A/N: Reviews seriously make me smile like an idiot. Oh how I love them so. Anyways, I finally finished this chapter. I've been working on this in between my homework assignments, which of course I should really be working on, but their boring.;) Okay, to avoid any conflict I made up a country which has been named after yours truly as well as a made up dictator and once again the only things I know about the military are what I read on the internet so take it for what it is. Enjoy!

You and me
We used to be together
Everyday together always
I really feel
That I'm losing my best friend
I can't believe
This could be the end

"Don't speak"- No Doubt

Years. Months. Days. Perhaps minutes. He wasn't sure. Time had ceased to exist the moment he walked out of her life and into hell. Leaving the things that mattered most in her gentle arms: emotions, feeling, existence; everything but the impassive shell. That's all was now; the shell of a man who used to be.

The gripping pull of the air being forced out of his lungs yanked him out of his dwelling misery as the deafening hum of his eardrums vibrated through his body. The submarine had emerged from the murky depths of the Atlantic.

His destination had been incredibly confidential. Every detail had been hush-hush, with coded passwords, strange looking men at every drop-off point to give him the "stare-and-nod of approval" and excessive shoving into every mode of transportation imaginable. A personal promise had been made on his previous leg-to-nowhere that if he managed to survive this disaster he would walk for the rest of his life.

On onset of minor nausea sent Booth's head between his knees, sucking in leveled breaths of overused air.

"Lieutenant Booth, sir."

Booth jerked forward, the feeling of floating on air, invading his mind. "Yes, Officer Hall." He slurred, biting his lip.

"The boat is waiting for you, Sir." Hall turned on his heel and wandered off into the immeasurable unknown of the submarine.

"Great . . . That's great." The ill-induced sarcasm hanging on every syllable, as he wandered toward the sudden source of vital air. Booth tore up the ladder and stretched out onto the wide expanse of cold metal, reveling in the smell of ocean spray and calm darkness of night. Sliding into the rocking boat being tossed around by fuming waves, Booth took a seat next to a young Navy Seal.

"How'd you ever get used to sitting in that claustrophobic pit?"

The young man laughed generously. "You don't. The first thing they told me when I slid down that ladder was that I'll be howling for land after an hour. The second: get used to nobody giving a damn."

Booth shook his head with disbelief. "I don't get it."

"Yeah, me neither." Patting Booth on the back, The Seal gave him a dutiful salute, pulled himself out of the boat, and slid down the ladder—back to his chosen fate. The boat rocketed away from the Submarine and splashed across the vast sea towards the looming peaks of a distant speck of land.

Booth found himself wading hip-deep in chilling water, his ebony cargo pants dragging adamantly with the weight. Digging his sturdy lace-up boots into the sinking sand, Booth picked his way across the stony beach and sprinted off towards the faint camp fire in the distance. Anxiety settling in his gut, Booth leveled his M-24 rifle at the dark forms huddling next to the wispy fire when a sharp whisper hit him.

"Lieutenant Booth, Lower your weapon!"

Booth relaxed his rifle, swallowed loudly and saluted stiffly to the stern, aging man in front of him. The wrinkled frown penetrating through the tense air slowly lifted into an aloof grin.

"Settle down soldier. The fifty pushup punishment is for those sissy schoolboys back home, you're in the Rangers now! Drop down and give me eighty!" The instant variation in tone caught Booth completely off guard and the serious glare he was receiving only increased the confusion. Stumbling over his "Yes Sir" Booth dropped to the dank ground and began his punishment with wholehearted willingness. The camp reverberated with fits of laughter as the old man slapped Booth on the back.

"Stand up young man! Haha . . . I had to be sure you were still military worthy!"

Booth bent down and brushed the encircling dust off his uniform, smirking with embarrassment as he reached for the man's hand and shook it warmly. "Did I pass Sir?"

"Major Woolf and you certainly put these giggling girls in their place." He announced, gesturing to the twenty men who abruptly shut their mouths in unison. Leading Booth to his canvas tent, the Major sat down his wooden chair, signaling for Booth to do the same.

"How much have you been told Lieutenant?"

"Not Much Major. Only that I'm to lead an operation of twenty men based on the wishes of the President." The Major leaned forward; lowering his voice so only Booth could hear.

"The men sitting outside don't even know that much Lieutenant. It's important that it remains that way for the sake of their sanity. What I'm about to tell you is confidential and must remain in this tent. Understand?" Booth nodded in acknowledgement.

"Harluk Gaveia. An unstable Dictator who has been overthrown by his country twice has been sited on an island in the Atlantic Ocean, known as Rubishia. A chunk of land that can't be located on even the most detailed military map. The Air Force has discovered that Gaveia has been manufacturing Nuclear weapons using unknown origins and is planning an attack on the U.S. that will destroy the country in one fell swoop. The factories are surrounded by maximum security. The guards are vicious, robotic, and trained in every expertise. Britain had sent in their own operation to halt Gaveia, but the soldiers were cut down before they could make it past the protective barrier. The next move was discussed and we believe we've assembled an operation of the most experienced, intelligent, fitting soldiers to perform the mission destined to decide America's fate."

Booth's face was blank. Unreadable. It was unnerving. A sharp cough broke through the tense stillness. "Fate. That idea has been manipulated so much these past few weeks that I honestly don't take stock in it any longer. I'm doing this mission because it's my duty as a soldier to serve my country. It's my duty to follow through with the orders given to me. It's also my duty to protect the one's I love. It is not my duty to decide the fate of America because I will not allow chance or luck to determine such an outcome. This mission will be completed because I'm prepared to follow through with my duties as a Ranger."

Major Woolf stared at Booth with a reverie of stunned admiration. This man is the epitome of a hero. Nodding in agreement with Booth's statement, the man carried on in a dignified tone.

"You were chosen as the commanding officer for this operation based on your skills, intelligence, mental capacity and personality. This mission has a 1 chance of any of you coming out alive, but under your command the men can at least be guaranteed that slim chance of survival. They need your unwavering faith in the mission to keep their heads screwed on because things are going to get pretty messed up out there. At dawn you will lead your operation across the island where you will meet Second Lieutenant Jeremy Ruckers who will fill you in on Gaveia's whereabouts. Good luck Lieutenant Booth, It was an honor to meet you."

With a salute goodbye, Booth stalked out of the tent and wandered over to where the other soldiers sat. A young man shot up and smiled genuinely. "Lieutenant Booth, it's a privelage to finally meet the Sniper who set the record for successful missions. I'm Benjamin Collins, your spotter. Oh, and welcome to what we all affectionately call "Terrorist Isle" the gateway to hell."

"Alright," Booth gleamed, rubbing his worn hands together. "Sounds like my kind of vacation!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She was on a mission of her own. Sharp stilettos clicking fiercely against the gleaming tile, the woman turned the corner, amber skirt flowing, determination weaved into every movement. Glowering at the two men blocking her path, they wilted from their defensive positions and simultaneously pointed towards the platform. Catching sight of her prey, the woman strutted up the steps, leaving an air of "don't mess with me" in her wake.

It had been two months. Drinks, dancing, change of scenery. Promises had been made. Emotions laid on the table. Completely sober Assurances. She had been sure that her pleading voice had gotten past the stone wall this time, this week. But once again she was marching up these same stairs, arming herself for a repeat of events.

"Brennan Sweetie." The accused woman turned awkwardly from a set of bones at her lab table, stuttering wildly at getting caught in an act of deception.

"Oh . . . Ange . . . this isn't . . . I was . . . yeah."

"Yeah is right." Angela cocked her head at the defeated woman in front of her. "You're coming with me." Rolling up her sleeves, Angela grabbed Brennan's shoulders and attempted to yank her from the overly polished bones. Brennan was ready. Locking her fingers around the smooth metal, she hung on with all the strength she could muster.

"No Angela . . . not yet! Tomorrow . . . please . . . not yet!" Brennan cried, clinging stubbornly to her lab table. Angela finally yielded her part of the tug-of-war and sat down with an exasperated huff.

"All right Bren, you win this round." Smiling faintly as the woman beside her released a relieved sigh. The men of the lab squinted quizzically at the chaos, frozen with curiosity.

"You can go back to your dead bodies now, There's nothing to see here!" Angela waved the intruders away, than turned towards the problem beside her. "We can't keep doing this sweetie. It's unhealthy working all day and night. Not sleeping, eating, talking . . . showering." She hinted at with a friendly smirk.

"I'm doing just fine!" Brennan retorted, adding a thick layer of denial.

"Bren, you've been polishing the same set of bones for a month now. That's unhealthy."

Brushing her fingers across the nameless WWII veteran laying in front of her, Brennan eyes grew wide as the fading shadow of Booth's hand feathered across her own, then vanished. Tugging on her friend's sleeve, Brennan pointed crazily into oblivion. "Did you see that!? Right there . . . Booth was right there!"

All she received was a skeptical look in return. "Now you're hallucinating sweetie. Please leave the lab with me. We can grieve like normal people, lie in bed, eat ice cream, watch lifetime reruns; you know, the works!"

"That's unhealthy." The two women giggled warmly at the notion. "I can't leave Angela. He was here, at the Jeffersonian, in the lab with me all the time. I know I'm romanticizing about an illogical idea but…but…"

"It helps to believe."

"Statistically the odds are stacked heavily against him. He won't come back home alive, perhaps never even return. I allowed myself to give up hope on my parents ever returning. I can't…won't allow myself to give up again." The tears from months ago had returned, crumbling the stone wall into a puddle of dust, leaving her open and vulnerable.

"He promised he wouldn't abandon me Ange. He promised and he's never broken a promise. Never."

Angela rubbed a comforting hand along Brennan's trembling arm; the emotion breaking in her voice as she spoke. "You have his faith, Bren."

A laugh tinged with reflection resounded quietly through the lab. "Hodgin's told me the same thing so I guess it must be true." Brennan looked up with urgency, ready to spew her secret. "He loves me Angela. Before he left, he let me know just how much he loves me and now he's out there on a suicide mission and will never know that….I…I've fallen in love with him!" Brennan was sobbing uncontrollably, but all Angela could do was grin joyfully at Brennan's admission.

"Don't' you dare give up on Booth, Sweetie. You two are meant to be together, its…well…its fate. You'll get your chance with Booth, just you watch, he'll come strolling across that sprawling lawn, surrounded by flowers, still in his uniform, coming home to you. I promise."