an. Review responses below:

Guest 1 I do love a good slow burn, and angsty heartbreak/pining yes, but even I feel bad sometimes and just want them to make out and do happily ever after. Alas, I can't until it's right. You know the mug kind of made me sad too! I think it was how much effort it all took, and it was all ruined within 2 seconds on top of everything else. The letter was for Tom's kids and dad. In the show, he handed it to Mike before they split for the final showdown with the submarine. That's how Sasha knew they had a strong chance of dying. I'm so glad you enjoy the story, I am having fun writing it :).

Guest 2 Thank you, I'm really glad you like that I didn't 'go there' I definitely thought about it, and then thought deeper and decided they wouldn't. Not yet. But, you literally got it perfectly, absolutely nothing would make it impossible to leave and be as you said, unbearable. Bingo on the drove Sasha nuts front! :) I hope the chapter gives you all the answers.

If It Holds You, Erase It

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"Think Commodore's gonna fire on the fleet?" Tex's usual jovial came deadened by the weight of their cumulative situations. They couldn't hear anything yet… fleet should be on them by now.

Danny registered the question but couldn't form an answer, and the reasons all came back to Kara. Since leaving the James, he'd been unable to compartmentalize. Unable to stop thinking about what could happen if they failed. He didn't get to say goodbye. She couldn't leave CIC, and he had duties. Even if he hadn't, Kara was in combat with the Captain, trying to form a strategy. That's where Chandler had run after handing Slattery an envelope. It was this observation made while gearing up that slammed it home for Danny. He'd never seen CO hand over 'the envelope' before.

Every field operator knew what that meant.

"He has to," Danny finally said.

Slattery glanced right from the driver's seat before returning attention to the road. The road that was taking too long. They'd left Burk and Cruz in charge of the assets, the logical choice given Burk's leg. Couldn't leave him solo but took everyone they could. Tex still made the cut despite taking a bullet three days prior. Later, if they survived this mess, Danny would be impressed that a guy his age could bounce back like that.

"He'll figure somethin' out—always does," Slattery muttered.

"If he fires that's a civil war, won't need Ramsey anymore to turn people against us," Wolf chimed from the backseat.

"Think we might already be in one, my friend," Tex said.

Ignoring the chatter which made it impossible to focus, Danny scanned their twelve to six again through the passenger window, his gun primed to cull the first sign of trouble. Could almost feel his finger itching along the trigger well.

"How much longer?" he asked.

There was a pause while Slattery checked their milage. They'd taken one of their RHIBs north along the riverbank, hoping to remain unseen, until they reached a hunting club. A breif review in CIC of their existing satellite imagery showed it was isolated, and offered their best chance of obtaining a working vehicle. Luck, it seemed, prevailed. They'd encountered survivors. A small group who'd been about to traverse river into Vicksburg for the cure.

"Eight miles," Mike answered.

Danny's teeth clenched hard until he felt it in his temples. There really was no plan once they made it. Just point, shoot and win. Maybe even distract long enough for Nathan James to get within five-inch range… but that still didn't solve the fleet.

The silence on his bridge echoed and screamed. The only sound, Val's fingers hammering maniacally on a laptop keyboard. It had been her idea to spoof their location, insinuate they'd remained hidden in the ass after Michener's initial broadcast, intending to monitor the fleet's movement before setting course to Vicksburg. Val was broadcasting the message through the Deadman network, posed as an immune who'd spotted them downriver, behind the fleet's current position. Tom had been quick to concede—however farfetched a longshot—that this was a better idea than any he could muster to claw Slattery whatever precious seconds they could.

They just needed more time.

"Sir, it's working—CIC said the fleet's stopped moving," Granderson said.

Tom snapped his head toward his lieutenant and then retrieved the internship phone. "T.A.O, how far are they?"

"Just inside a mile, sir." Foster paused. "They should be able to see us on radar… the only reason they don't have a visual is because of the river bend."

He'd been pondering that detail since the moment Val presented her idea; something in his gut was singing. The fleet had been within range for over thirty minutes, even by commercial-grade standards. The idea that not one of those boats had radar didn't work for Tom. Yes, they were civilians, but so were folks like his dad. Making assumptions about their strategic competence was futile.

None of it added up.

Ruminating and scrutinizing while he peered with narrowed eyes across the water, Tom clutched the phone tighter in his hand. "That's what's bothering me," he finally conceded to his T.A.O.

Granderson's features descended into a frown. She held her hand against her headset, listening. "Sir, we're being hailed over Navy Red. It—it sounds like Ramsey."

His Master Chief peered with foreboding, manning the port side in XO Slattery's absence. While exhaling, Tom slammed down the phone and moved toward Navy Red.

"Put it on speaker," he told Granderson before answering the call.

"Aye, sir."

A voice came before he could announce himself.

"Ello Tommy."

The crew reacted, silent, but the exchange of looks seemed to bounce in their cacophony. Adrenaline spiked to a peak, a fast, sharp rip of energy beneath his ribs. "Ramsey." It was almost growled.

From his eyes corner, he caught Val scramble, squinted in question before understanding her play. He may not like her, but this was the second option he'd failed to consider, and now? Now she had his respect.

"I take it you lost a submarine?" Tom deadpanned. Even knowing he hadn't met his goal of killing Sean Ramsey, concluding he'd bested the sub, still yielded an intense satisfaction. A satisfaction shining from Jeter's expression.

"Got to admit, it was a good plan, but you forgot the most important part."

"And what's that?"

"I don't need to be alive to win. You see, there are far more of us than there are you, and what I have set into motion, cannot be undone. I've been chosen, Tommy. This is my calling, my destiny."

It seemed to crawl down his spine, the statement so similar to the words spoken by his Master Chief that for a moment, Tom became a spectator. Washed and floundering beneath unsettling disorientation akin to déjà vu, but it wasn't that. Tom didn't know what this was, and he found himself staring at Russ.

"And I see you've taken anotha one of my protegees—she's very clever, that gal Val—int' she?"

Leaving Russ' gaze, Chandler slid his toward Val. She nodded once; brown eyes engaged and intense.

"So why have you stopped? If you know we're not down-river, why haven't you come around the bend?"

"Cause I wanna make a deal."

There was a ripple, it traveled the bridge, amplifying his disbelief. "What do you want?"

"Oh, I 'fink you know that, Tommy. The people want their President back."

Tom waited.

"You hand over Michener, and we'll stand down—you're free to go upriver wiv your cure."

"I thought you didn't want us to spread the cure," Tom drawled.

"Nah, it don't matta how many people you save. There's more to runnin' a country than having a cure. I 'fink you've seen that now."

"So what? You plan to shoot them? Like you did on the beach? Plant some more mines? Use us to round up every nonimmune so you can come in and kill them while they get the cure?"

"Well—we've got lots 'a uniforms now, don't we? Your bases are all but abandoned. I like that about America. You always leave your toys behind—never know, do ya?"

Tom bit down, and Val stopped recording, wrenching the phone down to connect and upload the video.

Just a little more time.

Tom rolled his jaw, trying to control the energy coursing his veins. "What assurances can you give me?"

"We'll meet. Somewhere between us, I'll even let you pick the place—just you, me, and Jeffrey."

"I'll have a location in thirty minutes."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty. He's not gonna come willingly."

There was a pause. "Twenty minutes."

Tom slammed the handset, looked to Val, and nodded. She jammed her finger against a key, disseminating the recording over the network.

"Play it on the emergency broadcast, too," Tom commanded.

Rolling her head, Val continued typing. "Please, don't insult me. Already on it."

With haste, Tom returned to the internship phone. "T.A.O, ready the five-inch, all crew-served weapons, and CWIS—at least one of those vessels is about to advance on us, but if our plan works… you should be able to hear the fleet separate."

They'd ditched the Jeep a quarter mile from the target after debating whether to go in guns blazing or attempt a clandestine approach. Ultimately, they'd concluded the likelihood Ramsey's men would shoot them dead was too great, and they were far outnumbered, so their best chance was to pick several off.

"I count eight on this side," Green whispered while peering through binoculars. "I recognize some of them from Solace."

"Great," Tex drawled.

Mike hissed in some air through his teeth and readjusted his rifle. "Alright, here's the plan—"

"Wait—something's happening, they're looking at their phones," Green interrupted, urgency steeped in his tone.

Frowning, Mike gestured with his hand for the binoculars, which Green surrendered. There was a noise in the back of Mike's throat. "Whatever it is, they don't look so happy about it."

"Commodore."

Bobbing his head affirmatively, Mike lowered the binoculars and returned them to Green before glancing to both Tex and Wolf. "Plan's simple. Win."

They split into formation and began the approach, boots swift and near-silent. Traversed the distance, camouflaged by trees. The plan progressed well until a bullet flew just shy of Wolf's head; clandestine, descended into chaos. Ramsey's men yelled orders over the sound of gunfire, orders to secure their weapon and drive south until they saw Nathan James upon the horizon. Danny would die before that happened. Bursting from his cover, he threw himself to the ground and rolled, spattering nine-mils at the feet and ankles of three mercenaries, before standing and shooting through their skulls. A stray round hit him center chest, punching the air from his lungs but stopped by the metal plate in his vest. Enough to make him fall hard, though.

"Green!" Mike hollered.

Though unable to speak, and struggling to breathe, Danny threw up a signal that he was okay. His XO didn't hesitate, pressing toward the flat bed containing the ship killer while firing at Ramsey's men. On the ground, Danny felt his back itching under the knowledge of being exposed. There was no one at his six. Both Tex and Wolf were dropping men and covering Slattery's hail Mary dash toward the rocket launcher. Panic bloomed, but he stamped it down, focusing on willing movement into his arms so he could at least aim and shoot his damn rifle, but the lack of oxygen made it hard. Close to impossible.

Slattery cried out, and after chasing wildly with his eyes, Danny saw red seep through the sleeve of his left upper arm. That was a problem in itself, but time only slowed to a crawl when Danny registered another truck pulling up. Tex started firing upon it but was quickly forced to withdraw behind a different vehicle; Wolf was pinned back too. Ten more men hopped out of both the cabin and the pickup-bed, and one of them was headed straight to him.

He still couldn't move. His arms weren't complying. The man was coming closer, and in those seconds, Danny accepted it. Let the sounds drift until there was nothing but tinnitus and white.

"Green!" Tex yelled.

Danny heard it somewhere peripherally, but his eyes were closed now. He was picturing Kara's face; the smile that she wore, the softness of her hair and skin, the swell of her belly in moments they stole. The last time he'd kissed her was three days ago, when they'd clawed away five minutes in a supply room, and she'd let it go. Cheeks wet, hands shaking when she admitted how scared she'd been. Danny hated making her cry. His kiss was desperate and ragged, a response to his own fear that she'd been blown out of the water when Nathan James betrayed their location. It never mattered before, whether there existed a heaven or hell, not to him—but now he needed another chance. He needed there to be something else after this if only to see Kara and their child again.

The boots stopped short of his head, and though Danny kept his eyes closed, he'd done this hundreds of times. Executed an enemy up close while they lay stunned on the ground. Imagined the man verifying his status, checking the vest, and then pointing the rifle toward his head.

Danny heard the shot. It rang so loud and so close he'd have issues hearing for days—except dead people couldn't hear. He snapped open his eyes, frowning when he realized neither Tex, Wolf, or Slattery were in position to do that, and yet he was staring at the body of Ramsey's man. Then came more bullets, firing from his six, all dropping Ramsey's guys, and providing enough distraction for Wolf to get unpinned and start helping.

The hell?

Finally, Danny had movement, enough to roll in search of the source.

It was people. Survivors. Regular everyday Americans, no more than a dozen of them, firing at the immunes. He could have cried, and it hit from nowhere. Never felt so overwhelmed with pride and soaring hope on a battlefield before, not like this. Not on home soil when he had everything for which to live.

"CIC, Bridge—sir, the fleets separating." Kara registered it within her tone, the part where she couldn't yet believe they were still floating.

"How many?" Chandler's voice rang in her ear.

"Three, proceeding upriver."

She caught eyes with Mason. The Ensign had come into his own during their mission, but Kara was reminded in moments such as these that he was still green. Nathan James was his first commission, and he hadn't yet mastered the skill of keeping emotions shielded beneath inflexible stoicism. Not completely. In a word, he looked exactly as she felt; suffocating beneath the vice of anxiety while they waited for instruction.

"Get ready to fire on my mark."

It pulsed like a jolt through Kara's veins, stilting her response for a second. "T.A.O, ready, aye."

She could feel her hands shaking. They were really going to do this, fire on their own people. Pressing her lips tight, she forced the air to come through her nose, controlling the pace of her intakes. They had no other choice, not until Cobra radioed in over HF.

Swallowing, Kara clenched her teeth and blinked away the sheen in her gaze.

"On me!" Green yelled, gesturing for the civilians to follow. He drew them in a general formation, one solid line encroaching, and pushing back Ramsey's men behind pickups, giving Slattery enough time to approach the soldier protecting the rocket launcher. He was a big man, taller than Slattery's six-foot-five by at least two inches. Danny wanted to shoot, but he wasn't in a position to, none of them were, and now Slattery and the man had each lost their weapons and were engaged in fist-to-fist combat.

He thought Tex hollered, some kind of elation, but couldn't make out the words above the gunfire. Danny got it, though.

They were winning.

Ramsey's men were retreating, breaking their ranks, and dropping left and right. Danny counted three left, one of which was hidden behind a red truck.

"Wolf, cover me!"

Dashing across the small dirt clearing, Danny went low to the ground again, shooting beneath the truck's clearance until he heard the unmistakable impact, shortly followed by a yelp. Righting himself, he approached, landing two shots clean through the soldier's head before he'd recovered enough facilities to pull his own trigger.

"Clear!" Tex called.

With his rifle still trained at the soldier's skull, Danny moved swiftly to kick away the weapon clutched in his hands. As soon as it was safe, he scanned the clearing, checking bodies dotted along the ground, before relaxing his stance.

"Clear," he confirmed.

Wolf was next, Slattery shortly after until they were each gathered in the center, winded and staring at the civilians in sheer disbelief. A man stepped forward. Danny figured he was in his mid to late thirties. He was unkempt, but everyone was, clothes soiled by dirt, beard thick but kind of scratchy and sparse in some areas. He wore a hat with no acronym, but his trigger discipline, confidence, and air of authority gave Danny the impression he'd served.

The man extended a hand in their general direction. "Paul Shemanski. D.I.A, or what's left of it. Former Marine; served two tours in Iraq before switching."

Stunned, Danny thrust his hand out, exchanging a firm but lingering hold. "Lieutenant Danny Green, Navy SEAL."

Something shone from Shemanski's eyes. "You're with the Nathan James."

Slattery shifted his weapon, a task made difficult without the full use of one arm. "XO Slattery," he too shook Shemanski's hand. "Never been happier to see D.I.A in my life."

While Slattery introduced both Tex and Wolf to Shemanski, Danny toggled the radio on his vest.

"Nathan James, Cobra Team. The threat has been neutralized, I say again, threat neutralized." The few moments where nothing but static rang true were his longest to date.

"Copy, Cobra. Stand by."

He tried to bite back the frustration; Granderson, not Kara.

The desire to react prematurely coursed through Tom's system upon hearing confirmation of Cobra's success. The three vessels approaching prevented that. The question of why Ramsey would be insane enough to think he could sink Nathan James with three fishing boats. Sean had to know their ship killer was gone. HF was unsecured, anyone bothering to listen would hear it. Or maybe this was the point now. Sean Ramsey wanted to make himself a martyr. Perhaps he saw this as his defining moment and believed it would solidify others' commitment to his cause. Either way, there was only one outcome.

Gripping the phone, he spoke. "T.A.O—"

Kara interrupted, "Sir, the rest of the fleet is moving. They're coming upriver."

Squinting, Tom examined it. Considering and testing every viable option; they'd failed to see the video, they'd seen it and didn't care, or they'd seen it and were on the right side. He sat with it for several seconds, weighing against tangibles and then something else. The thing. That thing he kept trusting which led them this far. That thing which had blown wind on a dead day and saved their lives.

"Hold your fire," he instructed, and then took the phone away from his ear. "OOD, do our Watchmen have a visual?"

Granderson relayed instruction via headset. "They're rounding the bend now, sir."

After considering it for another second, Tom put down the internship handset and grabbed binoculars, pacing with assured strides toward the bridge wing which offered a view of their aft. Beside him, the Master Chief joined and then mirrored his stance. The minutes dragged like hours until the trailing boats came into view; chasing the three lead vessels, and it wasn't until an RPG rocketed toward the center formation that Tom knew.

Ripping the binoculars down, Chandler strode back into the pilot house and took up the internship phone. "T.A.O, fire the five-inch on the lead vessels on my mark."

"T.A.O, ready, aye," Foster answered.

"Fire!"

The shots rang out, and Tom waited, counting the seconds until Foster relayed confirmation.

"Sir, targets confirmed neutralized." He inhaled; free fist clenched while he stamped down his triumph. "The rest of the fleet has stopped."

"Sir, we're being hailed over channel sixteen," Granderson said.

Tom blinked, calmly replacing the phone, and moving toward the open channel radio, intensely aware of every set of eyes watching him. Val. Granderson. Master Chief. Gator.

He raised the radio, peering out across the water. "This is Captain Thomas Chandler of the USS Nathan James. To whom am I speaking?"

There was a brief pause.

"Uh, my—my name's Jim. Jim Lambert. I'm, I'm from Louisiana—" the man's southern accent drawled, unsteady and unsure. "Sir, we're real sorry—we—we didn't know! We shot at the boats Ramsey took, but ya'll have finished it now, him and the men he came with, they're dead, but the rest of us, I swear it, we ain't like them—"

"Listen, Jim." Tom interrupted. "All that matters now is that we're on the same side and that you know the truth. We will not fire on you. In fact, you're more than welcome to follow our approach into Vicksburg. We have plenty of cure, and I'm sure there are many members of this crew who'd like to shake hands with you personally, for your bravery." The Master Chief smiled and gave a single nod. "Including myself, and President Michener."

Another brief lull.

"Ye—yes, sir. Thank you, sir. We'll do that."

Setting down the handset, Tom faced his sailors, quietly basking while shock morphed into undeniable restitution and dare he say hope. In silence, he approached a different communications handset, one attached to the rear hull, pausing for a moment to will the still of his heart before addressing the wider ship.

"Attention all hands, this is your Captain." He waited. "Sean Ramsey is dead. The immunes upriver have been neutralized, and the fleet of New Orleans is on our side. They will accompany us as we make port in Vicksburg, where we will disembark and distribute the cure as planned. Today is a good day. Today we won. That is all."

He set the phone down and pivoted toward Granderson. "Bring our assets back and relay the message to Cobra. We'll pick them up on the way."

Duty kept Tom occupied for close to two hours. The need to brief Michener and create a subsequent broadcast to assure the survivors in Vicksburg of Nathan James' forthcoming, but delayed approach, his primary objective. Then they'd devised a plan to ensure the ship killer was secured. XO Slattery would return in their second RHIB, while Cobra, led by Green, would transport the ordnance across bridge, where their crew would load it during the stop.

Upon docking, he'd disembarked, escorting Michener and their scientists personally. Shook hands with Jim Lambert, a man in his late fifties who owned a small trawling business out of Gulfport. Met with the survivors of the New Orleans fleet while Slattery held command over Nathan James. Satisfied after verifying himself that for now, Vicksburg was secure, and set Tex free. Let him go with a firm handshake and the burning desire that Tex would find his girl.

Desire for someone to find something. Hoped that spinning PR and solving logistics would remain the largest of their headaches and not more immunes. At the very least, the experience of not one, but two civilian groups helping turn the tide had spread through the crew and lifted their weary spirits. An energy and cautious belief he hoped would stay—even if just for a few hours.

They needed this.

Needed to believe that America, home, the immovable spirit still lived in defiance of their darkest time.

The lack of personnel milling their halls reminded Tom of Norfolk, so used to being constantly surrounded, that it felt empty. Chung had coped best, which Tom atrributed to always being several steps removed from the direct fight. Chung was used to being looped in after the fact, but Ravit had struggled. Didn't communicate overtly when he'd inquired, but he could tell by the tension rested only after confirming their ground teams were secure. He'd suppressed his amusement over the careful avoidance; how she never asked after Burk directly. Being on the other side, certain behaviors were glaringly obvious when subject to the same tricks he liked to employ.

And now he was back. Hesitating and hovering before his cabin. The gravity hadn't stopped ripping him since; felt it upon his bridge. Felt it standing on solid ground, and while Sasha, like everyone, knew the imminent threat was eliminated, Tom couldn't imagine the headspace he'd be in were their situations reversed. Funny, how he'd wanted to stay, and now felt scared to know. She was propped against the wall in his bed cabin when he stepped through. Back straight, supported by pillows and legs outstretched. Unbidden, he noted it was a position he often took, though he figured it was more comfortable with the ability to slouch.

She stopped picking at the hem of his sweater and drew her focus to him. He closed the door and stepped forward slowly. Buying precious seconds, knowing he needed to break yet another of her verbally defined parameters.

"Are you alright?"

Her cheeks hollowed, and she dropped eye contact, pulling at the thread again. "Well, we're not dead."

"No. We're not."

Her brows softly rose. "So I can leave this bed now?"

There was a lull where he didn't respond. Long enough that Sasha was forced to peer upward. "For now. Our ground teams are distributing the cure. We'll be in port for the next five hours."

The information hung between them, and she only nodded in response. With a gentle sigh, he moved closer, until he was just beyond the threshold, beside the edge of his corner desk.

"You didn't answer my question," he spoke softly.

He could see she'd unraveled part of the hem, and that should annoy him because he liked that sweater, and packed precisely one, but it didn't.

"Because I don't know the answer." As close to a mumble as Sasha would get.

It took Tom a moment to process which part made it profound before pinpointing honesty. Honesty where he'd expected a well-rehearsed deflection. Her eyes were back, piercing, and inscrutable.

"Are you?" she countered. Low and burgeoning for the same in return.

Damn. He paused over the thought, trying to remember the last time anyone asked. His first inclination said not since June 4th, but that was untrue. No one had asked on a personal level since his mother died. Never had reason to. Sure, Mike had encroached upon it after Baltimore, but in the same way he'd never asked if Mike was 'alright' following Lucas, his best friend had done the same. Not because he didn't care, but because processing wasn't the priority.

Distraction and focus were.

Inquiring if he was 'fried' like Green, Burk, and Cruz was a very different question from the one Sasha posed, and he no longer had an easy deflection. Back then, he'd used his family.

"I can't process that. Not yet."

It still confused him that a single blink could contain an entire conversation, and then registered fast that he couldn't continue standing there, maintaining eye contact with her. If he did, he'd crack. Sweeping her form a final time, he inhaled and turned, intending to visit with Garnett to address their dwindling fuel. Almost made it when her voice closed the distance. So close it felt as though the words brushed against his neck though she hadn't moved.

"Did you regret it?" There was a beat. "Not kissing me?"

Tom stalled; palm closed around the handle. Another choice. One he could exploit to push her away, claw back some control, and yet the one thing he'd never done—and refused to start—was lie to her.

"Every second."

What he could do, however, was not wait for the answer. She'd understand why; she always did. They couldn't have more of these conversations.

Not yet.

Not until his duty was done.