an. Dear Guest and Luna—thank you guys so much! Your reviews really made me smile they're very appreciated. Luna, I have to agree that protective Tom is a trope I am shamelessly going to support because come onnnnn this is what fanfic is for.
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The swinging pendulum of events had a head-spinning effect upon them all.
"No fuckin' way," Danny said, moving to get a better look. Admiral Chandler did the same, both men crowding the only position which offered a line of sight. Oh, it was Montano alright, and Tom's original theory about a high-value asset rang true.
"What the hell is this place?" Sasha breathed.
"Fall back," Tom commanded, intent on continuing this discussion beneath the dirt. They returned to the manhole, Sasha descending first, followed by Green, while Admiral Chandler brought up the rear. Sasha didn't miss the way Danny's attention lingered on Tom when he climbed down, only to avert like he hadn't been watching when the Admiral turned.
"He doesn't seem all too happy to be here, does he," Tom said.
"You think this is some kind of prison? Why not use Gitmo?" Sasha fired back.
Tom made a gesture with his head that was close to a shrug. "It's closer to the Palace and Salazar for one."
"I counted twelve guards on the wall—twenty feet apart—not including the ones in the lookout towers," Danny added, and already Sasha felt this spiraling.
'You can't be serious—"
Tom cut her off, a spark of intense fixation running rampant in his eyes. "For all we know, they could be bringing Salazar here and then moving them both—"
"Tom—there is no reasonable way we can breach without being caught—"
"We don't breach, we send someone in—undercover," Danny said.
Struggling for a better tack to convince them that this was absurd, Sasha shifted on her feet and pushed her rifle to her back, leveling them both. "You seriously think we can snatch Montano from inside? We don't even know what's on the west of that compound, how many men they have in those buildings… when they use these tunnels?" She peered between them, glad that both Pablo and Miller were out of earshot.
While the points were valid—frankly—Tom had already committed and, judging by the way Danny toed some dirt with his boot, he agreed with Chandler. After an extended moment to process, Tom made a decision. "I want eyes. Find their pattern—find a way to get our guy inside."
"Yes, Sir." Danny wasted no time in taking the first watch, ascending the ladder two rungs at a time, and returning topside.
Left standing alone in the dimly lit tunnel, Sasha's gaze was unyielding. Stern while she battled internally between the boundaries of knowing which risks she'd be willing to take if he were in Haiti right now, and also knowing any argument would ultimately end with him outranking her. Like it always did.
"We're only gonna get one shot at him."
The muscle at the base of Sasha's jaw bulged. "You think I don't know that?"
Tom only narrowed his eyes in response to hearing his trademark phrase thrown back at him, waiting to see if she'd push the envelope.
"Look me in the eye and tell me you'll walk away—" undeterred when his head jerked back, and his features morphed into something close to a scoff "—if this goes south. If we can't get to him without putting this whole thing at risk—tell me you'll walk away."
While the words themselves were straightforward, it felt like a trap. The steady flush of color heating Sasha's cheeks and ears further still. "What exactly are you saying, Sasha?"
"I'm saying when you fixate on something; You. Won't. Listen—to anyone—even when they're right."
"You really wanna do this now?"
"Goddamn it Tom!"
"Nathan James, Cuba Command—come in."
Sasha let out a harsh breath that was between a laugh and a scoff though devoid of amusement, placing hands on hips and scrunching her eyes closed over the interruption.
Tom glared at her, hitting the button on his vest to respond. "Go for Cuba Command."
"It's not one ship—it's two, and they're US Naval destroyers."
That information cooled like an ice bucket to the head. Sasha's expression flatlined, lips parting in shock, and before Tom could respond, Mike's voice chimed in.
"I'm sorry—did you just say they have two of our destroyers in their fleet?"
"You heard right—our bird spotted them heading North, North-West toward Havana. So far, we're out of radar range, but if either of those ships alters course—we've got a problem," Captain Green said.
With his chin tucked low, Tom scrambled rapid-fire to figure out their options. Two against one were tough odds on any given day, two ships on one with equal capabilities? Tougher still. Two on one with an enemy that still had satellite systems? Not a fight they could win.
"Stay the hell away from their radar, Captain—only approach the bay if you can. Partner with the Mexican fleet, have them set up a patrol. I'd rather they sink a Frigate than the only Burke we got left."
"I concur, Sir—Nathan James copies all—out."
Sasha raised one eyebrow. "And there goes our backup." Along with any reasonable chance to force Tom out of Cuba and onto the James like she'd planned.
"How the hell d'they get two of our ships—which ones were left unaccounted for?" The questions were rapid-fire, Tom choosing to gloss over that minor problem. Unlike Sasha, he did not possess an ability to recall detailed manifests on the fly. At times he wondered if she was lying about not having a photographic memory, though he knew as of their last official audit, approximately fifteen of their sixty-two formerly active destroyers were still MIA. No knowledge of what became of their crews, no sightings, and no paper trail with which to create logical conclusions regarding their fates.
"Sixteen, three of which were homeported in Mayport—Sullivans, Cook and Farragut—Sullivans disappeared somewhere in the Middle East, Cook was due to make port in Rota but never got there, and Farragut was dry dock when the outbreak hit—"
"—and gone by the time we came back with the cure," Tom finished, his face twisting into frustration. Damnit, because now that she'd jogged his memory, he recalled that the USS Farragut had just been fitted with an advanced weapons system for testing three months prior to the pandemic.
Tom thumbed the button on his vest again. "Central Command, pull everything you have on Farragut's weapons system and get it to Captain Green."
"Alright—here's the plan—" Tom scuffed the dirt with his boot, clearing the footprints to create a canvas and crouched, wincing when he extended his right hand to draw a rudimentary map. Sasha held her tongue and crouched next to him "—we figure out what they're doing topside, once we find an in, we pull everyone to Camp X. That'll draw their attention and they'll re-route both ships to the harbor—" Tom shifted and drew two 'X' marks in the area she now recognized as the sea. "—we use the Mexican fleet to force their hand, it'll give us their ship's location and we pin them while the James stays just outside of radar range. Once we have them in a firing hall, she'll have one clean shot to take em' both before they get a lock on her position." He finished drawing, turning his head to make eye contact. "All they need is one shot. Green will sink em'."
He certainly sounded like the Tom she knew. The Tom who defied all the odds time and time again. Moreover, Sasha wanted to believe, but there was that damn feeling in her gut—the one she'd learned never to ignore. "And what about the tunnels, Tom? What the hell are we gonna do when they come down here?"
He inhaled, something softening in his features before speaking quietly. "We hold them, or we die trying—right?"
Sasha hadn't expected to hear words from twenty years ago. A situation very similar where they'd been pinned in Kosovo with very few options and no hope for extraction, and she'd been confronted with the reality that Tom was willing to die for her—and jeopardize the lives of his team to do it—and now the air felt thick. It was hard to breathe, and she couldn't really think of anything else. Just that she wanted to make it home with him. Wanted her envisioned future, their future, the one she hadn't told him about yet with the kids and a sailboat and their freedom.
The radio chimed, ripping Sasha into the present again—Danny providing real-time observations from above. Sasha blinked away the sheen in her gaze and pulled the paper map from her vest. Scooting to lay it out next to Tom's hand-drawn one, and retrieved Guillermo's crayon from her pant pocket, adding detail to the inner wall based on Danny's instructions. Tom lightly squeezed the back of her neck before standing again. Waiting for the channel to clear so he could relay the plan to Command and Captain Green.
Her vest caught against the dirt wall when she stood, sending a powdered sprinkling of sand-like grains down her pants. Same dirt that was clogging their lungs and coating most everything they touched. Sasha read her watch. Nine hours had passed. Nine very long hours where their teams held the line around Camp X's perimeter but avoided drawing attention to the abandoned church. Keeping watch from afar to warn in case Tavo's troops descended. The play was set, chess pieces moving into place across Cuba and its surrounding waters. Along the wall, Toone had once again concocted a makeshift communications station. The Doc had gone topside to the front lines, swapping out with Wolf and Azima to aid their casualties—or rather pronounce them dead. Not much in the way of medical support aside from a couple of trucks ferrying the maimed back to Fuentes' base camp.
Danny climbed down the ladder, his third watch rotation complete, and Miller ascended, switching him out. Sasha jerked her head indicating him to follow, moving far enough as not to be overheard but still within line of sight. Their shadows were low and stretched by the subdued vintage string lights.
"It's slowing down up there—there's a guard that patrols every twenty minutes and gets within arm's length of the bars. We can take him without making a sound."
She knew that already, the intel on her map now extraordinarily detailed, right down to the number of times Tavo's gunner took a leak over the side of his tower. Enough to know they'd carted fifty-seven boxes of intel into burning drums since they'd arrived. Enough to know Salazar was inside, along with Montano, and any hope they had of figuring out their enemy's next moves lay solely within those men's brains. Enough to conclude whom they needed to send.
"It has to be Rambo," Sasha said, the words soft.
Danny narrowed his eyes, resting his hand on the butt of his rifle. "Why not Barco? He's half Cuban—speaks Spanish."
He seemed to stiffen when she made eye contact with him. "He's six foot seven." He looked away, the twitch of his nose a sign that deep down Danny knew this already, but perhaps didn't want to face it—at least that's what Sasha guessed. Following his gaze, she looked to where Pablo, Utt, and Tom sat against walls, catching rest in their allotted break period. The same wall Sasha had been leaning against moments before.
Danny cleared his throat and returned eye contact again, all traces of confliction gone. "You know something's up with the Admiral, right?"
Sasha's mouth tightened. "He took a piece of shrapnel on the way down."
This time, Danny couldn't stop his head snapping over, a frown creasing his forehead, and of course, Chandler chose that moment—or rather sensed eyes on him—to open his, lifting his head away from the wall and scanning until landing upon them both. Sasha had a definition for that look—brooding. Awkwardly, Danny shifted on his feet, acknowledging his CO with a stiff nod, while Sasha folded her arms and pivoted. Trying to do something that would look like she hadn't just been caught. Still, the heat from Tom's gaze was undeniable, creeping up her skin like he was there at her back.
Vision affixed upon the dirt beneath her boots, Sasha spoke. "He knows—about the pact we made."
Danny's hands shifted away from the rifle, hanging at his sides instead. "You told him?" Unable to keep the acquisition out of his tone.
Sasha lifted her chin, her frown communicating her offense that his immediate conclusion was that she'd betrayed another 'stays between us' agreement. While she understood why, Panama was an outlier, and there'd been dozens of opportunities since where she'd proven worthy of his confidence. "No." Danny amended his stance. "He figured it out for himself—I have no idea how."
Later, Danny would find time to revel in Sasha—smart as she was—being bested at her own game, but for now, he tried to prepare himself for the part where Chandler handed him his ass. Also helped explain why the Admiral had been watching like a hawk waiting to descend all afternoon. "Well, shit."
Sasha bounced her brows up in response. "Yeah." Also didn't solve the conundrum of why the hell Tavo's men hadn't tried to use these tunnels yet. In all, she was beginning to feel paranoid. Or perhaps that ship had sailed long ago. Sparing Tom another glance from the corner of her eye, Sasha unfolded her arms. "You should get some rest. I'm going up with Miller."
Pablo finished buttoning the BDU jacket bearing a Cuban military insignia and adjusted the cap on his head, pulling it lower so it obscured most of his features. Bound, gagged, and unconscious, the guard Wolf had leveled by way of a chokehold lay by their feet, stripped down to white skivvies.
"Alright—stick to the plan—" Pablo took the enemy rifle Danny was extending and threw the strap over his head. "—run his patrol, and only approach Montano when we give you the signal."
Pablo grinned, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it—I've got this—but if you're gonna act like my wife, I'll take a beer when we get home."
Danny shoved the arm away, ignoring the chuckles from Lima and Cobra teams. "Whatever, asshole."
"Yo también te amo," Pablo responded.
Sasha smiled, stuck between either being amused that Danny's Spanish was so bad he probably didn't even know that simple translation, or that Pablo was owning their bromance.
Azima's voice came over radio. "Showtime."
In an instant, the break in tone settled under the weight of what they were about to attempt and they sobered. Pablo adjusting the hem of the jacket one more time, before sparing a brief look at all of them, gaze ending on Chandler who stood closest to the ladder.
"Good luck," Tom said.
Pablo bobbed his head and took a breath and ascended the fifteen or so feet two rungs at a time, the team below watching him go. Sasha glimpsed black inky night for a moment when the cover opened, before Pablo's boots disappeared. Now there was nothing to do but wait—again. That was the thing about war, misconstrued as it was. No one talked about the hours. Hours and hours and hours of mind-numbing routine spent waiting for moments of pure terror and chaos. The daily mental war against contemplating what you were doing, or where you'd gone wrong, or who would die next in favor of performing the same tasks with complete perfection because everyone's lives depended on it. That became hardest in the stillness. When the bullets weren't flying anymore—except through your brain.
She checked her watch again, which was needless because they'd planned to insert Pablo at zero hundred hours on the dot, but it was something to do, and while she was beyond tired, sleep wouldn't come. In three hours, they'd begin the assault, Captain Aguilar having confirmed Tavo's patrolling Destroyers took the bait, positioning themselves to defend the bay flanked by Cayo Fragoso and Cayo Santa María. The Nathan James, tactically masking behind a neighboring island chain at EMCON. Hell, even Command had fallen mostly silent, though Sasha knew Swain was there waiting, manning the skeleton shift—and damn near every shift, perhaps catching four to five hours of sleep interspersed throughout the day—listening and waiting along with them. Come to think of it, the only voice she hadn't heard for a while was Mike's. Time in these tunnels was impossible without sunlight, external stimuli, or a breeze to caress her skin. All she had was the watch, which told her it was now two minutes into Thursday. Thursday, April 18th. In eight days, it would be twenty-two years since they'd first kissed.
The team was dispersed again, snaking against the walls aside from those whose turn it was to post watch at the Well entrance. Barco and Utt this time. With nothing but time to kill, Sasha settled in next to Tom—on his left side, rather than right—propping her rifle against the dirt first before slowly sinking down, boots scraping and leaving tracks when she extended her legs at a ninety-degree angle. After what felt like an hour spent zoned out, Tom lightly shifting his weight into her shoulder roused her. Sasha opened her eyes and lifted her head away from the wall. They stung a little, dry, and irritated thanks to fatigue. Unsurprised to find Tom wasn't even attempting to sleep. No idea how he was still functioning after this many months of deprivation, but then she recalled running on three to four interrupted hours for close to three years before she fully lost her shit.
"What are you thinking about?" The murmur of his baritone voice was kept low as not to be overheard. By whom, Sasha wasn't sure, because she could hear Danny snoring from here and everyone else was out too.
Her smile this time was easy. "Peabody's."
A slow, lopsided grin transformed his face in a way that still made her breath catch. "What the hell was that song again?"
Her smile grew wider, dimpling her cheeks. "Insomnia."
His head tipped back, with a full smile now, eyes charming as much as soft while he looked at her.
She was trying, but the longer she sat in the dirt on the back of believing him dead, the more Sasha identified her every priority had changed. Enough that striving to embody stoicism as if it were some kind of badge or mechanism of protection no longer appealed to her. Not with him. "I love you, Tom. I need you to know that."
His expression settled, morphing into something more serious, and used his left hand to brush her cheek with his knuckles. "I know."
Sasha caught the hand lacing her fingers through his, her gloves removed hours ago to let the skin breathe hooked to her gun. Tom squeezed and let her bring his hand to her lap, scooting closer so she could rest her head against his shoulder. Her eyes drifted closed, and she savored the feeling when he pressed a kiss against her temple.