an. I promise this story will not be abandoned, life is just a little hectic right now causing updates to be delayed :( Either way, special thanks to the guests who have commented and Luna. I always love hearing your thoughts and am glad you're still interested in this mammoth story. On with Cuba!

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Two days.

For two days, they'd been pinned by intense conflict, the camp's stronghold heavily fortified and impenetrable from the ground. At night, both sides engaged in a temporary ceasefire until dawn, the ordnance resuming with urgency anew at next light, and their troops were growing more exhausted by the hour.

"Anything?"

Pablo removed his helmet; his skin streaked with dirt, which accumulated in and accentuated the lines on his face. He scrubbed through his short hair, the ends spiking with sweat. "No. We can't get close enough to the towers, and we have no way to take out their land batteries."

"Shit," Sasha muttered.

"It's pure arithmetic," Tom spoke. "We've got three fights and only enough manpower for two." He hunched over a map spread over the dining table; lids narrowed while he fought to derive a winning tactic. Almost regretting that he wasn't in Haiti convincing the Jamaican Prime Minister to send men and guns. Almost.

Sasha watched, expression grim, as Danny and Barco carried another injured soldier in, depositing him on a cot, feeling guilty for her relief that it wasn't someone they knew. "There has to be another way." She turned back to the table, catching Tom's remonstrate focus. "We can't keep sending our guys out there. They're getting smoked."

After grabbing some water, Danny too removed his helmet, hooking it to his rifle strap as he came to join the table.

Noting his obvious fatigue, Sasha felt another pang of guilt that she was barred from the frontlines. It killed her to admit, but Tom had been right—she couldn't fly under the radar, and the fighting was already too intense. If the enemy radioed in more troops, it would mark the end for them all where Camp X was concerned.

Leaning closer to Sasha, Danny spoke under his breath. "I checked the whole perimeter again; place is a fortress. I think the heavy artillery is being kept behind that ridgeline. I spoke to the guys. We're good to try and approach—"

With a sharp shake of her head, Sasha cut him off. "No."

Her tone caught Tom's attention, and he drew his head up, watching the exchange with interest.

"It's suicide," Sasha pressed, brows raised in a way that let Danny know she wasn't fucking around. "They have the high-ground. They'll pick you off one by one."

It wasn't as though Danny expected differently or disagreed, but he was tired of watching their men get blown to shit. Tired of losing, and he was angry. Angry in a way that made him reckless and restless, and vengeful. His features, which were already strained, tightened further.

"Not if we create a distraction and come from behind."

"A distraction." Sasha was less than convinced, and she wasn't hiding it. "Using what?" Danny hesitated for a second, and that was all the confirmation she needed. "You mean you. You think you can draw their fire and buy enough time to make it."

The cynical nature of her tone made Danny grit his teeth and look away. "Well, we're gonna lose either way if I don't."

"We pull the James," Tom interjected, apparently having heard enough. Sasha frowned, but he interrupted the objection before she spoke. "Marine's will just have to handle Gitmo—we know whatever's behind that wall is important. My guess is they're hiding assets they can't lose."

Toone looked over his shoulder with the radio headset clutched to his right ear. "Rebels are reporting Salazar just left the palace and is headed here."

Tom's conviction grew. "It's their last stand. If Camp X falls, Gustavo's Cuba goes with it."

Moving her attention from Tom to Danny, Sasha addressed him. "We wait until the James is here. Once we have fire support, we can revisit."

The Admiral moved toward a different handset and relayed the order to Captain Green while Pablo added input to the makeshift map strewn across the table. It was penned with children's crayons, Danny noted. He couldn't stop his mind from conjuring an image of Frankie.

"Two of the guys could have sworn they took artillery from here—" Pablo pointed his finger.

"That doesn't make any sense." Sasha was shaking her head. "How are they re-supplying without crossing the field? We should be able to see them—"

"Los túneles."

Sasha and Pablo both snapped their heads up, looking toward the rustic kitchen, and a stilted silence fell over the room.

His brow furrowed, Tom left the coms table and moved closer to Sasha, voice low when he clarified. "Did he just say they have tunnels?"

"Yes," Sasha answered under her breath.

Tom focused his attention on the young boy, Guillermo, who was peering toward them with wide, innocent eyes. They hadn't been introduced; rather, Tom had picked up on his name during their occupation. The father, whose name Tom was yet to learn, reprimanded his son before turning to the Admiral.

"Please, he doesn't know what he's saying. He's just a boy."

"Cálmate, Eugenio," his wife gestured with her hand. "Déjalo hablar."

"Let him talk," Sasha whispered when Tom shot her a glance. The one she'd long since established meant he needed translation.

Reluctant as Tom was to involve the family any further in their mess, it was too good to pass up. Softening his stance, he moved closer, leaning his shoulder against their fridge. "Guillermo, you want the fighting to stop?"

Sasha echoed his words in Spanish. "If we don't win today, you're gonna lose your country, Guillermo—if you know something that can help…"

The boy looked between the Admiral and his father, expression earnest and the seconds dragged while Eugenio decided. Finally, he offered a small nod toward his son, granting permission.

Guillermo strode toward the dining table, Danny and Pablo both parting to make way while watching the boy's movements with keen interest. He pointed beyond the scope of their rudimentary rendition. "En la iglesia abandonada hay un pozo. He visto cómo se llevan cosas a los túneles que hay detrás."

Danny shifted, impatient, and Pablo, reading the frustration over his lack of understanding, translated. "There's a tunnel behind the abandoned church. He says we can get in through the Well."

Guillermo's mother was quick to usher her son back into the kitchen, appearing wary of the soft smile Sasha offered in silent thanks.

Sasha watched them go, feeling hope that they could prevail and perhaps spare the family becoming collateral damage for the first time in days. That she and Tom might make it to that fireworks show up in Forest Park that Sam so desperately wanted them to attend.

Tom looked toward Pablo and Green. "Go check it out, eyes and ears only. We don't move until that ship is in range to give back up."

Danny knocked his fist against the table. "Miller, Barco, you're up! Let's go!"

Pablo was already re-fastening his helmet and checking his weapon over once more.

Turning back toward the family, Tom offered the boy a small smile. "Gracias, Guillermo."

Sasha observed as Guillermo smiled back, the only one she'd witnessed on any of their faces in days. She averted her gaze. The innocence and admiration only a child could muster cut too close. Instead, she pondered the map, waiting patiently until Tom was beside her again. The sudden burst of activity from Green, Pablo, Barco and Miller ended when they exited the house and was replaced with a relative quiet. A limbo punctuated by the sounds of spattered gunfire and occasional heavy ordinance in the distance.

"How long until she gets here?" She heard Tom breathe before he answered.

"Ten hours at flank."

"And there's still no sign of the other ship?"

"None."

She looked up from the map, eyes softening as she studied him. "How are you feeling?"

Tom bristled, just like every other time she'd brought up his injury. "Fine." It was a deflection. Tom knew that, though, he had to admit the way Sasha could make him feel with a single woeful expression made it hard to stay firm. The same look she was giving him now.

With a half sigh, he caved. "You'll be the first to know if I'm not." She didn't look convinced, and she also didn't respond. "I promise," Tom added.

The depth of her un-yielding stare eased but lingered, both oblivious to the wondering gaze of their onlookers. They were speaking in muted tones, low enough not to be overheard thanks to the drone of battle, but the exchange had still drawn the attention of Eugenio, regardless.

Tom's back was to the Cuban man, but Sasha caught, or rather felt, the sensation of being watched and shifted her focus. The man averted his gaze, and Sasha amended her posture. A move which made Tom aware, and he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Eugenio busy himself with cleaning dishes.

Brow furrowed, Tom turned back, intent to ask what triggered her unease, but a desperate yell of, "Incoming!" from outside killed that thought. In the split second it took for Tom to register the unmistakable whistle of a mortar tearing through air, he grabbed Sasha and dove beneath the table.

Danny stopped in his tracks, alerted by the yell, knowing before seeing what he'd find when he turned. The house was destroyed. One half of its facade blown clean in two and collapsing while what remained stood precariously close to crumbling.

"Son of a bitch," Miller muttered before sprinting back in search of survivors.

The action spurred Danny into motion, and he too sprinted the four-hundred or so yards they'd covered since leaving. His heart hammered against his ribs when he neared. Everything was upended, thick metallic tangy dust swirling and catching in his lungs when he kicked through the singular remaining door. Same one he'd walked through not five minutes prior.

"Coop!?"

He almost stumbled over rubble, wild eyes darting as he tried to discern bodies from material and plot where the table had been through the chaos. Instead, he found the Cuban man near his feet, crawling over debris to reach his wife and son's corpses. Danny had to swallow. Hard.

"Admiral Chandler!?"

Something shifted, something covered in dust and buried by splintered wood and chunks of ceiling. Danny pushed his rifle to his back, secured by the strap, and pointed to the center of the room. "There."

Miller was further in and reached the pile first. The effort it took to clear some of the ruins audibly apparent. Once Danny had reached the rubble, he helped while the rest of the team arrived. In his peripheral, he saw the Doc emerge, clutching bloodied ears. Toone too.

With some of the weight lifted from his back, Admiral Chandler shifted, his movements stiff. Danny reached for the lapel of his vest and assisted, some of the panic easing when he realized Chandler had physically shielded Sasha from the impact.

"You good, Sir?" Miller asked, grabbing Admiral Chandler's shoulder.

The Admiral straightened, sitting up on his knees, and grimaced but waived them both off. Chandler's attention was solely focused on checking Sasha for injuries. Aside from appearing winded, she seemed okay to Danny, so he left them both to search for Captain Utt, trying to drown out the gut-wrenching sounds coming from the corner of the room.

Sasha coughed. The dust which had settled in her lungs burned, and only then did she register the extent of tinnitus. The equilibrium imbalance at once rendered her nauseous. She brought hands to her ears, checking for blood, only to remember they were still gloved.

"You okay?"

It was muffled, like Tom had spoken underwater, and when his hands replaced hers on either side of her temples, she realized she hadn't answered. Her synapses were several seconds delayed.

He stood and hauled Sasha up using her vest, maintaining a firm grip on her arm when she swayed. Still hazy himself, Tom did a quick sweep of what remained, something dark morphing his features when he landed on Eugenio.

The immediate effects eased, and Sasha straightened, pursuing the damage for herself. In the corner, Danny was helping the Doc un-bury the body of the soldier he'd been trying to save. Dead. Miller, helping Barco recover what little remained of their communications station. Pablo sweeping the rubble for weapons and ammo, stacking them against one of the few remaining walls.

Tom—

Her breath hitched. The mental fog was lifting, tinnitus subdued enough to register the sobs. Her eyes felt hot when she turned to look and, unlike Tom, she couldn't watch. The small patch of patterned tile still visible beneath her feet blurred while she sought to block it out. Registering the garbled calls over radio for them to respond. Sniffing, Sasha moved, Tom's hand falling away as she searched for her rifle. For what felt like hours, yet was a matter of minutes, she kicked away pulverized furniture, spotting their map—tattered and ripped—picked it up and folded it, tucking it beneath her vest.

"Don't!"

Sasha spun around fast upon hearing Danny yell. Eugenio was holding a sidearm. Where he'd retrieved it, she could only guess, and in his distress, he was unhinged. She watched, mouth parted without formulating words. The barrel was pointed at her. Pablo was shouting now too, in Spanish. And Tom had rejoined the living, placing himself in her path, and while this unfolded in seconds, to Sasha, it felt like hours.

Like watching a playback while Eugenio considered his threadbare options, rapid in switching from pointing the gun at Tom, Danny, and then Pablo, before looking at the corpses of his family and turning it on himself.

"No!" All three men surged at once, but it was futile.

The gunshot was loud, but the sound of Eugenio's body hitting the floor seemed worse.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

The seconds passed to the sound of collective elevated breaths and stilted shock.

"Cub—a—co—mmand—com—in."

Sasha blinked several times and thumbed the radio upon her vest. "This is Cuban Command; we've been wiped out. I say again, Cuban Command is FUBAR." Her response broke the punching silence, and around her, the team moved.

All but Tom, who was still staring at the bodies before him.

"Grab every piece of hardware you can find—head to the tunnels, we'll have to hold our position there," Sasha said.

Miller moved first, throwing one of the rifles resting against the wall to Toone, who caught it with one hand. The next one to the Doc, whose shellshocked expression would fit if they had time to dwell. Utt was next, a sizable gash pouring blood from his head.

Discretely, Sasha placed herself in Tom's line of sight. "Tom."

He flinched when her hand contacted his forearm. "We need to move."

Satisfied enough by his returning focus, she let go, moving with swift, decisive actions to grab both of their helmets. She threw Tom's over before securing her own and ripped the name badge from her vest, stuffing it into a pant pocket. Moments later, she heard him do the same. After verifying a round was live in the chamber of their weapons, they made eye contact. Pausing only for a few seconds before leaving the ruins of their makeshift command in unison.

The bright daylight made Sasha squint. The dust had already irritated, along with fatigue, and the light only added to her raging headache. The team jogged toward the skirting tree line, intent to remain as inconspicuous as possible while they pushed toward the abandoned church. It was insanity, she thought. Any time now, their luck would run out. Here in the open with a thousand enemy troops? The idea of praying crossed her mind again, but she was too jaded to think it would make a difference. The church was close. Closer than anticipated. And their luck prevailed. Its walls were white though marred with bullet holes and its arches curved in adobe style, its structure humble rather than ornate.

"Miller, Rambo, Barco—on me," Danny commanded. They split from the group in silence, leaving their cover to approach and clear the building.

From their position in the tree line, the rest of the team, consisting of Toone, Captain Utt, the Doc, Admiral Chandler, and Sasha, set a wider perimeter. It didn't take long for Danny to locate the Well in the central courtyard. Using a hand signal, he gestured for Pablo to crack the cover and quickly scanned its depth with his weapon. The sun was high enough in the sky, approaching noon, to cast light down what appeared to be a ten to fifteen-foot drop.

Danny thumbed the button on his vest. "Clear."

"Move out," Tom commanded, leading the rest of their team toward the church.

Pablo moved his rifle and hopped over the side, taking a moment to peer down and consider how best to fall without breaking a leg. "Wish me luck," he quipped before leaping into the pit.

"You next," Danny said, gesturing with his head to Barco.

The Marine who towered over all of them scaled the side of the Well with ease just as Admiral Chandler rounded the courtyard's archway.

"It's about a ten-to-fifteen-foot drop," Danny said.

Tom acknowledged with a nod, ignoring the subtle but noticeable double take from the Lieutenant when he braced himself using his left arm, not his right, to swing a leg over the edge. Tried hard not to grimace, but the impact made the raw flesh rub harsh against his gear. The noise that escaped was involuntary.

Pablo frowned. "You okay, Sir?"

"Fine." Tom's voice was strained, and he eventually straightened after remaining hunched for several seconds just as Sasha landed. He could feel the tension emanating from her in waves, see the anxiety in the way she gripped her rifle and how she breathed.

Once everyone was down, they moved in tandem to clear, secure, and map the stretch of tunnel. It was well made, with enough head clearance and width to transport heavy mortar en mass. Along its walls hung a series of string lights anchored by small, rusted iron hooks.

"I don't think they constructed this," Sasha whispered.

Tom pivoted his scope, observing the compacted nature of the dirt pounded down over what appeared to be years of use rather than weeks. The precision with which it had been made, the lack of loose dust, and he ultimately concluded she was right. After traversing a quarter of a mile subterraneously, they reached a steel ladder, its patina oxidized and flaking.

"Looks like that kid knew what he was talking about," Pablo said while he relaxed his rifle.

The muscle in Tom's jaw bulged.

Drawing a sidearm instead, Pablo ascended the stairs, lifting the wooden hole cover just enough to glimpse the terrain beyond. Below him in the tunnel, the team waited with bated breath, Sasha exchanging a silent look with Danny while he kept his weapon primed toward the tunnel's exit, ready to provide fire support if needed.

After a minute that stretched, Pablo eased the cover down and tucked his sidearm back in its holster. His adrenaline was palpable when he hopped down to relay his findings. "We're on the other freakin' side."

Luck.

More of that confounding, dumb, luck.

Sasha caught Tom's eye, communicating her disbelief facially at their drastic turn of fortune. He remained stoic but rested his right wrist over the butt of his rifle, where it hung from his neck. He inclined his chin toward Captain Utt to gain his attention.

"Take your marines and keep the entrance secured. We'll cover this end and relay intel until the James is in range."

Utt nodded. "Marines on me."

Responsive and well-honed, they fell back, re-tracing the team's steps.

Tom addressed Pablo next. "What are we looking at?"

"Takes us right up into a container on the east wall. Should be able to get a decent look without being seen."

Tom took a moment to digest while holding eye contact with Pablo. "Alright—Cooper, Green—" Tom shifted his gaze to them both "—you're with me. Miller, Rambo hold the tunnel. I don't want any nasty surprises."

"Yes, Sir," Miller said.

Once topside, they inched closer to the action, bodies pressed against the corrugated container wall. From their vantage point, they could see several buildings. Different containers. Fortified gates which appeared to be welded shut from the inside.

"They're burning intel," Sasha muttered.

Tom shifted his focus to the other side, observing a dozen or so soldiers carrying cardboard boxes full of documents to oil drums lit with fuel. His eyes ticked back, watching the way Sasha's lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

"Can't do anything about that right now."

No shit. The glance she shot him was annoyed, and she didn't say it, but he heard the smartass remark, regardless.

Sasha returned her focus to the interior camp, counting three gunners in lookout towers before elevated voices drew her attention. Squinting, she zeroed in on one of the pop-up buildings. A man in a light gray suit emerged, pointing in an agitated manner to one of the soldiers. He tried to take the box from the soldier's hands but was met with resistance. A different guard pushing roughly at the man's shoulder to subdue him. The action pivoted their bodies, giving Sasha an unobstructed view of his face.

"Oh my god—" she turned wide-eyed to Tom, who had snapped his head around "—it's Montano."