Airwolf

This story is slightly different and again I have only borrowed the characters from Mr Bellisario and co. Any resemblence to real events, people or places is coincidental and typical of my rotten luck! Apologies abound if that is the case ...

Airwolf -Remembrance.

Summer, 1984.

Stringfellow Hawke gently applied the brakes and allowed the borrowed Santini Air Jeep to come a smooth halt, then set the gear lever to neutral and secured the parking brake. He let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh, but made no effort to alight from the vehicle.

It was still early in the day, no-one else around and no other vehicles in the parking lot.

It was a beautiful morning, the sky a vast, cloudless canopy of azure, the sun a pulsing golden disk slowly climbing higher and higher on the horizon, a heat haze mingled with smog already shimmering over the urban sprawl that was the city of Angels.

It was going to be another scorching Californian day, but Stringfellow Hawke's mind was on none of this.

Still seated behind the steering wheel of the Jeep, clad in a new dark charcoal grey suit and crisp white shirt, to which he had added a simple narrow black neck tie, which was threatening to strangle him, piercing blue eyes shielded from the glare of the sun by his mirrored flying shades, Hawke did not see the glorious summer bursting into life around him, the immaculate lawns and litter free gravel parking lot, nor did he hear the birds chattering and warbling merrily in the boughs of the nearby trees, instead, all Stringfellow Hawke could focus on was death and destruction, his mind transporting him back to a day that he could not, nor would not ever forget.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, fighting against the memories, but it was futile. The vivid images kept flashing through his mind, like a bad movie, stuck in a loop ….

Glorious Technicolor and Stereophonic sound …..

Carrie-Ann, so young, so beautiful, long limbed, tan and slender looking breath taking in a pale lavender sun dress, her deep, topaz blue eyes sparkling with love and life, her long golden hair loose and flowing like a mane behind her as she ran to join him in the Jeep, her arms coming up around his neck, her warm soft lips eagerly seeking his in a tender kiss, as they began their journey that day.

Hawke squeezed his eye lids even tighter together, his nostrils assailed by the stench of gasoline and hot metal, not newly cut grass and blossom, and now the sound came, deafening him, the screech of brakes, of rending metal, Carrie's screams and then the deathly silence, the only sounds, the hiss of steam escaping from the radiator and the eerie tick tick clicking of a wheel spinning slowly to a halt.

Hawke let out a deep, shuddering breath and felt a hot tear slip from between his lashes and down his cheek and he quickly reached up to dash it away in frustration and irritation.

Anger flared, briefly, anger at his weakness, and drawing in a ragged breath he reached out to the seat beside him and collected the single long stem white rose and then climbed out of the Jeep, forcing his leaden legs to carry him the short distance up the path to Carrie-Ann Miller's grave.

The cemetery was quiet, peaceful, but Stringfellow Hawke's mind was still focused on that day sixteen years ago, when life had only just been beginning for him and his friends.

The summer of 1968, he had just finished his Army basic training at boot camp and in a few days time he would be shipping out to join his unit, and his brother, St John, out in Vietnam.

It had been a beautiful summer's day, just perfect to celebrate Carrie's eighteenth birthday ….

Hawke increased the length of his stride, wanting to get to his destination, so that he could get this over with for another year.

Still the memories crowded in, as, almost as though he were on auto pilot, Hawke's legs carried him on up the tidy gravel path, twisting and turning between pristine, newly cut lawns and lined with healthy trees flaunting their new summer foliage.

Birds twittered and chirruped but Hawke did not hear their songs, all he could hear was his own ragged breath, his erratic heart beat, and Carrie's soft, low moans of agony in the minutes after the Jeep came to a standstill and he finally came too after being knocked unconscious by the collision.

Trapped.

Now, Hawke's mind was caught up in the moments after the accident, when he realised that he was trapped in the upturned wreck of the Jeep, his head spinning and splitting with pain, blood, warm and sticky, oozing down one side of his face from a deep gash on his forehead, and his chest aching where it had been rammed against the steering wheel as the Jeep flipped over ….

Trapped in the moment when he realised that Carrie-Ann had not been so lucky, her beautiful slender body twisted and broken ….

So much blood he didn't know where it was all coming from ….

She had been crying, sobbing softly, gasping for breath and calling out his name, such desperation and fear in her voice, but he couldn't get to her from his side, and he couldn't get the door open.

He wasn't badly hurt, just winded, bloodied and bruised. The Jeep was upside down, and his side was pinned up against a wall were it had come to a rest, the metal of the door and frame twisted and bent, the window glass shattered, and no room for him to try to squeeze himself through, even if his legs hadn't been caught between the dash and the pedals.

Trapped.

All he could do was reach out and take Carrie's hand, squeezing it gently to reassure her that she was not alone, that he loved her, that help would be coming soon, weeping softly because he knew that she was dying, and there was nothing that he could do to help her.

Hawke had known the moment when Carrie-Ann had slipped away.

Her delicate little hand had slipped from between his fingers and she had let out one last, soft little breath. Then all had been quiet.

Stringfellow Hawke had never felt so helpless or alone in his life.

Help had eventually arrived, but it had been too late for Carrie-Ann Miller.

It had seemed to take an eternity to free the young man from the wreckage of the Jeep and get him into an ambulance and then to a hospital, an eternity when all that the young Stringfellow Hawke could do was think about what had happened, replaying it all over and over in his mind ….

And all that he could focus on was what he had lost.

Shocked and traumatised, all he could think was that it had been his fault.

He had killed the most beautiful thing in the world, the only thing that meant anything to him, aside from his brother St John, and his old friend, Dominic Santini.

Eventually, Dominic Santini had turned up at the hospital, shock making him white faced, but once he had ascertained that the young man's injuries were not life threatening, a concussion, a few bruised ribs and a gash on his head that required a few simple stitches, Dominic Santini had gathered the boy into his arms in a strong hug and held on to him tightly as the tears and sobs had consumed the young Hawke.

And, even to this day, Dominic was still holding on to him, supporting him, keeping him together, sane, always there to back him up, cajoling, advising, loving him as no other could, except St John.

He owed so much to Dominic.

Another debt that could only ever be repaid with friendship and love.

From that moment on, Dominic Santini had tried to make him understand that it had not been his fault, that there was nothing more that he could have done, to avoid the accident, or to help poor Carrie-Ann, but Hawke had been consumed with guilt and grief, and he had never really let go of either in the years that followed.

Everything had seemed to take a downward turn from that day on.

The funeral had been awful, Carrie's family, shocked and numb, trying not to stare at him with accusing eyes, resentful that he was still alive while their beautiful, vibrant daughter was gone, as he and Dominic Santini, stood solemnly at the back of the church, and then to one side of the group of mourners at the graveside, silently watching Carrie's coffin being lowered into the ground.

Then there had been the police enquiry, and explanations to his Army CO about why he would not be able to ship out with the rest of the unit, his deployment delayed because of the injuries he had sustained and the need to make his official statement to the police, all of which he had endured in numb, bewildered silence.

Hawke had eventually shipped out, joined St John, immersed himself in his duty and for a while things had been better, and then had come the day when St John had gone missing, never to be seen or heard of again, and for the young Stringfellow Hawke it had been the last straw, one heartache too many.

Now, his feet carried him on, up a little incline and then over the top and suddenly he was coming to a stop beside the familiar headstone.

He noticed immediately that there was a new addition beside Carrie's grave. Three in a line now, and his heart grew heavy in his chest when he read the inscription on the new grave marker.

Her father, Thomas, had died from cancer four years ago, and now he and Carrie-Ann were joined by her mother, Marion, who had passed away just a couple of months ago.

Hawke recalled having heard somewhere that she had suffered a massive stroke earlier in the year, and felt a knot of regret and guilt tighten his stomach as he again cursed himself for being a weak coward, unable to go and see her, face her, even after all this time, because he had known what he would see in her eyes.

Anger.

Accusation.

Resentment that he continued to live after destroying the only thing of beauty she had.

Her precious daughter, Carrie-Ann.

Drawing in a long, deep breath, Hawke forced himself to walk closer, coming to a stop at Carrie's neat grave, noted the flowers already lying there, wilting and already beginning to turn brown, with a brief frown, wondering who else was left now to remember, as he bent his head, briefly, before squatting down and with shaking fingers, laid his single floral tribute on the grave.

Just being here, again, made it all come rushing back to him, the memories buffeting him like the mountainous waves of a riptide, threatening to engulf him.

He spent several minutes in silent contemplation, his mind replaying the events of that day, over and over, tormenting him with every minute detail, and he allowed his tears to flow freely, for this one day, her birthday and the anniversary of death, was the only time he allowed himself to remember, to grieve, subconsciously accepting that it was because of this one day every year, this pilgrimage to this place, on that day, that he could live through the rest of the year with some semblance of normality.

This the only time he could face coming here at all.

It never got any easier.

Never.

In all the years he had been coming here, like this.

So many years now.

If only the tears cleansed, yet even after they were shed there was little in the way of relief.

At least he was able to come here.

At least here was a place to come to be close to her once more, to focus his grief, and his memories, at Carrie's graveside, which was something that he could not do for his beloved brother, St John.

As he poured out his grief, Hawke could not get the recent conversation that he had had with his old friend, Dominic Santini out of his head.

His old friend was aware of the significance of the day that was approaching and had offered to come with Hawke to the cemetery, but the younger man had flatly refused, knowing that this was something that he had to face alone, that he would always have to face alone, for he could not bare anyone to see the pain and heartache and anger, the bitterness and self loathing that still consumed him.

Santini had stopped him as he was trying to get away from the hangar last night, effectively blocking his path as he had discreetly let his young friend know that he knew what day was looming and that if he needed someone to share the day with, he would be more than happy to bear that burden.

"I'd kinda like to pay my respects …. I loved her too, ya know …." Santini had told him solemnly, his rheumy grey eyes regarding his young friend with concern, taking in the pinched, pained expression on his handsome young face, and the deep sadness haunting his sky blue eyes. "I can't believe it's been sixteen years. She'd be what? Thirty four now? Say, do you remember the time …."

A huge smile had split the older man's face as some happy memory had suddenly popped into his head, but then Santini's voice had trailed away immediately he had noticed the harsh expression on his young friend's face.

"Do you think it's the only time I ever remember?" Hawke had ground out bitterly at Santini's innocent question, and fixed his hard, cold, blue eyes on Dominic Santini, as he spoke, letting out a heart wrenching sigh.

"Dammit, Dom, I remember every minute of every single day I spent with her, and there is not a day that goes by when I don't think about her …. About what she would be like now, what she would be doing with her life, what we would be doing, together. It's just that this day, the anniversary of her death …. That is the one day that I can justify giving in to the need to cry into my beer," he had sighed again.

"On this day I'm allowed to grieve and feel sad and angry and bitter," his voice had trailed away.

Dominic Santini had been impressed.

For Hawke that was quite an eloquent speech.

That in its self spoke volumes.

"Says who, huh? Who says that's the only time you're allowed to show your true feelings?" Santini had demanded angrily. "And why does it have to be with sorrow and anger and bitterness and grief that you remember her?" Santini had persisted, despite the warning glower that had settled on Hawke's face.

"I'm sorry, String, but don't you see, this is what I've been trying to tell you for a long time. You weren't the only one who knew Carrie …. And you weren't the only one who loved her. It's been hard for the rest of us to have to hold our tongues, because we know how much it hurts you to speak of her."

This remark had drawn Hawke's brooding gaze once more.

"I guess you hadn't thought about that, huh?" Santini had retorted.

"I guess not," Hawke had admitted in a gruff voice.

"We should be able to share the memories together, String. I was there too, remember? I loved her too. Like a daughter. The two of you were my world, and it broke my heart too when she died, and there have been times when my poor old heart has been bustin' with grief and anger and sorrow …. Times, when I have really needed to talk about her, with someone who knew her. But …."

"I wouldn't let that someone be me."

"Who else is there left? String, didn't you ever hear that thing, the Chinese or some such, believe, that so long as one person remembers you, you will never die? It means remembering the good things too, kid."

"I'm sorry Dom," Hawke had sighed deeply and Santini had known that the younger man meant it.

Hawke had been so wrapped up in his own pain, and trying to live with the loss and the grief, that he hadn't been able to think about anyone else, or even see that there was someone there, right beside him, to share the burden with.

"She was so full of life, String. The two of you made so many good and happy memories together, but you don't seem able to let yourself find any happiness or pleasure in them."

Hawke had known that Santini was right.

"Yes her life was short, sure, son, but she made a huge impression and she filled her own life, and so many others with so much love. She made every day count. Wasn't she the one who made you see that instead of being jinxed, you were lucky? Blessed? You were a survivor."

Santini had taken a breath and ploughed on.

"We should celebrate the fact that she came into our life, no matter how briefly, and changed it for the better. She was so funny and so smart, so beautiful. Not to even be able to speak her name .… All these years, String, it's broken my heart."

Santini's voice had cracked momentarily.

"But, I also had to respect your wishes. And your reaction to her name …. Well, it was like you had been punched in the gut over and over. I couldn't do it to ya, kid. And, then you got this crazy notion in your head, that you're some kind of jinx. You forgot what Carrie made you believe, and you stopped listening to me altogether …."

"So, I'm a stupid sonofa …."

"Language," Dominic had sighed, shaking his head gently. "But something we agree on at last …."

"I didn't forget …."

"No?"

"I just didn't want to remember, Dom. How can I believe that I am blessed? Lucky? When all the people I love get hurt ... Die ..."

"Son, you gotta stop thinking like this. Thinking that way will destroy you, String," Santini had sighed, casting his sad grey eyes down, briefly. "I love you, kid. I've loved you for a lot of years, and by your reckoning, I should be dead, many times over ..."

"Would you rather that you had died, when your folks drowned?" Santini had looked back at him at last, finally asking the one question that Hawke knew the older man had always dreaded voicing, because he thought that he already knew the answer.

"Maybe it would have been better. Maybe Carrie would still be alive? She wouldn't have been in that Jeep with me. And Sinjin? Maybe they would have found room for him on that chopper, if I hadn't already been picked up?"

Dominic Santini had placed his arm gently around the younger man's shoulders, drawing him close for a brief hug then had gently put him away, and Hawke had seen the tears shimmering in those familiar, grey eyes.

"If you had died with your folks, then I would have missed out on watching you grow into a wonderful young man. And Carrie, she would have missed out on falling in love for the first time in her life, with that same wonderful young man, and, as for Sinjin, I don't even want to think about that …. Hell son, I could have lost you both in that Godless place, and how would I have gotten over that? The grief would have killed me, son, no kidding."

The sincerity in Dominic Santini's voice had touched a chord deep down inside Stringfellow Hawke, and he had felt his heart constrict in his chest.

This man, this dear man had been a huge part of his life, a huge influence, having no small part in making him the man that he was proud to be.

An honourable, decent, loyal and just man.

He loved him dearly, and valued his friendship and his love, but Hawke had known deep down in his heart that Dominic did not really understand how he felt about this, and that he never could.

"You're still alive, String, and you have to start making a life for yourself now, while you're still young enough to enjoy it," Santini had told him solemnly. "I won't always be around, kid, and it tears me apart to think of you living out the rest of your days alone …."

His voiced had trailed away again then, but Stringfellow Hawke had seen quite clearly in Santini's eyes what he had left unsaid.

His very real fear, that once he too was gone, there would be nothing left for Stringfellow Hawke to live for.

The older man need not worry.

Stringfellow Hawke would continue to live, simply because it was his punishment to do so, alone, loveless, his heart, empty and shrivelled and bitter, continuing to beat in his chest, as penance for the life he had taken this day sixteen years before ….