an. Guest review responses below:
References: Ha, kind of all of it? The biggest ones are the hug in Chapter 9: 'White Flag', the moment in Chapter 22: 'If It Haunts You, Face It', and the botched mission Sasha discussed in Chapter 32: 'Will We Be Soldiers Left On The Floor?'
Guest 1 *Big smile* escalated quickly is a great way to put it. I can't give a usual in-depth response on most of it without spoiling the rest of this chapter, which I think you'll see after reading. As always, thanks so much for taking the time to comment. I do really love hearing your thoughts. I'm really glad the weight of those lines worked. I think Jed knows enough (despite not knowing about the baby) to see that there's a lot more going on than simply their difficult history. I'm sure he'd love nothing more than for his son to get the love of his life back, but I do also think he respects and identifies that Sasha's purpose in life isn't to do what benefits his son. I hope his comment came across as balanced. RE: timeline, yes! I think the injury was a double-edged sword; it set her back, but also forced to confront losing the baby, versus doing everything to ignore it, and thus in the long term, she'll end up healthier.
Guest 2 Your review is so nice, and I also re-read it several times. It always makes me feel like I've done something good if it earns rereads. Sasha and Tom obviously sparked my interest, otherwise, I wouldn't have written this much about them (LOL), but I have to agree, though, I also really liked Kara and Danny. Seasons 4 and 5 were ruined. All my Tom Sasha love grew from Season 3. They do have all the issues on the planet in this fic, but when you're that in tune on a baser level, I'm still shipping the crap out of it. Them understanding each other with so few words in Season 3 was my favorite. Also, the whole 'I have a soft spot for you that's never been a secret' revelation. I hope you enjoy the chapter, it's a big one!
Two Riders Were Approaching
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Naval Station Norfolk—Norfolk, Virginia
"What happened?" Mike asked.
Tom was on a warpath, his TAC vest ripped with vigor and dumped on a ready table. "We were swarmed by civilians looking for cure." And then, in a rare crack of composure, it was no longer his CNO addressing him, but Tom. "This is out-of-control, Mike." He paced. "We almost had to shoot those people to get out of there!"
Next, Tom removed the holster from his thigh, though the sidearm was missing. Several feet removed, Mike watched Green disembark with Sasha, and there was something about that. How rigid Green was, and her sickly pallor, that ushered thoughts of Nicaragua.
"I thought recon cleared that area!"
"They did," came Mike's flat reply.
Sasha's movements were slower. Removing the duffel she carried elicited a small grimace. So too, discarding her vest—though not before taking something from its inner pocket.
"What's the status on the other teams?"
Mike returned partial attention to Tom. "All clear as of last check-in."
Figured out where Tom's missing sidearm was. Nor did he miss Sasha's tremor when removing the clip and clearing the chamber. It appeared an internal debate occurred before she approached, and when before them, Tom's restless pacing stilled.
"That many people can't come from nowhere. We had eyes on that entire block. We would have seen them leaving buildings..."
In Mike's opinion, she sounded off—like someone had recently strangled her—but the anecdote sparked a thought. "What if they were underground? Hiding. Like Baltimore?"
Two sets of blue eyes landed on him, unblinking.
"Team at the Pentagon's the closest," Tom spoke, but Mike was already on the balls of his feet, striding toward the crates serving as a communications center.
The Pentagon—Arlington, Virginia
"Copy that," Pablo said, removing his forefinger from the radio button. "Nolan."
Tex inclined his head, approaching from behind a desk. The place was a fucking mess. Picked through, desks turned, piled with dust, power out.
"We're going across river," Pablo announced, ripping every branded Velcro patch from his vest. For Tex, not a problem. The guy still preferred his Carhartts and Henleys to BDUs. Next, Pablo removed the jacket, discarding it across the chair, leaving him in a nondescript black turtleneck.
"Let's go."
Naval Station Norfolk—Norfolk, Virginia
Forty-five minutes. That's how long Sasha figured it would take Pablo and Tex to traverse three miles on foot. Arms folded tight against her chest, she alternated between listening and zoning out. Tom was connected with St. Louis, trying to locate more cure. Judging by the tendons in his neck, the answer wasn't favorable. Mike employed a different tack—instructing over open channel that those seeking cure should head south toward Norfolk—increase their chances of exposure.
The hanger was drafty, super-cooling the panicky sweat that clammed her skin. She should probably change clothes—or at least procure a thermal blanket. This was a recipe for hypothermia, and despite aggressively pushing forward, she wasn't stupid. There was no finding Jesse if she got herself bedridden again. While traversing the generous space, Sasha couldn't decide if she felt or saw Tom's lightning-fast shift of focus after reaching Rios, who waited on standby. Somehow, that spot on her thigh tingled from his touch.
"Anything?" Mike asked, replacing the radio in its holster.
Tom, who'd kept one side of the headset askew from his right ear, shook his head.
Damnit. Production from Hawaii lagged by two weeks. The Panama Canal was non-operational, and aviation fuel reserves were below critical—as in 10-days remaining—until supply from the Gulf came through. Those people were already dead. Mike knew it. Tom knew it. Green knew it… Mike blew out a breath. "Scott finish making that snap test yet?"
Though Tom's gaze never left Sasha, he answered, "Prototype seems to be working. Might stretch the doses an extra day."
"Not enough."
"No," Tom replied flat.
Mike processed. "What about the whole hereditary thing?"
There was something in the way Tom's jaw bulged like he'd bitten down that pinged Mike's radar. Finally, Tom drew focus away from Rios and Sasha, throwing a side-eyed glance. "Apparently, it's more complex than we thought. Said enough people came forward to suggest it's possible—but it would have to skip generations, and some people are only partially immune… she still needs to figure out what type of chromosome or… thing in the DNA…" his face scrunched dismissively, "I don't know, Mike, most of it went over my head. The bottom line is she needs more samples, and they've gotta come from someone who's immune with blood relatives that she can test too." He paused. "Once she has that, we'll know." Again, he paused. "If it is, she estimates the chance of passing it on is closer to one in four."
Twenty-five percent. Mike wasn't good enough with math to figure out on the fly what that meant for Hannah and Lizzy if either he or Christine turned out immune, with Lucas not, but it still felt like torturous hope. "She ask to test the crew?"
Tom's affirmative nod was stiff. "I already took it."
His eyes narrowed with keen interest. "Are you?"
"No."
Mike swallowed. Darien, Jed, Ashley, Sam. All sick. Lowered the odds that any of his siblings might be immune. Not like they could get samples from Cathy or Tom's grandparents either… damn, now that Mike thought it through, he understood why this wasn't straightforward as he'd assumed.
"Anyone else volunteer?"
"Close to ninety percent of who's left." Tom lowered his chin, studying his boots for a moment before returning to watching Sasha. "I told Scott to keep the results sealed and participants confidential. If anyone wants to share, they can, but I don't think that's really anyone's business."
Mike stuffed his hands into pockets. Squinting, he scanned the hangar. Green was sitting on a crate, features drawn, picking over his weapon meticulously, while Sasha was now perched on a field cot wrapped in a metallic blanket. "Smart call," he offered. "Can't exactly decide myself if I'd rather know, or—" he switched track. "Don't need another reason for people to divide."
This time, Tom pivoted his head and gave undivided attention. Didn't verbalize anything, but Mike saw enough to read the unspoken. The ramifications of knowing definitively how slim Hannah and Lizzy's chances were. Damn. Lately, when Mike least expected it, he'd get railed by memories. Each time, the howling loss seemed harder to withstand, and it roared like a blowtorch behind his eyes. Clearing his throat, and averting attention, Mike bit hard on his lower lip, watching absently the sky covered in thin soulless cloud.
Upon the cot, Sasha's shivering hadn't eased. It made the blanket crinkle whenever a particularly violent spasm hit. She began picking at a nail, comprehending the déjà vu over sitting in a hangar, surrounded by the smell of jet fuel and metal, wracked with tremors, realizing there was exactly one person who mattered in that moment. Could it really be so simple? If she just stopped trying to fight what had always been true, maybe, just maybe, she'd find a place again? Almost as rapidly, guilt shamed her, and fear ridiculed the audacity of hope.
His boots loomed, but they stayed at least six feet away. She made a soft sound between a scoff and breathy laugh and looked up. "It's a little late for that, Tom. I just spent forty minutes breathing recycled air with twenty-seven other people who waded through that crowd."
His features tightened.
"If I'm going to catch something, I've already got it."
This time, briefly, Tom's eyes clenched shut, and then he seethed, peering to his left at Rios, who'd graciously busied himself beyond earshot. "Not necessarily."
"Tom—"
"You don't know what they might have—"
"And neither do you."
He folded his arms, stance squared in a stubborn demonstrative line. "Do you know how many ways you can catch pneumonia? How many different types there are?"
Head now titled, she peered up the solid length of his torso, wearing her confusion. "Why are you fixated on pneumonia?"
"Because it has a fifty percent fatality rate if you're immunocompromised—which you are—and that was before the whole world went to shit!"
"Really?" she brightened her tone sarcastically. "You know, I had no idea that I had a splenectomy? What did you do—memorize every potential complication written in the database?" As the words left, Sasha realized that's precisely what Tom had done.
"So what if I did?"
He was holding her gaze, and while this unfavorable trait of Tom's had always tried her patience, she focused on the why. "It's not going to make a difference," she said softly. "You'll drive yourself insane thinking you can control this. You can't—not anymore, no one can. You're being paranoid. We were sitting right next to each other, and you standing six feet away from me, and trying to convince me to go isolate, is not going to make a difference."
For several seconds, he refused to yield before logic loosened his vexation. "You told Rios how close they were?"
Her slow blink served as affirmation. "Nothing to be done but wait and see."
Now he was sweeping her form visually, errant concern the dominant expression before conceding with a sigh. Unfolding his arms, Tom bridged the space until crouched before her. "Is that what it was like?" The question was quiet.
Sasha studied his hands, which hung loose between his knees, elbows braced against his thighs. He'd removed his gloves, though she couldn't recall when. The desire to hold them flared deeply. "You mean when they were trying to escape that stadium?" The word 'stadium' seemed to catch in her throat.
"Any of it," he breathed.
Once more, she picked at the nail, lips pursed, gaze down. "No." There stretched a silence. "It was worse."
God, why wouldn't the shaking just stop? Almost cracked when Tom stilled her erratic picking, drawing first her left hand into his right, before enclosing the other. Calm descended though her pulse jumped while Tom's thumbs caressed, radiating warmth through her icy extremities. Sasha closed her eyes. If they weren't surrounded by his subordinates, she'd sink into him, just as she'd done on the James. Let him take it all for just a few moments before choosing purpose and continuing on this invisible path she felt compelled to follow. Slowly, Sasha lifted her gaze and held his, comprehending she hadn't allowed herself to do so, so intimately since the Mississippi; stood while he tenderly touched her face, convinced they were saying goodbye. Funny how terrible memories could also be good ones.
"I think I'm screwed up, Tom," she muttered.
There was only patient understanding in return. Steady comfort. "I don't know how you wouldn't be, Sash," he murmured. "But that doesn't mean we can't fix it."
Approaching the Archives south from Maddison Drive—the street which offered the most cover by way of abandoned cars—Pablo spotted movement and held up a fist. Behind him, Tex froze, waiting while Pablo then splayed his palm before closing it again, repeating the signal three times over.
Fifteen.
Holy mother of shit. Catching Pablo's eye, Tex nodded a stiff affirmative, then banked left to join him behind an SUV. Probably a nice vehicle when not covered by months of dirt. Now low, Tex could see them too. Immunes. Dressed in Navy working uniform, taking to the steps of the Smithsonian Natural History Museum. Careful against creating sound through friction, Tex lowered his rifle and retrieved binoculars. Couldn't say for sure whether he recognized any of their faces, but watched until they congregated around its towering Corinthian pillars in lively discussion before moving inside. Lowering the binoculars, Tex exchanged eye contact with Pablo before they both nodded and moved.
Security appeared low on these immunes' radar. After approaching in stealth, hovering behind the pillars for cover, and peering inside through broken doors, both Pablo and Tex could see no one was manning the groups' six. They were close enough now to catch voices echoing from the cavernous rotunda against the stone and marble surfaces. To see that all fifteen men were gathered in the center of the dome, two of them using the information desk to scale an exhibit. Using the distraction, Tex and Pablo pressed forward, silent, and unnoticed when they slipped through the entrance, then split to hide behind generous stone structures in the hexagonal surrounding corridor.
"Hey man! Look at this shit."
That accent hailed from the south, though the second seemed mid-western when they answered, "You're a sick fuck."
Unable to round the wall without jeopardizing their cover, Tex could only imagine what those dumbasses were doing to the taxidermied elephant anchoring proudly the main entrance.
"Get down."
Adrenaline zipped through Tex's spine. Irish. Unmistakably Irish, and though Pablo was positioned where Tex couldn't see him either, MacDowell was number one on America's most wanted. No damn way he hadn't made the connection too.
"That's not what we came for," MacDowell continued.
"I think it's this way." Another voice Tex didn't recognize followed by several footsteps, loud at first until they echoed, and finally disappeared somewhere into the Museum.
Mike whipped in Tom's direction, who was twenty-five feet removed, sitting beside Sasha.
"They found MacDowell! He's got a team in the Natural History Museum." Mike hadn't finished the sentence before Tom jettisoned from the cot, Sasha not far behind. "There's too many for them to take alone—"
"Pull Bravo from the Pentagon—" Tom ordered.
Mike was already relaying directions to Lt. Damon, the SEAL they'd first encountered in Norfolk nine weeks prior. The flurry of activity drew Green's attention too, who hovered with an anxious energy Mike recognized; one that itched to saddle up. Join the fight but knew logistically it was a non-starter. Following Bravo, Charlie was next closest, east across river, securing data from the Office of Naval Intelligence.
"Who wants to bet MacDowell shipped in those civilians?" Sasha drawled, tone dark.
"The hell they want from the Smithsonian?" Mike ranted; face twisted in disgust. "A god damn Woolly Mammoth?"
Tom stilled, then peered, and raised one eyebrow.
"What?" Mike defended.
Sasha seemed to suppress a smirk and drew the blanket tighter.
Rapidly, Mike looked between them. "This some kind of inside joke?"
"No," Sasha deadpanned, still suppressing a wider grin. "It was just funny."
Tex and Pablo thus far remained successful in tailing MacDowell without detection. They'd reached the second floor, bearing toward the research wing. The door was still sealed, nondescript from the outside, like an elevator with a single access pad requiring keycard to enter. Above the door read a sign: 'Staff Only'. MacDowell had come prepared. He moved aside while one of his men produced a crowbar, and another for leverage. The vast halls remained eerily silent now. The men's chatter abandoned in favor of focus. Pablo glanced at his wristwatch. He'd sent the communication to Command four and a half minutes prior. By now, Bravo should be close to airborne; figured five minutes was enough to load up their rucks and haul out. That wasn't the problem—it was sound. Soon as Bravo spun up only three miles southwest of them, that unmistakable rumble would draw MacDowell's attention.
They needed them behind that door. It was the perfect choke point to hold MacDowell pinned with suppressive fire until Bravo stormed the building. Pablo glanced at Tex; it appeared he'd calculated too. Beneath Pablo's vest, his heart galloped, though the grip on his weapon never tightened.
Cool. Calm. Ready.
That was how to win this game.
"Sirs, Bravo is up and away," a communications specialist on loan from Fort Leonard said.
There was no type of mission Tom hated more than the kind with no visual. The kind where all he could do was listen, wait, and trust the team to execute. To his left, Mike stood squared in parade rest, both hands clasped behind his back. To his right, Sasha, whose shaking had finally eased, and lingering behind them, Green, who shifted occasionally on his feet. In the far distance, the crowd of civilians surrounding base droned. Not a frantic sound, but a steady buzz of activity that reminded Tom of the refugee camps in Bosnia. It had been a long time since he'd thought of that mission.
Over the main secured channel, broadcasting over speaker, the latent static paused for a brief second before delivering Pablo's voice.
"We're taking heavy fire. I repeat, we are taking fire! We have them pinned on the second level by the research center, but we're gonna be out of bullets in less than two minutes!" The communication was heavily interspersed by it.
"Get me the ETA on Bravo," Tom commanded.
The communications specialist relayed, then answered, "Sixty seconds from the landing site, sir."
He heard or perhaps felt, Sasha shift.
Tom grabbed the transmitter. "They'll be down in sixty seconds. Stretch that ammo as long as you can!" For an uncomfortable number of seconds, no answer forth came. Tom hollowed both cheeks.
"Copy—but you tell them to hurry their asses up!" Tex this time.
It was almost enough to break the tension, but one of the black SUVs their personnel used to navigate base had just entered Tom's field of view. It was hauling ass across the chopper field—a large, rectangle concrete area offset from their airstrip, about the size of four football fields, with twenty individual launch decks—and it was coming from the west. To the west were the docks. The docks where Nathan James rested. His concern was echoed by Mike, and they exchanged brief eye contact while the SUV gunned it, skidding to a halt at the edge of the hanger, where Granderson promptly exited.
"Captain Slattery—" she was jogging toward them, flushed and winded, "—I think your wife is on channel sixteen—" she sucked in a breath "—they're stuck in Williamsburg, they're sick, and she doesn't think they can make it—"
Tom snapped around at the waist. "Green!"
But Green was already pulling on a vest, securing a sidearm, Page mirroring the action, and the pilot who a mere hour before had flown them from D.C., was standing at attention, making eye contact, and awaiting the order.
"Deck is green. Do you have enough fuel?" Tom barked.
"Fifty, sixty miles?" the man clarified.
Tom nodded sharply.
"Cuttin' it close, but we've got enough."
Immediately, Tom switched to Mike, and he imagined that's the appearance he'd taken after hearing his father's voice in Baltimore. "Go—take whatever you need. Get the hell outta here!" he directed. The brain, when hard-wired by the indoctrination of military, had a way of operating on autopilot, and that's precisely what Mike did after Tom's terse command pierced his immobile shock.
"Fuck!" Pablo hollered when pain seared through his upper bicep. Around him, muzzle flashes strobed in thick white-out smoke. The result of a stun grenade thrown by Bravo Team when they stormed. It was chaos on steroids, and he hailed more bullets until the expected recoil failed to buck against his shoulder. "I'm out!" he screamed both to everyone and no one in particular, he supposed.
"Me too!" Tex replied. Tex sounded close, but Pablo couldn't see more than an inch from his face without headgear, and when a bullet whizzed and shattered, raining glass above his head, Pablo dove to the ground. This dog fight was on Bravo now. Best he could do was try not to get his skull obliterated.
On either side of a map, Tom's fists were braced against a crate, mind scrambling to solve this equation for Mike. The nearest ground team with doses of cure was crawling the I-70 toward Pittsburg. That was four hundred and thirty miles northwest, and well beyond their current flight range. There were a couple hundred people lining their gates, and yet, the idea of assuming one of them remained contagious with cure, this many days after Nathan James returned to port, was a gamble Tom would never accept. Not for Mike's family. Not for his own.
Behind the communications specialist, Sasha stood chewing her thumb, counting the minutes as they passed with no further updates from Pablo. Her focus was pierced when Tom straightened like he'd discovered some kind of pivotal information, and she tracked his movement.
"Give me the notepad," he told the specialist.
She watched while he scribbled an address, then ripped the page, and went to Granderson. "Lieutenant—I need you to take a team to this location on the fly. Go south on 564, exit south 460, and keep going until you hit Oliver Road. God willing, there's still three doses of cure sittin' on a kitchen counter. Find it. Bring it here. As fast as you can."
"South 564, south 460 to Oliver Road—aye, sir."
"Bravo to command—" Sasha was drawn back from their interaction, though, in her peripheral, she registered Granderson sprint back to the SUV. "Go for command," she answered while Tom returned to her side.
"Package is secure. We took casualties. Most are through and through; they'll need a little patch up, but nothing major," Lt. Damon relayed.
Squeezing her eyes closed, Sasha breathed while tinnitus dulled Tom's response to no more than familiar baritone. It seemed to vibrate around her while relief overwhelmed, and the sickly dry aftertaste of adrenaline launched beyond control soured her tongue. And then, against her lower back through the blanket, she registered a touch. A hand. Tom's hand and she lifted her chin. Found his gaze—softer than it should have been.
Again, she allowed herself to bask in it; spread something different, yet achingly familiar.
Andrew would tell her to stop punishing herself. Would want nothing more than for her to find peace—but she was the only one left in this quadrangle of spouses that couldn't seem to accept. Didn't know how to forgive her mistakes… yet something tantalizingly close to hope began screaming at her to try.