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Crossroads

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Carlton Burk approached Danny in the p-way, the Special Operations Lieutenant's arms were folded, and one foot rested on the wall along with his weight. Carlton looked around before he leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial. "Anything yet?"

Danny shook his head. "No—Captain just went in."

"You really think he was with them?"

Danny's brows rose, and he tipped his head left, communicating his reservations. "Based on how he was acting? Yeah, I do."

Carlton peered toward the door, only able to hear the hints of baritone speech from the other side. Not enough to make out what was being said.

"What about the woman—" Danny paused while retrieving the name from his memory. "Sasha? You think she knows what's going on?"

Returning his gaze to meet Danny's, Carlton spoke, "We just ran into her at the hotel. Looked like she was there trying to figure it out like us… But I'm pretty sure her and the Cap'n go back."

"Like from a different ship?"

"Maybe?" Carlton shook his head. "She's got ground skills though—could be joint ops?"

Danny's brow knotted in the center of his forehead while he pondered it. Either way, deciding it wouldn't be a bad thing to have an extra pair of hands. Though he'd never complain, they were more than stretched thin.

Spinning up on every mission was taking its toll.

In the adjacent room Sasha listened using Tom's vacated headset, one arm folded across her chest and the other perched ninety degrees at the elbow, fingers absently worrying at her mouth. Mike observed. His interest split between the Captain's exchange and monitoring her reactions. Understood why Tom would take her at face value, but after seeing the depth of Ramsey's recruitment video, he was under no such illusion.

Michener pushed himself forward in the chair.

"The national interest is saving what's left of this country."

Tom picked up his mug slowly, listening while the President vehemently defended his stance.

"Sean Ramsey and our movement give the country the best chance at that.'

H e drew the mug to his lips, letting it hover there before responding with his own challenge. "Convince me.'"

And there he was.

Sasha couldn't prevent the soft smirk, a fondness blooming for that prevalent stubborn streak of old. The one that issued quiet demands to whomever he saw fit and helped Tom get his way—most of the time. In a way, it was comforting, as much as familiar. She tuned back in.

"We were in one of the safe zones I created. Doak Stadium, where the Seminoles used to play?"

Tom gave a small nod. "Sure"

"Well, you look around and you see twenty-thousand people dead and only a handful alive, you start to get the feeling that maybe you're special—except not in any way you'd want to be—not when your children are bleeding out of their eyeballs."

Chin now lowered, Sasha drew the hand away from her mouth and clutched her elbow. That body language screamed 'uncomfortable', and Slattery scrutinized. After a few moments she recovered, raising her chin once more and continued watching the monitor. Colder though, Mike noted, something icy set in her features which made the angular lines of her jaw more harsh and pronounced.

"How many of you are even left on this planet? How spread out are you? We have to protect ourselves—the people strong enough to survive. That's Darwin. That's the law of the jungle. That's Biblical!"

Mike rolled his eyes at Lieutenant Granderson, already tired of hearing this shit. All they needed was intel on the sub, not a philosophical debate about the merits of mankind.

"I saw the virus mutate, five, maybe six times—"

"That was in August, it's stable now.'

"Says who?"

"Says our scientist.'"

"Dr. Scott?'" Michener scoffed. "Most people think she's a quack."

"She is not a quack."

Sasha squinted almost imperceptibly over that.

"This is going off the rails," Mike muttered, pushing away from the chair upon which he'd leaned to step closer to the Master Chief.

"I don't know, sir," Jeter cautioned.

Sasha glanced over her shoulder but said nothing, choosing to trust that Tom had a plan.

"And if I were to let you go back to Ramsey's, what would your game plan be then?'" Tom asked, pointing vaguely toward the bearing of Ramsey's sub.

"You already heard; we're going to New Orleans."

Mike rounded the chair again, pushing it aside. Finally they were getting somewhere.

"Well then, maybe you can tell me why our Sonar operators are picking up Ramsey's sub heading west—to New Orleans, as we speak—'"

"That's not—'"

"When Sean knows we're hiding behind this island—"

"That's impossible!"

"Great Bluff," Mike muttered, every bit of his body alive with the hunt.

"I'm sure even prisoners on this ship have a right to their own quarters."

"You're not a prisoner."

Michener turned, extending his hands in a mock display. "Well, then I can go now?"

After a moment of stalemate, Tom dropped eye contact. He'd concede this round now that he'd garnered the intel they sought on Ramsey's submarine, but failure still licked. "I'll have a corpsman make up a room."

Michener put his hands in his pockets and straightened, scrutinizing the Captain, who strode to retrieve his coffee mug. He watched while the Captain refilled it, adding some sugar this time, his small eyes—dark, almost beady—trained intently on every move the Captain made.

On his way to the wardroom door, Tom paused. "We're on the same side, Mr. President."

Sasha removed her headset, mindful of Slattery's watch; scruitinity that seemed flushed with renewed suspicion.

"So you were in the stadium?"

She'd already said as much, and she doubted he'd forgotten. Not the real question—but she indulged it, nonetheless. Shifting to address him head-on, she raised her chin before answering, "I was."

"During the outbreak," he pressed.

Russ allowed his gaze to trail sideways, seeking to gauge her reaction.

Sasha merely blinked before answering the second obvious question. "Yes."

"So you're immune."

That wasn't a question, and Tom, as he often did, arrived with imperfect—or perfect timing—depending on perspective. He loomed in the threshold, lingering while his gaze shifted between Sasha and his XO. There was obvious friction there, and while Tom understood why Mike held negative bias, he was interested to know what had piqued Sasha's.

Amending his stance Mike relaxed his shoulders and unfolded his arms. Sasha, conversely, made no such move. Head still quirked and wearing an unreadable neutral, her icy blue stare seemed to cut to Mike's bones. It was more than unnerving, and the thought occurred that he couldn't picture Tom with such a glacially devoid woman.

Assured and languid Chandler strode forward, and only when he held out the mug to Sasha did she relinquish her stance, accepting the drink with a small 'thanks'.

"Am I missing something?" The Captain's comment was droll, and Granderson widened her eyes though she saw fit not to turn around.

Mike answered first. "Just tryna get the full picture here."

Sasha blinked and brought the mug to her lips. "We haven't been formally introduced. Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence—and yes, I appear to be immune," she deadpanned before taking the sip.

A hint of amusement seemed to lighten the Master Chief's expression. "Master Chief Russel Jeter." He nodded politely at her.

Albeit with reluctance, Mike inclined hid head. "Mike Slattery. Ship's Executive Officer."

Sasha flashed a grin but kept those piercing eyes frigid; the wind chill up in the arctic had blasted less. "Perfect—now we've covered the basics."

Tom opted to let their marginally hostile exchange go. For one, he'd expected nothing less from Mike, and two, Sasha could more than handle herself. Didn't need him to intervene; never really needed him at all, he supposed.

Mike flashed his own tight grin. "Great."

Sasha merely quirked a brow and took another sip of coffee. Terrible by normal standards but after months without, it was the most glorious brew she'd tasted, and it did wonders against the chill of the AC. That was another luxury she'd missed in the muggy Floridian climate, and she committed to pondering later why something had tugged internally upon learning XO Slattery's first name.

"What will you do with him?" she asked, addressing Tom.

Sighing, he scrubbed a hand across his jaw, and perched upon the edge of a console. "Give him some time to cool off. Let everything we just told him sink in."

"I'm not convinced that man can be rehabilitated," Mike warned.

Though he wouldn't admit it, not yet, and not without exhausting every tactic available to him—Tom was less assured than he'd been mere minutes before in the wake of their exchange. "There's gotta be something we're missing—"

"Like what?" Sasha interrupted.

Tom tipped his head. "I don't know yet."

For a moment she considered it. "Twenty-thousand people dying on your watch isn't a good enough reason to join a cult?"

It earned Jeter's favor, no more than an inclined brow directed toward the Captain, silently communicating he was apt to agree, and Tom couldn't deny when she put it like that—it was case closed. But there was something else. He was sure of it. The ferocity with which Michener had clung to his denial, the edge in his tone, the unhinged look in the depths of his soulless eyes...

"Somethin' else," Tom muttered, more to himself than the occupants of the room.

"How was the safe zone even compromised?" Mike asked, directing that question to Sasha.

She shook her head. "I have no idea. From what I saw, they followed the protocols. Same ones they used across the country. Less than two weeks in, people started showing symptoms. Two weeks after that—hundreds were dying each day… there were riots, chaos." She paused. "Some ended it quickly. Jumped. Shot themselves until the bullets ran out. Overdosed while there still was medication left… whatever they could find, really. And then the rest of them—"

A different type of silence fell over the room, Michener's words echoing in Tom's head.

'I can't begin to imagine.'

'No. You can't.'

Tom caught Slattery's glance, noting his troubled expression while Sasha stared into the mug. Suddenly, Baltimore didn't seem so bad, and that alone was so heavy that Tom needed air—space to plan their next moves and time to get his damn knuckle re-set. He pushed himself up from the table, the movement effectively bringing Sasha back from wherever she'd been.

"Let's take a break—" Tom inclined his head at Slattery "—Ship's yours. Master Chief—monitor the crew. Get a pulse on what they're saying. We need to stay ahead of this."

"Aye, sir," Jeter nodded.

Both officers left the room, leaving the Captain, Lieutenant Granderson, and Cooper behind.

"Lieutenant, I'll have someone relieve you once the President's secure in his quarters."

"Yes, sir."

He was close to the door now, wordlessly pushed it open, and gestured with his free hand for Sasha to step through. It was barely closed before he drawled, "I see you're already making friends."

She fought not to roll her eyes but didn't quite succeed, choosing to drink more coffee to keep her mouth occupied while they spanned the short distance to his cabin through the p-way. "Fairly sure your XO thinks I'm subscribed to the Ramsey's."

They reached his quarters, and Tom opened the door much in the same manner as moments before. He peered down when she slipped past, once again caught off guard by the scent of her hair lingering in the displaced air. And then, too gracefully not to notice, she seemed to float across the room, assuming her prior position at his desk.

She heard him give a small exhale, and he had the decency to seem apologetic for that. "Once you finish reading the logs, you'll understand. We've had our share of compromises." The door was now closed.

Intrigue sparked, but Sasha took it at face value and chose to be blunt with her next thought. "You really think I'd double-cross you?" And while her tone was plain, the honest question in her gaze was anything but.

Tom drew his own up slowly, maintaining the contact in reticence for several seconds.

"No."

It was softer, perhaps, than it should have been, and he hesitated before continuing. Contemplating whether it was wise to be so frank for fear of opening doors that needed to remain closed. "I know there's something you don't feel like disclosing right now—but I trust you have your reasons—and you'll share it if it's necessary."

Head canted, Sasha studied him in more detail than she'd previously allowed, and tried to ignore the perplexing effect his simple statement seemed to have. Why it felt so important that he'd still trust her, and she didn't perceive how much it mattered until she'd been afraid of his response. Averting, Sasha looked back to the coffee mug, almost finished now, and palmed the side of it—the act of maintaining eye contact suddenly too intimate for her to maintain.

Tom exhaled, his own gaze lingering before returning to his desktop, keying in the password and pulling open the same reports. "I'll be in CIC if you need me—there's food in the mess, Doc Rios is busy, but Dr. Scott or Milowsky should be free if you need medical attention."

Sasha drew her lips into a small tug of acknowledgment and set the mug beside his mouse. He was almost gone before she called out to him quietly. "Tom?"

Over a shoulder, Tom glanced, just as she mirrored the action.

"Thank you." She felt rather than saw him sweep her form before he gave a small nod, a hint of warmth touching his lip—though it hadn't exactly moved.

Sometime later Tom leaned against the railing of the bridge wing, observing the relatively still waters. Accompanied by his XO and Master Chief, the dim red lights from the pilothouse seeped through the open hatch illuminating their silhouettes. The crew had caught wind, his lie that the President was being briefed flimsy like a crumbling leaf, and he was only half tuned in to the conversation surrounding him, picking up on various words while he pondered how to appeal to the man. How to steer Michener from the dogma to which he clung. The tried and true method told him to draw the obvious parallel. Darien. But the raw pit eviscerated him whenever it burst beyond its intentional containment.

Uncurling at the waist, Tom straightened but didn't turn to face his officers. "I'll have Cooper do some digging—"

"You really think that's wise?"

Tom stilled, and in a slow, foreboding manner pivoted his head left. "Why wouldn't I? She was briefed on our mission before we even set sail. She knew about the labs. The primordial. Doctor's Scott and Tophet."

Mike amended his tone, knowing well enough that he was on the losing end of this battle but felt it prudent to voice his concerns, regardless. "That was months ago—and you saw how Michener reacted. We showed him everything, and he went straight back to Ramsey. They were in the same safe zone, then conveniently end up at that hotel together? You really think that's a coincidence? What makes you so sure they haven't turned her too?"

Cheeks hollowed Tom clenched and bit down the defensive knee-jerk response, acutely aware of the Master Chief's presence. The quiet intrigue while awaiting his rebuttal. A response that needed not to include their personal history. "She's given no indication that we can't trust her—"

"She's a spook." Mike countered easily, cracking a smirk that held no amusement. "A professional liar—her entire file's redacted."

Tom bristled, shifting on his feet to stand firm at his full height. He was still inches shorter than Mike, but the ferocity of his gaze did the rest.

"Give us the deck," he murmured, never taking his eyes from the XO.

Master Chief Jeter retreated into the pilot house as instructed, and within seconds, Tom dropped the pretense. "Why are you challenging me on this?"

Mike's features twisted, displeasure over Tom's tone clear. "I'm not challenging you—I'm pointing out the obvious—"

"You're making assumptions without merit," he fired back.

"All due respect," Mike tilted his head to emphasize the point, "I think your judgment on her is clouded." There it was. The nerve he'd meant to hit. Could tell he'd hammered it by the smoldering look on the Captain's face.

Tom fisted both hands behind his back. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but you're wrong."

Mike's mouth pressed into an unconvinced line. "Really? So if she was anyone else, you'd be comfortable giving them access to our entire network—unattended? You have no idea what she's been doing for the past three months. Who she's been in contact with, why she got pulled from that mission, other than what she's told you—"

"You're toeing the line, XO," Tom all but barked.

Mike rectified his posture and suppressed his response.

"Like I said," Tom began slowly in a way that left no further room for discussion. "I appreciate your concern, and it has been noted—but until I have reason to suspect otherwise—she is an asset—and I will grant her access to whatever I deem necessary, at my discretion." He paused for a beat. "Understood?"

Effectively barred from continuing, though his body language made clear his disagreement, Mike remained silent. Tom didn't wait. Pivoted and stalked into the pilothouse instead, leaving Mike simmering in his wake and burning a path of his own through the bridge minutes later.

Saturday, April 15th, 2001—Bayview Hills, San Diego, CA

"Hey, it's me—obviously." His stomach lurched, insides feeling like they'd plunged several stories. There was a long pause, a heavy exhale where he could tell she was nervous. "I'm sorry I didn't catch you—I know it's been a minute since we talked…" she trailed off again. "I didn't wanna do this over voicemail, but I'll be gone for a while... radio silent where I'm going—probably through November so I guess this is my only choice… and I'm rambling, so."

He heard another heavy inhale.

"I love you." His breath hitched. Heart rolling inexplicably behind his ribs. "But you already know that, and I should have said it more." She scoffed at herself a little. "I wish I could tell you where I am right now. Just know, I've had a lot of time to think—about everything."

His pulse was gushing in his ears, light-headed when he rested a palm on the counter to ground himself.

"I miss you… and you were right. We were both right, but I'm still in love with you. A lot. So, my doors open too, and maybe we can grab a coffee when I get back." There was noise in the background, sounded like she was outside, and he heard a distant yell. 'Kunić, wrap it up!'. "I have to go, but… I hope you're okay, and I'm sorry it took me this long to work up the courage to call you." She gave another heavy sigh, different. Relieved. Hopeful. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole. "Okay. I love you, Tom. Take care of yourself."

He didn't know how long he stood there in the dark with the phone still held to his ear, taking shallow breaths. The carefully crafted mantra he'd all but forced himself to accept crashing down and so with it every well-meaning lie. His entire body throbbed, temples ached, eyes hot behind closed lids, and he was teetering on the edge. Minutes. He'd missed her by mere minutes, and that was perhaps a blessing, as much as a curse.

The light in the hallway flickered on, and he tensed, pulling it away from his ear. Even his hands, which suddenly felt too empty, hurt.

"Tom?" She was squinting, traces of sleep still weighing down her eyelids, though she quickly became more alert upon finding him in the kitchen. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Damn. It was written all over his face then; he tried to rectify that—swallowed the barrel in his throat. Scrambled to find a lie that could suffice—another one.

"No." She was at his side now, small hand on his forearm, and he hated himself for noticing it felt different. "No, I'm fine. Did I wake you?"

She was unconvinced. The way her eyes swept him was evidence enough, and he instantly regretted not putting down the phone when she lingered on it, still clutched tight in his grip. Pulling away, she sighed. "No—acid reflux, apparently our baby isn't happy with an empty stomach either."

The experience was almost out of body while Tom watched himself robotically pour a glass of water from the fridge dispenser. Handing it to Darien as she popped an acid pill, along with some Zofran, for nausea, into her mouth.

He tasted chalk in his own. 'I'm still in love with you.' Tom blinked as if it could shut his brain down.

Darien drew the glass between her hands, mirroring his position propped against the counter at the hips. "Are you sure you're okay? You don't look like yourself…."

That damn lump in his throat was back, the razor-sharp heat. "I'm fine—why don't you go back to bed. I'll bring you some of that tea."

Darien pushed away from the counter, accepting defeat. After putting the glass in the sink, she rested a palm against his chest before tiptoeing and placing a kiss on his cheek. His skin felt hot to the touch.

"Okay. Don't be too long."