an: An incredibly overdue update, I needed a break from the all-encompassing doom and gloom of Season 5 and got inspired by Tmtcltb's Bookworms to continue working on St. Augustine in the interim. Anyhow, we're back, and this chapter officially marks more than 100,000 words in this fic, and the first time I've written anything breaking that milestone.
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For the duration of the ride to Fuente's compound, the team sat in silence marked only by sporadic updates from Command and the James while she hunted Tavo's ship. Fatigue crept into Sasha's limbs, the adrenaline which kept her moving waning under the lull of the vehicle. Danny had kicked his legs out and was catching twenty, while Pablo methodically cleaned his weapon, an action Sasha had come to learn was his "thing" during downtime. She stole a glance at Tom, noting the tight bulge of his jaw muscle and measured breaths, still trying to pinpoint what was wrong with him. He didn't turn, eyes focused ahead, but he did reach out to squeeze her thigh, attempting to soothe her concern.
The convoy arrived at the farmhouse and it was only after disembarking and observing Tom favoring his left side that Sasha narrowed it down. Fuentes was already engaging him, however, discussing matters she couldn't overhear as she helped unload the weapons cache.
"You good, Coop?" Danny asked voice strained while he set down close to fifty pounds of ammo upon one of the weathered tables outside.
Sasha's attention was drawn away, the snap of her head jerky. "What?"
He tilted his head toward Fuentes and the Admiral. "You think we can trust him?"
It took her a moment to catch up, realizing she hadn't even stopped to process or analyze whether they could take the Cuban leader at face value. A fact which illustrated just how far off her game she'd been thrown. "No—I mean that's not—I wasn't—"
Danny seemed to make an expression of understanding and let the subject drop; a decision Sasha appreciated before shifting her eyes back just in time to watch Tom enter the main building behind Fuentes. Recovering herself, she revisited her prior answer, providing a more coherent response. "Tom seems to trust him… if I had to guess, I'd say Fuentes didn't have a choice when he betrayed us in the strait."
Grabbing a magazine and clicking bullets into it, Danny looked around before giving her a pointed look. "Well, let's hope he's right—if this is all they've got, I don't like our odds."
Her brow quirked, her hopes that they'd be greeted with a force in the thousands dwindling. "Maybe there's other compounds," she offered while setting the bulk of her gear down and pulling over a different set of empty mags to load up. They worked in silence for a time before Tom emerged from the main building, movement Sasha registered in her peripheral.
Heading toward her in the open daylight, his pallor became apparent, and Sasha couldn't fight her frown. A frown he ignored after briefly exchanging glances with Danny when he'd reached their table.
"There's something you need to see."
"Centeno?" Sasha mused while studying the maps sprawled next to the WWII-era radio.
Tom shifted his weight and rested his right arm more heavily upon the rifle hung around his neck. "Fuentes says it went up fast, and the locals were told not to ask questions."
"I've never seen this referenced anywhere," she confirmed, shuffling around some papers, and leaning closer.
"Any idea what it could be?"
She squinted, taking a few moments before answering. "That place—"
"Simón Bolívar."
Sasha straightened and turned at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Eduardo Fuentes having entered behind them. Of course. She rolled her head, and almost her eyes—now connecting the dots—though she could feel Tom patiently, or not so, waiting for her to clue him in.
"Tavo's speech after he attacked Mayport, 'a people who love their freedom will in the end be free.' Centeno's just outside of it."
His expression morphed into understanding. "In the words of Simón Bolívar," Tom rasped, quoting the words that had roused an entire continent to fight.
Sasha looked between the two men. "Whatever this place is, it's important to him—we need to change our plans."
Reiss straightened upon the Vice CNO's entrance into the adjacent war room conference. "You have an update?"
"Yes, Sir." Meylan produced a Manila folder and pushed it across the marble toward the Commander-in-Chief. "The ground teams have identified an enemy asset that was previously unknown, we're calling it Camp X. Admiral Chandler, along with Lima, will coordinate early reconnaissance with the goal of taking the compound."
Reiss silently flicked through the pages; brow furrowed as he scanned. "And the Rebels?"
"On board, Sir. They'll lead the charge to take Havana and Guantanamo while the James provides fire support from the bay."
Reiss seemed to mull it over before closing the report and leaning back in his chair. "Meanwhile, Admiral Chandler stays in enemy-occupied territory, and we just have to hope they don't notice?" The sarcasm was dripping.
Joseph stifled the long-suffering sigh. "It's not ideal, but he's right, Sir. Anything we fly can be seen by that ship and shot down."
"So, we use the James and send a RHIB."
Well, at least he'd been paying attention, Joseph mused, a little surprised to hear Reiss offer the logical extraction solution they'd all thought of. "All due respect, Sir—this is Admiral Chandler we're talking about. He's not leaving that team on the ground until they've taken Cuba."
It wasn't until later, when the afternoon sun cast its golden glow through the mass of trees and intertwined buildings, that Sasha found an opportunity to corner Tom alone. A low hum of conversation from the troops surrounded the compound, most of their team choosing to catch sleep in the open with their packs as pillows. She crossed the camp, passing Pablo and Barco, who were engaged in animated discussion while the rest of the Marines ate the meager chow provided.
Tom noticed her approach and complied with her silent request for him to follow, his boots echoing on the wooden steps as he descended the porch of the main house. They'd barely made it around the corner before she landed a quick jab to his right side. The pain, consistent enough to keep a cold sweat burning the entire day, flared sharply and he couldn't stop the way he hunched and reflexively clutched at the area.
"Jesus, Sasha!"
Her nostrils flared, and she jutted her head while she fixed him with a glare. "Cut the bullshit. What happened?"
"I took a piece of shrapnel on the way down." The accusatory look morphed into shock, and her mouth parted. "I already took it out and cauterized the wound. I'm fine."
Unsatisfied, and apparently not the least reassured, Sasha pulled the Velcro tab on Tom's vest and pushed it aside, brow furrowing hard when she saw the size of the tear in his uniform.
"Sasha—"
She slapped the hand on her wrist away, pulling the shirt and jacket up to reveal the damage while Tom hissed. The nerves were raw and screamed against the fabric's friction. With eyes wide, Sasha's mouth fell open again while she blinked in rapid succession.
"Are you insane?" His ribcage was marred by a bloodied mess of skin, the wound spanning at least six inches. She'd expected a puncture or something small, not a gash that by all rights should have him dead on a beach for taking it out. Her features twisted. "Tom, this is—what the hell were you thinking!?"
He pushed her hands away, wincing when he pulled his shirt down again while Sasha's exasperation rendered her breathless. "I told you, I'm fine—just a little sore."
"You could have died!" Her tone continuing to ask what the fuck had possessed him to ignore the most basic of survival instructions. 'Stabilize but never pull the foreign object out'.
"But I didn't. I'm still here, aren't I?" The response was terse rather than reassuring, and Sasha narrowed her eyes, refusing to back down.
"Yeah—by dumb reckless luck—and what about infection? You haven't even told the Doc, you have no idea if you got all of it. It could be tearing you to shreds and you're just gonna run around Cuba with an open wound until what?" His jaw was clenched, and he hollowed his cheeks, refusing to answer. "Are you trying to die?"
The slow dark look Sasha received spread cold down her spine. "Don't go there."
Undeterred, she continued. "Tom, you can't be here." Tone all but pleading with him to listen.
Instead, he looked away, biting down on the myriad of hypocrisies he felt Sasha was committing, but the ugly words were spreading, and he could feel his patience splintering.
"If Tavo's men get one look at you and radio out, he'll send his entire army to get you."
The vein in his forehead was bulging, and he bit out, "You don't think I know that?" The silence he received, resounding. "You don't think they'll do the same once they realize you're on the ground? Green can pass—but you? You think you just blend in? Come on, Sasha. You're smarter than that—you think I don't know you and Green made a no capture pact?"
She visibly inhaled, lashes fluttering while she struggled to maintain eye contact against the intense but quiet rage that was emanating from every pore.
"Maybe I'm the one who should be asking you that question," he seethed. It was quiet and damning and cut far too close to memories she'd rather forget.
Voice tight against the ball in her throat, she shook her head. "I'm trying to protect you."
"Right. Only your version always seems to end up with you asking someone to put a bullet in your head while I watch." It felt good for all of two seconds before he immensely regretted it. The sorrowful, glassy eyes enough to tell him he'd fucked up. He softened considerably in both body language and tone, clenching and unclenching his fist to rein himself in. "I didn't mean that."
"Yes—you did," she said quietly, chewing the inside of her cheek against the tremble of her lip. "I can't change what I did, Tom."
He audibly exhaled through his nose and drew her closer, placing a kiss on her forehead. "I know. I love you—I'm sorry."
Sasha closed her eyes and leaned into him, forehead still pressed against his lips, while he cupped the base of her skull. "Just—tell me you'll be okay."
He brought his other hand up, thumb caressing her cheekbone, and kissed her forehead again. "We're gonna be okay."
Sunday, April 14th, 2019—Centeno, 10 klicks south-east of Simón Bolívar, Cuba
Pablo crouched through the dense brush, moving with stealth until Danny signaled to wait. He froze, readying his weapon and waiting for the next communication, a hand gesture to approach from the team's flank. Slowly, Vulture team surrounded the small brick house, run-down and dilapidated like almost all the buildings on the outskirts of town. Its bricks were washed in light blue, the paint muted and sun-bleached over the years. Admiral Chandler gave the signal to encroach, and Pablo, along with Danny, made quick work of the door, the wood offering little resistance when they kicked it in.
From his peripheral, Pablo spotted a flash of movement, and before they knew it, a man appeared along with a shotgun directed toward them primed to shoot.
"Don't!" Pablo yelled, bringing the tip of his rifle to point directly at the assailant.
The man shifted and adjusted his grip, sweat dripping down his brow. "Por favor, apenas saia!"
"Lower your weapon!" Danny shouted, gesturing toward the ground with his own gun.
Drawn by the sounds, while Miller, Wolf, Azima, and the Marines secured the surrounding area, Tom and Sasha left their positions, splitting and approaching from the rear end of the building. They paused briefly upon reaching the door, weapons drawn and ready. After a small nod of confirmation, Tom rammed his left shoulder into it hard, the wood cracking under the force and bursting open. The interior was dim, afternoon sun filtering through cracks in the curtains providing meager illumination. Ahead and to his left, he spotted two figures hiding in a corner next to a bed, a woman cowering while attempting to shield what he assumed was her son, and his heart fell.
"Fique abaixado!" Sasha commanded sharply, stepping forward while Tom cleared the rest of the room.
The man in the foyer became desperate, the panic in his eyes enough warning to tell Danny and Pablo he was about to shoot. "Don't! We don't want to hurt you! Lower your weapon!"
"Nós não vamos te machucar, abaixe sua arma!" Pablo echoed.
"Clear," Tom said.
Sasha lowered her weapon, pushing the rifle to her back on its strap before approaching the woman and child with her hands outstretched. "Está tudo bem, não vamos te machucar. somos militares dos Estados Unidos—diga ao seu marido para abaixar a arma."
She stepped closer. "It's okay," she repeated in English.
"Mija!" The Cuban man called, spinning on his heel, and darting toward the rear of the house.
"Hold your fire!" Admiral Chandler shouted urgently at the team.
Both Danny and Pablo relaxed their fingers from the trigger well but didn't lower their weapons, keeping them locked on the man while they followed him into the back room of the house. Slowly, Tom lowered his own gun, raising both hands with palms forward in a non-threatening gesture.
"It's okay, we're not here to hurt you," Tom said.
"Está bien, no estamos aquí para lastimarte." Sasha echoed his words.
The man's eyes darted between the Admiral, and the woman approaching his wife and child, her hand outstretched toward them, attempting to coax them from the corner. His son cowered and called for mercy. "Por favor!" With a quick sudden movement, the man switched from aiming the shotgun at Chandler to Sasha.
"¡Detener!" he shouted.
"Hey!" Tom moved to stand directly in the path of his aim again, his hands still outstretched, tone urgent. "Just calm down. You want your family—we're gonna give them to you."
Behind him, Sasha reached the woman and child, gesturing for them to stand. "Come on, com, estás a salvo."
The man clenched his jaw, fingers adjusting again on the barrel while his chest heaved with elevated breaths and Sasha approached cautiously with his family.
"See, no one needs to get hurt." Tom flickered his gaze briefly toward Danny and Pablo. "My men are gonna lower their weapons, you'll lower yours, and then we'll talk."
Sasha was at his side now, her hands resting on the shoulders of the woman while she translated. Tom shifted until he was a fraction ahead and blocking her from the path of the shotgun again. Blue intensely focused on the Cuban man.
"Do you know who I am?"
The man tore his eyes away from his family, and back to the Admiral. Nodding once in affirmation. "Si."
"Then you know why I'm here—and you know my business is only with Gustavo's men. Not civilians."
The woman finally spoke, calling to her husband. "Haz lo que dicen." And after another moment of tense scrutiny, which seemed to stretch for endless seconds, the man finally lowered the gun. Tom nodded at Pablo and Danny, each following suit.
Sasha let the women go, watching with a twisting sensation in her gut as the family desperately embraced each other, and finding no matter how much she tried to block it out, focus on the mission, the parallels were impossible to ignore.
Danny thumbed his radio. "Vulture to Lima, building is secure."
"Please—" the man finally spoke up, in English this time with a thick accent. "You have to leave. If Gustavo's army finds you here they will kill us."
Tom's jaw muscle bulged, and he cast his gaze sideways toward Sasha, who gave a small and regretful shake of her head. She leaned closer, speaking under her breath. "We don't have a choice. The next closest building is blocked by high ground—they'll slaughter anyone we send from a mile away."
His exhale was audible, the pursing of his lips the only conversation needed to communicate how much he didn't want to do this. Straightening, Tom turned to face the man again. "I can't do that—I'm sorry—we need this building."
The man stared hard at the Admiral, the look in his eye haunting in a way that made Tom's skin crawl while he watched Danny secure the shotgun and usher them into the small kitchen area.
Minutes later, Lima entered, Captain Utt approaching the Admiral. "Sir, perimeter is secure, no un-friendlies detected. It appears they're all west of Camp X. That ridgeline should give us enough cover to make it up-field toward the gates."
Tom nodded at Utt. "Set the comms up over there—this is where we make our stand."
"Yes, Sir."
Around him, the team moved with finesse, removing furniture and pushing it aside to make way for equipment and maps. The dining table eliciting a harsh scraping sound against the tile floors when Miller and Wolf repositioned it toward the center of the room.
"Please, Sir—" Tom turned his head toward the man "—just let us go, we will not say anything to Gustavo's men—I give you my word." His eyes were desperate, expression earnest as his wife clung to his torso, and his son to them both. "Please, I beg you—we are no threat to you. If not me, then let my wife and son go—they will say nothing, Gustavo will have no business with them. I promise you."
The tendons in Tom's neck bulged as he fought to remain detached. Beside him, Sasha dropped her chin, steeling herself against the clench in her gut. Leaning closer, so they couldn't be overheard, she looked up at Tom. "We can't—you know we can't."
He dropped his chin and worked his jaw, staring down at the patterned floor.
"This area's crawling with troops. They'll be caught, and you know what they'll do to them," she whispered in an urgent tone. Briefly, she closed her eyes, her lips working into a thin line for several moments before she opened them again, features set in practiced indifference that made her seem cold. The family remained silent, exchanging fretted looks while they watched. After a few more seconds of quiet observation, Sasha brought her gaze back slowly to Tom's pained one. "They were dead the second they saw us—the only way we can help them now is to win."