Abruptly, the carrier came into view - a solid mass of battleship gray and steel. Well, that and about forty planes scattered about the far side of the deck.
Great, assuming you didn't hit anything.
"You ready, String?" Saint John's voice cut across the cockpit radio.
500 feet -
"Ready as I'll ever be," Hawke replied, tightening his grip on the yoke. "Though if you ask nicely, I might still be willing to trade."
"Yeah, yeah," Sinj retorted, eyeing the instruments in front of him. "Just make sure you throttle back as soon as you hit that deck. That runway's a lot shorter than you think."
"You don't say…," Hawke tossed back wryly, getting ready to switch the radio over to the landing signal officer aboard the carrier. "Got any other last sage words of advice you'd like to impart?"
"Don't hit the planes," Saint John replied.
String rolled his eyes, hitting the switch.
Squinting at the lens array, he dumped another 200 pounds of fuel. Like it or not, he was committed now - there was no way the plane'd make it around for another pass.
The lens ahead of him flashed a slow green.
"Eagle One drop the pitch three degrees."
Muscles aching, he adjusted the yaw. The ball flashed a steady yellow, the wings leveling out.
"Ball point five," Paddles confirmed. "Bring her in, Eagle One."
Flaps down, the rear landing wheels slammed down to the deck, slinging Hawke forward. Wrenching back, he powered the engines to full reverse, the front wheel slamming down.
Deck slid across under the wheels at an alarming rate. String shoved the brake lever down.
Rubber squealed and screamed. Breathing hard, he fought to keep the plane from fishtailing. 100 feet. She swung the other way, clearing another 100 feet of deck. Jets scattered across his right loomed closer, the ground crews running for cover.
300 feet..., 400.
He was running out of deck - the grey depths of the ocean clearly visible beyond the edge of the carrier. Brakes slid and he forgot to breathe…
…and then she was stopping - rounded nose kissing the sky and front end pointing off the carrier.
If he'd had any air left to breathe, it'd have choked him. Loosening his death grip on the yoke, String slumped against the seat, eyes closed, remembering how to breathe.
Saint John's voice cut across his headset, staticy. "Had me worried, little brother."
Hawke heaved a shuddering breath, opening his eyes. "Really?" he rasped dryly.
"Don't think your flight insurance covers taking out Uncle Sam's F-14's."
String snorted. "Glad to know you care, Sinj."
The Lady's drone filled his ears, reminding him this mission wasn't done yet.
Saint John chuckled. "Glad you made it, String."
Eyeing the deck below him, Saint John let out a sigh of relief knowing his brother was okay. He slanted a quick glance Mike's way, not even sure the other had noticed. One down, one to go.
Lowering the collective, the black gunship hovered as Pierson and Samuels reached for Mike, cushioning his body between them. And then they were settling with a hard thump in the darkness as the Lady touched down.
An air crew ran for the helicopter, medical crew behind them, even as they ducked rotors, tying her down.
Strong hands reached for Mike, passing him through the cockpit door and onto the waiting stretcher, Airwolf's landing lights lending a surreal feeling to the whole scene.
Numbed by exhaustion, Saint John Hawke dropped to the deck beneath Airwolf and watched them carry his best friend away, yelled commands echoing in his ears. He could only hope it was enough.
Frowning, Captain Gideon Taylor eyed his newest patient. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandages and splint around his arm. Shining a penlight in the man's eyes, he was none too pleased with the lack of responsiveness he got. "What'd they give him?" he demanded.
"Morphine, sir."
He scowled. The man looked like he'd been beaten. "Any word on how he got the arm broke?" he asked, cutting loose the splint.
The corpsman shook his head. "Just that it happened in Cuba."
"Cuba?" the doctor paused. "What was he doing in Cuba?"
The last of the bandage fell away, revealing sharp protruding bone and bruised and bloody fingers. Dusky toned, it was obvious the blood flow was compromised.
It was also apparent infection was already setting in.
The morphine had been a good choice.
He grimaced, knowing the odds for his patient had just got a lot slimmer.
"Get me an x-ray and prep the O.R."
"1200 reports are in."
"And?" Archangel looked up at his assistant Lauren in the doorway.
"Hawke made it to the carrier. The T-3's a little worse for wear, but safe."
The white-clad spy let loose a breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding. "And the others?" he queried.
The deceptively fragile looking blonde glanced down at the reports in her hands. She didn't meet her boss' eyes.
Archangel frowned. "Lauren?"
"Airwolf is intact. Saint John made it to the carrier with her. She's low on fuel and armament, but otherwise okay. There were only three survivors of the plane's crew aboard.
It was great news, except there should've been five survivors of the T-3's crew.
The spy nodded. "Who?"
"Pierson, Samuels and Rivers."
"Rivers is alive?" Michael echoed dumbly, staring at her. Shock gave way to joy as a surprised grin etched itself across his face. Of all the problems Locke had left him, he was glad to still have that one around.
"But I thought…"
"The agent was mistaken," the blonde replied soberly. "It was Bartlett who was killed. He was wearing Rivers' jacket and insignia."
The single blue eye narrowed at her demeanor. Losing Bartlett and Richardson was a tragedy, but she knew Rivers, unlike the other men. It wasn't the reaction he would've expected.
"So , what's the problem?" he asked softly.
Lauren raised troubled eyes to meet his. "Rivers is in surgery, sir. I think you'd better call Hawke's sister, Sarah.
Mitchell Kelly frowned. Shifting, the specialist sighed. There was hope. There was also heartache. "Do you want this baby?"
Pain arced through her chest as Jo stared at him. Of course, she had wanted this baby…it was hers, hers and Sinj's, a product of their love - probably their only chance at ever having another child. Guilt ate at her conscience, demanding truth…reminding her she hadn't told him. Why not? Why had she waited?
"Yes," she whispered, through numb lips, fighting back tears. "Of course."
The next question caught her unawares, as he leaned forward. "Do you get along with your husband, Mrs. Hawke?"
Tangled thoughts jumbled together, stumbling over one another as memories crowded in - Saint John and her yelling and fighting in the hangar; the salty, sweet taste of his kiss when they made up; the intimate caress of his big hand gently cradling her belly, swollen with his child; the agony of losing Bella…him nearly dying…
The doctor shoved to his feet, towering above her. "How exactly did you get hurt?" he demanded.
Reality slammed into her, pain clawing at her gut, anger rising in her chest, hot and fierce. They thought Sinj had done this? Sinj who would rather cut off his arm than hurt her?
"No!" she flared. "You're wrong, dead wrong! My husband did not do this! He wouldn't…he couldn't!"
Mitchell grimaced. He hoped not, the concussion on the MRI had been ugly, but it still didn't explain the broken ribs. Still, as a doctor he needed to know what he was working with...
"And where is your husband, Mrs. Hawke?"
Panic flared momentarily. Why wasn't Sinj here? Where was he?
Heart pounding, she quelled it. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and stared him directly in the face. "I don't know. He works for the government. Sometimes he's away for weeks at a time."
The doctor's eyes narrowed accessingly. He wasn't sure he believed her, but her defense of her husband seemed heartfelt.
"I'm not going to get an explanation as to how this happened, am I?" he sighed.
Troubled blue eyes met his. "I don't have one to give. Just know that it wasn't Saint John."
Heaven help him, he believed her. There wasn't one good reason to do so, but he did.
Heaving a wary breath, he lowered himself back into the chair at her bedside. He could only pray she was right, and hope the husband lived up to the obvious faith she had in him.
They'd both be needing it.
"Okay," he said soberly. "We'll play this your way." He reached for the chart beside her, scooting his chair closer.
Uneasily, Jo waited, not even sure what to pray for. Was it possible…?
"The good news is the fetus seems to have somehow survived your fall - thus far. Which is pretty remarkable, considering the damage done to that side and the bruising."
Hope ached in her chest, so hard it hurt to breathe.
She nodded - trying to hang on to the survive part and ignore the quell of fear she felt. "But…" she prompted.
He flipped through the charts, pointing out an ultrasound that looked like one of Airwolf's thermal scans. "The bad news is, there's been some damage to the placenta."
Jo licked suddenly dry lips. "And that means?"
His eyes met hers. "It's strictly a cross your fingers situation. There's some damage, but so far he or she appears to be holding their own. It's possible, though not likely, the placenta may heal on its own. It's also possible the damage could cause the placenta to separate from the uterine wall, causing a hemorrhage and putting your life and the baby's at risk."
She swallowed, closing her eyes. Well, you certainly couldn't accuse him of painting too rosy a picture, or not telling the downside.
"What's the likely outcome?" she whispered, still not opening her eyes.
She felt his fingers wrap around hers, lending her strength. "Odds are the placenta will not be able to support the baby throughout a normal pregnancy. Best case scenario the baby will be premature, worst case you're at a much greater chance of stillbirth."
Jo's fingers spasmed as he let go, rising to his feet. She tried to focus on the positive. "How premature?"
Turning away, his shoulders hunched. "There's no way of knowing. Medically, the advice would be to terminate."
The crushing weight on her chest intensified and her fingers knotted in the sheets. Anguished, she prayed for strength, as tears ran down her face. Where was Sinj anyway?
Giving a soul-deep sigh, the doctor turned to go. "I realize it's a lot for you to take in. I have rounds I have to do. I'll be back later and we'll talk. Think about it, talk to your husband."
Jo fought to breath. Talk to her husband? She didn't even know where her husband was…
She seized the one weak spot she sensed. It was all she had. All she might ever have if he walked out that door.
Desperately, she forced the words out. "And you," she demanded, "what would you do?"
Pinioned, Mitchell Kelly froze, his hand on the door - his thoughts flying a thousand different directions. The babies he'd saved, the ones he couldn't, the ones he'd thought would make it and didn't. And finally, the twenty-three week old he'd held in his hands, a year ago - watching her draw her last breath, and taking his heart with it - his daughter.
He fought the lump in his throat, hunting for his professional demeanor. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hawke, but I can't give you personal advice."
He made the mistake of looking back.
Jo raised a trembling chin to meet his gaze, crystalline tears dripping down her cheeks. "I'm not asking you for advice," she retorted. "I'm asking what you'd do."
Kelly winced, thinking of his daughter, Meagan - tiny fingers, tiny toes, eyes the color of a perfect summer's day. Would he do it any differently? He could still feel the weight of her miniscule body in his hands - barely there, and everything in the world he had. Would he trade the nine days he'd had with her for anything?
He swallowed hard. No. Never in a million years.
He thought of all the lives he could save, those he might help, that his answer might cost him his job, his career. And in the end, it didn't matter.
He couldn't deny the truth. He'd have fought to keep her to his last breath.
His hand dropping from the door, Kelly looked at her, the anguish in his blue eyes as clear as her own. He sat back down, knowing his words could cost her her life.
His voice cracked. "I'd fight."