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Never Much of a Secret

(Pre-Fic)

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The first thing Mike registered was the flatline. Not that he'd never heard it before—the sound wasn't foreign—but it was the first time since this goddamn nightmare began that it had happened here, on his ship, to one of his people. The monitor's steady tone cut through the makeshift lab, and for a moment nobody moved.

"Time of death, fifteen-hundred-twelve," Rios said, his voice barely audible through the hazmat suit.

Mike stood motionless outside the plastic walls of the quarantine tent as the team moved around Gibson's body. All their frantic efforts from moments before dissolved into an impersonal series of post-mortem procedures. He couldn't tear his eyes from Gibson's face. She looked peaceful now, nothing like the writhing, fever-ravaged sailor she'd been just hours ago. Just twenty-four, Mike recalled. Twenty-four years old. A good sailor. Volunteered for this because she believed in what they were doing. No one spoke. The only sounds were the persistent beeping of the other patients' monitors and the rustle of plastic. Even NathanJames—her ventilation, machinery, her wake, the constant reminders that they were at sea—seemed muted. Mike glanced around and then fixed on Tom, standing alone with his hand braced against one of the red tubes forming the tent's skeleton, watching with unnerving intensity. Even for Tom. What struck Mike most wasn't the raw grief—they'd all been carrying that for months—but the naked terror.

Tom's gaze traveled from bed to bed, lingering slightly longer on each patient. Granderson, whose temperature had been climbing steadily. Bivas, who'd started developing the same rash as Gibson. Zhang, whose oxygen levels were dropping. Valdez, whose blood pressure had become erratic, and then Cooper, the DIA agent who'd appeared two weeks into their mission with classified orders and information that had blown it all to shit.

Cooper, whose file was sealed.

Cooper who lacked a first name, or any other distinctions.

Cooper, who'd somehow earned Tom's trust almost instantly while the rest of them were still trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Now fixated on her, Tom's expression shifted into something Mike could only label as more.

There was that nagging again. Somethin' wasn't right, but now Gibson's body was disappearing into a black bag, the zipper's rasp cutting through the silence, and his gut got pushed aside.

Christ.

They'd lost one within 48 hours. How many more would follow?

Mike's throat tightened. He should have done something. Should have asked more questions before agreeing with Tom that they should approve the trial. Should have insisted on more tests. He was XO, for God's sake. His job was to protect the crew. In normal times, he'd be writing a letter to Gibson's parents, along with Tom. The Master Chief. Making the hardest phone call any person could make. But Gibson's parents were already dead, everyone she'd listed on her emergency contact form gone in the first wave.

No one to mourn her but the people in this room.

Inside the tent, Scott moved between the remaining patients. Her face was obscured by her hood, but Mike could read the desperation in every line of her body. She'd been confident about this trial. They all had been.

She'd been wrong.

He needed to keep it together. The crew would take their cue from them, and right now, quelling panic or revolt was paramount, but as Mike reached Tom's side, he realized that steadiness might be beyond the CO's reach today.

"I need a minute." The words came out rough. Tom didn't look at him as he moved toward the exit. Torn between following and saying put, Mike hesitated. In the end, he gave a slight nod that went unseen. Sometimes a man needed space, even a captain.

Inside the quarantine tent, the team continued their grim work. Gibson's body was already bagged once, and now they added a second layer. Mike forced himself to watch. This was one of his people. He owed her that much. A low moan drew his attention to Bivas's bed. She twisted against her restraints, her face contorted in pain. Rios immediately moved to her side, adjusting something on her IV line. Morphine, Mike guessed, the third dose increase he'd witnessed in the last hour. The ship's rumor mill would be at full throttle in the matter of a few short minutes. When a body shaped bag was carried through the the p-ways. Word would spread through the mess decks, through duty stations, through every cramped compartment of NathanJames that they'd lost one of their own, and five more were fighting for their lives. Master Chief Jeter stood near Miller, who sat hunched on the edge of his bed. The young sailor's face was ashen as he watched a third body bag being sealed. His lips moved silently—a prayer, maybe. The Master Chief placed a hand on Miller's shoulder, steadying him, but Mike could see the strain in Jeter's expression too. Those men were trapped in there, watching this nightmare unfold from the front row.

Gibson's body was now completely encased. Two corpsmen lifted her onto a gurney, their faces hidden by the bulky suits. They covered the body with a bright yellow biohazard bag—the final layer of protection—before the journey to the incinerator.

No burial at sea. Just fire.

Bivas moaned again, louder this time. On the next bed over, Granderson's monitor beeped a warning. Her temperature climbing again. Zhang's oxygen levels continued their steady decline despite the mask covering her face. Valdez lay still, too still, except for the occasional twitch of her fingers.

And Cooper—Mike's eyes found her bed again, drawn there by some instinct he couldn't name—she looked bad, curled into a ball on her side as the fever took hold.

How the hell had Tom stood here for twelve straight hours? Mike had only been present for the worst of it, the final moments of Gibson's fight, and already he felt hollowed out. Each beep, each alarm, each moan drove into him like a physical blow. Tom had barely moved from that spot since the first symptoms appeared, standing guard like it was his personal duty to witness their every moment of suffering. Like watching would somehow change the outcome . . .

As Gibson's body was wheeled past Scott, she didn't look up. The doctor's focus had narrowed to a laser point: save the living.

There was nothing more to be done for the dead.

Mike checked his watch. Ten minutes since Tom had walked out. The man never took more than five, not even when they'd first found out that the world was dying around them. He'd give it another moment. Just until they got Gibson's body out the door. Just until he could breathe again without feeling like his chest might crack open. Another alarm sounded—Valdez's blood pressure dropping dangerously—and something in Mike snapped. He couldn't watch this anymore. Couldn't stand here calculating odds and counting breaths and wondering which one of them would be next. Mike headed for the exit, gaining speed with each step. He needed air that didn't taste like antiseptic and fear. Needed to find Tom and discuss a brief for the crew before they lost control of the narrative. He traversed the passageway on instinct, replaying the violent gurgling sounds Gibson had made right before she flatlined. Twenty years in the Navy, ten in homicide—he'd seen his share of death—but not like this. Not watching someone cook from the inside while doctors stood by helpless.

He passed hangar two without really registering it, then stopped. The knee knocker was open. Strange. Protocol dictated every water tight door be left secured. Ready to bark at whoever had left it open, Mike glanced inside but the reprimand died on his tongue.

Against a stack of storage chests, Tom was braced with both hands struggling for breath. Mike slid inside and pulled the hatch closed.

Tom didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him at all. Just kept pulling in those ragged lungfuls, fingers digging around the plastic like that death grip was the only thing keeping him up.

After further assessment, Mike deduced that it was.

"Tom."

Nothing.

Unsure what to do, he moved closer. Tom Chandler didn't break. Whatever he was witnessing crossed a line they'd never approached before. "Hey. You're alright." The words fell flat, useless against the magnitude of what was happening.

Tom's head dropped forward. "I can't—" The rest of the sentence was swallowed by gasp.

"You can breathe. Take a minute." Mike kept his voice low. Even. "We'll figure this out."

Tom's face was gray, his normally steady hands trembling.

The nagging crystallized. He'd caught it immediately that first day. Strangers, even with classified orders, would normally face resistance. At minimum a few challenging questions, but Tom had accepted her authority without hesitation. Then there was the synchronicity. An seemingly inherent understanding of the other's communication style that felt impossible to explain away as a professional compatibility.

Meaningful glances that lasted a fractional second too long.

That millisecond of naked dread when Cooper had stepped forward first to volunteer . . . yet instead of asking, Mike had moved on. Trusting that Tom would tell him if there was something, as XO, that he should know.

He'd been wrong. Dead wrong.

"Tom," Mike tried again, "talk to me."

Tom slid down against the crates until he was half-sitting, half-crouching, and Mike found himself torn between maintaining some discretion or getting on the 1MC and calling for help. Mike shucked up his pant legs, then lowered to a crouch and clutched Tom's shoulder. "Listen to me," he said firmly. "We're gonna get through this. Scott and the team are working non-stop, and you know as well I do that she won't quit until she figures this out." It sounded hollow even to his own ears. Empty reassurances against the reality they'd just witnessed with Gibson.

Tom's head was in his hands now, fingers pressed firm against his eyes, as he forced himself to breathe through his nose.

"That's good. Keep doin' that," Mike added, scanning the space that he already knew was empty but needing to verify. There'd be no containing the panic with Gibson's body, and the CO indisposed in the corner of hangar two.

Mike waited, giving Tom the space to pull himself together. Something about the scene felt painfully familiar. Two men in the dark, one falling apart while the other kept watch. Only this time, they weren't nursing whiskey on Tom's porch. As his breathing slowed, each exhale more controlled than the last, the color began returning to Tom's face. He straightened slightly, dropping his hands.

"You good?" Mike asked.

Tom gave a single nod, eyes fixed on the deck. "Yeah." His voice was hoarse, threadbare. "I'm good."

"Been a hell of a day." Mike dropped the hand and settled himself more comfortably on a crate opposite Tom. Waiting.

Finally, Tom lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but clear. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Mike said flatly.

Tom's eyes flashed with irritation—a familiar spark that was reassuring in its normalcy. "I had a moment. It's passed."

"You wanna tell me what's goin' on with Cooper?"

The question landed between them like a live grenade. Tom's expression shifted instantly, a rapid cycle of surprise, then resignation, before settling into something carefully blank.

"Don't bullshit me. Not now." Mike's said, guff. "We've got five crew members fightin' for their lives in there, one already dead, and I've got my CO havin' a panic attack in a hangar bay. I need to know what I'm dealin' with."

Tom was silent for so long that Mike thought he might refuse to answer. When he finally spoke, the words scraped out like something held back too long. "Sasha."

Mike felt his jaw go slack.

"Cooper is Sasha."

Tom's gaze flicked up to meet his, then away.

"Fuck," Mike muttered, leaning back automatically. "Why the hell didn't you tell me!" It came sharper than intended. "This is way too personal, Tom. You should never have signed off on her volunteering."

"You think I don't know that!?"

"Then why did you let it happen? You're the CO. You should have said no!"

"Because saying no would have been just as much about me being too involved as it is now!"

Mike studied his friend. Despite the calmer exterior, the fear still hadn't left Tom's eyes. That look raised the hair on Mike's neck. In all their years, he'd never seen Tom afraid.

Shit.

"Then you know what I have to ask next."

Tom peered up in a way that carried weight that Mike had only glimpsed from whiskey-blurred confessions.

"Can you make the calls if she gets worse? If we have to choose who gets resources—ventilators, medicine, Doc's time—can you make that choice based on survival odds? Even if it means Sasha doesn't make it?"

Tom's face crumpled for just a fraction before he regained control, gaze now fixed on some point beyond Mike's shoulder. "I already made that choice when I approved her for the trial," he rasped. "I didn't play favorites. I didn't protect her. I let her take the same risk as everyone else, and now . . . "

Mike let the silence stretch while Tom's throat worked.

"If someone has a better chance than her, I'll make that call," Tom said finally. "I have to."

"And if you can't?"

Tom's eyes found Mike's. "Then I expect you to relieve me."

Mike nodded slowly. "And if she doesn't make it?"

Tom's head dropped slightly. For a moment, he looked smaller, diminished by the question. "We keep trying. It's the only thing we can do."

Damn.

Tom ran a hand over his face, exhaustion etched into every line. "But I'm not gonna let her suffer alone, Mike. I can't. You know that too."

Mike shifted weight again, hunching and resting both arms against his thighs. "Yeah. I know."

Vaguely Mike registered the soft thud as Tom's skull hit the back of the crate, his eyes now closed, and chin tilted in the ceiling's direction almost as though he was about to pray.

Mike made a sound, as it truly sunk in that the woman he'd spent the better part of a decade calling a mail-order-bride was not only in, but had been living right under his nose for months. "I knew there was somethin' off," he muttered.

"Surprised you waited this long to ask."

"Yeah well, I didn't think it was her. I just figured you'd crossed paths back when you were SPEC OPS. Thought it might'a had somethin' to do with Bosnia."

Tom's eyes were still closed, his expression calm in contrast to the raw desperation he'd witnessed only moments before.

"She go by 'Just Cooper' because of me?"

"No. Because most people hear Cooper and picture a male."

Huh. Mike mulled it over. Before this mission, were he to hear of a Cooper in passing, he would indeed picture a man. "Did you know she'd be brought in?"

"Not a goddamn clue, Mike," he sighed. "I hadn't seen or spoken to her since o-six."

"On the beach?"

"On the beach."

Mike wanted to shake his head, a dozen questions forming around how the hell Tom had allowed this thing to get so out of control, before accepting that if Tom knew the answers himself, he wouldn't be planted on the deck.

"So you never introduced us back then because she was DIA," he surmised, confusion lifting around why things had gone so wrong when Tom was shipped out with the Eisenhower. She must have been assigned a deep cover. Something that meant it was kinder to let Tom go than fight for what they'd had. When he saw Tom's lip twitch, almost in irony, the thought died, however.

Slowly, Tom lifted his head and opened his eyes. "I never introduced you because I met her at the Academy . . . and we were breaking the regs."

"She's Navy?"

"Was. For the time that I knew her, at least."

"Jesus Christ, Tom. She was a midshipman, and you got the bright idea to sleep with her!?"

No matter how long Mike waited, no explanation came. Whatever had gone on between Tom and Cooper was clearly staying buried. Honestly, right now, Mike didn't have the bandwidth to give a damn. Checking his watch, Mike pushed himself up from the crate, reminded that he wasn't twenty anymore when both knees complained. "We need to address the crew. Get ahead of it."

Mirroring the act of getting up, Tom nodded.

"You wanna handle it or should I?"

"I'll do it. They need to hear it from me."

Mike studied. If it weren't for the redness ringing Tom's eyes, you wouldn't see the cracks. Tom had always been good at compartmentalizing, but right now, he wondered if it was enough. If any of them were equipped to deal with what was coming. Without further delay, Tom straightened and strode to the bulkhead where the 1MC hung bolted in a closed metallic box.

"Attention, all hands. This is your Captain. Muster in the mess. Fifteen minutes. That is all."