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What Could I Do?

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Saturday, April 20th, 2013—The St. Regis Bora Bora Resort, French Polynesia

"I thought we agreed to leave work in the States."

Sasha had the decency to appear sheepish, though notably the phone remained clutched in her hands. "I know, I'm sorry, but this can't wait."

Andrew set his drink down, some fruity tropical thing the resort server had produced, and shifted closer, kneading at the tension in her shoulders. "The virus?"

Sasha nodded while reviewing the MPEG she'd just received. Evidence of mass cremations the CCP refused to acknowledge, nor confirm were connected to the outbreak discovered in Cairo the prior month.

"Whatever it is, it's made it to Asia," she mumbled, typing back a response.

How many?

At least 250 at this camp. Can you get us out? They cut our access and took our passports.

"Well, from what I heard from Fuller, the onset is similar to Ebola," Andrew offered.

I'll do everything I can.

Sasha frowned in response. "They're briefing you?"

He'd nodded, but she couldn't see because her eyes were still glued to the phone. She'd started a new conversation with a contact labeled only as 'Nomad'.

Still flying rich assholes to the ice?

Hello to you too.

"CDC is sending someone to the hospital. Meeting is set a couple days after we get back. They're calling it 'early response training'." Andrew's tone communicated his dismissal toward the subject.

I need your help.

What trouble are you in this time?

Not me. When can we talk?

Give me an hour.

Sasha inhaled and did her best to ignore the feeling in her gut. Feelings she'd learned not to ignore because they were rarely wrong. Still, this was their honeymoon. They were sitting in paradise, and this was supposed to be one of the happiest times of her life. The smile Sasha gave felt forced when she turned to face Andrew.

"Hey, don't stress about it. This happens all the time—every eight to twelve months it's something else. Everything's going to be fine." He squeezed her shoulder.

With a small sigh, Sasha tucked her cell back into her tote. Wishing she could believe him, but he didn't know, couldn't know about the very damning proposal she'd been granted access to. The same proposal, which accurately predicted the first major intercontinental outbreak, would occur in Asia. She grasped his forearm and pushed herself off the sunbed.

"I'm going to swim."

December 11th, 2013—USS Nathan James, on course to New Orleans—1023 hours

It was a late start by Tom's standards. The prior twenty-four hours had left him exhausted in a way that ached down to his bones. The few meager hours of sleep he'd found were haunted. An alternate reality where he'd found Darien in time. Wasn't the first, and surely wouldn't be the last, but of all the hours spent together in his dreams, this one hurt most for it fostered crushing confusion when he woke—precious seconds where reality was unclear, until that pain dripped like burning fuel melting flesh from bone and he remembered—Darien was dead.

Sitting at the head of the table while everyone caught up to speed, Tom assessed—everyone on the same page—at least that was the goal.

"Back in the hotel, one of Ramsey's men said something—that immunes were being attacked across the states?" Tom rasped, both arms resting loosely on his chair.

Michener nodded, the man's posture sheepish and hunched compared to his prior demonstrative display only one day earlier. "That's right."

Silently, Tom cast his gaze toward Sasha, requesting her input.

She gave a soft nod in support of that assessment. "Word and the virus spread fast, along with misinformation well before the Ramsey's showed up. There was a general lack of transparency at all levels, and not just from us—globally. It didn't take long for the conspiracy theories to gain traction. That it was a bioweapon, that the people who survived were chosen to be part of some kind of—new world order."

To his left, Tom noticed Rachel react with a kind of knowing frustration.

"The People's Republic of China refused to acknowledge their outbreak until they were burning so many bodies you could see it from space. It took a month to convince the administration to implement travel restrictions, and even then, I don't know when they would have acted if I hadn't leaked the footage of them burning corpses to the press—"

His interruption came as a low murmur. "When was this?" The only reports Tom recalled had been vague, mere footnotes in the global sphere. Something about a new virus discovered in Africa; irrelevant to him, and buried by the panic of the Boston Marathon bombing. For the first time since their exchange in his cabin, Sasha made solid eye contact. A choice that had not gone unnoticed and fully communicated her displeasure with his decision regarding Michener. To her credit, no one else had a clue. She was still behaving impeccably—something he knew would change if he gave her a reason to.

Based on the softening of her features, Tom knew he wouldn't like the response.

"The story hit a week after you left."

A week.

One goddamn week and this whole thing could have changed.

Judging by the way Mike shifted in his chair and threaded his fingers together, Tom assumed Sasha's revelation was eliciting the same 'what ifs'.

"The virus showed up on my radar in April—" she hesitated and broke eye contact before continuing. "I came back to the States for my wedding but raised my concerns with the Secretary of the Navy before we left on our honeymoon. He gave me access to Dr. Scott's initial summary of findings, and proposal… two weeks later I received that footage from some journalists in my network, and I forwarded it to Command—"

"Forgive me, but are you saying you were in contact with journalists? In Asia?"

Sasha, along with every occupant in the room, directed their attention toward Dr. Scott. "Yes."

Rachel hesitated, appearing regretful for her inability to temper her outburst until the conclusion of this meeting, but continued nonetheless. "I don't suppose you know of one by the name of Michael Hastings? He was based out of the Consulate in Guangzhou."

That piqued Tom's curiosity, and he was surprised by how much Sasha softened in response to the cautious hope in Rachel's tone. "No. I'm not aware of that name. I'm sorry."

Silently, Rachel seemed to admonish herself. She bunched her lips in response, woeful eyes cast downward while fighting for indifference. "Right. Of course. Forgive my interruption, please—continue—"

"No, no, wait a minute. You're saying you showed them evidence, and they didn't do anything?" Slattery's tone communicated his disgust.

Visibly, Sasha swallowed. The curve of her lip ironic and despondent. "They sent officials from the CDC and the WHO, and of course, they were told the outbreak was under control. They were fed a bunch of bullshit numbers but they had no way to prove it." She shook her head, adamant in the delivery of her next point. "You don't just show up and get information from the CCP—you have to take it. When I got back at the beginning of May, I pushed for them to send me—but—"

"But the op fell through," he surmised on her behalf.

She was back again, some of the ice thawing into gratitude over his choice to step in. She turned her gaze back to address the table. "Right. And by that point, tens of thousands of people had already traveled in and out of China, and it was only a matter of time. It showed up in Europe—"

"Where Neils took it upon himself to play god by adding his bastard gene, exponentially increasing its infectivity, and bringing us to the situation in which we find ourselves today," Rachel finished. Tone droll and glowering.

"And this is the man you have in custody?" Michener inquired to the Captain quietly.

Tom gave a slow nod, his expression remaining impassive but grave. The silence rested around the table, each participant etched into doleful stoicism, before he glanced at Rachel. Upon his non-verbal cue, she retrieved a medical bag from beside her chair, the reason she'd been invited to this meeting.

"Ramsey's men were handing these—" she unzipped the bag, "—out to the non-immunes."

Sasha straightened a little, recognizing the item as the bear she'd seen in Dr. Scott's lab that Green had retrieved from the van.

"There's a mechanism inside that releases the virus. To infect people." Rachel handed it to the President, who, like Garnett, appeared horrified, Tom noted. He chanced a glance at Sasha, reading the disdain beneath her deeply furrowed brow and slightly parted lips.

"They were giving—to children?" The President's disbelief rang true, his dark eyes haunted as they peered toward the Captain.

Tom drew his gaze away from Sasha and back to the President. "The man we captured, Neils Sorensen, created it. But what we don't know is if anyone else in their camp is trained to replicate this idea. If you saw anything or heard anything…"

Michener was getting flustered. "No, I'm sorry, I—I have no idea. I wish that I could help."

Tom's disappointment was quiet but noticeable. Beside him, Mike spoke up, pressing for other details.

"What about the immunes' infrastructure, how organized are they? How many do you think there are in America?"

"Oh, thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe more," Michener said.

Tom shifted his focus to Rachel. "You said anywhere from one to five percent of the population is immune?"

"That's correct. Though that estimate is based on a very limited analysis of two blood samples. Once I add their profiles to my model, it could change."

"Change how?"

"I can't say without looking at the data, but the number will certainly be more accurate."

Tom's cheeks hollowed while he did the math, choosing to peer at his XO in a foreboding manner. "That's three to sixteen million people for Ramsey to recruit—not including his following in Europe."

If possible, the President sobered further in response, the lines on his forehead becoming deeper, while Sasha took a sip of water though remained externally unaffected.

"And their Propaganda Campaign against us? How far has that gotten?" Garnett asked.

"As far as I know that HAM radio broadcast you played me was the first of it." Michener turned to make direct eye contact with the Captain. "I think it was in response to your taking me."

Chandler remained tight-lipped, unblinking in his stillness, while his XO fired off more questions. Fishing details about the Ramsey's plan for a communications network. Observing and scrutinizing the President's every response, trying to determine if they were being played, or his rapid shift in alliance was genuine.

Having exhausted the President's knowledge of the Ramsey's operations, there was only one thing left to do. Mike delivered his final directive with an uncharacteristic hesitation. "We're gonna need to see that flash drive, Mr. President."

Michener blinked, retrieving the drive from his pocket in an almost skittish way. "Oh, sorry."

With a raised brow, Slattery caught Tom's eye.

"Here you go," Michener said, handing it over to the XO, who seemed to consider the importance of this first step as he accepted it.

The exhale Tom gave was small, and barely audible but there, and after taking a moment to consider, he spoke. "I think we've got enough for now."

His officers responded without further instruction, well-oiled and disciplined as they stood. The President mirrored their actions, unsure of himself while the Master Chief turned to address him.

"Welcome, Mr. President."

With his elbow braced against the armrest and fingers pressed over his mouth, Tom continued to observe in reticence. Both Slattery and Garnett echoed respectful acknowledgments of "Mr. President," but Sasha remained silent. Slowly she rose, wearing an expression that remained mystery even to him. And she spared him a brief glance, allowing something defiant to shine—something that was all too familiar—before averting attention and exiting with the others.

Once the wardroom closed, Michener sank into the chair, body loose with fatigue, and pallor sickly from the blood loss. "To children," he muttered, more to himself than the Captain who still loomed at the table's head.

"Mr. President—" Michener turned to face Chandler. "I need you to know something." Tom lowered his hand, resting it against the surface with a closed fist. "Everything you and I spoke about in Dr. Scott's lab—and I mean everything—stays between us. What matters now is the future, and that you're here with us."

Michener inhaled deeply, eyes casting off, in what Tom assumed was a quiet assessment of his words.

"And the woman? Cooper. She doesn't know?"

Tom blinked but remained externally impassive; the lie rolling easily from his tongue. "No."

The President bobbed his head, adjusting the cuff of the sleeves on the dress shirt Tom had loaned. "Yes. It's probably better that way."

Tom squinted in response but remained quiet.

"They were expecting." Michener lifted his eyes, meeting Tom's inarticulate ones. "The Doctor, her husband, Andrew, I think it was—he told me. I never spoke with her directly, but when my son—after we encountered the first case, he refused to see her again. He was trying to save them." Several drawn moments followed. "Well. It would be difficult for anyone in that situation to recognize my presidency. If she were to find out…"

Math had always been a strong suit of Tom's. That and attention to detail. Unfortunately, when combined, those skills rapidly concluded Sasha hadn't simply had a miscarriage. Something hurt profoundly in response. The circle of his fist tightened.

Michener appeared to find himself after struggling through his thoughts. The glaze of his eyes became more resolute. "You're right. What matters now is the future."

The words ripped Tom from the dark primal hole to which he'd been beckoned. In an instant, he was reminded of his reasons. His obligations, and strategies, and oaths which stood in direct conflict with any loyalties he held toward Sasha. But there was another flare of guilt, identical to the one that plagued him the day prior, and awfully similar to the one he'd been trying to bury for twelve years.

Tom unclenched his fist and inhaled, correcting his posture. "Let me show you to your new quarters."

"So, you think he's with us now?" Danny threw down a stack of five chips after checking his cards. "Raise."

Opposite him, at the small rectangular table in the crew lounge, Tex scrutinized his deck, fingers playing absently with his beard. "Yeah. I think so. Commodore can be quite convincing when he wants to be." He picked up five of his own chips. "Call."

"Alisha said Cooper has some kind of clearance that's higher than the CO's?"

Tex shrugged. "Beats me. But I know she's part of that meeting they're in."

"Burk thinks they've worked together before." Danny shifted more chips away from his stack after flipping the next card. "Call."

After pondering the few brief interactions Tex had observed, he was inclined to agree. "Yeah I could see that—I think she called him Tom yesterday—"

They both looked up when the door opened.

"Ah, there she is!" Tex swiveled his body in the chair. "Ol' blue eyes. Come on, park it right here next to Tex."

Sasha quirked her head, embodying a mixture of sarcasm, disbelief, and begrudged respect for Hawaiian shirt's balls to address her that way. 'Green' snorted and rolled his eyes, relinquishing his feet from the open seat.

"Ignore him. It doesn't work on anyone." Danny glared at his bunkmate over the cards in his hand.

Approaching the table, Sasha shot back a dry, "I wonder why."

Oddly, Tex seemed to take the cold shoulder in jest; as though her refusal to engage pleased him.

"Oh yeah. 'Nother one that's cold as ice." He winked, and Sasha merely peered with an unreadable neutral while attempting to categorize him.

Danny threw a chip at Tex, who ducked it and then chuckled, "Tough crowd."

With an exasperated sigh, the Lieutenant set his cards face down and stood. He extended his hand. "Lieutenant Danny Green."

She reciprocated his gesture, returning his handshake with a firm grip. "Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence."

"Well, there's your answer, Green." Tex set his own cards down, then tipped his cap. "Tex Nolan, the only one with a sense of humor on this damn boat."

"Remind me again why we didn't leave you in Gitmo?"

Sasha took the remaining seat. "Gitmo?" She scanned the unkempt man up and down, attempting to peg his branch.

"Yes, Ma'am. Private contractor, at your service."

"Marines before that?"

A wide and lopsided smile broke out, and Tex caught Danny's attention, pointing at Sasha. "She's good."

Despite herself, Sasha grinned, some of the tension easing. "I've been around the block. I know your type."

"Oh, I bet you do." Tex swept up his cards, then added more chips to the pot. "Raise ten."

With a grimace, Danny flicked his cards. "Fold."

Laughing with greed, Tex made a show of sweeping the pot into his much larger pile, and Danny observed Sasha. It wasn't as though he was looking, but he did have to agree with Miller—she was a knockout. "You and the CO, you guys know each other?"

She made eye contact, rattling off the response she'd already prepared. "We've worked operations together in the past." It seemed to satisfy whatever the Lieutenant had been searching for, and he offered a small smile.

"Well—welcome. The entertainment's subpar, and you may have to bunk with an idiot, but all things considered—I think we got it pretty good."

Sasha worked her fingers around the railing. The warmth from the sunbaked metal radiated up her palms, chasing away goosebumps that felt almost permanent since stepping foot on the James. The few items of clothing in her pack had not yet returned from the ship's laundry, and for now, all she had was a t-shirt and jeans which offered little protection against the AC. Her thoughts were uncharacteristically quiet, the lull of the ocean and sound of slicing water working to render them numb.

Boots loomed in her peripheral, quiet enough not to detect his approach, and Sasha steeled herself because the one thing she'd concluded in the past twenty-four hours was that she was susceptible. That Tom still possessed an ability to make the standard working uniform far more attractive than it had any business being, and she might in fact prefer the gray.

"He doesn't know that you know."

And she still loved his voice.

Sasha swallowed and lifted her chin, directing her attention away from the horizon to him. She did—prefer the gray—that was. Or maybe it was the whole thing, an overreaction because he might be the very last person left alive whom she'd truly known. And it had little to do with how handsome he looked with the sun casting orange shadows across his face and catching his eyes. Unsure what to say in response, Sasha settled for acknowledging him by tightening her lips. Wondering what was lingering within his gaze because it was making her feel seen, and she wasn't sure if she wanted that.

Rectifying her posture and straightening, she pushed her hands into her front pockets. A change in subject seemed more appealing than re-hashing Michener. Her response was flippant, an attempt to keep things light, cordial, and detached. "Where do you want me?"

Tom's head canted left a fraction, and he took his time before responding. "Where do you want to be?"

The heat behind her cheeks tingled, and Sasha fought the small curve of her lips, though her tone remained nonchalant. "Your guys look pretty fried. Figured you could use an extra gun."

"I thought you were a diplomat now." It was smooth and dry, a type of understated but sharp wit he'd always been able to wield.

Accepting that she would not make it through this interaction completely indifferent, she allowed her lip to tug into a coy grin. "Kind of like how a Captain never leaves his ship?"

Amusement gleamed and transformed his features. It still sent knocks through her chest, like a pebble skimming across a lake. "We do things a little differently here."

With one brow raised, she slowly shook her head and turned back to the horizon. "Whatever you say—cowboy."