The roar of the ocean sounded loud in her ears, the sky overhead grey and overcast. Wind whipped blonde hair around Jo Santini Hawke's shoulders.
In front of her lay a small white casket, flowers mounded around it. Caitlin and String stood off to the side, tears freely running down her face, String as implacable as always, except for the muscle ticking in his lean jaw and the torture-filled blue eyes.
He was easy to read, she thought with a hiccupping sob. In agony and it was her fault, she thought guiltily. Hers and hers alone.
Still, it was much easier to take than Saint John's pain - so raw and bloody it took her breath away. He hadn't been home in two days, 'til String and Mike had drug him home yesterday between them, more than a little drunk.
Half out of her mind with fear and pain, Jo had launched on them, her tone shrill, hysterical and completely out of control.
Dropping Sinj on the sofa, String had turned on her then, his eyes dangerous and more than a little tipsy himself. He'd spun snarling and told her to shut up. She'd really thought he was going to hit her for one long moment when he'd faced her down, chest heaving and blue eyes narrowed, hands clenched.
Instead, he'd turned and rushed out of the apartment, the slamming door reverberating behind him, leaving only her and Mike there.
Blue eyes worried, Rivers had shook his head and muttered a warning about not pushing it as he'd hugged her goodbye.
Looking at String's bandaged hand, Jo had to wonder what his control had cost him.
Beside her, Saint John shifted; the wall between them as unscalable as a concrete barrier. She reached for his hand, taking icy fingers in her own as she watched them lower their daughter into the cold, hard ground.
The airstrip had rushed up to meet the plane, the uneven and cracked runway stretching before him. Not nearly long enough, Mike had thought as he'd wrestled the plane to earth, teeth gritted. Maybe if the plane had been whole, maybe if he'd been 100 percent.
Maybe a hundred things, he thought in impatience, the landing gear slamming hard to earth, jarring his teeth and Richardson's raspy labored breathing harsh in his ears counterpoint to his own.
And then, miracle of miracles, he'd been taxiing the plane to a halt whilst Jack lost his own battle.
Sorrow clogged his throat, Pierson meeting his eyes with a regretful headshake even as Mike fought to disengage himself from the pilot's harness. If he didn't get them out of here in a hurry, he realized his thoughts grim, odds were Richardson wouldn't be the only one among the dead.
He reached out with brutal efficiency, fingers snatching dog tags off the dead man's neck, knowing it'd probably be the only thing he'd be returning to his family.
"Wait!" Pierson yelped, protest in his eyes.
"Now! Move it!" Rivers snapped, the words clearly an order. "Get a move on." He gestured impatiently towards the rear of the plane.
Obviously unhappy, Pierson fell into line, his own gaze traveling back to Richardson's body sprawled across the co-pilot's seat.
Unthinkingly, Mike dropped the dog tags into his jacket pocket even as he clamored for the rear stairs, colliding with Samuels and a wounded Beckett in the process. It was clear the man's arm was shattered from the way he was holding it, and Mike knew with sickening certainty what at least one of the dull thuds he'd heard had been.
No time for regrets, he grimaced.
He rushed to help Samuels get him down the stairs, knowing if Beckett hadn't gotten the info off, the entire mission would've been in vain.
As if reading his thoughts, Beckett roused. "Get the data off, sir," he rasped hoarsely, answering Mike's unspoken question.
Relief coursed through the pilot's blood. He shot the other man a grin. "You don't know how glad I am to hear that," he rejoined.
"Got an idea, sir," the younger blonde replied, struggling with the last of the stairs. His stance was wavery and the pallor of his skin grey by the time he did so.
Mike hauled off his own jacket, helping the other man on with it, fearing shock even as he cast an anxious glance behind him for Pierson.
A shock of short, dark brown hair topped the top of the stairs, rifling in the wind. Maybe they would live to get out of here, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief - trying not to think too hard of the twenty-five million dollar plane he was about to blow up.
The click of a rifle behind him and the feel of Beckett's arm stiffening on top of his had him rethinking that thought.
Then again, maybe not, he conceded, wincing as he turned to face a Cuban soldier AK-47 pointed at his chest.
Naomi Sanchez scowled, dropping binoculars from chocolate brown eyes with a curse. Deeply entrenched and well-trained, she'd been Archangel's first call when he'd received word he had a spy plane on its way down.
Having been in Cuba the last ten years, she looked and acted the part of a national. She was anything but as one of Archangel's best agents.
Huffing a sigh of frustration, she raised the glasses back to her eyes. Being one of the best didn't help in the least, she realized with a grimace, if she couldn't get to them.
Commander Juarez's men had beaten her to the field by less than five minutes. Gun raised even now, she watched in horror as the two blonde men faced down their captors in defiance, the other two crew members holding back. Angry words drifted to her on the wind.
Abruptly, Juarez's soldier raised his weapon, firing, killing the man in front of him. The blonde crewman behind him ducked, somehow avoiding getting shot. Stumbling to his feet, he lunged for the soldier, only to be brought up abruptly by a second rifle to his own head.
He backed off.
Naomi breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. She had no overwhelming urge to watch any more men die today, American or otherwise. Shoving with gun barrels, she watched the soldiers hustle the captured men into a waiting jeep.
Glasses dropping, she eyed the fallen man lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Even at a distance, the sun glinted off the military insignia on his jacket. It was clear there was nothing she could do for him.
She sighed, narrowing her field of vision. The best she could hope to do at the moment was let Archangel know which one of his men were dead.
Airforce jacket, major insignia on the collar, blonde hair fluttering in the wind - great, it would have to be Rivers, she thought, realizing from Archangel's brief message there'd been only one Major on the plane and he'd been the pilot.
No way to get the plane out of here, and it's crew was as good as dead if she blew it. Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.
Stringfellow Hawke cast an uneasy glance at his brother beside him. Saint John's silence was starting to get to even him and he was beginning to wish for Cait's ceaseless shatter.
"String?" Saint John's voice was low, troubled and Hawke knew whatever was coming, he was going to be sorry. Even mad, Cait would've been an easier sell than Sinj.
"Yeah?"
"So, what's the deal with Tuyen?"
It wasn't the question he'd been expecting and Hawke had to scramble to regroup. At least it wasn't some much sought after reassurance Jo would be alright.
He had his doubts. There was no such thing as coincidence to his mind, and he knew Jo and Sinj's marriage was troubled at best. Something had been off with her for more than a few weeks and she'd sidestepped his every attempt to reach her. Cait had had no better luck.
He only prayed it wasn't something serious.
"String?" Saint John's voice cut across his thoughts, prodding. "Tuyen? You know, that other woman you married…"
"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "What about her?"
"You did file the paperwork to divorce her, didn't you?"
Irritation clawed across his gut. "Yeah, Sinj, I did," he snapped. "What do you think I am, stupid?"
Silence draped itself across the cockpit, Saint John not replying.
Frustrated embarrassment stained Hawke's cheeks. It was a valid question, he thought remorsefully, considering. "Look, Sinj…" he began.
"So, what do you do if your marriage to Cait isn't valid?" his brother asked quietly. It was obvious he hadn't taken offense at String's sharp answer.
Thinking back to filling out the marriage license paperwork with Cait, String winced. He'd stated then he was divorced. Why the blazes hadn't the clerk caught it then?
He gave a heavy sigh. It had to be a mistake, right? "I don't know, Sinj," he muttered miserably. "I guess that just depends on Cait."
In silence Airwolf swooped low against the angry blue-grey waves towards Cuba.