July 3rd, 1970

"Mail call!" the yell rang out loud and clear across the camp. Hawke shifted restlessly on his bunk, listening to the chop-chop of Huey blades in the distance. If he hadn't had duty in a couple hours, he'd have been sorely tempted to go and raise a beer to Sinj. Hang, he was still sorely tempted - one year tomorrow and still no word.

A sharp rap at the door and his bunkmate came in sweaty and flushed, box in hand. He cocked an eyebrow at him inquisitively - he was willing to bet that box had Shep's mom's homemade oatmeal raisin cookies in it.

"Oh, no," his friend laughed, catching his look. "These are mine. You got your own mail." He tossed a couple envelopes Hawke's way and rifled for a pocket knife to open the box.

Hawke reached down and handed him his, getting a grunted thanks in return. He ignored it, shoving the used knife back in his pants pocket as he picked up the two envelopes off the floor beside his bunk.

Dom, he thought, recognizing the bold scrawl on the first. His gut clenched, knowing it was the older man's attempt at consoling him about Saint John going missing. However well-intentioned, he didn't think he could take it right now. He tossed it on his cot, reaching for the other one.

Delicate, feminine writing sprawled across the front. Curious, he sliced it open, barely catching the photo that slid out, before it hit the floor.

"So, who's it from?" Shep mumbled around a mouthful of cookie, offering String one.

He shook his head as he read, knowing never in a million years could he explain to his bunkmate about Tuyen and the child. It seemed Phuong was crawling these days, and managing to pull down every tablecloth in the house. the'You'd never believe it Hawke, she wrote. He bit the Reynold's dog other day. I was soo-oo embarrassed…' A grin tugged at his mouth, picturing it. She would've been, too…

"Just a girl I used to know," he retorted, tucking the picture of a smiling Tuyen and a laughing, chubby-cheeked blue-eyed baby boy in her arms into his pocket.

No matter how it turned out, he wasn't sorry about that…

Shep shrugged, reaching for another cookie and Hawke's glance slid his way. "Hey, where's mine?" he demanded mock indignantly, as he snagged the last of the cookies, his earlier melancholy forgotten for the moment.

Saint John stared at his brother in a mixture of worry and stunned disbelief. Okay, yeah, he could understand String's reasoning, could sympathize with it - maybe even agree there had been no other way…here the hazel eyes caught the shattered expression on Caitlin's face, but surely he hadn't left it that way? Yeah, String was sloppy when it came to paperwork, but even he couldn't be that boneheaded surely, he thought.

"So, what happened to the divorce?" Saint John demanded, watching Cait pace away, every freckle on her face standing out in sharp relief against waxen skin.

Reluctantly, String turned back to his brother, his attention still clearly on Caitlin. Arms wrapped around herself as if she had a permanent chill, she walked out of the hanger not looking back.

"I signed the papers," he whispered, his voice dazed, confused. "I swear I did, Sinj. I promise."

March 2nd, 1971

"Mail call, First Lieutenant!" Staff Sergeant Lewis bellowed, tossing what was left of the stack he held in Stringfellow Hawke's direction.

Briefly, Hawke wondered if it was worth reminding the Staff Sergeant he outranked him these days, last he checked. Nah, he thought. Lewis made no bones about the fact he was shipping out and going home in three days. His tour was done, so far as he was concerned.

Hawke only wished his was. Ruefully, he bent to pick up the scattered envelopes at his feet - a letter from Dom, a note to his bunkmate and a rather formal looking manila envelope, evidently addressed to him.

Raising a surprised eyebrow, Hawke tore it open with a scraped and bruised finger.

Official looking documents slid out, spilling into his hand. Divorce papers, he thought, blue eyes widening in startled hurt. Skimming them, the same sapphire blue eyes narrowed. Tuyen's delicate script flowed across the page, the lines for his signature x'ed and highlighted.

Unreasoning sorrow welled up in him. She'd kept to the terms they'd decided - fourteen months - long enough for her to get her citizenship without question and long enough for his C.O. to buy that a wet behind the ears, green soldier too young to know any better, had thrown in the towel.

Hawke sighed, his thumb tracing the fine lines of her signature, a signature he'd come to know well over the past year. Maybe the marriage hadn't been real, but the friendship had been. He'd miss her and the boy. He was walking now, he thought ruefully.

It'd been something worthwhile, something worth fighting for in this hellhole that had taken his brother from him. There had been times, it'd been one of the few things that'd kept him going. The fact that Tuyen and her son would grow up in freedom and safety, and that he'd had something to do with that. That and the fact Dom was waiting for him to come home.

Home seemed a long ways away these days. He was no closer to finding Saint John than he was a year ago, and he knew it.

And so, he wasn't going home. He couldn't. He'd already decided when the time came, if Saint John hadn't been found, he'd be staying.

At least, flying helicopters was safer - most days, he thought wryly, well aware he'd nearly bought it yesterday.

"Time to call it a day," he rasped regretfully, pulling the creased picture of Tuyen and Phuong out of his pocket for one last glance. His thumb rubbed across the smudged picture.

"Fly angel," he whispered, against the lump in his throat. "Go find those wings of yours."

His bold scrawl sprawled across the page, in all the highlighted areas. Folding the papers back up, he stuffed them back into the manila envelope, scratching out his address and replacing it with the lawyer's, before going in search of the recalcitrant Staff Sergeant Lewis.

Staff Sergeant Michael Lewis watched as the last duffel bag of outgoing mail was heaved up into the Huey before it departed. Time to go home, he thought with a grin, shifting the heavy pack on his own shoulder. Not like he'd miss this place, he thought, pale grey eyes sliding across the dilapidated string of buildings one last time.

The whine of rotors filled the air, downwash beating at him as he reached for the handhold on the side of the chopper.

"Lewis!" the irritated growl, rasped on his ears. "Staff Sergeant!" the voice, just a hair below a yell grated on his nerves. "Wait!"

Turning, he spotted Stringfellow Hawke headed his way at a lope. Blasted boy scout, he thought, grimacing in vague disgust, eyeing him as he ducked the Huey's rotors. What'd he want?

Hawke stumbled to a halt beside him, breathless.

"Yeah?" Lewis tossed back insolently.

Blue eyes narrowed over blazing ice, as Hawke faced him down biting back a surge of irritation. "You are still in country, Lewis," he reminded him coldly.

Yeah, he was, Lewis acknowledged resentfully. Last thing he needed was the boy scout pulling his ticket…

"Yes sir," he grumbled, meeting the other's eyes.

Hawke handed him the envelope. The implied order was clear. "This too, Staff Sergeant. See that it gets mailed."

Thick fingers took the outstretched envelope, tucking it into his pocket. He nodded, reaching for the handhold.

Squinting against the windborne sand, Hawke watched him go, stepping back with the instinctive care of a man who'd spent his entire life around 'choppers. "Good luck, Lewis," he muttered dryly, watching him go. "Knowing you, you'll need it."

Well and truly sloshed, a short, squat man staggered out of the darkened bar just outside of Tan Son Nhut airbase. Whatever could be said about the gooks they played a good card game; he smirked, fingering the thick wad of bills he shoved into his pocket.

Blearily, he tried to remember his way back to the barracks. He sniggered drunkenly. Who cared as long as he made that flight home tomorrow?

Unfortunately, he never heard the soft footfall behind him as the knife slashed down.

Swallowing hard, the younger MP dropped the sheet back over the man's face. The startled, staring grey eyes weren't something he figured he'd forget for a long time.

"Hurry up, Johnson!" his partner snapped. Easily his senior by at least half a decade, he cast a jaundiced eye over the proceedings.

Luckless jerk, he thought wearily. All you had to do was stay out of trouble one more day and you'd 've been headed home.

Instead he'd be headed to the morgue and the stack of cold case files piled on his desk.

Where the heck was Johnson anyway?

The body - Staff Sergeant Michael Lewis - he corrected himself, was being loaded into the truck now.

Grimacing, he searched for his partner amongst the crowd. Newbie, he thought with a sigh, watching Johnson struggle to gather up the victim's scattered personal effects without retching. Wouldn't be good for anything else all day…

"Today, Johnson!" he snarled.

Jumping, the other man flinched, reaching for a blood-soaked manila envelope. "What about this, sir?" he asked, holding it up in the air.

McKinney fought the urge to roll his eyes. What was he - the kid's babysitter? "Throw it in the box, Johnson, along with everything else, son. You think maybe the Staff Sergeant is going to need it on the flight home?