an. I have no excuses, only procrastination, but here's an update. I'm also working on rewriting all of New China in the background in order to finally finish El Norte, so there's that going on too. The mismatch in writing styles is killing me. Anyway.

Review Responses Below:

Guest 1 — As always, thank you for commenting! You know I love some Tex/Pablo scenes when I can. Don't worry, Pablo is never going to be involved in any weird love triangle. He just doesn't understand the universal hero worship over Tom, nor why Sasha is hung up on him, and I think it's nice to have some contrast where not everyone is onboard with Tom's leadership style. Saying that, Pablo hasn't really seen the crew in any real action yet, so it's fun to throw him into the mix in these situations and have him disagree. You are so right about Jacob. He is so easily manipulated. I truly enjoy writing Allison in this story because she's so sharp and good at reading people into playing her game. The minefield was one of my favorite episodes in the series too! I'm going for a narrative here, but the scenario the characters are in lessens the drama of the actual minefield scene I think. IDK. I'm curious to know people's thoughts on how it plays out here. Anyway, hope you are well!

Guest 2 — Hello, thank you for your review! Glad you liked the inclusion of Doctor Vellek in this storyline! Generally, I thought he was an interesting character even if I didn't much care for the storyline of season 4, so I figured, why not throw him in here? Re: Garnett/Slattery I like them as a pairing too. I'll have to wait and see where I think Mike and Christine end up but as of now their marriage is definitely not solid and there's no guarantee that their relationship is going to survive the loss of Lucas!

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You're Aware in All the Silence

of a constant that will turn

.

.

"Can we go around it?"

After asking, Tom realized he didn't need Gator's words, his regretful expression held more weight than the response.

"We'd lose the trail on the pirate's vessel if we detour around the island chain, sir."

With both hands braced on the wardroom table, Tom hunched over the Kingfisher print-out, and weighed the options: risk the two-hundred-plus souls aboard Nathan James—hoping, that they could navigate the same path the pirates had taken at greater displacement—or pull the plug. Send an extraction team, and effectively doom Green to his fate for however many weeks and months it would take to search the Paracel's . . . assuming Takehaya wouldn't relocate the minute he spotted the U.S. Navy. An outcome, Tom felt, that was guaranteed.

Guaranteed.

Yet another guilt-fueled dilemma. Sasha was trusting that he wouldn't leave parts of this equation to chance, but if they blew in the minefield, Shackleton was the only ship left to take up the search, leading him right back to the weeks and months—or never.

And then there was Kara.

How could he explain that he hadn't taken the chance because of his own convoluted situation when he'd condemned both she and Green for engaging in the same? It would be more than hypocrisy. Closer to cowardice, and that definition somehow chafed as much, if not more, than the thought of what was at stake.

"We go through it."

"Sir?" Gator said.

Lifting his head, Tom peered at his officer. "We follow the pirate's course."

o o o

May 19, 2014—0815 UTC-5

White House, St. Louis, Missouri

"Of all the bloody minds, he survives!"

Based upon the records left intact, including a transcript of the congressional hearing in which Doctor Velleck's security clearance and governmental funding were revoked, shortly before his expulsion from the scientific community within the United States, Mike had to agree. The man made Neils look like an amateur. Scott was pacing the far length of the table relentlessly, an agitation about her that made him weary.

Michener emerged from his office; the doors swung wide. "What are we looking at?"

"A mutation," Scott answered.

"But you said that wasn't possible—"

"It's not. Not without intentionally altering the basis of the stability sequence—"

"I'm sorry but are you saying that Peng's scientist—" Alex began.

"Dr. Velleck—" Scott corrected.

"—purposefully tampered with the virus to release a new strain in Japan?"

"Yes that is exactly what I am saying!"

"That's preposterous," Allison declared, her tone adopting a slightly hysterical quality. "Why would—"

"There is no other scientifically plausible explanation!" Scott appeared aghast. "I don't think you understand what we're talking about here. This man is the father of modern bio-informatics and computational biology. He is perhaps the only one barring Quincy, who is now dead, to have the ability to reverse engineer exactly what it is that Neils' gene did to the virus in order to stabilize it, and if he were to so choose, as it appears that he has done, selectively undo it, thus rendering the cure ineffective."

Silence settled around the table.

"What about those who have already been vaccinated? Are they at risk of re-infection?" Michener urged.

"I won't know until I can return to the laboratory and begin testing the sample."

"Sir, we need to warn the public—" Mike said.

"Absolutely not," Allison spat back, her glacial eyes now fixed on him, unblinking. "Do you want complete anarchy?"

"With all due respect—ma'am—I think it's time we stopped worrying about a little unrest and focused on getting ahead of a potential second pandemic," Mike said, meeting her gaze.

"There is no need to incite panic," Allison hissed.

"People have a right to know," Alex argued.

"And what good would that do, Alex?!" Allison said.

"Sir, he's right," General Bonner interjected. "If we sit on this, and I'm not saying that I agree with going public, at least not yet—but if we do nothing and then this thing gets out, there's no putting that genie back in the bottle. We need to have some kind of plan—for containment, for distribution of resources—"

"This isn't like the initial outbreak in Egypt," Scott began. "The virus was contained to a specific geographical area for several months before it mutated and spread to Asia. We do at least have the benefit of a little time here."

"How much time?" Michener pressed.

"It's impossible to say with any certainty."

"Give me a ballpark, Rachel."

"There are too many variables. Population density, climate, rate of transmission when there's no infrastructure or international travel beyond merchant trade and military . . . We know that it's airborne but we don't know how long it can survive on surfaces or if it's transmissible through touch alone—we don't even have confirmation that this is a new strain."

"Yes, well we appear to be operating under that assumption, doctor," the president said pointedly.

"Which is why I need to get back to the lab," Scott replied, her irritation resounding. "Right now, all I can tell you with any certainty is that yes. The sample provided to me by Dr. Velleck does appear to contain genetic markers consistent with the Red Flu, but I need more data to determine the extent of the mutations and ascertain if there is a viable path towards either synthesizing a new cure or adapting the old one."

Allison's lips thinned. "We need to contain this information until we have a full understanding of the situation. Panic will only make things worse."

"Worse than a new pandemic?" Mike scoffed, his frustration mounting.

President Michener raised a hand, silencing them both. "How long will it take you to analyze the sample?"

"With the equipment we have, perhaps forty-eight hours for preliminary results. But to fully understand the mutation and its implications . . . that could take weeks."

Mike felt the weight of those words settle in his gut. Weeks. They didn't have weeks.

"And in the meantime?" he pressed, looking from Scott to Michener. "What do we tell our allies? What do we tell the American people?"

Michener's eyes were heavy. "We tell them nothing yet. Not until we have concrete information."

"Sir, with all due respect—" Mike began, but Michener cut him off.

"I understand your concerns, Captain. But we cannot risk widespread panic based on speculation. We need facts."

"And what about the fleet? What about Tom? He needs to know what he's walking into."

Scott spoke up, "I agree with Captain Slattery. If there's even a chance that this mutation has spread beyond Japan, Tom needs to know. His crew could be at risk, and until I can determine exactly which portion of the population is susceptible to this strain, it is better to operate as though there is no cure."

Michener nodded curtly. "Inform the fleet. Dr. Scott—I need those answers."

o o o

USS Nathan James, South China Sea

On his left hand, Tom spun his wedding band, idling for something to quell his biting energy while perched on the edge of his desk. The line rang six times before Mike answered.

"Funny. I was just about to call you."

That tone could mean nothing favorable, and Tom stopped spinning the band. "We have a situation."

"Well that makes two of us," Mike drawled. "What's the problem?"

"A minefield."

A heavy silence stretched between them. Tom could almost see the expression on Mike's face back in St. Louis.

"Jesus, Tom. Tell me you're not thinkin' what I think you are."

"We can't lose 'em now, Mike. Not when we're this close to finding Green."

"You know Michener will never approve this . . . Taking the James through a minefield? It's suicide."

"That's exactly why I'm not asking for approval." Tom's grip tightened on the phone. "I called on this line because if things go south, I need you to know where we are and send backup—but as far as the record stands, this conversation never happened."

Another beat of silence. When Mike spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Christ, Tom."

"It's our best shot. We canvased the crew. They want to proceed." The weight of those words hung between them with unspoken implication. "I'm sending you an email—if we don't make it out of this, I need you to forward it to my father."

"That's a paper trail—"

"You and I both know a paper trail won't matter. Not after I refused the order to return to Guam."

Another silence followed. Then a sigh, and an unwavering murmur. "I'll buy you as much time as I can. How long until you reach the minefield?"

Tom glanced at his computer monitor, then drifted to a photograph of the kids. "Forty minutes. If I don't check in again by o-three-hundred local, then you'll know. Tex is being assigned off ship along with Shemanski and Mejia. If it all goes to hell, they'll extract Cooper then head back to Vietnam or Shackleton depending on their fuel."

"I'll call you back on Navy Red."

o o o

May 20, 2014—0018 UTC+7

USS Nathan James, South China Sea

There was nothing quite like the immediacy of questioning whether you'd make it to sunrise. Like knowing everything for which you'd fought, sacrificed, and lost was on the precipice of collapse. That what you'd believed as the worst was, in fact, a fragile illusion of how cruel fate could be. It echoed insidiously in the hangar bay while Tex, Shemanski, and Jesse loaded up.

CBR gear.

Spare tanks of oxygen.

Decontamination kits . . .

He'd truly believed that they'd never be here again.

"We're good to go."

Jesse's Australian accent seemed to hang in the stagnant air, amplified by the emptiness surrounding them. Behind her, out on the flight deck, hief Petty Officer Vargas finished securing the Nixie to the helo, the young man's face drawn and pale in the artificial light spilling out from the hangar. Gator was already in the cabin, peering out over the dark waters.

"Hundred yards," Tom said.

"Hundred yards," she confirmed, lingering only a moment more before twisting abruptly and striding toward her chopper.

Tex approached next, the energy between them thick. Eerily sincere. Tex extended his hand, engulfing Tom's in a grip that spoke volumes. Tex nodded once, his gaze steady, before he too embarked.

Only Shemanski remained.

Tom watched, a conflict brewing in the way the other man hesitated, and he found himself pondering how much Shemanski knew . . . Finally, he looked at Tom, expression unreadable as harsh shadows were cast across his face from the red lights.

"I don't want to be the one who has to tell her you didn't make it—so I'd really appreciate it if you didn't get yourself blown up."

Tom didn't move. Didn't blink. Void of the usual cynicism, Shemanski's words hit hard. It was a long moment before resignation replaced the challenge in Shemanski's stance. With a final, lingering look, Shemanski turned and headed toward the helo. Tom watched him go with a strange mixture of relief and apprehension.

o o o

The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. Tom could feel the weight of every life pressing down on his shoulders. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and they'd all be gone in a flash of fire and twisted metal.

"Starboard side, thirty yards," Gator reported via radio.

Tom forced himself to remain calm, knowing the crew would take their cues from him, even as cool sweat clung to his skin.

"Sir," Garnett's voice cut through the silence. "We're losing the pirate vessel on radar. They've increased speed."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Maintain current speed," he said, hating the words as they left his mouth. "Helm, come right five degrees . . . nice and easy."

The Nathan James began a cautious turn, the deck tilting under their feet. Tom monitored Kingfisher, waiting for any sign they had drifted too close to the mines. The ambient sounds of the ship's machinery hummed around them, underlaid by the faint crackle of static from the radio. No one spoke or moved, the pressure building until a familiar chime trilled from the internship phone.

Tom left Kingfisher to pick up the receiver.

"CIC, Bridge," came Mason's voice.

"Go ahead."

"Sir, I'm picking up a propulsion noise that doesn't match our engines."

Tom straightened. "Can you confirm the source?"

"That's just it, sir. I can't get a fix. It's like . . . It's like it's coming from all around us."

Cold spread in his gut. After switching the COMMS to broadcast, Tom re-holstered the receiver and returned to the Kingfisher display. The dots blinked in the darkness, the frame refreshing with every five nautical yards of forward progress, and then . . . movement. Almost imperceptible, but there. Slow. Incremental. Movement.

"It's the mines."

"Sir?" Mason said.

The enemy had turned the entire seabed into a weapon they could control at will. "The mines are mobile," he repeated. "They're coming toward us."

o o o

The green glow of the night vision goggles cast an eerie pallor over the world, reducing the South China Sea to a swirling mass of shadows and luminescence. Tex watched as Nathan James, a dark, hulking shape against the horizon, inched forward. Each pulse of the ship's engines, a distant thrumming in the night. He shifted in his seat, the helicopter's vibrations a constant reminder of their precarious position. Beside him, Shemanski sat rigid, his face a mask. Tex knew the feeling. They were riding shotgun on a mission with nothing to do but watch and wait.

"They've stopped," Tex declared.

Jesse, her face illuminated by the instrument panel's soft glow, glanced back at him, her brow furrowed. "What?"

"The James. They've stopped."

A beat of silence. Then, the radio crackled to life, Commodore's voice filling the cabin, "Gator, be advised. We have mobile mines. They're moving inward at a rate of two-knots."

In the front seat, Gator swore under his breath, feverishly adjusting his charter while he worked for the solution. Tex could only imagine the calculations running through the kid's head—the distance, the speed, the ever-shrinking window of opportunity. It was like watching someone try to defuse a bomb with the timer counting down.

"There!" Gator straightened up, jabbing a finger at the chart spread across his lap. "There's a gap in the minefield. About three hundred yards out from the James's position." He looked up at Jesse, his expression a mix of excitement and apprehension. "If we can take out the mines directly in front of them, punch a hole clean through . . ."

"They might make it," Jesse finished.

Tex leaned forward, trying to make sense of the dots and lines on the chart.

"Sir, it's going to be tight," Gator said. "Real tight. You're right on the edge of the blast radius, it could trigger the whole minefield."

"We're running out of time. The mines on our flank will be on us in the next fifteen minutes. Do it," Commodore answered.

o o o

May 19, 2014—1510 UTC-5

White House, St. Louis, Missouri

Kara's fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the polished wood of the conference table, gaze darting between the silent phone and the clock on the wall, its steady ticking a mocking reminder of each passing second without news. She shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line. The Green Room, typically a hive of activity, was presently devoid. Kara longed to be anywhere else—on the bridge of the Nathan James, in the CIC, even in the midst of a firefight—anything but this agonizing wait.

Slattery's words from their earlier clandestine briefing echoed in her mind. A calculated risk. Need to know only. She wasn't a fool; the implications of Chandler taking Nathan James through a minefield without prior authorization was a decision bordering reckless. One that could cost him his career if it didn't take his and her shipmates' lives, but she expected nothing less. Not from Chandler.

The red phone on the side table, usually a beacon of urgency, seemed to mock her with its stillness.

Cameron Burk was accomplished, yes. His record clean, his actions during the pandemic after the USS Cole returned to port in defiance of standing orders, had saved over four hundred lives . . . but he hadn't been there. He didn't know Chandler the way she did. Didn't know who in CIC to trust implicitly and who to question. Didn't have the shorthand that they'd all perfected during the mission to find the cure . . .

"They should have checked in by now," she muttered, more to herself than Dennis.

He nodded; eyes fixed on the ornate rug. "Maybe COMMS are down?"

"Maybe." The word tasted bitter. She'd run through every possibility, every scenario. None brought comfort.

Behind the heavy wooden doors of President Michener's office, Slattery was running interference, keeping senior leadership focused on the bombshell revelation of a mutation, rather than Nathan James lapse of silence.

They just needed to buy Captain Chandler a little more time.

Once more, she watched the clock. The minute hand crawled forward while her mind conjured images of mines, explosions, Nathan James torn apart, Danny, lost somewhere in the hands of their enemy suffering God-knows-what. She closed her eyes, banishing the thoughts. Captain Chandler had pulled off the impossible before.

He'd do it again.

She had to hold on to hope with both hands.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the hum of an oscillating fan and the drumming of her fingers against the table.

And then it rang.

Kara lunged for it, her heart hammering in her chest. "This is White House actual."

"Lieutenant."

Squeezing her eyes closed, Kara chewed her lip and took a deep breath in response to Captain Chandler's steady baritone.

"Calling in to update our coordinates."

Her shoulders sagged as the tension drained from her body. She met Dennis' questioning gaze and gave a slight nod, his answering smile equal parts relief and admiration. Hands still shaking, she gestured for the notepad and pen, which Dennis pushed toward her.

"I'm ready."

Kara wrote Nathan James' position as relayed by Captain Chandler, repeating the coordinates after she was done. "I'll relay these to Shackleton immediately—along with an updated recommendation on the route."

"Appreciate it, lieutenant. Nathan James, out."

The line went dead.

Legs somewhat unsteady, she crossed to the large map dominating one of the presentation boards and efficiently plotted Nathan James' position, acutely aware of the significance of those small adjustments. Barring any other obstacles, the James was within striking distance of The Paracels. In as little as ten hours, she could potentially have answers . . .

The president's door opened. Shaw emerged, trailed by Secretary Rivera and Captain Slattery. Mike's sharp eyes snapped to the map. He took in the updated markers, his expression carefully neutral. Then his gaze met Kara's. In that fleeting moment, volumes passed between them. Shared relief and mutual understanding—then—the slightest nod from Mike in acknowledgement of their successful conspiracy.

o o o

May 20, 2014—0900 UTC+8

Unknown Location

Ahead of him, a truck bed overflowed with sullen bodies, all clad in the same rough spun brown overalls. Danny's lips pulled back in a grimace as he clambered aboard, the metal floor biting into his aching knees as he shuffled into a small space against the side. The truck lurched to life, groaning and sputtering black diesel into the air. Each bump in the road sent fresh waves of sharp pain through his chest and lower back, making him clench his jaw against the involuntary sounds that wanted to escape. He kept his gaze fixed on the opposite wall of the truck bed, a tapestry of splintering wood stained with grime and God-knew-what-else. Beneath the canvas canopy, the air hung heavy and humid, thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and something sickly sweet he couldn't quite place. His stomach churned. They'd been on the move for what felt like hours, the jungle blurring past in a dizzying kaleidoscope of greens and browns, before the truck finally shuddered to a halt.

Forcing himself to stand, he took in his surroundings. They were in a clearing, a sprawling field stretching out before him as far as the eye could see. Rows of green shoots sprouted from the dark earth, tended by hundreds of figures hunched over like scarecrows in the punishing sun. He'd seen enough prison camps in his time to recognize one, even without barbed wire and guard towers. This place reeked of something far worse—silent despair.

Prodded relentlessly by the guards, he stumbled forward. Each step an exercise in pain, a negotiation with his own body to keep going. His vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes. The guards barked orders, herding the new arrivals into lines. Danny found himself shoved next to a man twice his size, his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, and then a hand shoved a hoe into his grasp. The wood was rough against his palms, the weight of it a foreign burden.

"Now you dig."

The command was repeated down the line in various dialects. Around the perimeter, guards with rifles patrolled. Escape, even without his injuries, was impossible. Biting back a groan, Danny joined the endless rows of prisoners, each one a mirror of his own misery, and mechanically swung the hoe, turning over the soil.

He worked in silence for what felt like hours; the monotony broken only by the rhythmic thud of hoes against the earth and the constant stream of degradation from the guards. They were young and old. Men and women, all subject to equal suffering.

As he scraped at the unforgiving earth, his gaze fell on a figure a few rows over. The man's back was to him, his lean frame bent over his work with a weary familiarity. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way he moved, sparked a flicker of recognition in Danny's weary mind.

He stared, his pulse quickening with a frail hope, pierced when yelling erupted from the row behind him.

"Get up, you lazy dog!" A heavy boot connected with the shoulder of a man who had collapsed. A man that the guard was speaking English to . . .

The man Danny had been scrutinizing a few rows over straightened and turned, wiping a hand across his glistening brow, and in that moment, their eyes met.

"O'Connor!?"