Tom Chandler had walked away.
He left.
Not three weeks prior, he'd stood on this very ship and spoken of his commitment to their cause. The nation. To his crew.
He didn't look back.
Sasha ground her jaw hard enough to ache. Shock seemed too pale 'a descriptor. This was so potent it simply numbed. A week ago, he'd been inside her. A week ago, she'd found a home. Three hours ago, he'd kissed her—but it was different.
Goodbye.
And now that she analyzed, she saw it clearly.
There had been no commitment.
Not to her.
And she'd been a fool.
"Cooper?"
Was she here? On the spot at the rails?
Did the wind still tease her hair as it had—with her hands stuffed firm into pockets and the taste of Tom in her mouth?
She was here, but Tom wasn't.
The man behind her, a big man, Captain Slattery, hovered. No words of wisdom or comfort to share with this woman, these sailors, nor himself. Instead, he straightened and took the pressure—accepted the gauntlet of filling immortal shoes. This was his ship now. Even before, it had never felt quite his, like she was borrowed and misfit, molded and worn to another's feet.
"Listen, I uh… I know you cared about him—"
"Please don't." Detached. Aloof.
Inky sky framed her silhouette, shrouded darkness befitting of her. Truth was, he'd never quite known what to make of Sasha Cooper. When he'd learned of the fact she was a spook, it had perfectly fit. She reminded him of a cat, not the house kind, the predators. Sly, entrappingly graceful. Cold but sweet, often too bold but also discreet. None of those things should work together, and he saw in the hole that was Tom Chandler's exit that his trust had been in him, and not her. Technically, she was not part of his crew. Technically, she wasn't even US Navy anymore. Still, he'd take steed of this charge out of loyalty to Tom.
"There's still time—if you wanna go after him."
Oh she sliced like a knife when she turned, lips thin in a line that puckered the straight shadow of that scar. Such an eviscerating look could never come from Darien, and yet that's what she'd been to Tom—at some point—in his life. Mike understood that enough to try, even if he couldn't reconcile how different they were.
"He made his choice."
She walked with dexterity past him, slipped by and away with a visible sting.
We need you, Tom.
Kathleen hadn't stopped crying for days, and Sasha just… couldn't understand why he'd left without saying anything to her.
Nothing.
Deep in the hollow, it occurred that he wasn't going to try.
It shocked her brain.
Surfaced things buried so deep it felt like her body was fractured and she couldn't respond.
There was no concept of time while she lay on the mattress they'd shared, consumed by intrinsic dread. That what she thought had just happened was in fact true.
Tom had left them for good.
One month later.
In his hand, Mike held documents: the will of his Commander-in-Chief. A full-pardon and reinstatement order awaiting Captain Thomas William Chandler's return. Identical copies lay with every authority left in the fleet. A small and dwindling fleet. Soon, Mike assumed, they'd hear from Tom. A month had passed, enough to slow down and settle the kids, begin processing the immense and complex grief the remnants of man collectively held.
Russ agreed.
Sometimes they talked about it. The pulse of the crew—coping—hopeful that Chandler would check in soon.
Cooper was something else, though. Least Rios did enough to get her out of that stateroom, but her new form of existing drew concern. Relentless to the point of obsession at filling each second with duty and mission, but he could see it. A slow living death made apparent in the gauntness of her cheeks and dark hollow beneath her eyes. The way she looked at the seat left open like a missing man table in the wardroom, and Mike wondered how long it would take before any of the crew or himself felt comfortable sitting in it again.
What she might do when that day finally came.
It's what finally pushed Mike past the barrier of respecting Tom's wishes, and his own instruction not to look back; put feelers out across the states with every contact left at his disposal—if anyone glimpsed Tom Chandler—he needed to know.
Three months later.
Nothing.
Not a goddamned thing from anyone about Tom.
It was easy for the ones who hadn't been close, they'd simply moved on. But there were still some holding out hope, and doubt was spread insidiously through Mike's p-ways. Scuttlebutt surfaced many a theory, burgeoning resentment, concerns… and Mike himself kept hopping between attributing the cause of Tom's complete radio silence. Either Tom was truly that broken, or something had happened to them. Both were equally suppressive, but every day Mike's fear was growing after he considered that Shaw had been working for someone else.
Cooper was topside again in the middle of the night.
Same damn spot.
Didn't think he'd seen her do anything but go through the motions for months, and certainly hadn't spoken Tom's name, or engaged in personal conversation with anyone on the James. The ship sliced at optimal speed through the gulf. Carrying supplies from West to East for their bases—providing defense of their seas from South American pirates intent on stealing food and weapons from civilian cargo ships—that was the mission now. Hold and reestablish the worldly power of the United States.
"He told me about you before, you know—" Mike stopped behind her "—about four years ago now."
She remained statuesque and silent.
"I asked him one night if he'd ever thought about leaving the Navy. Shoulda seen his face. I thought he only looked that way about Darien—but he looked that way about you too."
The way her head slowly pivoted until her profile became visible and the glance of her eyes through peripheral drew nerves uncharacteristic of him.
"Listen, I uh—I don't know what happened between you. Then or now. But you should know I'm here if you ever need to talk—and I think you might be the last person left who can understand how—" he sighed. "Why I can't figure out why he hasn't checked in."
For a second, Mike thought he'd broken through. There was a flicker of something before she turned back to the ocean. Refusing to acknowledge anything that dealt with Tom Chandler.
After a long stretch of unnerving silence, he conceded defeat. "Alright then. Goodnight."
His back was turned when Sasha finally spoke.
"I didn't want kids."
"Huh?"
"Before. That's why I left him," she clarified. Her voice was under-used and tight, and it occurred that Sasha only spoke when required.
Unsure whether she wanted him to stay, Mike hovered before bucking up and joining her at the rail. It didn't feel right to leave after such a personal admission. Cautious, he stole a glance to find her features pensive. This enigma of a woman whose character had to be sound for Tom to still care so deeply about her—who'd proven her loyalty to the mission, never complained, held her own—and yet, they knew nothing about.
"I'm glad he found Darien. I only ever wanted him to be happy. Even if I couldn't do that for him." She paused, and the ghost of something made her lip twitch at the corner. "I just hope he's okay," she murmured. "That's all I need to know—I just need to know that he's okay." Mike couldn't recall ever hearing Sasha's voice waver, and though still fixed on the horizon, he caught the sheen glistening and reflecting the stars.
This was the moment in which he began to understand Sasha Cooper.
His first glimpse of the compass that guided her at the core.
"Me too."
In a more comfortable silence, they stood together then. It was a foundation, a bridge. It was probably something she needed, Sasha thought. Glad he'd persisted, for she'd been unsure how much longer she'd be able to hold on so utterly alone.
Six months later.
There'd been no evidence that Tom was still alive. And they'd searched. But now, trouble was brewing once more. Crops turning red across the country… the world… the virus' last cruel trick. There were concerns about a famine. They faced another eve of reckoning. Nathan James prepared to deploy in a joint effort with their allies, a Royal Naval Commander spared from the United Kingdom's threadbare forces to aid their mission of capturing ancient seeds.
If Tom was still out there—now was the time that he'd show—but either way, for closure and clarity, there was something they needed to see through.
In hindsight, Mike wasn't sure what he'd expected they'd find, given that Tom's homes in both Missouri and Virginia had been some of the first locations checked, but it wasn't this.
It was ransacked.
Windows smashed, the door off its hinges. Looted either in the riots or simply because—Mike couldn't decide—and there was nothing inside to explain what had happened to Tom. No notes. No hidden symbols. No clues. It was enough that Mike questioned his level of sanity. Didn't need to check Jed's cabin, Tom had sworn he'd never set foot in that place again after Darien.
That's when Mike saw it.
The precise moment Sasha gave up.
Watched while she slowly sank until sitting on the porch steps, staring in desolation at what had become of Tom's house.
She couldn't cry. Hadn't at all since he'd left, and in a way that scared her.
"He's gone, Mike."
She put her head in her hands; he could see them shaking, and then she clasped them across the back of her head, tucking herself into the position you'd take when hyperventilating.
She felt like she was having a heart attack.
He was gone.
Twelve months later.
This ship was like a tomb. His ghost haunted its breadth. Sometimes she could still hear him giving orders in her mind—especially on missions. Still felt the ghost of his lips every time she looked at her bed, the feel of his body against hers. It reached a point where she accepted that there was a level of psychosis at play.
The bleeding had stopped, but the pain carried on. Mostly at night. The night was brutal. Lost count of the number of dreams where he called. Sometimes so fucking vivid that she actually believed for a few torturous moments until her sleep-deprived brain corrected itself and reminded her that Tom was gone.
Dead.
Even Russ had given up hope.
Against the hull, legs outstretched, she sat in that spot. Mike thought it's how she tortured herself, but he had it wrong—it was the only place that allowed her to do nothing.
"What are we doing?" Tom asked.
"Nothing," she smiled.
She needed to move on; she knew that… just didn't know how to bury someone when there was no body.
Maybe she could start with Fletcher. It was obvious he was interested in her. Painfully so. Wasn't her type, but that played in his favor, and maybe if she let someone touch her again, she'd feel alive.
Let go, Sash.
Closed both eyes and rested her skull against the unforgiving metal.
Let him go.
Sixteen months later.
She didn't know why, but something about this island wasn't right. Couldn't shake the gut feeling nagging inside. It differed from the one she got before an ambush, also from knowing a mission would be a bust… but she couldn't place it.
Just knew something was going to happen.
They heard the jeers in the distance, and she was curious as to what had drawn such a rowdy crowd.
Adrenaline was wreaking havoc on her system.
What the hell was going on with her?
The skin at her neck prickled like it always had when she'd felt eyes on her. Air snatched in her lungs.
She knew this feeling.
Her gaze snapped directly to the center of the arena.
Tom.