"Captain, CNO, Shackleton is gone. No longer responding to hails. Not visible on radar." Gator announced.
Tom felt sick to his stomach—two of their ships were sinking to the ocean's bottom. They'd been played. His ears were still ringing from the blast, the tinnitus dulling the crew's sounds as they struggled to make sense of the mess.
Ultimately, this was his responsibility. Shackleton and Hayward were there on his command. Six hundred-plus sailors ambushed, excluding his own crew. He looked around the room, surveying the damage in the absence of imminent danger. Mike looked ok, a few scratches like himself but nothing life-threatening. Garnett was bleeding, looked like her eardrums had blown out. Gator was fine. Sasha… felt the arrhythmic pulse of his heart. He went to her; she was hunched over a console. She was in pain. Tom's gut coiled.
"You're bleeding," he informed. Heard the edge in his voice. Unable to stop himself, Tom reached out to inspect the cut on her forehead. Brushing back the hair that covered her right temple.
She tried to swat his hand away—"I'm fine"—but he grabbed it gently.
"Your hand," he warned, turning it over and brushing the skin.
Warm. His hands were so warm, how the hell had she forgotten that?
"I'm okay—just a scratch," she assured him. Looking up and imploring with her eyes to trust that she would seek medical attention where appropriate. It could have been much worse. No doubt she'd be bruised and sore by morning. Rib a little tender having been thrown back and slammed into a metal corner, but she'd live. There was something though, something deeply fearful lurking in the depths of his blue when he looked her up and down a few more times before nodding almost imperceptibly. Forcing himself to let her go.
Cold. She felt cold again.
"Sir, your head," Rios said, handing him some gauze before moving toward Sasha to look at her wound. Tom took the gauze and wiped the blood clean in one quick pass and settled against a console.
Six-hundred men.
And her.
He felt her eyes on him and glanced over. Observed while Doc Rios bandaged that hand, and she held gauze to her temple.
He was playing Russian Roulette with her life.
How many blanks left in the chamber, Tom?
Six-hundred men.