an. Guest responses are below :) Also, I do believe this is the most fitting song for this verse of Tom/Sasha that could exist. I need to go eat my feelings now.

MGL88 thanks so much for taking the time to comment! Glad you enjoyed Chap. 15 - that conversation between Sasha and Tom is one of my personal favorites. I drafted a version of it so long ago, and never found the right storyline for it until this one. Also, appreciate the love for Andrew, I agree Sasha needed to find someone who could keep her on her toes! I 100% agree on Tom/Rachel, that's how I saw them, and think Tom's major issue was that she lied to him after everything he perceived he'd sacrificed to serve her mission.

Guest as always thanks for your continued support, I love reading your comments. You pick up so much of what I'm trying to convey :) Glad you also liked the part with Andrew. I'm obviously in it for the T/S (duh look at my track record lol) but I do love Sasha as a character and hope to give her more justice than she got on the show post S3 (by actually making her a person instead of a prop or device just to love Tom). Also very excited to hear that you feel the two stories are different enough to be independently interesting. That's one of my worries about writing so many things for one couple—that eventually it will all just be the same.

Wicked Game

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The RHIB bobbed to and fro with the ocean swell as it ripped through the water. The lights from the New Orleans Fleet glistened against the horizon like houses at Christmas, and though framed by the context of an apocalypse, somehow it still struck Sasha as beautiful. A kind of testament to human resilience she could believe in again. It was chilly, not frigid—never really was in the Gulf—but without the sun radiating warmth, the sea-spray dampened side of her BDUs made her shiver in the wind chill from their momentum.

Visually, Sasha dressed down their prisoner, or she supposed informant was the more appropriate term now. That wasn't to say she'd moved past his decision to point a gun at Tom, however.

Six months.

That's all it had taken to reach this point. Hell, it only took two for it to collapse. For the fragile restraints of society to fracture, and the pitfalls of humanity to take hold. It had started with disbelief. Hour-long talk shows with armchair experts debating the merits of heeding the alarm bells from Europe—the screams of the scientific community to be prepared. Ridiculous in hindsight, when not three weeks later the cluster of cases in the US had increased so exponentially, and the skepticism morphed into scrambling chaos once people realized this was 'the one'. Hindsight was a curse; Sasha had learned that over a decade ago, and she yearned to be free of it. Now more so than ever.

"Anything?" Danny asked, yelling over the whirring motor noise from his position Captaining the RHIB.

Tex held the receiver higher, pivoting the device in multiple different directions. "Nothing!"

Turning back to Donaldson, Sasha kicked his foot with her boot. The man scowled at her. "Thought you said Valkyrie was out here."

"They are—"

"Then why aren't we picking up any signals?"

Donaldson gritted his teeth. "I don't know, I told you. All Ramsey said was Valkyrie would help them boost the network once they got to New Orleans, and to send an alert when the Ship showed up."

Pressing her lips into a line, Sasha scrutinized and went over the pieces again in her head. The Ramsey's were waiting for the James for a reason, yet Donaldson was adamant he didn't know why. She was missing something here. Something more than the obvious angle of ambushing the Ship once she sailed into open water.

"You think we should bluff? Send out a message that says the James is here?"

Sasha half-turned toward Green, who'd yelled that question. It was an option she'd pondered that also tugged unpleasantly in her gut. Exactly why she was reluctant to choose it. Sure, it could prompt the network to spin up… get them the triangulation on the signal they were seeking, but it still felt wrong.

"Negative." She thumbed the button on her TAC vest. "Nathan James, Cobra Team; we got crickets out here."

The silence hung for a few seconds before Tom's unmistakable voice crackled in her ear. "Copy that, Team Lead—make one more sweep and then head in."

Couldn't say she was surprised that Tom was on deck to greet them. Along with the Master at Arms and several guards, who immediately secured Donaldson and led him back to his pseudo cell. She inclined her chin to acknowledge while removing her TAC vest, handing it to the awaiting crewmember.

"No Valkyrie, but Michener was right about the fleet—it's out there and it looks viable."

"Radio chatter sounds good. Normal."

Sasha handed her rifle over next, along with the sidearm strapped to her thigh. "No sign of the Sub?"

Tom shook his head. "Nothing on sonar or sub-surface."

Green strode past, acknowledging Captain Chandler with his own small nod and quiet 'Sir' while Sasha squinted, looking out toward the distant lights of the Flotilla again. After a few moments' scrutiny, she turned back. "You think they're hiding somewhere in the pass like us?"

Inhaling, Tom stepped closer, resting both hands against the railing while he faced the ocean. "If they are, and they move, we'll hear it. Go to Quiet Two, they won't be able to see us."

"And no centers of gravity?" The words pressed like she didn't believe.

Tom's lips quirked down in the opposite of a smile. "All we're getting is the chatter from the fleet," he confirmed.

She turned, leaning her right hip against the bars, and folded her arms, features twisted in confusion. "We're missing something."

Tom pondered; eyes narrowed before he bore his head toward hers. "Like what?"

"Like why the Ramsey's were so adamant that Nathan James be in open water in front of that fleet—if they're here, even in this pass they can hunt us down. We don't need to be in front of the coast for them to sink us, right?"

"No. But it's a lot easier to hit a target in the open sea, and by my count, he's running low on torpedoes."

Sasha had to concede the conclusion was sound. Yet still, something in her gut kept singing.

It was his turn to shift, mirroring her position and slouching until they were closer to eye level than not. "You don't agree." An assessment on Tom's part rather than a question.

It would have been poetic were it not so horrific, but when Sasha opened her mouth to reiterate that something felt off, a ricochet of explosions lit up the horizon. Time had a strange way of slowing in unexpected chaos. Enough that it felt as though she cataloged every detail. How Tex, who'd been assisting the crew in winching the RHIB, started, bringing an arm up to shield his face on reflex. How Tom reached for her, pulling on her arm until she was tucked and shielded against his chest. How Danny came running back across the lower deck, mouth agape, while he watched the fireball engulf the sky.

And like that, it was over.

Seconds kicked into overdrive; blaring alarms of General Quarters like a defibrillator spurring them into action.

"Get that RHIB back in the water!" Tom yelled, fingers still lingering on her forearm, and then they were gone, and he was running toward the bridge, and she was following while the adrenaline and nausea mixed.

"Captain on deck!"

"SITREP, what the hell happened!?"

Master Chief Jeter and XO Slattery lowered their binoculars and turned.

"Went up in flames, looked like a bomb, no contacts on sub-surface or radar, no early warnings," Slattery said.

Tom ripped the handset up. "CIC, Bridge—I need answers. Where the hell did that come from? Where is that sub?!"

"Sir, we're trying, but there's too much noise in the water—"

Son of a bitch. Grip tightened around the internship phone, Tom fought the urge to smash it against the console. "They're hiding beneath the fleet—using the interference to mask themselves."

To his left, President Michener watched the smoke muddy the horizon from their hiding position in the Pass-A-Loutre. "There are people dying out there, drowning, burning to death!"

Tom slammed the handset down. "We can't go into open water, not with Ramsey sitting out there protected by the fleet. Anything we fire down that bearing would kill any survivors." Then directed his attention toward Granderson. "OOD, send out our recon teams—help and recover as many civilians as we can."

"Aye, sir."

Over the sound of Granderson relaying directives, Tom called out when he registered movement.

"No."

Sasha, who'd made to leave the pilot house to join the recovery effort, he assumed, halted. Caught unprepared, Sasha dashed her focus wide-eyed to Slattery—who was attempting not to react—and then Michener, who'd stopped pacing to watch, before coming back to him.

He swallowed. "I need you in CIC."

For a second, Tom thought she'd fight, but her jaw merely ticked, and she gave a small nod, folding her arms and taking refuge behind a console.

A light trilling pierced the silence before he was able to relay further orders.

Jeter, stiff as a rod, frowned and then drew his gaze toward his Captain with a kind of foreboding that seemed to echo throughout the space. "Sir, we're being hailed on the WQC2."

Underwater telephonic communications. There was only one reasonable conclusion for that, and as Tom approached the port side of the bridge, he tried to dampen the fumes. He retrieved the radio handset. "This is Captain Chandler."

Michener shifted, hands moving to his hips.

"Hello Tommy."

Sasha's head, which had been bowed, jerked up. Waiting for him to react, he supposed, to being called a nickname that only his family used.

"Hope you enjoyed the fireworks. My boys worked hard on them."

"You just sent ten thousand people to their deaths. Stop hiding behind civilians. You want to fight? Come out and fight. Let's go, you against me."

Every pair of eyes were on him now, Slattery, Granderson, Jeter, Michener…

"Oh, it won't just be me, Captain, you see, the number of your enemies is about to multiply."

Sasha stepped closer and unfolded her arms. "The network," she whispered. He released the transmit button. "He's gonna pin it on us—" she patted her thigh pocket "—Tex still has the receiver."

Whipping his head right, Tom ordered, "OOD, tell Tex to start scanning for signals."

"Aye, sir." Granderson donned her headset again.

"Sir, someone's accessing the immune cellphone remotely," Gator said.

Frowning, Jeter pulled his cell from a pocket upon hearing a chime. "It's pairing with mine."

"Put it up on the screen," Tom rasped.

It was a video, rudimentary in quality captured in the equivalent of Ramsey's command center. Alarms that Tom recognized were blaring, Sean's men panicking and claiming to see subsurface missiles heading toward the fleet.

Beside Tom, Jeter shifted, and through his peripheral, he saw the disbelief.

The video cut to footage of the fleet going up in flames, before cutting back to the Ramsey's, lamenting their failure to intercept Nathan James' missiles in time to save the people of New Orleans before ending with the logo 'Valkyrie'.

Tom returned the handset with a resounding, plasticky click.

"Sir, the recon team is reporting a general bearing, but the signal's gone again," Granderson said.

"Gator, work with CIC to triangulate the source."

"Aye, sir."

To his right, Tom felt rather than saw Sasha staring at him incessantly, communicating the need to jump on finding that network before Ramsey could distribute the footage.

"Go," he murmured without turning. The air displaced in her wake. "The rest of us, wardroom—now."

This goddamn game.

Coiled tight, Tom prowled the length of the wardroom table, focus intensely fixed upon Jeffrey Michener. "Was there anyone back at the hotel, anyone in their camp who had the kind of skills to do this?"

The man was not facing him, rather turned, hunched, and perched against the opposite side, sounding defeated when he responded, "No. No, I'm sorry. Not that I can think of."

Hacked into the emergency alert systems.

Tom didn't deem it a stretch to attribute the HF broadcast regarding Bluenose to this 'Valkyrie' either. Of course, there was also the unsavory thought that this attack was another inside job. Someone with access and resources like Amy Granderson who'd bought into Ramsey's cause. Or maybe, just maybe, Mike had been right—not about Sasha—but with the idea that this was all part of a wider conspiracy. Something more than a renegade Submarine Commander. And maybe, just maybe, the man sitting before them was part of that play.

"Attention on deck!"

"Looks like children. Aw, hell."

The civilian voices, the ones who'd been asking for such mundane things as an extra blanket not more than an hour before, rang through his combat center with harrowing weight. Tom slowed, traversing the workstations until he was before their two main radar and navigational screens.

"T.A.O?"

Foster shook her head, "Nothing, sir. They're still hiding under the fleet."

He ground his jaw, attention drawn to Michener who paced relentlessly.

"We can't find them! Their boat just blew up!"

The President winced, uncurling his arms to clench his fists before screwing with the cuff of Tom's dress shirt. Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized every minuscule shift in Jeffrey Michener's body language until his XO joined combat. Focus now drawn to the adjacent side of the room, his gaze inevitably landed upon Sasha. She was beside Gator, both hands braced on the glowing console that illuminated her eyes like glass.

"We need to find my daughter! Her name is Annabelle, please!"

Though her chin was tucked, he still caught the almost imperceptible quiver of her lips.

"Turn it off," he commanded.

The room fell eerily silent. Sparing Michener a final look, Tom approached the navigational console, eyes gritty against the bright white light.

"What do we have on the signal?" It was quieter, low, like the hum of their idled engines keeping them anchored in the pass.

Focus firmly rooted down, Sasha deferred to Gator.

"Sir, based on my calculations, the signal could have originated from anywhere—" he drew a wide circle "—in this vicinity. That's a two-hundred-mile area of interest, including land and ocean."

So nothing. Placing both palms on the surface Tom hunched, studying the nautical map. Didn't have the fuel reserves to burn through executing a grid-by-grid search—not over an area that vast—and their UAV wasn't fitted with night vision, leaving them blind until dawn. Without moving, Tom checked his watch; another six hours from now. In summary, their actionable options would only come the next time Valkyrie spun up.

"Lot more folk are about to see that video," he murmured.

Damnit.

"We're attempting to cross-reference with available satellite imagery records…" Gator trailed off. "but it's a long shot, sir. There are hundreds of buildings in the scope of area that could boost a signal like that. And that's if it's on land. We could be looking at another ship... a moving target..."

That got a reaction from Sasha. Small. Nothing more than a frustrated shake and clench of her jaw while she continued avoiding eye contact.

"We'll keep trying," Tom said.

"Aye, sir."

Somewhere between Dr. Scott's rapt disappointment over his despondent reaction to learning the contagious cure worked, being haunted by the image of Cody's body, and imagining the hell on that beach, Tom had given up on the idea of sleep. Instead, he'd stared at the walls. Pursuant to decide whom they could trust, if anyone. Ruminations that left him restless with a dull ache throbbing beneath his brow and irradiating across his temples. What he didn't expect to find clutching a railing on the lower aft deck, however, was Sasha.

Maybe he should have, in hindsight.

If she heard his approach, Sasha chose not to react. Remained steadfast in silent reflection and focused upon the burning remains of the New Orleans fleet. There was an obvious question at the forefront of his mind, but there was also a very distinct agreement he'd made only five days prior which prevented him from asking if she was alright.

"Sasha."

Until he heard the quiet sniff, it didn't dawn on Tom that she was crying. The concept twisted something on a deeper level than common decency; a revelation he particularly didn't like. Especially coupled with the glaring outlier of that knee-jerk decision he'd made to create a reason for her not to join the recovery team... a reason greater than knowing they were out of range for backup and in the direct path of Sean Ramsey's missiles.

It was flimsy at best, and Tom was under zero illusion that Slattery would let that pass without cautioning him on his bias.

He sighed, and stepped closer, hovering mere inches from her side, though he faced inward toward the ship rather than outward toward the smoldering fleet. Folding his arms, he leaned against the railing at the hips. "There's no way we could have known—"

"I should have." Her voice was stronger than he'd expected, though still tight. She wasn't sad then. Angry. That was easier to deal with. Didn't make him feel like he was sitting on Vinson with a type of guilt that was only eclipsed by failing to save Darien.

"Sasha—"

She swiped at her nose and cleared her throat. "No, Tom—this is what I do. I figure out what our enemies are planning and stop them before they do it." She was shaking her head, still staring off into the horizon. She scoffed. "It's so obvious—the network, the app, that radio broadcast claiming we created the virus? Terrorism 101, recruit in our own backyard... I should have seen this coming." Finally, she turned, eyes ablaze and red-rimmed. "If I hadn't been—" she stopped. Clamping her lips so tight they turned white.

"If you'd what?" he breathed.

For several moments, she bowed her head, determining whether to divulge whatever guilt was at the center of this outburst.

"I have never turned my back on anything—" she broke off while trying to find words, and Tom held his breath. "But after that stadium, I did." The latter part so quiet it was almost lost to the night. "I walked away." She shrugged, the action helpless. "I went back to Savannah and buried my head in the sand like I was the only one suffering when I should have been—"

"Stop." It wasn't harsh, but soft and she closed her eyes, gripping harder on the railing.

"When we made port in Norfolk, I made the decision to resign my commission." He let that rest between them, slow dawning morphing her body language until she returned her gaze to his. "The only reason—that I am here right now—instead of sittin' in my house in Virginia, is because Dad wouldn't let me abandon the mission."

He'd needed to admit that to someone. Didn't appreciate how much until he saw the effects of his confession. Felt the vice around his lungs loosen just enough to make a difference and watched Sasha's anguish ease into a type of understanding only a select few could reach.

Sometimes all you needed was to be seen.

"There's no way they pinged the James without us knowing—you think he tipped them off somehow? Told them we were here?"

And then be believed in some more.

It took a few seconds for her brain to re-wire, and she'd blinked over the stark turn from nursing deep wounds to focusing on their next moves, but she caught up fast. "Michener?"

A single nod was his response, very aware of the itching in his palms to wipe the stubborn moisture clinging to her bottom lashes.

Swallowing, she shifted until she was mirroring his position, back turned to the ocean, and leaning with a mere inch of space between them. For a time, Sasha pondered his question. Analyzing, he assumed, Jeffrey Michener's reactions in the same way he'd been replaying them since the Flotilla went up in flames.

"As much as I'd love to say yes—no." She dragged her gaze to meet his again. "I don't think he could fake that kind of shock."

"What if he wasn't told what they were planning? Like Donaldson. What if he thought Ramsey would try to mount a rescue instead?"

She did something with her brows, conceding that it was an option. "You've spent more time with him than I have. What does your gut tell you?"

Tom inhaled deeply before he answered. "I think he's doing and saying all the right things… but he did that with the Ramsey's too."

Her head bobbed in agreement. "Well—he is a politician."

The dry wit in her tone made his lip tug. "And that's your forte. I just blow stuff out of the water."

Though still composed, a softness swept her. "Don't sell yourself short, you wouldn't have made it this far if you couldn't play the game."

Tom could feel her insistent gaze at his temple yet couldn't look, choosing in favor of the deck with his cheeks hollowed. There were a few more beats of comfortable silence before he heard her inhale. Could tell by the type of sigh that whatever came next would cost her something. Just didn't know what—yet.

"I know what I said—but if you're asking me because you think he can't be trusted, then it means you need to bring me in."

Tom stopped refusing eye contact, canting his head, and meeting a resilience that still humbled him. Perhaps why truth spilled from his lips before he could control it. "I was trying to protect you."

Something in the set of her features softened further, and he quickly determined she could still control him with that.

"I know, Tom. And I'm okay."

"You did tell me not to ask." Tipped his head when he said it.

"I did." Everything about that sounded like a sarcastic 'congratulations.' "Which is why I'm informing you of my general well-being."

The corner of his eyes crinkled, sweeping her form while she wore a perfect non-smile. "Duly noted."

Something shifted, the light breeze picking up stray hairs that were too short for her ponytail, distracting him. But more than that was the depth of her gaze; a thing she hadn't allowed until now. "You need me in CIC."

It was drawled, very quietly. A statement, reprimand, and provocation rolled into one. Should have expected that. Sasha did not miss details, however small. Not with him. When he chose to remain studiously silent, she tilted her head, blinking softly.

"Tom, you can't do that." It was low. Intimate in a way that made his blood curl.

He was peering beyond her shoulder, pretending some steel chain links were of paramount interest instead. "I know."

God help him, he knew—and he hated every second of it.