AN: I don't own Airwolf and Co.; Mr. Bellasario and Universal do.
The sunlight slanting through the blinds had the golden hue of late afternoon by the time Hawke opened his eyes. He felt better, but everything surrounding the accident was still a jumble of words and images in his head, and he couldn't seem to think straight enough to get it all sorted out.
Eight-and-a-half months, Hawke mused, staring unseeing at the ceiling tiles. His whole world had been turned upside down and inside out, and all the while he had lay unaware of the rescue of his brother and the death of his mentor.
Even as his eyes filled with tears, a brief smile ghosted across his lips; what it had been like when Dom had seen Saint John? Knowing his mentor as he did, Hawke knew that Dom would have considered the rescue mission as nothing less than his duty. For String and Saint John, he would have willingly thrown his lot in with Archangel, even though Dom had little tolerance for the double-talking spook. At an age where Dominic should have looked toward a peaceful retirement at his airfield with his beloved helicopters, the stocky, stubborn Italian had suited up, smeared his face with camo, and dove headlong into a place that swallowed men whole.
String sighed, remembering the day he himself had left for Vietnam. Standing at the airport gate, he'd stood up straight in his brand-new Army greens and looked Dom right in the eye, man to man.
Thank you, he'd said. Thank you for all you've done for Saint John and me. I know Mom and Dad would have—
Dom had stepped forward and caught him up in a bear hug, cutting off String's words. I know, son, he said, voice ragged. You take care of yourself.
And now Dominic was gone. String hoped death had come quickly; the thought of Dom in the hands of a despot like Giap made his blood boil and his stomach churn.
There was a knock at the door, and then Dr. Rothschild stepped into the room, a smile on his face and a bundle under his arm. Behind him was the tall blond nurse, carrying a trio of covered mugs on a tray. As the nurse set the mugs on the rolling bedside table, Rothschild laid the bundle in String's lap.
"You're doing very well, Mr. Hawke," said the doctor, moving to the chart at the end of the bed and making a small notation. "I think you're strong enough to take a look at the papers we saved for you."
String glanced at the item lying on top: A Time Magazine, dated August 1984, with a blurry picture similar to the one Moore had given him on the cover. The title read: Rescuing Saint John Hawke- One POW's Long Journey Home. He picked up the magazine and began to flip through it, but trying to focus on the words made his head ache.
Dropping the magazine back onto the pile, he glanced at the mugs. "What're these?"
"Beef broth, cranberry juice, and herbal tea," explained the nurse. "We're going to start weaning you off the IV soon."
Hawke grimaced and pushed the beef broth aside. Just the thought of eating solid food made him want to gag, but the cursory sip of the cranberry juice woke his tongue with an agreeable tingle. The tea was pale, subtly flavored with mint and lemon, and its warmth was comforting.
"How about some TV?" Rothschild suggested, picking up the boxy remote lying on the bedside table. "I'm afraid all the hospital gets is the news channel, but I'm sure it'll help you catch up." When the screen was on, he laid the remote on the bed within easy reach of String's hand. "We'll be back to check on you later," said Rothschild, and he and the nurse departed.
Sipping at the tea, Hawke turned his attention drowsily to the duo of cheery newsanchors babbling on the screen. Like magpies, the handsome man and perky woman chattered about the news of the world: A bank robbery in downtown Los Angeles (the perp was later apprehended at a department store, trying to buy an expensive television); an upcoming summit between President Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev; and the rumor that Prince Charles and Princess Diana were going to get a divorce.
Hawke let the words roll over him, only mildly interested at the last item. The royal couple had only been married for a few years; it was a shame they'd called it quits so soon. Oh well, he mused, finishing off the tea. Guess they won't be living 'happily ever after.'
As the voices from the TV droned on, Hawke set aside his empty cup and turned his attention to the bundle of magazines and news articles. Several newspapers bore heavily leaded headlines, exclaiming about the 'daring raid to rescue Vietnam POW.' Several others devoted their front pages to the story, detailing the rescuers' brave foray into the jungle, the ensuing firefight, and the subsequent death of two of the rescuers. Another magazine, obviously an internal publication of some high government agency, featured a portrait of Archangel painted in oils on its cover. Still another publication profiled the 'two who didn't return,' headed with the photograph of Archangel that inspired the portrait, as well as a snapshot of a smiling Dominic.
In the hour that followed, Hawke scanned the offerings but didn't read too many of the articles in their entirety; trying to make sense of the small print for more than a few seconds made him dizzy. When he'd gone through the pile, he switched off the annoying buzz of the television and glanced once again at the date on the first paper: July 18, 1984. From what Rothschild had told him, it was now the middle of February, over eight months since the day he had met Moore at the Crofton airfield. Saint John had been back in the United States for a little over six months. Rothschild had said Saint John was coming from Virginia; why had he been there? Was he working with the government, trying to recover more MIAs and POWs? Hawke wiped his sweaty forehead with an equally sweaty palm, trying to bring his roiling thoughts under control.
The blonde nurse entered his room, a bag of amber liquid in her hands. Unaware of his befuddlement, she gave him a smile, and then proceeded to exchange the empty IV bag for the full one. As she fussed with the machine that controlled the flow, Hawke sighed in defeat and tossed the paper back onto the bed.
There was another knock at the door, and Hawke looked up to see a slender, exotic-looking woman in a lab coat leaning against the doorjamb. "I'm Dr. Holgate," she said, her voice low and throaty. "May I talk with you for a moment?"
What he really wanted was to be left alone, but Hawke supposed he should at least look like he was cooperating. Besides, the sooner he let Holgate in, the sooner she would leave. "Yeah," he acquiesced, shifting uncomfortably.
Holgate sat, exchanging a smile with the departing nurse. "I see they gave you the articles they were saving for you," she said, nodding at the scattered papers. "Your emotions must be going in a lot of different directions right now: A good friend dead; a brother coming back as if from the dead; a whole year unaccounted for—"
"You're a shrink." Hawke turned away in distaste. "I wondered when they'd send you in."
Her laugh was a little self-deprecating. "You think I'm standard operating procedure, do you?"
"For the Firm, you are," Hawke growled. "That's who's paying for this, isn't it?"
"Mm-hmm." Holgate sat with her forearms atop the bed railing, her pointed chin resting on the back of one thin hand. She fixed Hawke with a mild, curious gaze, and at once he felt like a specimen under a microscope.
Hawke scowled up at the IV as it fed him the amber liquid drop by drop. "What the hell is this stuff they're giving me?" He gestured to where the needle was buried in his forearm.
"Just a five-per-cent glucose solution," Holgate explained. "They'll disconnect it when you start eating solid foods again."
"And what's making me feel so groggy?"
"Well," Holgate said conversationally, "you've been hibernating almost a year. Your metabolism has slowed to a crawl; your muscles have atrophied." She tapped her forehead. "Same thing happens up there. Your synapses slow down from lack of use. You feel groggy, logy, punchy…you'll feel better in time."
As if naming his condition encouraged it, Hawke felt sleep begin to pull at him as if he were a boat dropping its anchor. In another moment, his eyelids had fallen shut, blocking out Holgate's look of mothering concern.
Dimly, Hawke felt the brush of her hand against his forehead and heard the whisper of her coat as she stood. "I'll come back tomorrow," she murmured, and then she was just another disturbance in the mist that swirled in Hawke's mind.
At the age of three, Susan Miyahara had announced to her parents that she was going to be a nurse when she grew up. Her parents had smiled and told her that was very nice, but that she might want to wait until she was a little older to make such a big decision. However, Susan's mind had been made up, and from that time on, everything she did in school was with that end in mind.
Now, twenty-two years later, she was at her goal. She'd finished her requirements in the hospital's nursing program six months before, and passed the Registered Nurse's exam with flying colors. Seeing herself in the mirror every morning still gave her a little thrill: Stiff white cap proudly pinned atop her dark brown flip; uniform pressed and sparkling; Nurse Mates polished to a dazzling whiteness. Sure, the hours were long and the work was hard, but truth to tell, she felt more at home within the walls of the hospital than she did at her small apartment.
She knew the hospital inside and out; had gazed at it longingly on her way past nearly every day of her life, and so she knew the building had four floors. The elevator only went to the third floor, so Susan had always assumed the fourth floor was used for storage, and only accessible if the need arose. However, the other day she'd been off somewhere—Guess I was thinking about that cute paramedic I'd met in the cafeteria, she chided herself—and when the door opened on the fourth floor, she'd been startled by both where she was and what she saw.
Instead of seeing a dark, dusty jumble of furniture and outdated medical equipment, she'd seen a pajama-clad man stumbling down a brightly lit corridor. The man's face was blank, as if he was heavily sedated, but his eyes were alive, and she could see he was confused and frightened. Her nursing instincts went off like klaxons in her head, warning her that this man was in deep distress, but a tall, blond nurse whom she'd never seen before turned around before Susan could cross the threshold of the elevator.
"This floor is private," snarled the tall nurse, as an orderly manhandled the stumbling patient back down the hallway and out of sight. "Get lost. NOW!"
Susan heard herself mumble an apology as she hit the 'door close' button. Feeling as if she'd been punched in the stomach, she rode the elevator back to the first floor nurse's station, parked her cart, and helped herself to a steadying cupful of water from the cooler. After a moment, the confusion subsided, and she shook her head as if to clear it.
What in the world was that all about?
Thankfully, she had been busy enough in the days since that the event quickly receded into the background. Still, the memory pricked at her every time she entered the elevator, but there was never any time to investigate further.
Once again, she wheeled her cart of supplies into the elevator—it seemed like she did so a hundred times a day, she thought—and turned to see two doctors, another nurse, and a man in a tweed sports coat enter the elevator. She nodded a friendly greeting to her colleagues, and shared a smile with the man in civvies, who smiled back and tucked his newspaper more securely under his arm. The man had deep lines on his face and his dishwater blond hair was beginning to gray at the temples, but Susan thought both gave a rugged charm to what had once been a very handsome face. He was leaning on a cane, she noticed, and she automatically sized him up with her medical training. Injury—probably a Vietnam vet, she thought. Those lines didn't come from age; he can't be more than forty.
The doctors and the nurse got off at the second floor, and so she and the veteran rode in companionable silence to the third floor. As the elevator jolted to a stop, a tower of ill-perched plastic cups tumbled to the floor, and the man dropped his newspaper as he stooped stiffly to help her pick them up.
Susan retrieved the newspaper and gaped at the headline: It's Divorce Time in Britain—Charles and Diana Call It Quits! Like many of her friends, she'd stayed up all night to watch the lavish wedding ceremony three years earlier, and had oohed and ahhed at Lady Diana's gorgeous, billowing dress. The gossip mags had hinted that the marriage wasn't exactly a fairytale, but this seemed a bit extreme.
"I didn't know they were getting a divorce," she said aloud, flipping the paper over to read down the column.
To her surprise, the veteran snatched the paper from her hand. "Yeah, well, life sure is unpredictable," he said in a slightly raspy tenor.
Susan couldn't think of a thing to say, but she was saved when the elevator bell pinged. The man gestured to the swiftly opening doors. "Is this your floor?" he asked.
She smiled. "Yeah—yours too," she reminded him. "It doesn't go any farther."
He smiled back. "It does if you have a key," he said, and produced the object in question from a pocket. He inserted the key into the slot, and the doors began to close.
Burning with curiosity, Susan craned her neck to see. "'Bye," she called absently.
"Have a nice day," the man called back, and the doors closed.
Rats, thought Susan. She turned and surveyed the floor, her teeth pulling at her bottom lip. There must be another way up there…