an. Happy New Year! Hope you all had an enjoyable holiday break, definitely not ready to be back at work but alas, that's life.

MGL88 Thank you for your review! I shall not spoil, but Michener most definitely noticed Tom's regrettable inability to not step in :). He's a creepy and observant guy! You're so right, Tom's already struggling with his bias and mixed lines. Perhaps my personal favorite scenario lol!

Guest Since 1997 & 2012 are standalone, I can't respond to your lovely reviews there, but just wanted to drop a note to say I so appreciated them and they definitely made me smile! Really glad you liked the Titanic reference, and for 2012 I'm so excited that you like the premise! That fic is going to be a totally different vibe, you're right removing the worry of kids and a wife at home will very much change Tom's demeanor going in. I want to wrap at least one of these stories (St. Augustine or El Norte) before I start that one because juggling three will be too much, but I will admit writing 2012 was great fun!

The World Was on Fire

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December 15th, USS Nathan James—Pass A Loutre, Coast of New Orleans, Louisiana

There was some kind of game being played here. Tom just didn't know what. Sure, the Ramsey's was obvious. Easy to follow. Michener, however—Tom had reservations about that. Couldn't decide yet if the man truly believed in their cause, or simply wanted to be on the winning side. Right now, that would be Sean Ramsey's, and Tom had dedicated hours after Sasha retired to figuring out how to sink his submarine. Pondering the conundrum of being pinned in the Pass with few workable options with Ramsey closing in.

Mike flicked through more slides, toggling various communications and proposals that 'Valkyrie' was slowly trickling into the public domain. Showing them to Michener along with the different redacted versions Sasha had accessed. Between the two, barring small sections, 'Project Bluenose' became readable.

Someone knocked. Mike pressed pause on the slides.

"Come in," Tom said.

"We have a solid bearing on the signal."

Tom unfolded his arms. "Where?"

"It's coming from the ocean, not land." Sasha finished letting herself into the President's quarters. Michener, Tom noted, straightened near imperceptibly. Until now, these briefings had been closed-door, host only to he, the XO, and occasionally, the Master Chief. Her unannounced entrance had the desired effect of throwing him off-kilter.

"Did he ever mention anything about another ship?" Sasha asked, pinning Michener with her gaze.

The President faltered, eyes flitting toward Chandler as though expecting him to veto Cooper's line of questioning before deducing that he wanted her here, asking such questions.

"No. Not that I heard."

"Well, whatever it is—according to Tex, it's not moving."

Slattery shifted on his feet. "Could mean it's anchored."

Sasha nodded. "Or it could mean it's not a ship at all."

With a furrowed brow, Michener chose to stand rather than continue perching against an armrest. "What else could it be?"

"We're in the Gulf—" Sasha shrugged as though the answer were obvious "—there's hundreds, maybe thousands of rigs off the coast. It's a reasonable possibility."

Tom blinked once and made brief eye contact with her. Huh. Didn't know why he hadn't thought of that. "Does Gator have coordinates?"

"He's working on it now. Figured we send the UAV once we have them, confirm the target and then launch a mission to shut it down from there."

"No—"

Sasha snapped her head toward Michener, eyes narrowing.

"We take over the network. Use it to get our message out—Ramsey's already told everyone I'm a prisoner aboard this ship. Get me on that network, and I'll talk directly to the American people. Once they hear the truth about me—" Michener inclined his head at Tom "—about you, and about Sean Ramsey, we'll turn America against him, and then we'll greatly outnumber thier movement."

Inhaling, Tom considered it. "It's not a bad idea, Mr. President. I can have the crew set up a camera and record the message. I'll make sure to deliver it myself—"

There was a soft noise to his left, one that sounded distinctly like a scoff, and Tom dragged his eyes over slowly.

"You can't go."

Dead stillness filled the room, and while Tom was not surprised that Sasha's penchant for insubordination had resurfaced, he'd admit, he'd expected it sooner. Timing, as ever, was a bitch, and her choice to do this in front of Michener and Slattery put him in a difficult spotlight. Knowing Sasha, he assumed that was her goal.

She raised her brows, challenging him to disagree. "What if that sub attacks and you're not on the ship?"

"XO Slattery is fully qualified to make battle decisions in my absence."

"With all due respect, XO Slattery isn't a former T.A.O, and he also doesn't have a Master's in Strategic and Tactical Warfare, nor was he Special Ops." She tilted her head. "There's a reason you outran Ruskov, and it's not because of the book sitting on your shelf."

Michener, who'd observed with keen interest, peered toward Tom. His hands stuffed loose in his pockets. "She's right. You should remain on the Nathan James. If the Ramsey's attack, we'll need every piece of expertise we can get."

The muscle in Tom's jaw clenched.

Shifting his focus from the Captain, Michener addressed Sasha. "I'm to assume that you're capable of leading the mission?"

She merely nodded once.

"Very well then. I'll begin working on my speech at once. I'd like an update once you confirm the location of the network."

Opposite him, Mike did something with his expression Tom often translated as suppressing amusement. That did nothing to cool his blood. Nor the way Sasha was holding eye contact with him. Everything about it communicated that he could rage at her until redundant, and she wouldn't give a damn.

"Yes, Mr. President," he acknowledged.

The second they'd stepped into the p-way, Tom blocked Sasha's path. "What the hell was that?"

Mike sucked some air through his teeth and gestured in a vague direction. "Yeah, I'll uh—I'll be on the bridge."

Her brow was perfectly arched. "You wanna do this in the p-way?"

Biting back against the urge to yell, just to defy her infuriating level of 'right', Tom pressed his lips into a thin line, and then stalked toward his cabin. It took more restraint than he'd like not to slam it behind him when she stepped through.

"I said get a read on him—not undermine my authority in front of the President, and my XO."

Sasha's lips tugged down in a type of shrug. "If that's how you see it, fine—or maybe I'm the only one with the balls to call you out when you could compromise the mission by your needing to control everything."

"Controlling everything is how I've made it this far!"

"I'm not questioning your successes, Tom! I'm trying to guarantee that they keep happening. What if I hadn't left my position to follow you into that warehouse? What if Donaldson had captured you? What if he'd killed you?"

He didn't have an answer for that, and Sasha knew it. Instead, he ticked his gaze down and then up her form.

"This crew needs you. You can be mad all you want, but I'm right, and you know it. There is no one else more qualified to take out that sub, and I can more than handle leading a ground team. If I hadn't boxed you in, you would have pulled rank on me." Without waiting for an answer, she stalked toward the door, pausing only when her hand encircled the handle. "Oh, and to answer your first question—I think he wants to win, and I think he'll do and say anything to keep what happened buried. The last thing he wants is Ramsey turning on him and broadcasting what he did across what's left of this country."

Sasha exited, leaving him standing and seething in her wake.

On a swivel.

The three-worded simple statement Sasha had offered before disembarking in a RHIB seemed hellbent on stealing Tom's focus. There was a reason he preferred combat to the bridge. He was pacing the length of CIC, watching while their radar screens mapped Sean Ramsey executing a search pattern up the coast. Couldn't recall the last time he'd felt like prey. Even with Ruskov, he'd been steadfast in his confidence to thwart the Admiral. In fact, anything that floated on water, Tom was reasonably assured he could sink. It was just the subsurface kind that unsettled him.

Sasha's voice crackled over radio. "Nathan James, Vulture Team—coast is clear, boarding now."

You need to keep your head on a swivel. If this were the field you'd be dead right now.

How did he forget? There'd been exactly one instance where Tom had bested Sasha's evasive instinct; discovered her mistake and approached unseen during a training exercise, plainly delivered that statement, and then washed her out. He'd forgotten. But apparently, Sasha had learned.

Lieutenant Foster didn't respond to the broadcast, but she did briefly catch his eye. The rig was out of range for their encrypted channels, which meant Vulture could radio in over HF, but Nathan James couldn't respond without compromising their location. It was exactly the type of scenario Tom hated, and exactly why he needed to be on the ground. It was calm, the type of quiet that normally would mean everything was going as planned. Problem was, it rather felt like the temporary pause between breaths, and Tom wasn't sure that he'd managed to catch his yet when their comms came alive fifteen minutes later.

"Nathan James, we are under attack, I repeat—" Tom rushed toward a headset and donned it while Tex's unmistakable drawl filled CIC, along with gunfire. The transmission was garbled, likely because two people were attempting to radio simultaneously.

"Say again, your last was garbled," Tom said.

"They're wearing the goddamn uniform!" The transmission dropped again for several seconds before coming back, this time in what sounded like an open mic. "Shit!" There was screaming now, civilians, bullets flying from weapons Tom could identify as automatic rifles, military standard—wouldn't be surprised if they were their own.

"Ravit's down! Green… Green! Help me get her."

Sasha pushed her rifle to her back and ripped her radio from its holster. "You hear that?" The woman, Val's expression, grew thinner, the air of smug disobedience slipping into a mask that was no longer assured. "That's your boy Ramsey—on the beach, murdering innocent people!"

Nothing but the terrible sounds punctuated the silence that followed while Val stared at the handset, and Granderson, Chung, and Sasha stared at her.

"Tex is hit! Cruz, Miller, fall back!… Shit. Hang in there Ravit, it's fine—just a scratch, okay…" Sasha could identify that as Green.

"How are they in our fuckin' uniform!?" Miller.

"I don't know, man, Nathan James, we're gonna need an emergency medevac once we hit that rig!"

"Copy, Cobra Team—Helo is on the way, fifteen mikes out." Foster.

"Is this some kind of trick?" Val uttered.

"Why the hell would we shoot our own people?" Sasha hissed, stepping closer until a mere inch separated their feet. "Play the message, before you help get more civilians killed!"

Her indecision lasted a few more seconds, eyes darting between Sasha and Lieutenant Granderson before settling on the bag they'd confiscated, which was currently being held by Chung.

"I need my bag," Val said.

There was a beat before Sasha re-holstered her radio and nodded once sharply at Chung.

"What's our SITREP?" Tom asked, pacing now toward his chair in the pilot house of the bridge.

"Bird is in the air. I sent Doc Rios with them," Slattery said.

Tom nodded, while Master Chief Jeter to his left was drawn by an alert on his phone. Jeter pressed play, and Michener's voice filled the space, his address to the American public sounding with a tinny quality from his phone speakers. "Sir, it worked."

At least one thing had gone right, Tom mused, and he had to admit, the speech was good. Still, the inkling in his gut wouldn't settle and he took to spinning his wedding band for something to occupy his hands while they waited. Wearing their uniforms and massacring people… his gaze ticked up to observe Michener, who was back to pacing, arms folded, while he considered this latest development. At this juncture, Tom was close to convinced that Michener had no idea the extent of Sean Ramsey's plans, but he was exercising caution where 'trust' was concerned.

"I knew I shoulda gone with them." Burk was like a caged animal, pursuing the north side of the rig, watching the horizon, and waiting for the first sign of Cobra Team's RHIB.

"Mate, what difference would it have made?" Wolf countered. Between the two, he'd managed to keep an even keel, but the strain of stress was clear in the way he gripped his rifle.

Burk sucked air through his teeth, the sound almost amplified by the surrounding quiet. Wasn't even a breeze, it was eerie, like the very air itself was dead, and though the weather was perfect, the sky cloudless, and temperate, the thick black tar like smoke pluming against the coast of New Orleans still marred the sight.

A couple decks below, Val watched with disdain as Granderson and Chung studied the wiring of her network, making very clear that her obedience was only thanks to the gun around Sasha's neck.

"Who are you anyway?"

Sasha frowned and quirked her head in response.

"Everyone else has name tags." Val gestured toward her vest. "Yours is blank."

"It's not relevant."

"Are you even Navy? Or what, you're FBI? CIA? Whatever else department they have to spy on their own citizens?"

Sasha allowed herself to roll her eyes. "Naval Intelligence. I'm not part of the crew, and my ship going days were long over. These aren't my fatigues, and this isn't my vest."

The woman narrowed her eyes, and Sasha couldn't help but notice her eyebrows were bleached into an odd shade of brassy blonde that did nothing to flatter her complexion.

"Thought you guys had people that make those."

Biting down on the frustration over this irrelevant line of questioning, Sasha shot back a sarcastic comment, "I think we're a little occupied with more important things than a name badge?"

Val shrugged it off, switching the weight on her foot and folding her arms with an attitude. "Whatever, I guess." She jutted a hip out. "What are you gonna do with me?"

Granderson looked over, making no effort to hide her disapproval in the way she looked the woman up and down.

"You're coming back to the ship. I'm sure the Captain will have plenty of questions for you," Sasha said.

"You mean Thomas Chandler."

Sasha blinked once, deadpanning, "That's been his name his whole life, yeah." This time, her comment earned Sasha her own side glance from Granderson. An interesting one. Though not rude, she was standoffish. Clear though unspoken that she was following the Chain of Command as set forth by her Captain, but if Sasha had to guess, Granderson didn't understand why she'd been given the lead on this mission over the more obvious choice, Lieutenant Burk. Plus, Sasha had to figure that the last meaningful interactions Granderson had observed involved XO Slattery before they'd reached a workable understanding. It didn't surprise her that the younger lieutenant had reservations.

"How are we looking, Lieutenant?" Sasha called over her shoulder, never letting Val escape her direct line of focus.

"From what I can tell, the message should be broadcasting," Granderson answered.

Sasha nodded. "Anyone bring a phone?"

Rolling her eyes, Val pulled her own from her pocket, pressing play and then shaking it. "I told you, all you needed was the box."

"Heads up!" Burk called from the upper tier. "That's Cobra!"

"Alright," Sasha unhooked her rifle from the strap and gestured with the tip for Val to move. "You're going back on Helo."

"No! You can't just do that—"

"I sure can." Sasha jerked her head in the ladder's direction. "Shut up and climb."

"Bridge, emergency tango bearing 1-8-9…"

"Set General Quarters!" Tom commanded, snapping up the internship phone. "T.A.O, how many?"

"Sir, it's not for us, it's headed toward the rig," Lt. Foster said, an undercurrent of urgency lacing her tone.

"Can we countermeasure!?"

"We have… ten seconds to intercept before it's out of range."

Beside him, XO Slattery caught his eye, the entire bridge poised, waiting for him to decide whether to give up their position to Ramsey by taking out that torpedo. The alternative, however, was a death sentence for everyone aboard that rig.

"Sir? Six seconds… five, four…"

"Fire!" Tom turned toward Gator; phone clutched between white knuckles. "Get us out of the Pass on the south side. I want us surrounded by shallow water, no chance for him to dive."

"Aye, sir."

Tom started counting down the seconds.

Green maneuvered their RHIB into the harbor provided by the rig, allowing Cruz to secure them to a metal rung via the boat hook. "Helo should be here by now," he muttered, glancing over again to Miller, who was trying to keep Ravit conscious.

"How are we gonna do this? I don't think we can move her," Miller said.

Tex grimaced, hopping around to the other side. "We have to, they can winch her outta the boat. All they need's a little clearance." He had barely finished speaking when an enormous dome of water, shortly followed by a muted explosion, ricocheted from the open sea. On reflex, they all cowered before exchanging looks.

"Did you see that!?" Burk's voice chimed over radio.

"Fuck!" Green yelled. "The James just gave up her position."

The blood seeping from Tex's leg was now pooling steadily on the deck along with Ravit's, and he pulled his palm away, skin marred with red, to swipe beneath his nose. "Yeah? That's the least of our worries if that son of a bitch is tryna blow this damn thing out of the water!"

Slack-jawed, Miller looked between Green and Tex. "Is that really what just happened?"

"Heads up, Helo inbound," Wolf said.

"Copy that, Cobra—how are you on fuel?" Sasha asked.

Green hit his vest button. "We can make it back to the Pass, but that's it."

"Alright, here's the plan. Get Ravit and Tex on the chopper. They have enough fuel to circle until Nathan James gives the all-clear. The rest of us will sortie in the RHIBs and wait until it's safe to approach, but we need to get the hell away from here—now!"

Mason's voice overruled the constant chatter coming over HF. "Hydrophone effects port bow, torpedo inbound bearing 1-9-0!"

Slattery spared Tom a glance before racing away from their bridge toward the CIC.

"8,000 yards!" Mason called out.

"Hard left rudder. All ahead flank three," Tom ordered. Gator, who was also serving as OOD in Granderson's absence, repeated the command to their Helmsman. "Deploy countermeasures!"

"Aye, sir. Lookouts deploy A.S.W countermeasures with the turn," Gator said.

"Torpedo at 4,000 yards on course for impact, two minutes," Mason warned.

Tom clenched a fist, staring out toward the ocean. "T.A.O, do we have a target!?"

Before Lt. Foster could respond, Mason provided another urgent update. "Second torpedo incoming, same bearing, first torpedo, 3,000 yards!"

"Sir, he's downrange of us, bearing 1-7-7, approximately five miles off our port bow," Foster rattled off.

"Now three, now four torpedoes incoming, one minute to impact!" Mason added.

Tom stood, bracing a hand against the console before him. "Fire torpedoes, four downrange now!" He turned to Gator. "Shift your rudder!"

"Helmsman, shift your rudder!" Gator repeated.

Michener faltered under the violent turn, remaining upright only because he'd counterbalanced himself against a console at the last second. Loose papers, maps, and miscellaneous items did not fare the same, clattering to the floor in the wake of that maneuver. Over the HF, a distinct voice could be heard over their blaring alarms, and the three-worded statement turned Tom's blood cold.

"RPG!"

"500 yards!" Mason called out in his ear.

"Sir, recommend firing the five-inch into their path to create noise confusion, divert the torpedoes," Lt. Foster said.

"Let's give them more than that. Ready the five-inch, CWIS, all crew-served weapons, and port-side chaff. We'll give em' a full broadside."

"Aye, sir."

Tom looked toward Gator again. "On my mark, hard right rudder."

"First torpedo, 200 yards, 30 seconds to impact!" Mason yelled.

"Now! Hard right, hard right!" Tom braced against the console while the ship lurched once again in the opposite direction, bellowing his next set of orders into the internship phone. "Surface action to port, fire 10 rounds at 2 miles, all weapons and chaff at 2-5-5, fire!"

From CIC, Slattery chimed in. "It's working!"

"T.A.O, hold your fire."

"Holding fire aye," Lt. Foster answered.

As instantly as it came, the burst of activity ceased, punctuated by three detonations in the water. Shock waves beat the hull and rocked through the bridge. Master Chief Jeter crossed Tom's path, holding the overhead railing in a tight grip to peer toward their port-side.

"Countermeasures successful, no damage—"

"The last torpedo has required, brace for impact, port side!" Mason shouted.

This lurch was violent, its force sending several crew members to the ground and rattling their systems enough that every screen and light fixture flickered while the unmistakable sound of tearing metal whined as though through the James' very pipework. Recovering himself, Tom reached for the handset again. "T.A.O, what's the status on our torpedoes!?"

"We had three detonations, unable to confirm the fourth, sir. Radar is down," Lt. Foster answered.

Rigid, Tom sank into his chair, his external stoicism betraying the pace of his pulse. Three detonations, no way to confirm whether they'd hit their intended target, and there was still the matter of that frantic yell from Wolf. He returned the phone to its cradle and retrieved the HF handset instead. He made his decision, their location was already blown. Radio contact would not hinder nor help the situation. "Vulture Team, do you copy? What's your status?"

There were a few moments of static until someone answered.

"Sir, Ramsey's men followed Cobra to the rig, they hit us with an RPG, Lynn's burned up bad, we've got… multiple injuries—" Tom swallowed while he waited for Wolf to finish and forced himself not to ask directly why Sasha wasn't the one responding to him. "Our gunner took them out, but this place is FUBAR, we're—" it cut out again, Wolf's voice clearly labored as though he were running "—one of the RHIBs is gone, we're rounding up our wounded and evacuating now."

In his peripheral, Tom noticed Gator turn to address him. "Sir, D.C Central reports hull intact."

Taking a deep breath, Tom picked up for CIC again, a little red-light flashing alerting him to the incoming communication.

"Captain, we're blind here. Sonar is out. We're listening for the Sub, so far we can't hear anything."

"Roger. Contact engineering, get them working on it." He put the phone down, addressing Gator again and pushing himself out of his chair. "Send the med teams to hangar bay one."

"Aye, sir."

USS Nathan James—Thirty Minutes Post Attack

This was like a cold day in hell. Mike twisted and pivoted to avoid the rushing bodies, members of their crew who were assisting their multiple wounded. He passed by O'Connor, who was standing in place, blankets in hand.

"Holy shit," the young Petty Officer muttered beneath his breath. Still loud enough that Mike heard, but given the state of affairs, there existed not a single statement more befitting.

Burk was yelling for Ravit, who Rios was digging bullets out of, rags of blood surrounding her cot like tissue paper littered in a storm. Looked like his leg was pretty messed up, two of their deck crew were carrying him toward his own cot despite his protests. Milowsky was tending to Lynn, who looked… aw hell. Mike winced, and he had the unsettling thought that if he wasn't dead yet, the poor guy would wish for it, such was the extent of his burns. Miller was okay, but shaken, his hands hanging loose at his sides while he watched Rios work on Bivas with a mixture of both fascination and horror. There was a woman beside him too, someone Mike didn't recognize with scraggly, tangled hair full of red shit, blood streaming from her temple, and a hollow stare.

He spotted Tex, off to the side, hobbling and assuring Dr. Scott that the bullet he'd taken to the thigh was through and through. Nothing life-threatening just hurt like a bitch. Granderson was bleeding, clearly in shock. Chung had a decent head wound, but it was his leg that looked broken, which was of paramount concern…. Green, Cruz, Wolf, and Cooper though, now that Mike looked around, they weren't here, and judging by the clench of the Captain's fist, he didn't have the type of confirmation he needed.

Mike came up beside him. "Where's the rest of the team?"

"They're heading back on the RHIB," Tom answered, terse, while his eyes never left the cot occupied by Ravit.

Mike wasn't sure if he'd acknowledged Tom's statement, now transfixed also on watching Rios work to save the Israeli.

"You—" Rios pointed toward a corpsman. "Bring me two more units of blood."

Couldn't say how much time passed until he registered Tom unfold his arms and move. Mike looked up, watching. Cooper was back. Cruz, Wolf, and Green too. Of all of them, Danny was the only one unscathed. Javier had a sizeable gash on his head—insisted he was fine when O'Connor tried to approach. Wolf had various cuts, and what looked like a burn on his hand, and Cooper had split her face right above her eyebrow. That was pissing blood too, and her hands were drenched in it.

He arrived in time to catch only her response to what Tom had said, which he assumed included some variation of 'what the fuck happened?'

"They hit us with an RPG before the Gunner had a shot. They must have followed Cobra from the beach. Green said they just showed up with guns and started shooting the survivors." She paused to assess the damage before her and then shook her head absently. "What about the Sub? We saw an explosion, did they fire on us?"

"Soon as the message went live he fired on your bearing. We don't know where it is. Might have hit it, can't confirm—we took a torpedo direct and lost Radar."

"Shit."

"What about the network? Is it gone now?" Mike asked. Sasha shifted her focus to him before looking back toward the woman.

"Not entirely. She has part of it in that bag—didn't get that far before we got shot at, but I figured you'd wanna chat."

Tom's brow creased in skepticism. "That's Valkyrie."

Tipping her head, Sasha nodded. "Or Valerie Raymond, if we're going by her license. She's some kind of hotshot MIT graduate who thinks everyone in the government's out to get her—"

Mike squinted, and shot a glance at Tom fast, wondering if he'd just noticed what he'd observed. The part where her words slowed and almost slurred. Come to think of it, she was pale—well; she was always pale in Mike's opinion—but as in, looked sheet white and had zero color in her lips.

"Are you good?" Mike inquired, just as Tom reached out to steady her arm.

Sasha tried to wave him off, or rather Mike thought Sasha believed that's what she was doing. "I'm fine—" she mumbled, a meek hand moving. Instead, she was heading toward their deck and deteriorating with enough speed to send a mild panic through Mike's system.

"We need a medic over here!" Tom yelled. He was holding most of her weight now, preventing her complete collapse, and though her eyes were still open, they were hollow and glazed. Taking the initiative, Mike grabbed her ankles, assisting in moving her to an unoccupied cot.

"What happened?" Dr. Scott asked, ripping her gloves off and changing them for a fresh set not covered in Tex's blood.

"Don't know. She was fine and then she started slurring and went down," Mike answered when Tom didn't seem able to. Instead, he was standing and staring while Dr. Scott performed what Mike recognized as basic field tests. Checking for pupillary response, he guessed that made sense with the head wound, before moving on to searching for other obvious signs of injury.

"Sasha? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Dr. Scott then tore at her vest, untucking her shirt and checking her torso for injuries.

More nothing.

Mike thought he heard her mutter an expletive before she whirled around and grabbed a mobile response cart loaded with supplies. He recognized the next thing too, a blood pressure cuff, and waited with a type of insidiously growing concern for some kind of answer because, in his experience, situations that began this way rarely ended well.

"Jesus Christ!"

Inexplicably, Mike felt Tom go rigid beside him.

"Bertrise! I need four units of blood now!" Rachel yelled while franticly pressing her hands against various places on Sasha's abdomen.

After running clear across the room, Bertrise cried urgently, "We don't have any bags left. Doctor Rios is using them all."

What?

Wide-eyed, Mike began rolling up his sleeve. "Hook me up, Doc."

"No—no you can't," she dismissed, the escalating severity of the situation laced morbidly throughout her tone. She seemed to peer toward Sasha's discarded vest. "You already donated two units to Juan Carlos. If I take anymore from you this soon you're at risk of Hypoxia."

"Use mine." Tom had already finished rolling. "I'm O-neg."

She shook her head in between setting up more equipment and glanced toward the vest again. "Does anyone know her blood type!?"

"O-positive," Tom answered, the words strangely flat. "Why? If she needs blood, just take my damn blood!" He was looming now at the head of the cot, watching Dr. Scott work with a very intense focus.

"You don't understand, Captain!" Mike watched Tom grind his jaw hard, the vein in his neck bulging. "There has to be massive internal bleeding, frankly, I'm shocked that she isn't dead yet, and I can't take that much from a single person. You're one of the few universal donors left who's still eligible, and there were only thirteen of you aboard to begin with. The next time someone else with your type needs blood, you need to be an option. Find me someone who's O-positive! I need at least three!"

"On it—" Mike uttered, running to the internship comms to relay the call. He caught eyes with Tex on the way whose usual go-lucky demeanor was muted in a way that set Mike's already raw nerves on edge. By the time he made it back, Dr. Scott was spreading something across the exposed skin of Sasha's midriff and shooting back more terse responses to Tom's enthusiastic insistence that he be allowed to help.

"Well then, maybe we shouldn't have wasted three units on Neils!"

Shit.

Mike wished she hadn't said that, and he had no idea what came before it. Not because he disagreed—the bastard, as Mike recalled had been O-negative, ironically—but because she had no idea the ramification of insinuating in Tom's mind that Sasha's life was somehow predicated by a decision he'd directly signed off on.

Wolf jogged over, sleeve rolled up. "I'm O-positive."

Mike had never been so thankful for an interruption.

"Bertrise!" Dr. Scott gestured.

"Yes," she answered, rushing forward with the necessary tubing.