A/N: (1) I was half-way to a re-write last part at the inclusion of The River Why, which is a 1983 novel about a fishing-obsessed (OBSESSED, I tell you) family and mentions the Vietnam Draft. I was going to not include it, but... you know what? It's funny and abstract, and probably the exact right book for Ice post-flashback of his own, and absolutely is something you might have found at random in a bookstore in 1984/85.
(2) Turner had a very good reason to be cross with Ice about that MiG/Cougar flashback, other than the obvious.

Two weeks ago...

When they arrived at the base hospital after Jester cut them loose, one of the Coasties handed them a scrap of paper with a name and a phone number on it. Hollywood stared at the information for a moment, then looked at the diver still in his diving gear as the other members of the rescue team were preparing for takeoff. "What's this?"

The diver shrugged. "Wish I knew, Lieutenant. Mitchell was repeating that when we landed and I could finally hear him as the ambient noise dropped. Last time I saw something like that, it was a former POW who lost his place in his head and was repeating his service number."

Hollywood winced. "Right. Thank you."

The diver pushed them toward the Base Hospital's doors. "There's probably a phone in there you can use."

They entered the building and Wolfman asked the first nurse he saw for a phone. She directed him to the nurses station, where they explained, and the Head Nurse dialed the number, then handed the receiver to Wolfman. He smiled at her. "Thank you."

Three rings, and then: "Fort Worth CPS, Jenkins speaking... Frank, I can't believe, after so many years of repeated incident reports and complaints filed, that the Tomkins are still allowed to Foster."

Wolfman frowned. Fort Worth? Tomkins? What? "Sir?"

There was a pause on the other end, and then: "Oh, not Frank. Sorry, thought you were a colleague, calling me back about a child placement. How can I help you?"

Wolfman met Hollywood's gaze, confused beyond the telling of it. Why would Maverick be repeating a phone number for a social worker in Fort Worth? "Sir, I was given this number by a Coast Guard diver who got it from one of our aviators, and I'm calling from the Base Hospital at Naval Air Station Miramar. Do you know a Pete Mitchell?"

A heavy sigh. "Yes, I know him. Have since he was eleven. The base hospital, did you say?"

"Yes, Sir. No details yet, as I'm not next of kin, an emergency contact, or our Commanding Officer."

"And your name, son?"

"Wolfman."

A chuckle. "That's a new one. Name, not callsign."

"Leonard Wolfe."

"You a RIO or a pilot?"

"RIO, Sir."

Silence, and then... "All right, if he was repeating my work phone number like I think he was, he's in shock. Tell the nurses to be advised not to leave him alone and if he starts singing Sitting On the Dock of the Bay, just to go with it until he stops. I'm going to need your CO's phone number, to talk to him."

"Yes, sir."

"And where is Bradshaw, if you're calling me instead?"

Wolfman stared at Hollywood for a moment, dumbfounded. Whoever this guy was, he knew details. "Unavailable, sir."

"I'm a civilian case worker, not an officer in the Navy. You don't need to call me Sir."

"Sorry."

"That's all right. Number for your CO?" Wolfman gave Viper's office number to him, and Jenkins thanked him. "Where is your pilot?"

"Right here, listening to me talk to you."

"Call sign?"

"Hollywood."

"Name?"

"Rick Neven."

"Noted." There was another pause, and then he heard a sigh. "I was due to be in Miramar in two weeks for graduation, but... damn."

Wolfman flinched at the sudden emotional inflection. "Mr. Jenkins?"

"Four kids in crisis, Wolfe. Damn it. Thank you, and I will get the details from your Commanding Officer."

"Yes, sir."

"Feel free to call me any time, Wolfe. Your pilot, too."

Wolfman handed the receiver back to the head nurse and told her about the odd mention of the song and the instructions from Mr. Jenkins, and she nodded. Then he looked at Hollywood. "That was really strange. Apparently he's known Maverick since he was eleven."

Hollywood nodded and looked down the hall just in time to see Viper be met by a doctor. He could already tell from Viper's posture and what he could see of the man's face... it wasn't good. Not good at all.

Hours ago...

It was 0330 or so when Turner heard a voice, singing an older song that he didn't recognize at first. The melody of it felt familiar, but he couldn't place why that was, and set the book aside to listen for a few minutes. Before long, it was broken by sniffle sounds, and he paused to look up at the co-sleeping pair. No, not them. Kazansky was also a no, as were the other two. Which left... Mitchell, eyes open but unfocused. Also sniffling as if he'd been crying.

He started singing the song again, and Turner continued to frown, noting that his left hand was open, arm held at an odd angle. Then the melody broke off and Mitchell met his concerned gaze. "Mitchell?" Was he awake? He seemed to be.

"Do I hafta go back to the Tomkins house, Mr. Jenkins?"

Turner froze at the youthful inflection and the wording. Not awake, then. Where ever Mitchell was in his head right now, it wasn't the present. Only question was: how old was he? The sheer youngness in his eyes made him look way younger than twenty-three or twenty-four. A flashback to what, when? "No. No, you don't have to."

"All my stuff is there."

"You let me worry about your things, all right? What happened?"

"Bart... pushed me. Stairs," Mitchell sniffled, still holding his arm at that odd angle. "Arm hurts."

Turner nodded slowly, and then reached out to attempt to palpate, but stopped when Mitchell flinched, eyeing the offending appendage warily. What that reaction told him in one movement was a lot. He didn't want to go back to whatever the Tomkins House was, there had been a bad-sounding incident, and... he didn't want to follow that train of thought.

"Hurts," he repeated.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve," Mitchell answered, then sniffed again. "I want Mom." And then he was singing again, seeming to cling to the song which Turner suddenly realized he'd heard before, now that the words were clearer.

At that, Turner's frown deepened. He knew from the file that he'd gone over with Jardian that both parents had died when this kid was young. Really young. He pulled a small notepad out of a pocket and jotted down the details of the flashback. Maybe it was important to discuss with him later when he was awake for it.

The singing continued for an hour.

Now...

In the Mess, Hollywood glanced up from the textbook and noted that Slider was now staring at his now-empty food tray, a swirl of emotions on his face. Then he noticed Jardian over Slider's shoulder and raised an eyebrow in question at him. Jardian motioned to Slider in a 'make him talk' sort of way, and Hollywood nodded. If the man wanted that, to hear them act as normal as they could manage right now, then he would. "So... something is bothering you. Can't be what passes for oatmeal on this ship, Ron."

For a second or so, it appeared that the Commander wanted to chuckle at his opener. He didn't, though.

Slider didn't look up. "Just thinking. About the jet wash yesterday. I heard Merlin say it, and then suddenly I had a front row seat to Maverick getting control, and was terrified he wouldn't. Again. I probably knew he was going to wide circle before he did."

Hollywood met Jardian's gaze, and the man nodded. Ah, so this was exactly what he wanted to hear. "And he did get control. Of the plane and his emotions."

"Yeah. Just... until I realized he was actually wide circling and heard that whisper to Goose under Merlin yelling at him, I thought we were dead. Ice couldn't dodge forever, couldn't switch to offense because every time he tried, yet another MiG was swarming us, and we couldn't disengage because we were distracting enemy fighters for the Layton." Slider shook his head, then looked up at him. "Everything that's happened lately, and it's the guy Ice was repeatedly getting on the case of, lecturing about teamwork and being dangerous, that comes to our aid when he himself had just had a panic attack. After Ice had tried to talk Jardian out of sending him up at all, even as backup. Badly. What kind of sense does that make?"

"It doesn't," Jardian spoke up and Slider spun to stare at him with wide eyes. "Thank you, Lieutenant Neven."

Hollywood nodded. "Sir."

Slider stared up at him, mortified. "Sir, I didn't know you were standing there. I-"

"You sent Willard and Simkin to me," Jardian reminded him with a frown, and Hollywood had to respect the measured tone of the Commander in this instance. "And I wanted you to vent, to gauge the situation for myself, rather than just taking their word for it. You are not the first aviator or flight officer to need to talk things out, both the bad and the good, and I was reminded last night by a Corpsman of command-level decisions that can go either way." Jardian paused, looked at Hollywood. "I would have preferred not getting an aviator back in pieces, but we work with what we have, as it were."

"He's still sleeping," Hollywood told him, with a shudder. "If we can call it that. If I'd had any idea a week ago how bad it really was, I'd have sat on him, but he didn't come to any of us to talk or for help."

Jardian's frown deepened. "Oh. So the nightmare I saw..."

"Sir," Slider interrupted. "As I keep having to remind them, including Rick here: we've had no time, and it's been two weeks. And, not sure how to tell you this, or even if I should be, but Goose's wife and son saw us off, and Mav looked like he wanted to stay in Miramar when Bradley wouldn't let go of him. If anyone would be having understandable repeated nightmares and flashbacks right now, now that he doesn't have to pretend because he can't anymore... it's Maverick."

Jardian took that in, nodding, and then handed him a slip of paper. "The five of you got a reply from Miramar. Don't make a habit of using confidential communication this way often, Gentlemen."

"Thank you, sir." Slider watched him go, then turned back to look at Hollywood. "You're an ass."

"Was I supposed to defy a direct order from a superior officer to make you talk?"

Slider rolled his eyes good naturedly, then read the message. Then he chuckled. "Ah. I wonder if she'd think he's adorable when he's waking us with nightmares?"

"What?" Slider handed the paper to him and Hollywood read it for himself, and then he laughed. "Probably not. Glad we made her laugh, though, even if it was about the air conditioning. And really... all you could think of was ration pack commentary?"

An hour later, after Wolfman had flipped the tape in the walkman and listened to the rest of the comms recording, and Turner had removed the ice packs and sent Merlin to take them back to Medical, he was staring at the walkman in his hand and pondering what he'd listened to. There had been two MiGs, all right. But there had been no leaving of wingmen by Maverick. A really odd way of getting rid of the second one, be certain, but no leaving. Then he blinked as soft singing reached his ears.

Wolfman glanced up to find that Turner was staring at the bulkhead over the desk in the corner, chewing on his lower lip in thought. Where was the singing coming from?

"Not again," Turner muttered as he set the book on the desk with the covered food tray and leaned forward to study Maverick's face. Wolfman froze, suddenly realizing where it was coming from. "Not awake."

"Why is he singing?" Ice wondered, glancing down at Mav from the novel he'd been engrossed in.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Turner said after a moment, and sat back again. Wolfman noticed that he made no move to pick up the book he'd been reading again. "Same song as before. Sitting at the Dock of the Bay."

"Oh," Wolfman said, and Turner glanced at him. "Did he also give you a phone number, when he was doing it before?"

"No," Turner answered. "Why?"

"Phone number?" Ice asked, perplexed.

Wolfman nodded. "Right after the accident, he was repeating a phone number and a name. The Coasties gave that to me and Wood, and we called the number. Jenkins," and here Turner looked at him sharply. "Jenkins told me to tell the nurses that if Mav started singing this song, to just go with it until he stopped. He didn't say why."

"And Jenkins is?" Turner asked, prompting him.

"A social services case worker in Fort Worth, has known Mav since he was eleven... also apparently knew Goose, since he was wondering why I was calling him instead." Ice stared at him, and Wolfman shrugged. "That's all I know here. Not to leave him alone and let him sing."

"Well," Ice muttered, looking down at Mav again. "We've got the not leaving him alone part covered. Even if we did let him try quitting first."

"I figured this Jenkins person might have been a case worker," Turner said thoughtfully. "About three-thirty this morning, he thought I was Jenkins. Also asked if he had to the Tomkins house, whoever they are, and that his arm hurt from some kind of incident involving stairs, and that he was twelve. And then he sang this for an hour."

Wolfman paused, for what Jenkins had said off-handedly when he'd answered the phone now made even more sense. He wondered, too, why the Tomkins were still allowed to Foster Parent. The hatch opened, admitting Slider and Hollywood, who paused and then stared at Mav in befuddlement.

"Huh. He really does do that." Hollywood crossed the room to sit next to Wolfman, frowning at the walkman. "What's on that?"

"MiG buzzing incident," Wolfman told him. "Ice couldn't listen to it yet." An offical-looking paper was handed to him, he read the message, then grinned. "Oh, good. Ice, she agrees with you."

"I don't find him adorable right now, Leo."

"Oh, I don't know," Slider said as he sat down on the third open bottom bunk. Ice glared at him. "I think he gets a pass for saving our butts. Don't you?"

"Ask me that when he's not using me for a pillow, Ron."