Stringfellow Hawke sighed, knowing the explanation to his wife and Saint John was going to take awhile. He raked a hand through brown fringe and wearily down the back of his neck. Motioning to the office, he said, "You might as well sit."

November 28, 8:10 pm 1969

Kneeling, Tuyen flung herself in front of Hawke, still screaming. "Xin mo`i! No VC! Ngu` mói chông tôi, mỹ! My husband, American! No kill, no kill!"

Suspicious dark slanted eyes narrowed, before letting loose with a barrage of Vietnamese.

Struggling for breath Hawke gasped for air, blearily trying to roll over. The heavy boot the PRU soldier stomping down across his fingers pretty much put an end to that.

"Prove it," the man snarled in harsh English. "Prove it, or I kill you both, now!"

Nearly hysterical, Tuyen sobbed on the floor beside Hawke.

The man raised his gun, clearly about to make good on his threat.

Frantic, Hawke realized this was not how he wanted to die as he fought to wrench his hand free.

The jingle of metal against metal caught his attention. "Dogtags," he whispered.

Tuyen kept crying.

Desperate, Hawke forced the word past split and bloody lips. "Dogtags!" he rasped, clawing for the chain around his neck, snatching it free, shaking them. "American! Mỹ, mỹ!"

The dark-skinned soldier hesitated, shoving him back to the floor with a booted heel. Dirty brown fingers wrapped around the dog tags perusing.

He leveled obsidian black eyes at Hawke. "Ngu'òi chông?" he demanded.

String shot a questioning glance at Tuyen, struggling for the word, unsure.

The chain around his neck tightened as the soldier wrapped it around his fist, shaking it, choking him. "Soldier, husband?" he demanded in fractured English.

Tuyen was nodding frantically.

Following her lead, Hawke nodded, gasping. "Vâng, yes. American."

The soldier scowled, "Ngu'òi chông?"

Lost, Hawke shot another quick glance Tuyen's way. She nodded.

"Vâng, ngu'òi chông" he agreed.

Disgusted, the soldier dropped him to the floor, snorting derisively. "Stupid Americans," he snarled. Turning, he kicked String's M-16 rifle out of range as he stomped out the door.

He shouted a barrage of orders there, gesturing his men on, clattering down the steps, the sounds of chaos and destruction following him.

Gathering up the whimpering baby from the far corner, Tuyen collapsed against Hawke, sobbing brokenly. Wincing, String stroked her hair, willing his own pounding heart rate back to normal as he tried to ignore the sticky, seeping feel of his own blood running down his side.

Afternoon, November 30, 1969

Dazed, Hawke awoke. The heat was oppressive and his shirt clung to him like a second skin. A tiny fist flailed and struck him in the eye and he jerked back in surprise. "What the…" he groaned, drawing back, narrowly avoiding a second hit.

Tuyen hurried towards him across the bare floor, a damp rag in hand. "Shhh-h, rest, Hawke," she murmured kneeling beside him with worried eyes.

Her face was dirty and she looked like she'd been crying. She stroked the rag across his forehead.

Lukewarm or not, it was bliss.

Frowning, he tried to piece broken thoughts together, running his tongue across dry and cracked lips. "How long?" he croaked, pinning her with his dark gaze.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping from his. "Two days," she murmured.

He winced, suddenly placing the acrid stench in the air, the sight of Scott dying before him filling his mind's eye. Gone. Gone in a heartbeat, just like Sinj, and Mace and so many others…

No, not Sinj, he thought defiantly, jaw clenching. He was alive, he'd find him somehow, someway. He had to.

He swallowed, closing his eyes against the pain; wondering how he was going to explain this, wondering if it was even worth trying.

The baby squirmed again, threatening mayhem with miniature fists. Setting aside the rag, Tuyen gently reached over, tucking his hands tightly into the ragged blanket and against Hawke. He promptly wiggled free again, batting the air.

"Sorry," she whispered, slanting him a hesitant glance.

String ducked back, shifting the baby lower feeling him kick at his still sore ribs. "Strong," he whispered hoarsely, feeling a wry grin tug at his mouth.

She nodded embarrassed. "Sorry. Xin lôi. I try to take care of him and you…same time." She sighed. "Not so good."

Hawke frowned, realizing she'd lost her lover, had a baby, seen her village burned and been held at gunpoint all in a space of less than 48 hours. Taking care of him and a newborn baby didn't exactly seem like a fair trade off. No wonder she looked dirty and tired.

"Your village?" he rasped.

"Gone," she muttered with a pained shrug, the brown eyes dropping, refusing to meet his gaze, but not before he caught the glisten of tears in them.

The baby squirmed again, turning curious blue eyes on him. He quieted, shoving a fist in his mouth.

Hawke raised a startled eyebrow. "Blue eyes?" he asked, in surprise.

Tuyen cracked the first smile he'd seen. "Scott's eyes," she declared proudly.

"Yeah," he whispered, flashing her a somewhat sad grin of his own watching the dark lashes flutter shut, thinking of his friend dying in front of him. Somehow, he had to come up with a way to get them all out of this. He owed Scott that much.

December 1, 1969

Dawn was seeping over the tree tops when a slender Vietnamese girl and a bruised and bleeding Stringfellow Hawke stumbled to a halt at the perimeter of the fenced camp.

Staggering, Hawke wavered, Tuyen's baby cradled against him in a blood-stained sling.

"Halt!" the command was unmistakable, the sharp click of a M-16 rifle resolving any questions there might be about it being an order. "Who goes there?"

Dazed, Hawke shook his head, nearly falling, struggling to formulate the words. "Second lieutenant Hawke," he slurred.

The young guard at the sentry post shifted uneasily, training his gun on them. The man looked like a GI, but that didn't explain the girl.

Rumor had it, the base was short two soldiers this morning. Hawke and Reynolds.

It didn't explain Hawke showing up at his post though, he thought. Determinedly he tightened his grip on his gun. Stories of booby trapped captured soldiers flitted through his thoughts. "Who's the girl?" he demanded, narrowing his sights on her.

Hawke sensed, rather than saw the rifle being aimed on her. The irony of escaping a PRU death squad only to die at the hand of a sentry guard didn't escape him.

He sucked in a shuddering breath, staggering upright. "Private!" he bellowed, "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

The clatter of an automatic rifle against wood rasped at his ears, as the guard frantically realized he was drawing down on a superior officer. "Uh, sir?" he questioned, clearly bewildered and at a loss.

Hawke was starting to waver now, feeling his vision graying.

Beside him, Tuyen started to reach for his arm.

Imperceptively, he shook his head at her. Defiantly, he raised his chin, teeth clenching against the pain. The ice blue eyes narrowed on the private snapping to attention at his post.

"Open the gate, private," he snarled.

"Sir?" the man questioned.

Hawke fought the urge to grimace. "Private," he snarled, "The woods are crawling with VC and PRU troops. If you don't open that gate and let us in, I won't be the only one in need of a medic around here."

The man shot him a wary glance, trying to decide if he was serious.

He was serious.

"Sir, yes, sir!" he bit out, heading for the ladder at a run.

His yells for a medic were the last thing Hawke heard as he slid to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. One hand cradled the baby to him as he fell, protecting it.

Wrapping her arms around her chest, Caitlin sighed shoving down a wave of sympathy she didn't want to feel. Even from where she stood, she could see the pain that edged Hawke's lean features. So far, the story sounded so patently like String her heart ached.

But how did he miss mentioning a wife?

Beside him, Tuyen reached for his hand, the gesture a comforting one, slender fingers interlacing with his strong, square-tipped ones.

Turning, Cait spun, hurt and jealousy filling her blue-green eyes. Angrily, she forced down the tears that threatened to spill over.

String glanced worriedly at his brother and then her. Rising, he started to reach for her.

Beside them, Saint John shifted against the desk, a frown drawing down across his features. His hazel eyes were troubled as he watched the two of them. Just how did his lunkhead brother get himself into these messes?

He still wasn't entirely sure he trusted Tuyen. He was certain though it'd have been far better for everybody if she hadn't shown up here. He sighed, rubbing the sudden ache in his own chest.

"You still haven't explained about the wife part," he rumbled hoarsely.

String's clear blue eyes met his own as he grimaced. He sighed, rubbing his chin in frustration. "Yeah," he murmured. "I guess not."