Speaker 1: Calarugus Shark Media. My name is Daniel Marsh. Last time
I told you how the true purpose behind the Yemen
ambush was revealed, the capture of Captain Maya Santiago for
her biometric access to critical military systems, How Mira Patel
broke ranks to share evidence with the FBI and journalist
Eliza Morgan, and how National Security Advisor James Reynolds continued
to obstruct proper investigation by bringing in private contractor Franklin Webb.
This is signal lost. March eighteenth, twenty twenty five, Washington,
d C. Seven am. The President's addressed to the nation
was brief but solemn, broadcast live from the Oval Office.
I watched from my apartment, coffee cooling in my hands,
as he confirmed what selective leaks had already revealed. American
special forces had suffered casualties during an operation in Yemen.
Four soldiers killed, three missing. We are using every resource
at our disposal to locate and recover our personnel, he said,
his face grave. Those responsible will be held accountable. We
will not rest until our people are home. What he
didn't say, what couldn't be said publicly, was that the
administration had no idea who those responsible actually were. The
official narrative attributed the ambush to Yemeny insurgents, but everyone
inside the government knew the truth was far more complex.
The broadcast cut to images of flag draped coffins being
unloaded at Dover Air Force Base, the first of the
fallen returning home. The families had been notified, their private
grief now transformed into public spectacle, the somber choreography of
national loss that has become all too familiar over decades
of American military operations abroad. I thought about what Eliza
had told me after her meeting with Mira Patel, about
the deliberate nature of the ambush, about the manufactured intelligence
designed to lure that specific team into a perfect trap,
about Captain Santiago's unique access credentials being the true objective.
If true, it meant those coffins weren't just casualties of war,
but victims of a conspiracy that reached into the heart
of America's national security apparatus. Soldiers sacrificed not in service
to their country, but as collateral damage in someone else's
shadow game. The thought made me sick across town in
her Georgetown apartment. Eliza Morgan was putting the finishing touches
on her article. She'd been writing through the night, fueled
by coffee and the knowledge that what she was about
to publish would shake Washington to its foundations. The encrypted
drive from Mira Patel had contained exactly what, but she
promised evidence of compromised signal accounts, documentation of Reynolds's actions
since the ambush, and analysis linking the digital breach to
the operation's failure. It stopped short of definitively identifying the conspirators,
but it established beyond doubt that American soldiers had been
betrayed by security failures at the highest levels. Eliza had
corroborated key elements through her own sources, creating a story
that was bulletproof journalistically, while careful not to reveal information
that might endanger the captured soldiers or compromise legitimate rescue efforts,
the headline would be devastating in its simplicity, betrayed how
security failures led to Yemen disaster. Her editor had already
scheduled an emergency meeting with the Tribune's legal team. They
all understood the firestorm this would ignite denial outrage, threats,
possibly legal action, but the public interest was clear. American
lives had been lost due to negligence and potential criminal
conduct by government officials. The truth had to emerge. As
Eliza sent the final draft, a weight lifted from her shoulders,
even as a new anxiety took its place. Once published,
there would be no going back. She would become a target, professionally,
perhaps personally, for forces that had already demonstrated their willingness
to sacrifice American lives for their objectives. Her phone rang
her editor. They're holding the front page, he said, without preamble, legals,
given preliminary approval, with minor redactions, we publish at noon.
Eliza glanced at her watch, five hours until Washington exploded.
I'm going to need security, she said, the reality of
her situation sinking in, and we should expect severe pushback
already arranged. Her editor replied, a car will pick you
up in one hour. You'll work from a secure location
until we assess the reaction. After hanging up, Eliza began
packing essentials, laptop, documents, clothes for a few days. Her
hands moved methodically while her mind raced ahead, anticipating the
seismic impact her story would have not just on the
public narrative, but on the lives and careers of everyone involved, Reynolds, Mira,
the captured soldiers and their families, and on the shadowy
figures behind the conspiracy, whoever they might be, the ones
who had orchestrated the ambush and were now extracting information
from Santiago. Her publication would force them to accelerate their timetable,
whatever it was, For better or worse, the game was
about to change in Yemen. Captain Santiago had reached the
deadline for her decision. The metal strip she'd worked loose
from her COT's frame was now hidden beneath her mattress,
a crude weapon, but better than nothing. Her injuries had
improved enough that she could move without wincing, though her
full strength remained elusive. The gray haired man returned as promised,
accompanied by two guards who positioned themselves on either side
of the door, weapons visible. Have you considered our proposal, Captain?
He asked, his tone conversational, as if discussing a business
arrangement rather than treason. I have, Santiago replied, her expression
carefully neutral. I need assurances. A flicker of satisfaction crossed
the man's face, the first crack in her resistance, or
so he thought, what kind of assurances I want to
see Wade and Chen in person. I need to confirm
they're alive and unharmed. The man considered this a reasonable request.
Anything else. Once I provide what you want, all three
of us are released. No additional demands, he smiled thinly.
You're not in a position to negotiate, Captain. I'm the
only one who can give you what you want, Santiago countered,
and you need it soon before the compromise is detected
and my access is revoked. It was a calculated risk,
revealing that she understood the time sensitive nature of their operation,
but she needed to establish leverage. However, slight, the man
studied her for a long moment. You'll see your team members.
After that we can discuss terms for their release. Your
cooperation first, Captain, then we talk about freedom. Santiago nodded,
as if accepting this partial concession. In truth, she had
expected nothing more. These people had no intention of releasing
any of them alive. Once they had what they wanted,
the three America would become liabilities to be eliminated. But
seeing Wade and Chen was the critical first step in
her escape plan. She needed to confirm their conditions, communicate
her intentions, and coordinate their actions. When she asked now,
he replied, gesturing to the guards, they'll escort you. No
sudden movements, please. My men are professionally paranoid and heavily armed.
Santiago rose carefully, maintaining a slight hunch to appear more
injured than she actually was. The guards flanked her as
they left the cell, leading her down a narrow corridor
with doors on either side. The facility appeared to be
a repurposed apartment building or small hotel with rooms converted
to cells and security stations. They stopped at a door
three down from her own. One guard opened it while
the other kept his weapon trained on her. Inside, Lieutenant
Marcus Wade sat on a cot similar to her own,
his left arm in a sling, dried blood visible on
the bandage. He looked up, surprise and relief washing over
his face when he saw her. Captain, he said, struggling
to his feet, Lieutenant, She replied, her eyes conveying a
message her words could not stay alert, be ready. Wade
gave an almost imperceptible nod. Six years of working together
had created a shorthand between them, an ability to communicate
volumes with minimal signs. You have one minute, the gray
haired man said from the doorway. Santiago moved closer to Wade.
How are you holding up? I've had better accommodations, Wade replied,
his eyes scanning her for injuries, while his voice remained casual.
Food's terrible service is worse specialist Chen next door. I
think I hear her sometimes. Santiago nodded. Processing this information
resells in sequence three prisoners, predictable guard rotations. It wasn't much,
but it was enough to begin constructing a viable plan.
They want my access credentials, she said quietly. I'm stalling
for time. Wade's eyes widened fractionally. That's why they took
us alive. Yes, the whole operation was designed for this.
She glanced at the guards, calculating distances reaction times. Be
ready three guard changes from now, late night shift. Wade
gave another subtle nod, understanding immediately three guard changes would
be approximately eighteen hours from now, during the least alert shift,
when staffing would be minimal. Time's up the gray haired
man announced they repeated the process with specialist Chen, whose
cell was indeed adjacent to wades. Chen was in worse condition,
a bandaged head wound, leaving her disord oriented but conscious.
Santiago managed to convey the essential message be ready tonight,
before being escorted back to her own cell. The gray
haired man followed her inside, dismissing the guards with a
gesture satisfied, He asked they need medical attention. Santiago replied,
proper care, not field dressings. Their condition depends entirely on you, Captain.
He leaned against the wall, studying her. Now let's discuss
the practical details. Tomorrow morning, you'll be transported to a
secure facility where you'll provide your biometric authentication for the
targeting system. Once verified, we'll discuss your team's release. Why
not do it here? Security protocols, the authentication requires specialized
equipment we maintain elsewhere. He straightened, rest, Captain, tomorrow will
be a significant day for all of us. After he left,
Santiago l on her cot mind, racing the timetable had accelerated.
If they were moving her tomorrow, her window for action
was even narrower than she'd thought tonight would be their
only chance. She retrieved the metal strip from beneath her mattress,
testing its edge against her palm, not sharp enough to
be lethal, but sufficient to distract or wound if applied
with enough force to vulnerable areas. The plan crystallized in
her mind. Wait for the light shift when staffing would
be minimal, Create a medical emergency to draw a guard
into her cell, incapacitate him, take his weapon and keycard
free wide and chin find communications equipment to alert her
command about their location and the nature of the breach.
Dozens of things could go wrong. The guards might not
respond to a medical emergency. They might come in force
rather than individually. The facility might have protocols specifically designed
to prevent such escape attempt. But the alternative was unthinkable.
Providing access that would compromise American military operations and endanger
countless lives, or refusing and watching her team members executed
before likely being killed herself. No option was good, but
Santiago had been trained to make impossible choices in impossible situations.
She would act tonight, regardless of the odds. In Washington,
Franklin Webb arrived at his company headquarters in Arlington, a
sleek glass and steel building housing Obsidian security solutions. His
executive suite on the top floor offered panoramic views of
the Capitol, a daily reminder of the power center his
business served and influenced. His chief of staff was waiting,
tablet in hand, Sir, we have a situation developing. The
Capital Tribune is preparing to publish an expose on the
Yemen operation. Sources indicate it will directly implicate Reynolds and
raise questions about our company's involvement. Web absorbed this without
visible reaction. How reliable is this information? Very we have
assets inside their editorial department. Web walked to the window,
considering the implications Eliza Morgan's article would accelerate events beyond
his ability to control. Reynolds would be on the defensive,
potentially making desperate moves to save himself. The official investigation
would intensify, with agencies looking to distance themselves from the scandal.
Most concerning, his clients would be displeased by the additional scrutiny.
When is publication scheduled noon today? Web checked his watch,
just over four hours. Contact our legal team. I want
injunction papers prepared, citing now national security concerns. WE won't
file immediately, but I want the option available. Yes, Sir,
an arrange a meeting with Senator Campbell, tell him it's urgent.
Regarding Webb turned from the window, his expression hardening regarding
his committee's oversight of certain intelligence programs that might be
compromised if this story proceeds unchecked. Invoking Campbell was a
significant escalation. As chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, the
Senator could apply pressure on national security grounds that might
delay or water down the Tribune's story. It was a
card Web preferred not to play, as it created its
own complications, but circumstances were rapidly deteriorating. One more thing,
Webb added, increase our electronic surveillance on Morgan, Patel and Reynolds.
I want to know every move they make, every call,
every message. This is now damage control. As his chief
of staff departed, Webb returned his gaze to the Washington skyline.
The operation had been elegant in its conception, using the
signal breach to create a distraction while the real objective
was pursued, But now with public exposure imminent, elegance was
giving way to necessity. If Morgan's story couldn't be stopped,
then its impact would need to be managed. Alternative narratives prepared,
scapegoats identified, evidence redirected. The game was changing, but Webb
had built his fortune by adapting to changing circumstances. This
would be no different. At the White House, James Reynolds
was summoned to the Oval office shortly after the President's
addressed to the nation. He found not just the President waiting,
but the FBI Director and the Attorney General as well.
Their expressions told him everything he needed to know. Sir,
Reynolds began, but the President cut him off with a
raised hand. The FBI has brought me disturbing information about
Operation Sandstorm, the President said, his voice tight with controlled anger,
information suggesting the signal breach was more than negligence, that
there may have been deliberate compromise of our operational security.
Reynolds felt sweat forming at his hairline. Mister President, we're
still investigating. No, James, we are investigating now, the FBI
director interrupted, emphasizing the change and authority. My counterintelligence division
has evidence of sophisticated infiltration, targeting multiple officials involved in
planning the operation. Reynolds struggled to maintain his composure. Mira
must have gone to the FBI, circumventing his authority, a
betrayal that could end both their careers, but hers was
clearly a calculated sacrifice. Sir, the situation is complex, Reynolds said,
directing his words to the President. We've been conducting our
own inquiry with assistance from private sector experts who can
operate with greater flexibility. You mean WEB, the Attorney General interjected,
her tone, making the name sound like an accusation. A
private contractor with his own agenda and conflicts of interest,
whose company provided intelligence for the very operation that failed.
The walls were closing in. Reynolds had miscalculated badly, assuming
he could contain the investigation through WEB while establishing a
narrative that protected his position. Now, with federal agencies involved,
that approach had become untenable. I've made mistakes in handling
this situation, Reynolds acknowledged, shifting to damage control. But my
only concern has been national security and recovering our captured personnel.
Your concern should have been following proper protocols and allowing
career professionals to conduct a legitimate investigation, the President replied, Instead,
you've created the appearance of a cover up, which is
exactly what we don't need right now. The rebuke stung,
but Reynolds recognized the language for what it was, political distancing.
The President was creating space between himself and the growing scandal.
I'm placing the FBI in charge of the investigation, the
President continued. You will provide full cooperation, including all communications, documents,
and access to personnel. The National Security Council's internal inquiry
is terminated, effective immediately. It was a public vote of
no confidence, just short of outright dismissal. Reynolds understood he
was being kept in position only because firing him now
would appear to confirm wrongdoing before the investigation was complete.
I understand, mister President. You'll have my full cooperation. The
meeting ended shortly thereafter, with the FBI director remaining behind
for a private conversation with the President. As Reynolds left
the Oval office, he felt the weight of his miscalculations
crushing down on him. His attempt to protect himself had
back fired spectacularly, and the situation was about to get worse.
His assistant met him in the corridor. Her expression grave, sir,
The Capital Tribune is publishing an expose on the Yemen
operation at noon today. Our sources say it directly implicates
you in security failures leading to the ambush. Reynolds stopped
dead in the hallway. Who's the reporter, Eliza Morgan? Of course,
another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Mira hadn't
just gone to the FBI. She'd gone to the press
as well, a two pronged attack designed to ensure the
truth emerged regardless of potential obstruction. Get me web on
a secure line, Reynold said, resuming his walk toward his office,
and clear my schedule for the rest of the day.
The nation was about to learn of his failures, both
real and perceived. His only hope now was to align
his narrative with whoever was truly behind the breach, to
become an instrument of investigation rather than its target. It
was a desperate play, but he had no other options left.
At exactly noon, the Capital Tribune published Eliza Morgan's article
online and in a special print edition. The headline betrayed
how security failures led to Yemen disaster appeared above a
detailed account of the signal chat breach, the compromised accounts,
and the systematic failures that had allowed sensitive operational details
to flow to hostile forces. The article named names, it
presented evidence, It connected dots that officials had desperately tried
to keep separate. Within minutes, the story was being picked
up by every major news outlet. Within an hour, congressional
leaders from both parties were calling for investigations. By midafternoon,
the White House was in full crisis management mode, with
the Press Secretary facing a barrage of questions from journalists
who smelled blood in the water. From her secure location,
a tribune known department maintained for reporters facing threats, Eliza
watched the fallout spread across television, news and social media.
Her phone buzzed constantly with messages from colleagues, sources, and
unknown numbers, likely belonging to officials seeking to shape the narrative.
She ignored them all, focusing instead on her next task,
identifying the hidden players behind the conspiracy. The article had
established the fact of betrayal, but not its ultimate source
or purpose that would require deeper investigation. Following financial trails,
communication patterns, and the digital breadcrumbs left by even the
most careful operators. Her laptop pinged with an encrypted message
from Mira. Good work, be careful, They're moving faster now.
Eliza typed a response, who is they? The reply came quickly,
still determining Webb is key follow his connections. Before Eliza
could respond, another message appeared. Have to go dark FBI
protection now trust no one outside established channels. The communication
window closed, leaving Eliza with more questions than answers. Webb
was connected somehow, not just as a contractor trying to
manage the investigation, but potentially as something more sinister, a facilitator,
a catalyst, perhaps even an architect of the entire operation.
She began compiling everything she could find on Franklin, Webb
and Obsidian security solutions, government contracts, financial records, personnel movements,
connections to foreign entities, or unusual fund transfers. If Webb
was the key, she would find the door he unlocked.
As night fell over Yemen, Captain Santiago prepared for her
escape attempt. She had spent hours observing the guard rotations,
memorizing timing and procedures. The late shift was the weakest,
two guards covering multiple prisoners with a supervisor who remained
in the central monitoring station rather than conducting regular patrols.
Her window would come between two am and two thirty am,
when the most attentive guard took his regular break, leaving
the less experienced one alone on duty. Santiago lay on
her cot, the metal strip concealed in her hand, and
began moaning loudly, a sound of pain, escalating gradually into
cries for help. She thrashed on the cot, making as
much noise as possible while keeping her movements controlled and purposeful.
After several minutes, she heard footsteps approaching the observation window
in her door slid open, revealing the younger guard's face,
his expression caught between concern and suspicion. What's wrong, he
demanded in accented English. Santiago clutched her bandaged shoulder, contorting
her face in apparent agony. Something's torn open. I'm bleeding badly,
the guard hesitated, peering through the window at the theatrical display.
Santiago had smeared some of her remaining dried blood on
the bandage to create the appearance of fresh bleeding. Wait
for medical, he replied, starting to close the window. I
could be dead by then, Santiago gasped, intensifying her performance.
Your boss won't be happy if you let a valuable
prisoner die on your watch. The logic penetrated the guard's uncertainty.
His orders were clear, keep the prisoners alive, especially the
female captain, who possessed the access they needed. He spoke
into his radio requesting backup, but received only static in response.
The facility's thick walls often interfered with communications and certain areas,
another detail Santiago had observed and was now exploiting. After
another moment's hesitation, the guard unlocked the door, weapon raised
cautiously as he entered the cell. Santiago continued her pained writhing,
drawing him closer to the cot, while keeping her hand
with the metal strip concealed beneath her body. Let me see,
he said, leaning forward to examine the supposedly bleeding wound.
It was the opening she needed. In one fluid motion,
Santiago drove the metal strip into the side of his neck,
not deep enough to be lethal, but sufficient to shock
and temporarily incapacitate. Before he could react, her other hand
shot out and seized his weapon, twisting it free while
simultaneously delivering a sharp blow to his throat that collapsed
his airway. The guard crumpled, gasping for breath that wouldn't come,
blood seeping from the neck wound. Santiago moved quickly, securing
his side arm and retrieving his radio, key card and
a set of plastic restraints from his belt. She used
the restraints to bind him, then tore a strip from
the bed sheet to gag him. He would live, but
wouldn't be raising an alarm anytime soon. Checking the corridor
through the partially opened door, Santiago confirmed it was empty,
before slipping out and moving silently toward Wade's cell. The
key card worked on his door, and she found him
already on his feet, having heard the commotion and prepared himself.
Nice timing, Captain, he whispered, eyes widening at the weapon
in her hand. One guard down, at least one more
on duty, she replied, keeping her voice low, Chen is
next door. We moved together, find communications, alert command, then
extract if possible. Wade nodded, falling immediately into the operational
mindset that had made him her most trusted teammate. Lead
the way. They repeated the process at Chen cell. Finding
the specialist groggy but alert enough to follow instructions, the
three Americans moved cautiously through the corridor. Santiago and the
lead with the captured weapon waighed supporting Chin in the middle,
all of them hyperaware that their window of opportunity was
rapidly closing. They needed to find the facility's communication center,
likely near the central security station, and send an emergency
signal with their location and situation before their escape was discovered.
Santiago estimated they had perhaps ten minutes before the incapacitated
guard was missed by his colleague or supervisor. As they
rounded a corner, they encountered exactly what they'd hoped to avoid.
The second guard, returning early from his break. He froze
for a split second at the sight of the escaped prisoners,
then reached for his weapon. Santiago fired first two shots
that struck the guard center mass. He collapsed against the wall,
leaving a smear of blood as he slid to the floor.
The gunshots eliminated any hope of stealth alarms would sound
within moments. Their timetable had just compressed from minutes to seconds.
Run Santiago ordered, abandoning caution for speed, look for COM's equipment,
satellite phone, anything that can reach outside. They sprinted down
the corridor, checking rooms as they passed. Most were empty
or contained nothing useful, storage, basic living quarters, a small
medical facility. Then Wade called out from a door near
the end of the hall. Here calm center. Santiago and
Chen joined him in what appeared to be a small
operations room. Multiple monitors displayed security feeds from around the facility.
A rack of communication equipment lined one wall, including what
Santiago immediately recognized as a military grade satellite transmission system. Chen,
can you get a signal out? Santiago asked, knowing the
specialist had signals training. Chen nodded, despite her injuries, moving
to the equipment with practiced hands. Give me two minutes.
What's the message authentication code? Sierra Tango nine nine four zero.
Then are coordinates if you can establish them, followed by
three eagles compromised, require immediate extraction, targeting system breach in progress.
They'll understand. While Chen worked the communications equipment, Santiago and
Wade monitored the security feeds, watching as personnel began responding
to the alarm. Armed men were converging on their position
from multiple directions. We've got maybe three minutes before they
reach us, Wade said grimly. Santiago assessed their situation with
brutal clarity. They were outnumbered and outgunned. Chen was in
no condition for sustained combat. Even if the message got through,
extraction would take hours at minimum. Message sent, Chen announced,
but I can't confirm receipt. The connection was unstable. Santiago
made her decision, Wade, get Chen out of here. There's
a service exit shown on that monitor. She pointed to
a security feed showing a door leading to what appeared
to be an alley. I'll hold this position as long
as possible to buy you time. Wade's expression hardened with respect. Captain,
that's a suicide mission. That's an order, Lieutenant Santiago replied
her tone, leaving no room for argument. Get our intelligence out.
Make sure command understands what they're after. Access to the
targeting network. Someone in our chain is compromised. After a
moment of tense silence, Wade nodded he understood the calculus
as well as she did. One of them might escape
with critical intelligence, three of them would all be captured
or killed. It's been an honor, Captain, he said simply, likewise, Lieutenant,
now move. As Wade helped Chen toward the service exit,
Santiago positioned herself at the main entrance to the communication room.
Weapon ready. She had one side arm, limited ammunition, and
a desperate mission by enough time for her team members
to escape with intelligence that could save countless lives. On
the security monitors, she watched armed men moving methodically toward
her position. Among them was the gray haired man directing
the response with cold efficiency, his expression one of professional
annoyance rather than anger. Santiago took a deep breath, steadying
herself for what was to come. She had done her duty.
She had refused to compromise critical systems. She had given
her team a chance, however slim, to escape with information
that might expose the conspiracy. Whatever happened next, she would
face it knowing she had made the right choice. The
first attackers reached the door, Santiago aimed carefully and opened
fire as dawn broke over Washington. The day after Eliza's
article was published, the political earthquake it triggered continued to grow.
Congressional hearings were being scheduled. The Defense Department had announced
an independent review. The White House was struggling to contain
a narrative rapidly spinning beyond its control. At FBI headquarters,
Mira Patel sat in a secure interview room, providing a
detailed statement to agents from the Counterintelligence Division. Her decision
to come forward had ended her career in government, but
she maintained the conviction that she had done the right thing.
When the interview concluded, the lead agent remained behind, his
expression grave. We've received intelligence overnight, he said quietly. There
was an incident at a facility in Yemen where we
believe the captured Americans were being held. Gunfire signs of
a partial escape attempt. Mira's heart raced. Do we know
who got out? If anyone? Unclear, But approximately thirty minutes
after the incident, a fragmented message was received by Sentcom
authentication codes matching Captain Santiago's unit, followed by a warning
about the targeting system being compromised. Then she's alive or
was possibly. We're considering it credible intelligence and have elevated
the security level for all systems Santiago had access to.
If someone was trying to extract authentication from her, it
means we were right, Mira finished. This was never about
killing Americans or even conventional intelligence gathering. It was about
gaining access to our military networks. The agent nodded, which
raises the critical question who would have the resources to
orchestrate something this sophisticated, and more importantly, who would benefit
from such access. It was the same question Eliza Morgan
was pursuing from her secure location, combing through Franklin Webb's
connections and contracts, the same question that FBI analysts were
approaching from their angle examining digital forensics and intelligence patterns,
and unknown to all of them, it was the question
that Webb himself was now confronting as he realized the
operation had evolved beyond his initial understanding or control. The
shadow players were emerging into the light, but as they did,
the full dimensions of the conspiracy and its potential consequences
were only beginning to become clear. In Yemen, Lieutenant Wade
and specialist Chin moved carefully through darkened streets, using the
urban environment to evade pursuers behind them. The sound of
gunfire had stopped, a silence more ominous than the chaos
that preceded it. Wade knew what it likely meant Santiago
had either been killed or recaptured. Their window for escape
was closing fast, but they had the intelligence, They had
the warning about the targeting system. If they could reach
friendly forces or a communication point with a more stable connection,
they could ensure the captain's sacrifice wasn't in vain. That
responsibility now rested entirely on their shoulders. The weight of
it drove them forward, step by painful step into the
uncertain dawn signal. Lost is a production of Calaroga Shark
Media executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. The assistance
of AI was used in the production of this show.