know. Timed the entire trip with the bi-weekly supply run to the forward operating base. Even the Jamaican Prime Minister didn't know when or even where the meet would go down. Only that he'd be contacted at their discretion and escorted to neutral ground. Were they still compromised internally? Had she missed someone? There couldn't be… that was… there was no way… no way she'd lost Tom thanks to her oversight.

Please. Please no.

Swallowed the bile in her throat. Clenched her core muscles, forcing her blood pressure to hold against its rapid drop. This couldn't—it wasn't—he wasn't—

"Command, Navy Spear—commencing search and rescue now."

Search and rescue. A chance. But then she made the mistake of looking at Danny, and his expression was gut-wrenching as it was soul-destroying. And for a split second, Sasha almost crumbled. The sharp peak of agony so great she thought to fall to her knees, but sudden as it was, so too was the defense mechanism. Catapulting back to denial, to something else—the mission.

"Mother, can we get a fix on that weapons supply?" It hurt to speak against strangled vocal cords, moisture glistening in her eyes and thick on her tongue.

Why? Why was this happening?

In CIC, their TAO huddled over a navigational console, already working the problem. "We were tracking it using a radar relay from the plane. Last position, supply was off-course, headed west on a path toward the north shore of Havana."

Miller turned, his intense dislike for where this was heading clear. "That's Gustavo country."

Danny finally tore his eyes away from Sasha, stepping up while she did her best to remain composed. Exchanged looks with Captain Utt, the Marine reeling under the weight of his own losses. Bowen, Lin, Murphy, Weeks, Santora and Hird. Six god damn men, gone in the blink of an eye.

Azima shook her head. "The rebel camp is three miles in the other direction, why don't we go there first?"

"We can't risk that weapons supply falling into enemy hands," Danny said. Voicing what they all knew.

"Could split?" Pablo suggested, his usual bravado muted in a show of respect toward them all. Oddly, the memory of watching them in that hanger, almost jealous in a way, replayed. Felt damn morbid for wondering if maybe he was dodging a bullet by being alone. Having no-one and nothing to call home. When you had that much, you also stood to lose, and there was a lot of that going around in the post-plague world. "Two of us work on the rebels, the rest secure the weapons—rendezvous at the cache, ideally with back up."

Wasn't a bad idea, and Sasha would have indicated as much, had she felt able to formulate words. Instead, she clenched down on that tooth, compressing the nerve until irradiating pain blocked everything out. Somehow, the very beat of her heart felt sluggish. Like her brain was encapsulated by something viscous and it muted her most basic functions. Rendered the very act of breathing hard.

Danny spared her another glance, before turning to the Marine Captain Utt. "One of your guys and Pablo can handle the rebels. The rest of us will head north. That beacon has a two mile-radius, we get in range I know we can find it."

Captain Utt inclined his chin at one of his men. "Barco, you're up."

The soldier nodded a stiff affirmation, moving to stand next to Pablo, and Danny felt torn delivering his next words. Glaringly aware, unable to imagine how he'd respond if the James had just gone up in flames. On edge that she was the next target. His apology shone through his eyes, through the way his head tilted softly, though his voice never wavered.

"Mission hasn't changed."

Sasha needed that. Needed to hear it. It was something to latch on to, at least.

The press toward Havana was made in oppressive silence, the plan to traverse the 50 klicks separating them, and their target on foot, and by vehicle—if they could find one of course. The only chatter came from the radio in stilted intervals. Progress updates regarding the search, something Sasha acutely wished would stop. It was hard to live in denial when the ever-regretful tones of Kara and Mike chirped at random in her ear. Chewing up quadrant after quadrant in search of the sprawling debris field formerly known as Liberty One. Hope dwindling like a sputtering flame with every drawn-out response.

Saturday, April 13th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida—0023 Hours

In central command, the President arrived, eyes bewildered and, dare Mike say, panicked.

"I want a status update. Have we found anything in the search?" Reiss demanded when he approached both Admirals and the MCPON.

Meylan's somber grimace spoke volumes, briefly meeting Mike's eyes, which were uncharacteristically round, framed by worried brows. But the despondency of Russel Jeter's features truly hit home. Reiss pursed his lips into a tight line, and Meylan watched as the color drained from the Commander-in-Chief's face.

"So far, nothing, Sir. Our Helo's still making sweeps," Meylan said.

Reiss looked away, drawing a hand down his face before settling both on his hips. His mouth hung open as if to speak, yet coming up stuck. Instead, he committed a slow, disbelieving shake while he peered at them all. "How the hell did we let his happen?"

Ensign Swain cringed in his chair, his back still hunched, staring with bloodshot eyes. He'd checked his code obsessively. Over a dozen times since Liberty One went down, everything was right. He couldn't find the mistake, it was wrong, and he couldn't even identify it.

Mike shifted his eyes, feeling a sense of duty to shelter Swain as much as he could. Was just a kid, wasn't fair to cast blame when so much had been thrust upon his inexperienced shoulders after Mayport. Mike clasped his hands together and gestured Reiss to the adjacent conference room. "Sir, if I may?"

With clenched teeth, Reiss heeded the request and stalked into the conference. The three men following suit. Swain barely chanced a look, catching the remonstrate glare of his President for a few damming seconds through the glass before it switched frosted. The sweat glistened at his brow.

In the conference, Reiss waited, impatient and incensed. "Well, Admiral?"

"We're still working on the details, Sir. The Jamming was set, our post analysis from the James says the battery came somewhere off the north shore—"

"So the Jamming failed? I thought you said their weapons wouldn't be an issue?"

Jeter bristled, his hands coming to rest on the table before them. "Sir, we don't know that yet. Our team is analyzing the code, so far everything checks out."

Reiss shook his head, beginning to pace in place. "What are the chances he's still alive?"

The silence was awkward as it was deafening, and for the first time since Liberty One went down, Mike felt the pain. A piece of it which broke through the shock, and whether it was loyalty to Tom, refusal to give up, or sheer desperate denial, Mike found himself refusing to acknowledge that question. Russ found the words stuck in his throat because his heart didn't believe yet. That presence he ascribed to God not reconciling its hope with the reality nor the facts… but then again it had never been wrong in the past. Perhaps that's why he struggled to answer, too. And it was left to Joseph, the ever-pragmatic realist, to speak the words his two counterparts couldn't voice.

"Not good, Sir."

Reiss worried his jaw from side to side. "And we're sure the Admiral's plans weren't compromised?"

Meylan's jaw ticked, for he'd been pondering that himself. "The only people who knew, outside of Cooper and Captain Green are standing inside this room."

Mike's expression went slack, his hands loosening, a possibility dawning on him before he shut it down. Not quickly enough, though, because Reiss zeroed in on it.

"What is it, Admiral?"

Mike glanced between Meylan and Jeter before responding. "Sir, Captain Green wished him a safe flight over the HF. It's encrypted, but anyone in the communications and war rooms would've heard… it's speculative at best, though. None of our operations have been compromised since the attack. If we still had someone inside, I think we'd know by now."

"I concur," Meylan said.

"So, you think this is purely coincidence? The day Tom Chandler leaves the United States, his plane gets shot out of the sky?" The President seemed undeterred from his original conclusion, and the sarcasm was heavy.

Meylan straightened, refusing to back down. "We'll get answers, Sir. But for now, speculation won't bring anyone back—"

It had taken hours, but they'd struck gold. Found an abandoned pickup with a quarter tank of fuel on the outskirts of a farm, got it running after a few tries and a push-start, the battery long since dead. The giant red X upon the main house's ramshackle facade was faded, but still visible. The bodies, if Sasha had to guess, still inside. That was common outside the cities and towns, vast swathes left untouched in the pandemic's wake, even six years later. It wasn't unique to Cuba; it was the same in Panama, Venezuela, Costa Rica, Egypt, Kenya… the world. Had seen enough of it at this point to know. With entire bloodlines wiped out, and limited labor, if a property wasn't needed, it stood untouched. Not unlike a tomb.

She was sat with her back to the glass atop a rusted toolbox that spanned the width of the truck. Wolf opted to drive, joined by Azima and Miller in the Cabin and everyone else piled into the back. Utt, the Doc and the one he called Toone kept watch, their weapons trained into the night. Sasha figured he hailed from Boston if the accent was anything to go by. A musing that stopped offering adequate distraction long ago.

Her knee bounced incessantly. The fabric of her combat pants loud enough to hear over the crunching dirt under wheels. The plastic clip of her thigh holster creaking with every iteration. More than anything, she wished they'd stop looking. Glances thrown when they assumed she wouldn't notice—the sympathetic, pitying air. Like they were just waiting for her to snap becau—she pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Clenched eyes shut. The shake of her head, a physical manifestation of cutting herself off.

Mission comes first.

Danny observed, noting the obsessive bouncing; the way her gaze cast off somewhere but not seeing, wanted to do something, anything but knew there wasn't a damn thing. She was holding it together admirably, though. That, or she was just so damn shocked it hadn't really sunk in.

With knees stiff and protesting, Danny pushed himself up from his spot—almost felt like he was getting old, maybe because he was. Or maybe seven years of near-constant deployment had left his body on the brink of collapse. When he'd been assigned to the James, he was already two point five into his three-year active duty. Wasn't like he was rested then either, in-fact he'd only been back for four weeks before joining the James. How many times had he been shot? Bruised. How many broken ribs, dislocated knuckles, shoulders? He didn't know anymore; didn't keep count. All he knew was his body was an entire fucking ache that wouldn't stop.

Sasha didn't move or react when dropped himself beside her. Let out an "ahh" noise in the back of his throat as he extended those offending knees—boots scraping audibly against the truck bed and extra ammo tucked to his back catching a little on the glass, sounding of a tinny 'clink' before he settled.

"You with us, Coop?"

He needed to keep her talking. Might not have Tom Chandler's level of insight, but he'd figured out a thing or two quietly over the years. That far-away gaze shifted, eyes fearful like he'd never seen before. Completely stripped of any attempt to hide how lost she was. There wasn't a single ounce of color left in her face, and her mouth parted with the attempt to convey—well, anything—but she couldn't find words. Nothing existed to encompass this level of loss, didn't know how to explain it didn't even hurt yet because she was so stunned. But it did feel like the realest terror she'd ever touched. Like being abandoned at the bottom of an ocean in a dive suit, waiting for air to run out. Cold. Pitch-black. Helpless. Did Tom even know what he meant to her, or had she done what she always did, said 'I love you' but keep running?

Danny clasped her hand in his. Placed his other on top of it in a show of solidarity that conveyed more than words could.

Sasha swallowed, struggling to maintain an even pace. "I don't understand any of this." It was muttered, barely above a breath, with a bitter, twisted scoff. There was absolutely nothing funny about it, but she couldn't even react. "I made sure his itinerary was secure, the jamming was set—"

Danny cut her off. "We'll figure it out." When she remained unconvinced, he squeezed the hand between his. "We'll figure it out." Repeating his sentiment and raising his brows to convey his sincerity. A move to show that despite what she thought, she would not be alone on this. No way anyone was leaving her in the wind. Sasha bit her lip and looked helplessly upward. Never believed in heaven or hell… but she got it now. The desire to think whoever you'd lost was there, somewhere beyond your reach, but still with you. It did hurt then, incredibly so, a horrible fiery ache that made her lips tremble and that dizzying nausea return.

How the hell was she supposed to do this? Tell Ashley and Sam… keep fighting when the person she fought for was gone. The words came in a whisper, and Danny wasn't sure she'd even meant to say them out loud, but he heard them.

"I need him."

Strangely, it struck Danny hard, wasn't prepared for it. Of course, he knew that, even understood enough to know she probably hadn't considered how much until now. That wasn't what resonated, rather how broken it was. Decided he'd prefer crying, at least with crying he could console or feel like he was helping. This though? He had no answer or platitude and it percolated like a rock hitting the bottom of dry a well. All he could do was squeeze her hand harder in response.

It was twilight, the beginnings of dawn limning the seas below with an almost ethereal glow, but with it enough light to snuff the remaining pitiful tendrils of hope. Maddie had known it hours ago. Been in enough wars, seen enough shit, ran enough search and rescues to know the second they'd found the debris field. But she understood it, why she'd been flying for close to seven hours. Why they'd burned this much fuel… they weren't ready to accept the truth yet.

"Hell," she muttered. Despondent and sorrowful for all that they'd lost.

Beeping sounded off on their radar. "Mother, I'm picking up something here."

"Copy that, Brawler. We see it."

In CIC, Kara moved to stand beside her TAO, the Lieutenant rattling off details before she had time to ask. "Looks like it's headed to the port at Matanzas."

"Navy spear, what do you see?" Mike chimed in.

"We don't have an I.D. yet, Sir, but it's got the same signature as the ship we fought in the Yucatán Strait," Burk said.

Heads turned in command, Meylan frowning as he addressed Mike. "You said you hit that ship pretty hard."

"Yeah, no worse than she hit Nathan James. She came out of nowhere. Couldn't get an I.D. just a signature, but she's fast."

Meylan unfolded his arms, eyes darting. "The jamming was focused on the artillery batteries." He turned away from the radar screen, facing Mike. "If that ship was patrolling the waters over the horizon from the Nathan James, it would have had a clear look at Liberty One."

Slattery's expression morphed. "It fits. Makes sense to maintain a defensive position over the north shores. Usual supply run avoids Cuban airspace. No way we could have known." Mike's lips settled into a grim line. Damn it. He caught movement; Ensign Swain now turned to face them for the first time in hours, his hopeful relief almost as palpable as the shock. Mike offered him a small nod; features softened. "This wasn't on you, Ensign."

Kara knew what needed to be done. Could almost hear Chandler's words, 'ride off into the sunset.' Steeling herself with hollowed cheeks, she gave the order. "Cease and desist all rescue operations. Tell Nomad to get us a visual on that ship, but keep their noses clean. I don't want them in the drink."

The TAO nodded, relaying her instructions over HF while she picked up the internship phone, features set in determination. "Bridge, Captain. Set course to 2-4-5."

"Course 2-4-5, aye," the OOD said.

Kara returned the handset with a definitive click, catching the glance thrown over Nishioka's shoulder. "This time we sink her. Ready all VLS." Kara was done losing people she loved.

"Aye, Ma'am," Nishioka said.

Mike's hand hovered over the HF handset, the finality when it clicked into its holster ringing. The quiet chatter was gone again, their war room rendered still. A moment of silence to reflect. His heart felt encased in lead. Stared hard at a wayward paper, a fuel report, in effort to maintain control. Couldn't believe it—it was really done—his best friend was gone. The text sitting on Mike's phone burned a hole in his pant pocket. The one Tom sent hours before, instructing where to find the letter for his kids, for his wife, if he didn't make it home. Letters Mike would finally hand out, sitting in the top drawer of Tom's desk.

"So that's it then? Admiral Chandler's gone." The President's words were uncharacteristically quiet and respectful. Directed toward Vice CNO Joseph Meylan, whom he supposed was now his next logical CNO.

Meylan tucked his chin. His brow set in a stern line. "Yes, Sir."

Reiss features tightened, forming genuine regret. He motioned with his head for them to follow, leaving the immediate vicinity of prying ears. When they were back in the conference room, he addressed the three men. "How long do you think we can keep this under wraps?"

Russ clenched his jaw before responding. "Monday, at best, Sir."

Reiss steepled his fingers against the marble table, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "I'll need to prepare a statement—"

"Sir, if I may?" Mike interjected, cleared his throat against the sudden tightness. Reiss looked up expectantly. "I need to tell his kids first."

The President's eyes softened intensely, and Mike could've sworn he swallowed. "Of course."

She'd had to figure, right? There was hope, and then there were cold hard facts. Still, when the call to end the search rang true over the radio, it brought with it another wave. More intense than the others, harder for her to push back with focus and denial. Harder to ignore Azima's sorrowful eyes, Wolf's glassy ones… and she couldn't look at Danny. At all. But she felt him looking at her.

"Mission hasn't changed." It was cold and detached. Like a physical slap, mostly for the benefit of herself, but they all diverted their eyes, pushing on through the maze of brick courtyards and streets until they located the cache.

"Looks like we're in over our heads." Leave it to Miller to crack the wise jokes.

Sasha craned her neck, mostly surprised a two-tonne pallet hanging from the roof of a bar hadn't garnered attention yet. Hadn't made enough ruckus to distract from the one in the streets. Latin music floating and echoing off the brick walls from the restaurants they'd passed.

Danny fought to keep his tone light, but the frustration was bubbling beneath his mantle. "Have to take it piece by piece." The idea of rucking this much gear another 50 klicks in the direction they'd come reminded him of BUDS. Could almost see his instructor now, cracking a smirk over the irony.

"Toone, cut her down," Captain Utt said.

Dust swirled through the cracks of the rundown farmhouse 'El Gallo' had claimed as a base. No more than a series of dilapidated buildings skirting the jungles, and acreages of farmland which no longer produced. The wood was weathered but strong. The stone rough and scarred, steadfast in its refusal to yield to the elements over the years, and in a way, this place suited him more than the marbled hallways in Havana ever could. Humble, like his beginnings, and in the downtimes between scampering supply runs, stealing weapons, and stoking the flames of revolution, Eduardo Fuentes could see himself running wild through fields. Playing soccer with his brother while his sister intertwined daises and his mother tended their goats.

The sound of a door slammed open, kicked with force, though he neither turned nor flinched. He'd made his peace long ago before he'd ever spun up that radio and called the remaining believers to fight. The footsteps approached, measured, determined, and creaking over the hollowed planks until they shuffled and stopped. Eduardo turned, the gun pointed at him expected, but the man holding it—that was not. And somehow, while the grip on the weapon lessened, and the dawning settled into his would-be adversary's expression, Fuentes couldn't call himself surprised.

"Fuentes."

He raised his chin. "Admiral."

A slow building of understanding shone in Admiral Chandler's eyes, some of that betrayal slipping into a burgeoning truce. "Leader of the Cuban rebels."

A ghost of a smile colored Eduardo's features. "We have a lot to discuss."