SANTINI AIR HANGAR – VAN NUYS, CALIFORNIA.
"Dammit it all to hell, String …. Where are you!" Dominic Santini cursed loudly, tempted to throw a socket wrench across the hangar just to hear a noise other than the sound of his own voice.
He was tired and grouchy, and wired from drinking too much strong black coffee, but more importantly he was now growing more and more anxious and concerned with the passing of every minute that his young friend did not return.
He had been relieved to hear from Hawke earlier in the day, when String had called to say that he was returning home …. Hadn't been overly concerned to hear the tiredness in the younger man's voice.
There had been other times, Santini had recalled, when Hawke had sounded worse.
However, as the hours had slipped by and the estimated time for Hawke's arrival had gone by, Santini had grown more and more anxious.
It just wasn't like String ….
Not to call in to fill his old friend in on any change in his plans.
Santini's head had been filled with the most horrendous scenarios, since an hour after Hawke's estimated time of arrival had elapsed, and they had just gotten worse and worse as the time had gone on.
He had a pretty powerful imagination.
He'd seen a lot of life. The war …. WW2 not Vietnam like String, but just as terrifying and exciting in its own way ….
He could pretty much imagine the worst that could happen to a man ….
A man and a helicopter ….
At first he had reasoned that maybe String had decided not to make the trip after all because he had been feeling really sick ….
But then he would have called Santini and told him so.
Or maybe he had developed mechanical trouble with the chopper and had had to find a place to set down for the night.
But again, Hawke would have called him.
Hawke would have known how worried his old buddy would be about him ….
And he would have called.
There was no two ways about it
It was just the way he was.
A considerate young man, who would not want an old geezer to tie himself in knots worrying unnecessarily over his health.
No …. No matter how he imagined it, Hawke would have called.
With the exception of two scenarios ….
The one where Hawke had developed mechanic trouble and had been forced to set down in the last place in the civilised USA that did not have telephones ….
Or …. The one where the chopper had developed a major mechanical problem and crashed …. And String was badly injured …. Cut off from civilisation and rescue …. No one even knowing that he was out there …. Dying ….Or …. Already dead.
Dominic Santini swallowed the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat and squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the image of Stringfellow Hawke's mangled body trapped inside the twisted metal of the Bell Jet Ranger.
It was just too vivid.
After two hours he had started calling in favours with the air traffic controllers that he had gotten to know over the years, but none of them had received word that a Mayday had been received, even as far away as Texas.
No reports of aircraft suddenly disappearing off of radar screens.
And even though he knew that String hadn't filed a flight plan that put him anywhere near the ocean, he had called the Coast Guard anyway.
After two and a half hours, he had started calling the hospitals.
Nothing …. Nada …. Zilch ….
He tried to tell himself that that was a good sign …. But even then, some cynical little voice in the back of his mind had pointed out that maybe something so cataclysmic had happened that Hawke had not had time to put out a Mayday call and no one knew that his helicopter had crashed and that he was in need of help.
Santini had told himself that he would wait until sunset.
Three hours over the estimated arrival time.
Hawke had said it himself …. He had wanted to be home by dark.
And if Hawke said he was going to be somewhere …. Especially when it involved flying, Santini knew that he meant it.
If Hawke wasn't home by nightfall then it was a sure fire bet that he wasn't coming home.
For whatever reason ….
And that left only one option open to Santini ….
It was a last resort ….
But even so, it was one that Dominic Santini found even just the thought of unpalatable.
He and Michael Coldsmith Briggs III didn't exactly see eye to eye at the best of times, and he could well imagine the haughty way the man in white would look at him with his one good eye, as he demanded to know why he had waited so long before reporting Hawke as missing …. lost ….
Like he owned Hawke's life ….
Like hell he did!
Now the shadows were falling outside the hangar and the sun was almost level with the horizon …. He was almost out of time …. And there was still no sign …. No word from Hawke ….
"Dammit String! Where are you!" He howled again, but there was no one around to hear his baleful cries. "Oh son, I hope you're okay …." He again swallowed a lump in his throat.
And finally, with a heavy heart, he opened up a drawer in his desk and scooped up the keys to his Jeep.
There was only one sure way he knew to contact Archangel …. And get his immediate attention.
And that was by secure link from Airwolf ….
And that meant making a trip out to the Lair ….
At least the drive out there would give him a little more time to contemplate the wisdom of what he was considering …. But, he suspected, in the end, he would have little choice.
Except maybe to take the Lady up on his own and retrace String's flight plan back from the High Sierra's.
He brightened for a moment then dropped back down into the doldrums, because he knew that that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, even with all that high powered scanning equipment around him.
Airwolf was Santini's only resource, but Archangel would have all the resources of The Firm at his fingertips, and even if it meant that Santini had to swallow his pride and eat crow for the rest of his life ….
He would do whatever was best for Stringfellow Hawke ….
Fiona Cromwell moved across her consulting room and switched on the light box which flickered briefly before glowing brightly enough to illuminate the X-ray film she hung on the front of it.
It was a shot of Hawke's damaged leg and when she saw it there in black and white she whistled softly through her teeth.
It was bad.
Worse than she had suspected.
But …. Fixable …. Just …. With pins to strengthen it ….
However she would have to work quickly ….
To ensure continued blood flow, that blood vessels and nerves did not die due to lack of oxygenated blood.
But with a little care during surgery and TLC afterwards, she didn't think that he would lose the leg.
So he'd set off metal detectors in airports in the future …. And he might have a slight limp when he was tired …. But he was damned lucky.
It could have been worse.
Much worse ….
Next she put up the picture of Hawke's skull and was relieved to see no sign of a fracture, although she still couldn't rule out a mild concussion. She also couldn't see any sign of damage to his neck vertebrae, or to his cheek bone.
Finally she put up the thoracic film which clearly showed the cracked ribs as indicated by the bruising to his chest and the chest drain she had inserted, however there was no fluid in the pleural space and no sign of any fluid in his belly.
So no internal injuries after all, just severe bruising caused by the lap strap.
Thank God for small mercies ….
Her patient was lying quietly just a short distance away, in the examination room, floating, pain free, in a drug induced haze, or so she hoped, after she had administered more morphine. She had had to give him a top up so that he could endure their having to move him to get the X-rays done and tape up his ribs, a process that had taken almost an hour …. And then it had taken a further half an hour for the film to develop ….
Damned old machine kept breaking down.
Now that she knew that he didn't have a skull fracture she could go ahead and give him a full intravenous anaesthetic and make a start on his leg, and when that was done, while he was still out, she would suture the wound to his head.
Sheila was getting the examination room ready for the procedure on his leg, laying out the surgical drapes and trays of instruments and making sure that they had things like extra oxygen, saline, blood serum and plasma.
Fiona had already hung a bag of plasma to replace the blood he had lost because of the damaged artery in his leg, but he might need more during the procedure.
Hawke's temperature still worried her. Despite the fact that they had pulled out all the ice they could find and wrapped it in towels and placed it at various points around his body, his temperature wasn't coming down.
There was still a chance that he might have a seizure or vomit during the operation on his leg, and that wouldn't be good news.
Fiona put up the film of Hawke's leg again and studied it carefully.
She couldn't put it off much longer.
For both their sakes.
"Okay …. Let's do this …."
Sheila Clay watched Fiona enter the examination room, now prepared as an emergency operating room, and cast her eye over the trays of instruments, nodding her approval.
"So, "Fiona drew level with Hawke's head and leaned close to his ear. "We're about ready to make a start. You just lie there and have pleasant dreams."
"Awake," je slurred drowsily, but Fiona had to lean in closer to catch what he was saying. "Stay …. Awake …."
"No way, Soldier. You're off to dreamland, and that's an order …."
"Awake …."
"No." Fiona insisted. "This is a very delicate operation and the last thing I need is you fighting me," she reasoned with him. "Go to sleep …. And when you wake up it will be all over."
"If I wake up," he slurred again.
"Oh please," Fiona sighed, glancing over at Sheila and rolling her eyes in exasperation. "I'll be giving you a little injection, Hawke, that's all, although I do have other methods I could resort to. Do I have to get my nurse here to bring me a big mallet to hit you over the head to knock you out?"
"She would too," Sheila grinned.
"It's perfectly safe, Hawke," Fiona, leaning in closer to his ear assured him in a soft voice. "Trust me. After all we've been through up to now, do you really think I would let anything bad happen to you?" Then she drew back slightly, aware of Sheila Clay's silent scrutiny of the scene from the other side of the room.
"Now let me get on with what I have to do. Let me keep that promise I made to you. About your leg," she gently reminded him. "Okay?"
"Okay," he relented somewhat grudgingly and before he could change his mind, Fiona nodded to Sheila to hand her the syringe full of anaesthetic agent.
"Sweet dreams, Soldier. Now, count backward from ten for me …." She instructed inserting the needle into the IV in the back of his hand and pushing the plunger to dispense the drug into his vein.
"Ten …. Nine …. Eight …. Sev …." His voice slowly trailed off and his eyes rolled upward and closed.
"He's out," Sheila declared, pulling on a face mask.
Fiona watched Hawke carefully for a few more seconds and decided that he was indeed out for the count, then slipping an oxygen mask down over his nose and mouth, she instructed Sheila to do his observations while she returned to the locker room to scrub up and put on gown, mask and gloves.
"He's a good looking one, isn't he," Sheila commented when Fiona returned to the exam room.
"Can't say I noticed," Fiona replied absently and was suddenly aware of Sheila's speculative look over the top of her mask. "What? It was dark out there …. I did kinda have other things on my mind …."
"So what? You ain't blind, girl!" Sheila wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
"Okay. So I guess now I see him in the light. He is kind of …. "
"Cute?"
"Handsome," Fiona settled on the word after a moment or two.
"Drop dead gorgeous more like. Been in the wars before though …." Sheila commented, obviously having noticed the old scar he carried on his lower back. "Nice caboose," she chuckled softly.
"What do I keep telling you about eyeing the patient's butts?"
"Guilty as charged, but in my house, when you've seen one, you've seen 'em all! Can't blame a gal for admiring a change of scenery. This job has to have at least one perk. So, where did he get the scar?"
"Vietnam," Fiona confirmed. "Everything okay?"
Fiona grew serious now, wanting to distract the older woman away from what was for her still rather a dark time in her life.
"Sure."
"Then let's get started. What time is it?"
"Quarter of eight …."
"If everything is pretty straight forward we should be done in a couple of hours," She looked back at Sheila and held out her gloved hand. "Scalpel. Make sure you keep checking his blood pressure, pulse, respiration and temperature, especially his temperature, I'm concerned about that fever …. Five minute intervals, and call out his pulse and blood pressure to me as I work, Okay?"
"Okay, Doc."
"Let's make a start then, Suction …. "
Dominic Santini let out a deep sigh and cast a glance at his wristwatch. He had wedged himself into the Lady's right seat after pacing up and down inside the dark, chilled cave for half an hour, waiting for a reply from Archangel.
The agent he had spoken to on the secure line to the Firm had informed him that Archangel was in a very important meeting and could not be disturbed, but, when that meeting broke for coffee etc, she would ensure that Dominic's message would be passed on to Archangel.
That had been over an hour ago.
Santini chewed his lip impatiently.
He had taken a thermos of hot black coffee with him, knowing that out there in the desert the night would be cold enough to penetrate his old bones, and had sipped at it sparingly, however it was all gone now and the only sure way to keep warm was to sit inside the beautiful Mach 1 super helicopter whom he called The Lady.
Airwolf.
At first Dominic had felt a little awkward.
This was String's place. His seat. Despite the fact that just lately Hawke had been deferring the right seat to him, allowing Dominic to get to know his precious Lady better.
For the good of future missions for the Firm.
All was quiet and still, except for the low hum coming from the instrument panel indicating the machine's readiness for action ….
Her power ….
"Come in Airwolf.This is Archangel …."
Dominic Santini jumped at the sound of the government agent's voice as it filled the cockpit.
"'bout ce as it filled the cockpit.
of the government agen'blessed time too," he snapped, forgetting that he had set the radio system to open mike.
"Hawke …."
"No, this is Dominic Santini."
"Santini! What the …."
"Sorry to break into your evening," Dominic sneered, making it sound like a night at the opera or ballet.
"This had better be damned good. Where's Hawke? Look Santini, put Hawke on …." Archangel demanded impatiently.
"I can't …."
"I'll wait," Archangel sighed deeply, obviously assuming that Airwolf's Chief pilot was temporarily indisposed. "But tell him to make it snappy. I really don't have much time …."
"Michael, I can't put Hawke on …. Because he isn't here …." Santini sighed in exasperation beginning to think that this was not one of his better ideas.
"What do you mean he's not there? You're there with Airwolf, alone?" The government agent's tone now grew suspicious.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was the only way I knew how to get hold of you quickly …."
"And you needed me because?"
"String is missing …."
"Missing? Missing how exactly, Mr Santini?"
"AWOL …. Off the radar …. Not where he damned well should be …. Missing!" Dominic raged.
"Okay Dominic, take it easy. Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning …."
"String took a little vacation, in my Bell Jet Ranger," he clarified "And he planned to return to the office today. When he didn't show up I got …. Concerned …." Santini chose the word very carefully.
"Look Mr Santini, I'm touched by your concern for your friend, but I don't know what you think I can do because he's a little late …."
"Michael, he's not just a little late …. He's almost five hours over due, with no word from him at all. Feeling sickly and trying to outrun a storm …. And you probably think I'm an old woman just fussing over nothing, but I know String …. And this just isn't like him."
"Where did he go? What was he doing? He didn't call and let me know he'd be off station …." Archangel complained.
"Something came up …."
"Something? What something?"
"Something about St John," Santini explained grudgingly. "Hawke went to investigate for himself, but it turned out to be a wild goose chase and he was on his way home. He called me this lunchtime to tell me his ETA ….."
"What about St John, Mr Santini?" Archangel interrupted brusquely.
"An old war buddy of String's turned up at the hangar the other day and told him that some of the guys down at the VA Hospital were saying that they thought some new guy who had just been brought in from Laos was St John. He was discharged from the VA before String could go see him, so String found out where he was headed and went after him."
"Why didn't he check the information with me? I could have told him it was a waste of time …."
"You knowHawke …."
"Yes, I know Hawke," Archangel's sigh was almost deafening and Santini winced.
"Hey, St John is the guy's brother. Some things are just too personal, you know what I mean. This he had to do …. to see for himself …."
"All right Dominic," Archangel sighed again, suddenly realising that the older man must be truly worried and heartsick that Hawke had not returned as planned. "Give us all the information you have, and our people will get on to it straight away. I have to go back into a very important meeting now, but Marella will see that things get put into action …."
"Thank you Michael," Dominic's relief was evident in his voice and Archangel could imagine just what it had cost the stubborn old coot to ask him of all people for help.
"Ah …. Dominic …. You weren't thinking of taking Airwolf for a little spin on your own were you, by any chance?"
"Don't think it didn't cross my mind, Whitey …. But no. Even with all this sophisticated scanning equipment it would still be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Beside which, I want to be at the office just in case String tries to call …."
"I think that would be best too," Archangel agreed.
"If I had thought that it was the best thing for String, I wouldn't have thought twice about taking the Lady up. She and I get along just fine …."
"I know. Hawke's been updating me on your progress. Now, details Dominic, we need details. I have to go but I've got Marella standing by. Tell her everything you know and then get your Italian ass back to the hangar. If we're very lucky, Hawke might even be there to greet you, curious to know what all the fuss is about."
"From your lips to His ears …. Please God …." Dominic offered up a prayer and then in the next instant, Marella was on the other end of the line asking in a calm, professional voice just what he knew of Stringfellow Hawke's intended flight plan back to Los Angeles.
"That covers some pretty treacherous terrain, Mr Santini …." Was Marella's only comment. Dominic knew it, and he also knew what she was hinting at.
If Hawke's helicopter had had to ditch …. Or he had crashed, in those mountains, and woods …. They might never find him ….
"I'll put out an all points bulletin, Mr Santini," Marella advised.
"Hey lady, he's not wanted …."
"Not that kind of all points bulletin, Mr Santini. It will be a general alert to all law enforcement agencies around that part of the country. Put them all on high alert."
"Okay …."
"Do you have paper and a pen handy?"
"What do you think, kid?"
"Okay, I'll call you at the hangar later to check in. Give you a number where you can contact me if you hear anything. Anything at all, Mr Santini. You have to level with us, and not go off on some half cocked, gung ho rescue mission on your own, do you understand?"
"I understand my buddy is in mighty big trouble, honey. If I can help him, then nothing in this world is going to stop me. Not you, not Archangel, not the United States Air Force. Do you understand?"
"Yes Sir."
"Okay, the deal is this, I won't get in your way if you don't get in mine."
"Deal." Marella's tone indicated that she knew that there was little point in arguing with him.
"Thanks."
"Don't worry. We'll find Hawke …."
"Yeah, it's what you might find that bothers me," Santini felt a lump rise in his throat. "Look, I better clean up here and get moving. Let you get on with whatever it is you government folks do in these kinds of situations …. Airwolf out."
Fiona Cromwell was almost asleep on her feet.
She was standing before the washbasin in the women's locker room having just finished washing the Plaster of Paris from the cast she had just put on Hawke's leg from her hands and splashed cold water on her face, gazing at the wan, pale, tired face reflected back at her through the dull, chipped mirror over the sink. She both looked and felt every one of her forty years, but she could not help smiling tiredly back at her reflected self.
The surgery on Hawke's leg had taken longer than she had anticipated, but all in all it had gone well. He was young and healthy and in time he would probably make a full recovery.
Never knowing the meticulous, painstaking care his surgeon had taken to ensure that that would be the end result.
He would need lots of physical therapy to strengthen the leg, but he was already in pretty good shape and didn't look as if he was a stranger to working out.
The second set of X-rays that she and Sheila had struggled to take after the insertion of the metal pins in his leg, had shown that the bones were straight and in the correct position to knit perfectly ….
Given time ….
And she had detected a strong pulse in all the right places, along with the foot and leg having a healthy pink colour. This indicated to Fiona that the blood vessels had been reconnected correctly.
She would have to wait for him to wake up before she would know for sure that there was little or no nerve damage …. But, even if she said it herself, she had done a terrific job.
"What're you doing in there Doc, making your will?" Sheila called softly through the door. "Coffees good and hot, so come and get it …."
"Be right there," Fiona replied tiredly.
She needed something more substantial than coffee but knew that it was all she could stomach right now.
She also needed to sit down, before she fell down.
But if she sat for very long, she knew that she would fall asleep in minutes, and Fiona did not want that to happen, not while her patient was still under the anaesthetic and still vulnerable.
So, she would go to her office, write up her notes on the operation while it was still fresh in her memory, but first, she would check through his discarded clothing for ID, as she had promised Dan McEwan.
She had forgotten how draining it could be working twenty four hours straight, although at one time, she had thrived on it …. But she had been younger then.
She was getting soft in her old age.
Pine Valley had little need for its General Practitioner to be on duty twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
She had plenty of down time, but her patients could always reach her if they needed her.
Just like the Prestons had, when their impatient new son had made known his intention to arrive early.
Suddenly Fiona realised that she had lost track of the time again.
Was it morning, or the middle of the night?
She felt like she hadn't closed her eyes for a week.
"Coffee," she promised her reflection and smiled, knowing that the thick, strong black brew that Sheila had made would give her the jump start she needed, and the second cup would have her buzzing in no time.
Sheila was just completing the latest set of observations and noting them on Hawke's chart when Fiona emerged from the locker room.
"How is he?"
"Peaceful," Sheila smiled. "Pulse, respiration and BP are fine, but his temperature just went up again," she told Fiona with a note of concern in her voice. "What's that all about?"
"Virus probably. When he was conscious he managed to tell me that he'd been feeling off colour before the crash. Flu …. I know, Lord save us from self diagnosticians, but I think maybe he was right," Fiona stifled a yawn with her fist and took Hawke's chart from Sheila. "Headache, sore throat, nausea. Vomiting . He was quite sick up there," Sheila grimaced at this. "Fever …."
"Is that what caused the crash? Because he was already sick?"
"No. Told me the tail rotor got hit by lightening. My guess is that that wiped out all his electrics and instruments," Fiona looked up from his chart to see Sheila watching her curiously, the question in her eyes clearly there for Fiona to see.
How in the hell do you suddenly know so much about helicopters?
Fiona let out a soft sigh before continuing, having no intention of revealing her past to the older woman.
"We know that we cleaned the leg out pretty thoroughly, and cleaned up the chest drain site and the wound to his head too, so no infection. Besides, it's too soon for him to be getting an infection related fever. So, my money's on something flu like. Better give him some more Penicillin though, just to be on the safe side," She scrawled a note on his chart and put her initials beside it, then handed the chart back to Sheila. "Make a note of the time will you please."
"Sure, I'll see to it, you go get yourself some coffee."
"Thanks. Sheila, where did you guys put his clothes?"
"Sluice room. I was going to go sort through them in a minute to see if anything could be laundered and repaired."
"Can you salvage much?"
"Doubt it. Most everything had to be cut off of him."
"Did you find any ID? Wallet?"
"Didn't really look, Doc. I thought I would do that when I went through them."
"No need, I'll do it. I promised Dan McEwan I would check for ID. Our young friend might have relatives who are worried sick about him right now."
"Don't doubt it, Doc. Guy who looks like that must surely have someone wanting to claim him."
Fiona entered the sluice room and found a clear plastic bag containing the two small items of jewellery that the boys had removed from him before he went into the X-ray room sitting on the counter beside a stainless steel drainer.
His watch ….. And the small thin silver coloured bracelet which she recognised as the kind that some people were wearing these days in remembrance of someone lost or killed in Vietnam.
She also found the pile of his shredded clothing discarded in a deep old fashioned white enamelled sink, stained with dark smears of dried blood and splatters of now dry mud, flight jacket and shirt slit from top to bottom in back and at the cuffs, so that the sleeves could be pulled easily off of him without moving his chest and neck …. Jeans, seams slit and waist band cut through, again so that they could easily be pulled away from him without moving his leg.
Medical staff all around the world were trained to remove a patient's clothing in this way, causing as little trauma to the patient as possible. Clothing, it was reasoned, could always be replaced. More often than not, speed was of the essence and cutting the clothes off was the quickest way to get at injuries and get patients into the emergency operating room.
Fiona picked up one half of the tan flight jacket. It was soft and smelled of Hawke's shampoo and aftershave, the leather scuffed and darkened, well seasoned from having been well worn by its owner.
For just the briefest moment she had the strongest desire to hug the leather to her and savour the scent of him.
Then she pulled herself together, feeling heat blossom briefly on her cheeks.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Fiona turned the tattered half of the flight jacket around carefully, looking for pockets on the inside and out. She did the same with the other half, and then his plaid shirt and finally his jeans, where she located a small dark brown leather wallet in the right back pocket then she went back to her office, noting that the clock in the corridor was now reading ten after midnight.
And poured out a thick cupful of the aromatic coffee Sheila had prepared, sipping it carefully because it was very hot, and sat at her desk, setting the wallet down on the blotter, staring at it for several minutes.
She did not understand why she suddenly did not want to open it.
But she didn't.
They needed to know his full identity, she knew that …. But up to that point, all she had needed to know was that he was a man called Hawke who was injured and helpless and needed her help.
A man that she could care for.
Care for …. Not as a doctor …. But as a woman cares for a man, in the only safe way a woman could.
Without commitment or complication …. Secretly …. Remotely …. Not real ….
Just a pleasant fantasy that could hurt no-one.
For he would never know it ….
No.
She didn't want to find out his full name. Knowing his name would lead to knowing his history …. And the last thing she wanted to find out was that he was married ….. Had a pretty young wife some where …. Had children ….
Parents ….
Things that would make him real …. Give him a real life …. A place to belong …. With people who had more right to care for him than she ever would ….
But, she also knew that these were the very reasons why they should find out who he really was.
He could be a much loved son, brother, husband and father …. And somewhere there might be people already grieving for his loss.
With fingers shaking slightly, as much from fatigue as from nerves, she flipped open the wallet and was instantly greeted by the stern faced ID photo on his driving licence. A California driving licence, she noted …. No wonder he had such a wonderful tan.
His full name, she quickly learned, was Stringfellow Hawke.
And his occupation was listed, not surprisingly, as pilot.
However, the licence provided little else in the way of enlightenment. Just an address in Southern California that meant nothing to her and his strong, bold, flowing signature.
She did notice that the box marked Next Of Kin had been left blank.
"Stringfellow Hawke," she spoke the name softly. It sounded strange to her ears and felt strange on her lips. "Stringfellow …."
No wonder he preferred to simplify it to Hawke.
She flipped through the rest of the wallet, finding several large denomination dollar bills folded in the back, adding up to a couple of hundred dollars, a credit card, social security card ….
And a Stunt Pilot's Union Card.
And neatly folded behind the paper money, she found a receipt for aviation fuel from a little town over a hundred miles further North from Pine Valley, Elk Ridge County, higher up the Sierra Nevada Mountains, dated that day ….
No. Yesterday now.
His last stop ….
But it was the things that she did not find that both pleased and puzzled her.
There were no photos …. No snapshots …. No letters from a loving wife …. No love tokens …. Nothing personal …. How very military ….
Name, Rank and Serial Number ….
She could not help smiling softly to herself, realising that her own pocketbook was just as devoid of personal items. Driving licence, money, no credit card because she didn't believe in them, a few basic cosmetics, cologne…. Office keys. Car keys ….
Car keys.
That was something that she might have expected to find somewhere in his clothes, but there were none.
Still, his driving licence would provide enough information for the Police Department to be able to locate his home in California and his relatives ….
If he had any.
Fiona found that she was relieved.
She didn't know that much more about her patient than before, and she decided that if there was anything more to know, it would be up to him to tell her.
If he wanted to.
She knew all that she wanted to know.
She had also discovered something else in the process ….
Something that she had thought was beyond her and would never need to be dealt with again.
She liked him.
She was attracted to him.
She cared for him.
It would not take much for her to fall for him ….
He was attractive Handsome. Strong. Brave. Witty ….
All man.
Just what she didn't need in her orderly, sterile life.
All the things she had avoided coming into contact with for the last nine years.
And in the space of a few short hours, she had learned that she was not as hardened, or as immune as she had believed.
Somehow, this young man had touched her heart …. And she had no idea what she was going to do about it.
If she could love again ….
She could also lose love again ….
She could be hurt again ….
If that were to happen, she did not think that she could survive it again.
The first time had been just too hard.
She had almost lost herself. Lost touch with reality. And the events this night had come pretty close to resurrecting those horrendous memories ….
Overwhelming her.
Finding Mitch …. Dying …. Trapped inside his downed helicopter, just feet away from the safety of the medical compound …. After having watched the crippled bird fall from the sky ….
Cradling him in her arms while he bled to death …. Nothing that she could do to help him ….
No-one in Pine Valley knew that she had once been engaged, or that she and her fiancé had served in Vietnam.
Nor did they know that her fiancé, Mitchell Haywood, had lost his life trying to deliver casualties to the field hospital where his fiancée was serving.
Seeing the helicopter tumbling through the trees tonight …. Finding Hawke barely alive and trapped inside the cockpit ….
It had taken her right back.
And that was why she had worked so damned hard to save him …. To keep him alive until help arrived and would not allow him to wallow in self pity.
He had to survive …. Because if he had died there …. In her arms ….
She would have been completely lost …. Tipped over the edge into madness ….
Fiona closed her eyes briefly against the tears she suddenly felt stinging there.
She hadn't cracked up.
She hadn't lost it, and Hawke was very much alive.
But he wasn't Mitch ….
And she could not love him as she had once loved Mitch ….
Could she?
Could she?
No, she couldn't.
Aside from the fact that she did not know him, it was completely inappropriate behaviour for a doctor.
What she was feeling was simply compassion for her patient.
That was all ….
So why was she having such a hard time believing that?
It had been such a long time since she had felt anything except professional concern for another human being.
Now, here she was, confronted with very new and very raw emotions for a stranger who had fallen out of the sky.
She had to get a grip!
She wasn't some hormone driven teenager who couldn't control her emotions.
He needed her professional knowledge and experience …. But that was all.
He would breeze out of here as quickly as he had dropped in, and that would be the last that she would ever see or hear of him.
And that was how it should be.
He had his life, and she had hers, and he didn't need the added complication of her night terrors and neuroses to deal with.
He probably had more than enough of his own.
The legacy they all shared from Vietnam.
"Hey Doc, you'd better come out here," Sheila's voice penetrated her painful thoughts and Fiona snapped the wallet closed, rising from her seat, leaving her cooling coffee barely touched.
"What is it?"
"I think he's coming round," Sheila pointed out.
"Okay."
Fiona walked back to the examination room and watched for a moment as her patient began to breathe more deeply, his eyelids fluttering briefly.
He let out a soft moan and Fiona crossed to his side, taking his hand gently in her own and smiled softly and confidently down at him as he opened those lovely deep blue eyes at last.
"Hello again, remember me?"
"Fee …."
"That's right."
"Leg …."
"Fine …. Just fine," She assured. "Don't you fret any more. It's all over and soon you will be up and about," she squeezed his hand for emphasis. "And flying helicopters again, if that's what you want," she added, knowing that that was what he really needed to hear.
"Thank you," he managed groggily.
"Go back to sleep," she coaxed, fingers itching to reach out and caress his cheek …. Forehead …. "Do you need more pain relief?"
He made no answer, already having drifted back off to sleep, his handsome features relaxed in repose.
Fiona smiled and set his hand back down on the bed beside him, unaware of Sheila Clay's knowing smile as she watched from the doorway.
"Did you find any ID, Doc?"
Fiona jumped guiltily and span around to find Sheila framed in the doorway.
"Yeah …."
"So what's his name?"
Fiona went to the foot of the bed and lifted down the chart, where she wrote down her patient's full name, and Sheila came to look over her shoulder.
"What? Stringfellow?" She smirked. "That's a real mouthful any day of the week," She chuckled.
"And very unusual. Probably won't find many Stringfellow Hawke's in the phone book. So he shouldn't be very hard to find," Fiona sighed softly. "He'll sleep a while longer. So, why don't you go home, Sheila. I can manage for now, and I'll need you bright eyed and alert so you can relieve me …. tomorrow …. Today …."
"I'm okay, Doc. You're the one who needs the sleep, not me." Sheila protested mildly.
"I'll be alright. I'll grab forty winks later, on the cot over there, but I can't leave him just yet. Just in case. Besides, I'm used to these kinds of hours, Sheila. Go home, you'll be no use to your family in the morning if you don't get some sleep."
"They're all old enough and ugly enough to look after themselves, Doc," However she yawned long and loudly at that moment, and found herself grinning tiredly. "But …. If you insist …."
"Go on. I still have my notes to write up. I don't see any reason why we should both lose sleep. Thanks for all your help Sheila."
"You're welcome, Doc. It's nice to feel useful again. See you in the morning," she glanced down at her fob watch to check the time. "Make that see you again in about seven hours …." she groaned.
Sheila always started her shift at seven thirty in the morning, getting the office ready for when their first patients arrived at eight on the dot.
"Come in later tomorrow. To make up for tonight. I'll put a note on the door to say that regular surgery is cancelled and that I will only see emergencies."
"You sure, Doc?"
"Yup. And don't forget to bring me that donut …."
"You got it. Call if you need me …."
"I won't need you. He's out for the count and hopefully he'll stay that way for a few hours."
"Okay."
"Good night, Sheila …."
"Good night, Doc …. Try to get some sleep if you can …."
"I will. Now get out of here …."
