If String heard, he made no sign. His bleary gaze was riveted on his
brother's concerned one. "Saint John?" he croaked doubtfully. "Is it
really you?" The older man stepped forward, arms outstretched, stopping
when a flash of alarm crossed the younger Hawke's face. He retreated as
though to bolt, spinning and coming face to face with a determined Mike
Rivers.
The guy is not getting past me this time, Rivers vowed grimly, in no mood to make further concessions. No way he's leaving just so I can go through this again in a couple hours! He needn't have worried. Whatever the younger Hawke had been running on, be it drugs, adrenalin or sheer grit, finally drained away; he managed one step before his legs folded under him, dropping him where he stood. Mike, the closest, caught him automatically in one arm, spreading his legs slightly to accept the weight without falling himself. "You couldn't've done this ten minutes ago and saved me a couple of gray hairs?" he asked the limp figure rhetorically, securing his hold.
There was, predictably, no answer, but Saint John was there in an instant, sliding his hands under Mike's and helping to lower the inert body to the ground. Rather than moving aside, Mike retained his hold on the unconscious man; he'd sensed from that last unsettled look that he as non- family would be considered a lesser threat than either Saint John or Jo at the moment, and thus the more likely to be able to coax the information they needed. That's a switch, he chuckled to himself, appreciating the irony. Saint John seemed to realize this also and made no protest when Mike supported his brother against a bent knee, holding him in place with an arm around his shoulders. "Hey!" he hailed, slapping one bruised cheek. "Hawke Junior! You in there, pal?"
Brown lashes fluttered and rose, revealing confused blue eyes. "I--" he began, then stopped, as though unsure of what to say.
Rivers redonned his friendly smile, painting it on over the scowl that threatened to break through. Maybe he and Stringfellow Hawke weren't friends, but Mike's innate sense of justice demanded that anyone who abused one of his comrades should answer for it. A glance at Saint John's grim face revealed a barely suppressed fury that acted as perfect compliment to this sentiment.
"String?" Saint John leaned closer, taking one of the injured man's hands and cradling it in his own, careful to not disturb the unraveled bandages. "Are you back with us, boy?"
"You're going to be fine," Jo said, kneeling behind the bronze haired pilot and to the side where she could see. "You're safe now."
The younger Hawke glanced warily from Jo back to Saint John, then shut his eyes. Mike thought he'd passed out again until Saint John touched the bruised face, and whispered, "What did they do to you, kid?"
The matted hair rustled against Mike's black shirt, his voice a bare murmur. "They took everything that was left." His breath caught in his throat in what might have been a sob had he had strength enough for it. "They even took you."
Saint John traced upwards to lay his hand on the nape of his brother's neck, squeezing gently for attention. "They didn't take me, String. I'm right here."
Mike could feel the other pilot begin to tremble, although he did chance opening his eyes. "They did," he whispered back, beaten. "This is all another lie, isn't it? Like before. Like Dom."
"Dom?" Saint John mouthed curiously to the other two. Jo's hand flew to her mouth, and even Mike found it temporarily hard to answer. Saint John turned back to his brother, baffled at their reactions but soothing. "I don't know what happened before, but I am your brother." He slid his fingers under String's chin, tilting it up, forcing the cloudy blue eyes to meet his own gray ones, and they could all see an exhaustion there so agonizing it sliced to the very soul. "I'm here now, String. Nothing is going to hurt you again. I promise."
Mike had once read a deep trust between the brothers, so strong he'd envied it. Now there was wariness, the walls of suspicion encasing the younger man, the older watchful and apprehensive. "What do you remember?" Jo asked, interrupting the seconds-long silence that dropped as a pall over the group.
"John Bradford Horn," Mike offered, patting the brown-haired man's shoulder with rough comfort. "Do you know that name?"
That snapped Stringfellow Hawke's attention to him, hatred clearing away some of the fog. "Horn. And that woman." He squinted in recognition of the man holding him, then made to struggle free, weakness and pain defeating all but a token attempt. Rivers understood and shifted until Hawke was more or less sitting, Saint John's large hands automatically closing around his upper arms to pull him closer. Breath catching in a hiss, String fell sideways against the bronze haired pilot and away from Mike, tolerating only his brother's touch. Mike got to his feet, stifling a smile; he knew that independent nature all too well.
Saint John tangled his fingers in his brother's hair, directing the question to the room at large. "What woman? Who's Horn?"
String was silent, still dazed and barely conscious. Jo merely bit her lip, leaving it for Mike to repeat the history Jason and Caitlin had given them back at the hangar. When he was through, Saint John's lips were white with anger, his steel colored eyes glittering with the same kind of hatred his brother's bore. He shifted his gaze from Mike to Stringfellow, who was staring at the ground. "What else did they do to you, little brother?" he asked, his kind voice at odds with the thundercloud sitting on his brow.
"Killed Dom." Stringfellow looked up at him, then away. "I saw them kill Dom, but it wasn't really him. I think." He licked cracked lips, raspy voice barely audible. "I can't tell anymore. I can't even tell if I'm sane anymore."
Saint John stiffened; he gently tugged his brother's head up until they were again facing each other. "Don't say that, String -- don't even think that. The only thing wrong with you is what has to be a nasty concussion ..." He traced the long bruise down from the younger man's temple. "... and probably not having eaten or slept for a couple of days. I'm not surprised you're having a little trouble concentrating."
"He's right." Jo leaned over Saint John's shoulder, patting String's hand affectionately. "A little sleep and you'll be good as new."
"I'm a'right," the younger man mumbled, his words beginning to slur as awareness slipped away. "Wha'ever they gave me ... wearing off. Dom...."
Mike caught his best friend's puzzled look and decided it was time to tell him the rest of it -- Saint John had a right. "There is something else you should know," he began hesitantly, acutely aware of three pairs of eyes on him. "And it's not going to make things any simpler for you."
"Maybe not simpler, but happier," Santini corrected, pretty face brightening. "Uncle Dom's alive, Saint John! He's really alive!"
Delight further smoothed Saint John's rugged features, erasing the extra years and making him look very young. "Dom! Alive? I can't believe it!"
"May be alive," Mike felt compelled to add, feeling like a traitor for the caution. "Our source isn't any too reliable."
"Well, I believe he is." Jo threw her arms around Saint John's neck, then bent to kiss Stringfellow's forehead. "We're all going to be together again like before! I just know it!"
Beaming happily, Saint John looked down into his brother's face, the smile fading at the continued heartache he saw there. "What is it, String?" he asked gently. "If Dom's alive...?"
The younger Hawke shook his head sadly. "It's not really Dom. It's another impostor." He dropped his eyes, sickened and afraid, the doubt that this was even Saint John still living there. "Another lie."
Like you, Mike added silently, pity ambushing him without warning. No human being deserved to be so totally stripped as this man was, particularly not the proud, dynamic fellow warrior Mike knew Stringfellow Hawke to be. Of their own accord his hands curled into fists, the muscles in his arms growing taut as bands. This Horn jerk was going to pay big time for this. Instead of giving the thought vocalization, he squatted, resting his hand on one slumped shoulder above Saint John's bracing arm. "Not necessarily a lie, buddy-boy, not according to our contact. He said Santini was Horn's ace-in-the-hole against you. His secret weapon."
That earned a narrow-eyed glance. "Michael said--"
Rivers nipped that one in the bud. He might be wrong -- Santini might be dead these past three months, for all he knew. But lifting the misery in the other man even for awhile might be worth the risk. Besides, he had a feeling.... "Even Archangels aren't infallible, kiddo," he said with some display of confidence he almost felt. "And right now I'm willing to bet my boss against your boss, old man Santini just might be alive and kicking yet."
Elation warred with tenderness in Saint John's strong face, and Mike could see how badly he wanted this to be true. "It's possible, String," he said hopefully, fingers teasing his brother's hair at the nape. "Dom could really still be alive."
If they were expecting joy at the announcement, they were doomed to disappointment. Stringfellow Hawke's roller-coaster emotions tipped again, this time from grief to horror. He snagged the front of Saint John's tan coverall, using the grip to pull the older man closer and leaving a red stain where he touched. "If that's true ... I left him back there! I left him to die like I left you!"
"You didn't." That was Mike, still kneeling by the brothers. He'd seen this type of guilt before -- sensed in their few brief encounters how much this man carried over the space of a relatively short life -- and refused to let it go on any longer than necessary. Guilt could destroy as surely as any bullet. "Place the blame where it belongs -- on John Bradford Horn. He's the bad guy in our private melodrama."
String touched his bruised temple with shaking fingers, turning his face against Saint John's chest. "D'know any more. I can't remember any more. But we got 'ta go back for Dom. And Michael."
Face crumpling, Saint John hugged him tightly, leaning his forehead against his brother's hair and closing his eyes. "We will, kid. I swear it."
Moved himself, Mike sat back on his heels and watched the Hawkes, feeling a part of the scene and divorced from it at once. It was doubtful either brother even remembered he was there; yet, who could witness so much raw pain and not be involved in his heart? Saint John seemed torn between a sort of dazed gladness brought by the news of Santini's revised fate, and a familial anguish at his brother's pain. And it was obvious Stringfellow had long ago reached the limits of human endurance, both physically and emotionally. One blow on top of another with no time to recover in between had wrought their damage; add the torture, drugs and suffering on top of that.... Mike caught a glimpse of the white face pressed against Saint John's coverall, and sighed. Time to get this guy to a hospital.
That is, if they could ever manage to pry him out of Saint John's arms, which might be a task all in itself. The strength of his hug must have been painful to a man with massive bruising if not actual broken bones or internal injuries, but Stringfellow made no protest and showed as little desire to pull away as Saint John did to release him. Maybe this is just what they both need, Mike thought with satisfaction, not resenting the exclusivity any longer. Family. Great institution.
During this interval Jo had taken the opportunity to rummage in the big locker in the far corner of the cave. She now returned with a sleeping bag and blanket in one arm, and in the other a tin box bearing the renowned red cross. "He needs to get some rest," she said softly, depositing both bag and blanket on the floor. "He's practically out already."
The younger Hawke shook his head as best he could without lifting it. "Can't. Have to go back for Dom. I left him there."
"Tell you what, pal." Mike patted Saint John on the back, waiting until he had loosened his grip enough for him to see String's face before saying, "We've got some repairs to make on Airwolf before we can go anywhere. We'll be going in, in...?"
"An hour, maybe a little more," Saint John supplied with a nod at the semi- assembled ADF pod.
"Right." Rivers smiled easily. "You pull a little sack time so you'll be fresh, and we'll call you when we have the chopper combat ready." He eyed the other doubtfully, deciding a flight as far as the nearest medical facility wouldn't cause any more damage than he'd already suffered. "We can drop you off at a hospital on the way to the rendezvous with Locke, where you can get some real treatment. You'll be okay in--"
Blue eyes flared. "You're not going to drop me off anywhere. I have to go back for Dom and Michael." When Rivers just regarded him measuringly, he shifted his gaze to a point over Mike's shoulder, his jaw tight. "It isn't like before any more. I see the real Saint John ..." He glanced at his brother's face, a tiny smile teasing his fine lips. "... I do recognize you now -- all of you. Jo, and you're Mike Rivers...."
"Uno and the same-o," Mike grinned, striking a pose. Saint John chuckled but String regarded him blankly. Obviously, brainwashing can't improve a sense of humor you don't have in the first place, Mike reflected with a mental shrug. An' they talk about yer tough audiences.
"I need to go back," Stringfellow went on, unheeding, his phrases clipped. "Need t'find Dom and Michael. Horn's men ... they're expecting me."
Jo nudged the blankets nearer the sleeping bag with her foot, and opened the tin box. "Of course, they are," she said soothingly, pulling out gauze and disinfectant. "But they don't know you've told us what's going on, so they won't be expecting another team in Airwolf. That'll give us an edge to start with. Where were you supposed to meet them? Was it Larchmont Field?"
Stringfellow stared at her, eyes haunted. He swallowed and it took two tries for him to choke out, "The main hangar. It's deserted now -- out of business. They said ... they said the Lady would be safe there, but I shouldn't tell...."
Jo sniffed, her hand shaking with suppressed emotion. "Who cares what they said. Jason's going to have Zebra Squad hit that place the same time we go in after Uncle Dom." Her voice caught on the name, tears sparkling in her large eyes. "R-right now, you rest and let us t-take care of you."
Seeing her distress, Mike took the bottle of disinfectant. "Why don't you call Jason and confirm Larchmont Field as the secondary target, Jo," he offered. "I'll handle the first aid." The protest was on her lips, but he stopped it by raising a hand. "Air Force Majors take required courses in field medicine."
"So do Army Majors." Saint John Hawke smiled bleakly. "Go ahead, Jo. Make the call."
She hesitated, then passed the gauze gratefully across and got to her feet. "I'll be right back." A moment later they could hear her on the transceiver, Jason's controlled baritone audible as background.
Stringfellow Hawke lay quietly in his brother's arms while Mike unwrapped the dirty bandages on his hands. Saint John sucked in a whistling breath when the raw, obviously infected burns were revealed. "Looks like they used a hot poker on him," he growled, protectively tightening his hold.
Mike pursed his lips. Those wounds needed to be cleaned, but he didn't relish the thought of pouring an alcohol solution over raw flesh. He hesitated, then dug in the first aid kit again, this time pulling out a small vial and paper-wrapped hypodermic. "Morphine," he explained when Saint John raised an inquiring brow. "I think we're going to need it."
That elicited a reaction from the barely conscious Stringfellow Hawke. Blue eyes flicked open, more cognizance there than previously. "No," he stated in a surprisingly firm voice. "I have to have a clear head when we go in for Dom."
"Pal, believe me, you're not even going to want a clear head over the next few minutes." Besides which, if you're unconscious, we can dump you at the nearest hospital and not have to worry about watching you every minute when we begin our run. Encountering a stubborn, shrewd look, Mike relented but only slightly. "Tell you what -- only a small dose to douse the pain while I take care of your hands. It'll wear off long before we hit Horn's place ... although you're going to wish it hadn't."
Stringfellow looked skeptical until Saint John patted his shoulder. "Trust him, String," he advised, rolling up his brother's sleeve. "Mike's word is good."
The younger Hawke gave a nod, shifting his gaze back to the first aid kit. "D'we still have the Benzedrine in there?"
"Benzedrine?" That was Jo, returning from her radio call in time to hear the last sentence. "What are you planning to do with uppers? You're in no condition...."
"A lot of soldiers use them to stay alert during a mission," Mike explained absently, injecting an only slightly moderated amount of morphine derivative into the younger Hawke's arm. "Yeah, pal, we've got some, but there's no way you're getting any on top of a concussion. You either go in straight or not at all."
"But the morphine...." the injured man began to protest. The drug hit his bloodstream immediately, the sudden release from pain so staggering that String sagged back against his brother with a whimpering sigh. "Morphine," he slurred dreamily a moment later. "Keep me fr'm goin' in."
"Will it?" Mike queried innocently as though he hadn't thought of that himself. He used the relatively pain free window this gave them to disinfect and rebandage the burned hands, feeling the fever rising in the flushing skin and knowing those infections were going to require heavy antibiotics to combat. He next lifted the dirty white sweater, exchanging a troubled look with Saint John at the mottling decorating the other man's chest and stomach. "I've seen less color in a Crayola box," he muttered. He pressed lightly on a rib, feeling a give beneath his fingers, then shook his head and tugged the sweater back in place. "Those could be surface bruises, or he could be bleeding inside. Nothing we can do except keep him quiet and get him to a doctor ASAP."
"And take out the guys who did this," the elder Hawke returned grimly, touching his brother's hair.
Stringfellow Hawke suffered the two other men to lift him onto the sleeping bag Jo spread out, and cover him with a blanket. His eyes remained shut even as he clumsily snagged Saint John's wrist. "Promise you won't leave me behind," he begged in a slurred voice. "Promise, Saint John."
The elder pilot hesitated, then patted his shoulder. "I promise. Go to sleep, String." He maintained contact for another minute, starting when Mike touched his shoulder.
"Your baby brother needs--" Rivers began, the words snapping off when String's eyes opened again.
"What did you call me?" he asked groggily.
Mike felt the blush work its way up his neck. "Um, nothing. Go to sleep." He ignored Saint John's and Jo's dual smirks, waiting prudently until the brown lashes drifted shut and the younger Hawke's breathing had evened out, before suggesting gently, "Your brother needs a hospital, Saint John. He's hurting pretty badly."
Jo, kneeling on the unconscious man's far side, smiled fondly. "Even all beat up like that, he looks like the boy I grew up with again. Hard to believe it's even the same person who scared me a few minutes ago."
Saint John grunted and pulled the cover up over String's chest. "I've never broken a promise to my brother," he told Rivers firmly. "When we go in for Dom, he's going too."
"Then we go as a team," Mike corrected firmly, staring hard into the gray eyes close to his own. It was going to be hard enough invading Horn's fortress, worse not being able to rely on the entire team ... not that it would do to mention that last to Saint John. He shrugged, the imp rising again. "After all this trouble, I want to meet this Santini for myself. If he's got the three of you on his side, he must be some kind of old bird."
"You could say that," Saint John returned, smiling back. "Come on, let's get to work on Airwolf. We've still got a rescue to pull off."
***
The guy is not getting past me this time, Rivers vowed grimly, in no mood to make further concessions. No way he's leaving just so I can go through this again in a couple hours! He needn't have worried. Whatever the younger Hawke had been running on, be it drugs, adrenalin or sheer grit, finally drained away; he managed one step before his legs folded under him, dropping him where he stood. Mike, the closest, caught him automatically in one arm, spreading his legs slightly to accept the weight without falling himself. "You couldn't've done this ten minutes ago and saved me a couple of gray hairs?" he asked the limp figure rhetorically, securing his hold.
There was, predictably, no answer, but Saint John was there in an instant, sliding his hands under Mike's and helping to lower the inert body to the ground. Rather than moving aside, Mike retained his hold on the unconscious man; he'd sensed from that last unsettled look that he as non- family would be considered a lesser threat than either Saint John or Jo at the moment, and thus the more likely to be able to coax the information they needed. That's a switch, he chuckled to himself, appreciating the irony. Saint John seemed to realize this also and made no protest when Mike supported his brother against a bent knee, holding him in place with an arm around his shoulders. "Hey!" he hailed, slapping one bruised cheek. "Hawke Junior! You in there, pal?"
Brown lashes fluttered and rose, revealing confused blue eyes. "I--" he began, then stopped, as though unsure of what to say.
Rivers redonned his friendly smile, painting it on over the scowl that threatened to break through. Maybe he and Stringfellow Hawke weren't friends, but Mike's innate sense of justice demanded that anyone who abused one of his comrades should answer for it. A glance at Saint John's grim face revealed a barely suppressed fury that acted as perfect compliment to this sentiment.
"String?" Saint John leaned closer, taking one of the injured man's hands and cradling it in his own, careful to not disturb the unraveled bandages. "Are you back with us, boy?"
"You're going to be fine," Jo said, kneeling behind the bronze haired pilot and to the side where she could see. "You're safe now."
The younger Hawke glanced warily from Jo back to Saint John, then shut his eyes. Mike thought he'd passed out again until Saint John touched the bruised face, and whispered, "What did they do to you, kid?"
The matted hair rustled against Mike's black shirt, his voice a bare murmur. "They took everything that was left." His breath caught in his throat in what might have been a sob had he had strength enough for it. "They even took you."
Saint John traced upwards to lay his hand on the nape of his brother's neck, squeezing gently for attention. "They didn't take me, String. I'm right here."
Mike could feel the other pilot begin to tremble, although he did chance opening his eyes. "They did," he whispered back, beaten. "This is all another lie, isn't it? Like before. Like Dom."
"Dom?" Saint John mouthed curiously to the other two. Jo's hand flew to her mouth, and even Mike found it temporarily hard to answer. Saint John turned back to his brother, baffled at their reactions but soothing. "I don't know what happened before, but I am your brother." He slid his fingers under String's chin, tilting it up, forcing the cloudy blue eyes to meet his own gray ones, and they could all see an exhaustion there so agonizing it sliced to the very soul. "I'm here now, String. Nothing is going to hurt you again. I promise."
Mike had once read a deep trust between the brothers, so strong he'd envied it. Now there was wariness, the walls of suspicion encasing the younger man, the older watchful and apprehensive. "What do you remember?" Jo asked, interrupting the seconds-long silence that dropped as a pall over the group.
"John Bradford Horn," Mike offered, patting the brown-haired man's shoulder with rough comfort. "Do you know that name?"
That snapped Stringfellow Hawke's attention to him, hatred clearing away some of the fog. "Horn. And that woman." He squinted in recognition of the man holding him, then made to struggle free, weakness and pain defeating all but a token attempt. Rivers understood and shifted until Hawke was more or less sitting, Saint John's large hands automatically closing around his upper arms to pull him closer. Breath catching in a hiss, String fell sideways against the bronze haired pilot and away from Mike, tolerating only his brother's touch. Mike got to his feet, stifling a smile; he knew that independent nature all too well.
Saint John tangled his fingers in his brother's hair, directing the question to the room at large. "What woman? Who's Horn?"
String was silent, still dazed and barely conscious. Jo merely bit her lip, leaving it for Mike to repeat the history Jason and Caitlin had given them back at the hangar. When he was through, Saint John's lips were white with anger, his steel colored eyes glittering with the same kind of hatred his brother's bore. He shifted his gaze from Mike to Stringfellow, who was staring at the ground. "What else did they do to you, little brother?" he asked, his kind voice at odds with the thundercloud sitting on his brow.
"Killed Dom." Stringfellow looked up at him, then away. "I saw them kill Dom, but it wasn't really him. I think." He licked cracked lips, raspy voice barely audible. "I can't tell anymore. I can't even tell if I'm sane anymore."
Saint John stiffened; he gently tugged his brother's head up until they were again facing each other. "Don't say that, String -- don't even think that. The only thing wrong with you is what has to be a nasty concussion ..." He traced the long bruise down from the younger man's temple. "... and probably not having eaten or slept for a couple of days. I'm not surprised you're having a little trouble concentrating."
"He's right." Jo leaned over Saint John's shoulder, patting String's hand affectionately. "A little sleep and you'll be good as new."
"I'm a'right," the younger man mumbled, his words beginning to slur as awareness slipped away. "Wha'ever they gave me ... wearing off. Dom...."
Mike caught his best friend's puzzled look and decided it was time to tell him the rest of it -- Saint John had a right. "There is something else you should know," he began hesitantly, acutely aware of three pairs of eyes on him. "And it's not going to make things any simpler for you."
"Maybe not simpler, but happier," Santini corrected, pretty face brightening. "Uncle Dom's alive, Saint John! He's really alive!"
Delight further smoothed Saint John's rugged features, erasing the extra years and making him look very young. "Dom! Alive? I can't believe it!"
"May be alive," Mike felt compelled to add, feeling like a traitor for the caution. "Our source isn't any too reliable."
"Well, I believe he is." Jo threw her arms around Saint John's neck, then bent to kiss Stringfellow's forehead. "We're all going to be together again like before! I just know it!"
Beaming happily, Saint John looked down into his brother's face, the smile fading at the continued heartache he saw there. "What is it, String?" he asked gently. "If Dom's alive...?"
The younger Hawke shook his head sadly. "It's not really Dom. It's another impostor." He dropped his eyes, sickened and afraid, the doubt that this was even Saint John still living there. "Another lie."
Like you, Mike added silently, pity ambushing him without warning. No human being deserved to be so totally stripped as this man was, particularly not the proud, dynamic fellow warrior Mike knew Stringfellow Hawke to be. Of their own accord his hands curled into fists, the muscles in his arms growing taut as bands. This Horn jerk was going to pay big time for this. Instead of giving the thought vocalization, he squatted, resting his hand on one slumped shoulder above Saint John's bracing arm. "Not necessarily a lie, buddy-boy, not according to our contact. He said Santini was Horn's ace-in-the-hole against you. His secret weapon."
That earned a narrow-eyed glance. "Michael said--"
Rivers nipped that one in the bud. He might be wrong -- Santini might be dead these past three months, for all he knew. But lifting the misery in the other man even for awhile might be worth the risk. Besides, he had a feeling.... "Even Archangels aren't infallible, kiddo," he said with some display of confidence he almost felt. "And right now I'm willing to bet my boss against your boss, old man Santini just might be alive and kicking yet."
Elation warred with tenderness in Saint John's strong face, and Mike could see how badly he wanted this to be true. "It's possible, String," he said hopefully, fingers teasing his brother's hair at the nape. "Dom could really still be alive."
If they were expecting joy at the announcement, they were doomed to disappointment. Stringfellow Hawke's roller-coaster emotions tipped again, this time from grief to horror. He snagged the front of Saint John's tan coverall, using the grip to pull the older man closer and leaving a red stain where he touched. "If that's true ... I left him back there! I left him to die like I left you!"
"You didn't." That was Mike, still kneeling by the brothers. He'd seen this type of guilt before -- sensed in their few brief encounters how much this man carried over the space of a relatively short life -- and refused to let it go on any longer than necessary. Guilt could destroy as surely as any bullet. "Place the blame where it belongs -- on John Bradford Horn. He's the bad guy in our private melodrama."
String touched his bruised temple with shaking fingers, turning his face against Saint John's chest. "D'know any more. I can't remember any more. But we got 'ta go back for Dom. And Michael."
Face crumpling, Saint John hugged him tightly, leaning his forehead against his brother's hair and closing his eyes. "We will, kid. I swear it."
Moved himself, Mike sat back on his heels and watched the Hawkes, feeling a part of the scene and divorced from it at once. It was doubtful either brother even remembered he was there; yet, who could witness so much raw pain and not be involved in his heart? Saint John seemed torn between a sort of dazed gladness brought by the news of Santini's revised fate, and a familial anguish at his brother's pain. And it was obvious Stringfellow had long ago reached the limits of human endurance, both physically and emotionally. One blow on top of another with no time to recover in between had wrought their damage; add the torture, drugs and suffering on top of that.... Mike caught a glimpse of the white face pressed against Saint John's coverall, and sighed. Time to get this guy to a hospital.
That is, if they could ever manage to pry him out of Saint John's arms, which might be a task all in itself. The strength of his hug must have been painful to a man with massive bruising if not actual broken bones or internal injuries, but Stringfellow made no protest and showed as little desire to pull away as Saint John did to release him. Maybe this is just what they both need, Mike thought with satisfaction, not resenting the exclusivity any longer. Family. Great institution.
During this interval Jo had taken the opportunity to rummage in the big locker in the far corner of the cave. She now returned with a sleeping bag and blanket in one arm, and in the other a tin box bearing the renowned red cross. "He needs to get some rest," she said softly, depositing both bag and blanket on the floor. "He's practically out already."
The younger Hawke shook his head as best he could without lifting it. "Can't. Have to go back for Dom. I left him there."
"Tell you what, pal." Mike patted Saint John on the back, waiting until he had loosened his grip enough for him to see String's face before saying, "We've got some repairs to make on Airwolf before we can go anywhere. We'll be going in, in...?"
"An hour, maybe a little more," Saint John supplied with a nod at the semi- assembled ADF pod.
"Right." Rivers smiled easily. "You pull a little sack time so you'll be fresh, and we'll call you when we have the chopper combat ready." He eyed the other doubtfully, deciding a flight as far as the nearest medical facility wouldn't cause any more damage than he'd already suffered. "We can drop you off at a hospital on the way to the rendezvous with Locke, where you can get some real treatment. You'll be okay in--"
Blue eyes flared. "You're not going to drop me off anywhere. I have to go back for Dom and Michael." When Rivers just regarded him measuringly, he shifted his gaze to a point over Mike's shoulder, his jaw tight. "It isn't like before any more. I see the real Saint John ..." He glanced at his brother's face, a tiny smile teasing his fine lips. "... I do recognize you now -- all of you. Jo, and you're Mike Rivers...."
"Uno and the same-o," Mike grinned, striking a pose. Saint John chuckled but String regarded him blankly. Obviously, brainwashing can't improve a sense of humor you don't have in the first place, Mike reflected with a mental shrug. An' they talk about yer tough audiences.
"I need to go back," Stringfellow went on, unheeding, his phrases clipped. "Need t'find Dom and Michael. Horn's men ... they're expecting me."
Jo nudged the blankets nearer the sleeping bag with her foot, and opened the tin box. "Of course, they are," she said soothingly, pulling out gauze and disinfectant. "But they don't know you've told us what's going on, so they won't be expecting another team in Airwolf. That'll give us an edge to start with. Where were you supposed to meet them? Was it Larchmont Field?"
Stringfellow stared at her, eyes haunted. He swallowed and it took two tries for him to choke out, "The main hangar. It's deserted now -- out of business. They said ... they said the Lady would be safe there, but I shouldn't tell...."
Jo sniffed, her hand shaking with suppressed emotion. "Who cares what they said. Jason's going to have Zebra Squad hit that place the same time we go in after Uncle Dom." Her voice caught on the name, tears sparkling in her large eyes. "R-right now, you rest and let us t-take care of you."
Seeing her distress, Mike took the bottle of disinfectant. "Why don't you call Jason and confirm Larchmont Field as the secondary target, Jo," he offered. "I'll handle the first aid." The protest was on her lips, but he stopped it by raising a hand. "Air Force Majors take required courses in field medicine."
"So do Army Majors." Saint John Hawke smiled bleakly. "Go ahead, Jo. Make the call."
She hesitated, then passed the gauze gratefully across and got to her feet. "I'll be right back." A moment later they could hear her on the transceiver, Jason's controlled baritone audible as background.
Stringfellow Hawke lay quietly in his brother's arms while Mike unwrapped the dirty bandages on his hands. Saint John sucked in a whistling breath when the raw, obviously infected burns were revealed. "Looks like they used a hot poker on him," he growled, protectively tightening his hold.
Mike pursed his lips. Those wounds needed to be cleaned, but he didn't relish the thought of pouring an alcohol solution over raw flesh. He hesitated, then dug in the first aid kit again, this time pulling out a small vial and paper-wrapped hypodermic. "Morphine," he explained when Saint John raised an inquiring brow. "I think we're going to need it."
That elicited a reaction from the barely conscious Stringfellow Hawke. Blue eyes flicked open, more cognizance there than previously. "No," he stated in a surprisingly firm voice. "I have to have a clear head when we go in for Dom."
"Pal, believe me, you're not even going to want a clear head over the next few minutes." Besides which, if you're unconscious, we can dump you at the nearest hospital and not have to worry about watching you every minute when we begin our run. Encountering a stubborn, shrewd look, Mike relented but only slightly. "Tell you what -- only a small dose to douse the pain while I take care of your hands. It'll wear off long before we hit Horn's place ... although you're going to wish it hadn't."
Stringfellow looked skeptical until Saint John patted his shoulder. "Trust him, String," he advised, rolling up his brother's sleeve. "Mike's word is good."
The younger Hawke gave a nod, shifting his gaze back to the first aid kit. "D'we still have the Benzedrine in there?"
"Benzedrine?" That was Jo, returning from her radio call in time to hear the last sentence. "What are you planning to do with uppers? You're in no condition...."
"A lot of soldiers use them to stay alert during a mission," Mike explained absently, injecting an only slightly moderated amount of morphine derivative into the younger Hawke's arm. "Yeah, pal, we've got some, but there's no way you're getting any on top of a concussion. You either go in straight or not at all."
"But the morphine...." the injured man began to protest. The drug hit his bloodstream immediately, the sudden release from pain so staggering that String sagged back against his brother with a whimpering sigh. "Morphine," he slurred dreamily a moment later. "Keep me fr'm goin' in."
"Will it?" Mike queried innocently as though he hadn't thought of that himself. He used the relatively pain free window this gave them to disinfect and rebandage the burned hands, feeling the fever rising in the flushing skin and knowing those infections were going to require heavy antibiotics to combat. He next lifted the dirty white sweater, exchanging a troubled look with Saint John at the mottling decorating the other man's chest and stomach. "I've seen less color in a Crayola box," he muttered. He pressed lightly on a rib, feeling a give beneath his fingers, then shook his head and tugged the sweater back in place. "Those could be surface bruises, or he could be bleeding inside. Nothing we can do except keep him quiet and get him to a doctor ASAP."
"And take out the guys who did this," the elder Hawke returned grimly, touching his brother's hair.
Stringfellow Hawke suffered the two other men to lift him onto the sleeping bag Jo spread out, and cover him with a blanket. His eyes remained shut even as he clumsily snagged Saint John's wrist. "Promise you won't leave me behind," he begged in a slurred voice. "Promise, Saint John."
The elder pilot hesitated, then patted his shoulder. "I promise. Go to sleep, String." He maintained contact for another minute, starting when Mike touched his shoulder.
"Your baby brother needs--" Rivers began, the words snapping off when String's eyes opened again.
"What did you call me?" he asked groggily.
Mike felt the blush work its way up his neck. "Um, nothing. Go to sleep." He ignored Saint John's and Jo's dual smirks, waiting prudently until the brown lashes drifted shut and the younger Hawke's breathing had evened out, before suggesting gently, "Your brother needs a hospital, Saint John. He's hurting pretty badly."
Jo, kneeling on the unconscious man's far side, smiled fondly. "Even all beat up like that, he looks like the boy I grew up with again. Hard to believe it's even the same person who scared me a few minutes ago."
Saint John grunted and pulled the cover up over String's chest. "I've never broken a promise to my brother," he told Rivers firmly. "When we go in for Dom, he's going too."
"Then we go as a team," Mike corrected firmly, staring hard into the gray eyes close to his own. It was going to be hard enough invading Horn's fortress, worse not being able to rely on the entire team ... not that it would do to mention that last to Saint John. He shrugged, the imp rising again. "After all this trouble, I want to meet this Santini for myself. If he's got the three of you on his side, he must be some kind of old bird."
"You could say that," Saint John returned, smiling back. "Come on, let's get to work on Airwolf. We've still got a rescue to pull off."
***