Frozen, Stringfellow Hawke hesitated, his hand on the door. Keen ears had picked up the heated conversation between Rivers and his brother, in the otherwise empty room making him an unwilling participant.
His mind reeled, trying to take in the information. Jo was pregnant, and she hadn't told Saint John… - it explained a lot, he thought, the pieces of the last three weeks falling into place.
It explained why she'd been ducking him and Cait. He'd known she hadn't felt well, had been worried about something.
He hadn't expected that, though.
Sudden joy and excitement for Saint John filled his heart. He'd known what Bella had meant to him, how much he'd wanted a family of his own.
It was just as abruptly followed by a clench of anxiety in his gut. It didn't bode well, Jo hadn't told him. Old feelings of betrayal and resentment roiled in his stomach. He remembered what losing Bella, what losing her, had done to Sinj.
Why? he wondered. Why wouldn't she have told Saint John? Jaw tight, he tried to tell himself she must have had a good reason, even if he couldn't see it.
But what?
He tilted his head back praying for wisdom, eyes closing on a soul-deep sigh.
It seemed the Lady had her pilot home, and it wasn't him. He could only hope, he still had something to come home to when it was his turn.
Bemused, Caitlin stared at Tuyen as the other woman packed her bags. They'd barely made it back to the cabin, when she'd announced her intention to go.
At the time, she hadn't thought much of it, her thoughts firmly entrenched on getting the kids settled in. Now, two hours later, it seemed she was making good on her words.
What surprised Cait was the sorrow she felt at seeing her go.
The clock upstairs chimed the hour, reminding her how late it really was. She tried again. "Tuyen, stop this craziness! There's no need for you to go! Stay 'til Hawke gets back…"
Glancing over at her, the Vietnamese woman kept packing. She reached over for a sweater on the nightstand.
Exasperated, the redhead threw her hands up. "At least stay 'til morning, then! It's almost midnight, for Pete's sake!"
Slender hands stilled for a moment, as obsidian eyes raised to meet hers. "Marella will fly me out. It is time for me to go. I have created enough problems between you and Hawke. I see that now." Tears glittered on the dark lashes. "It was not my intention…"
Guiltily, Caitlin flushed. She knew that…now.
A sharp peal sounded from the satellite phone, cutting across her thoughts. She jumped in surprise, fear jangling her nerves. News from Redstar at this hour was never good in her experience.
"Hold that thought," she said breathlessly, her throat tight. "I'll be back."
Worriedly, she raced into the over room.
Tuyen followed.
Anxiously, she snatched the receiver up. "Yes?"
It was Marella on the line. "Saint John and Airwolf are on their way back. Jo's awake."
Dumbly Cait nodded, relief flooding through her body. She'd been so worried about everything else, she hadn't even thought of Jo once that afternoon. "What about Hawke?" she asked, glancing up at Tuyen.
There was a long pause. "They found Mike, Caitlin. He's not doing so hot. There's a good chance he may lose his arm."
Tears filled her eyes and she swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.
Tuyen reached for her hand.
"Does Sarah know?" she whispered.
"We've called her," Marella answered. "Hawke decided to stay with him."
Caitlin shoved away the sense of disappointment, she felt. Mike needed him more than she did at the moment, she told herself.
Tears tracked down her pale, freckled cheeks. "Any idea when they'll be back?" she asked, preparing herself for the worst.
Marella's voice was soft, sympathetic. "They'll come out together on a C-130 medical transport. It's due to leave for Los Angeles later this morning. I'll let you know when I have a better timetable."
The redhead nodded numbly, realizing her hand was starting to shake. "Thanks, Marella," she whispered.
Michael's wife sighed. "Try to get some rest, Cait. It's going to be a long day."
"Yeah," Caitlin murmured, choking back a sob and setting down the satellite phone, her thoughts tangled with worries for Mike and Sarah, Jo and Sinj, not to mention Hawke and herself.
What about Mike? If he lost his arm, he'd lose everything he'd worked so hard for for so many years. He'd lose his job, his ability to fly, would he lose Sarah as well? Or Jo and Sinj? The new life that should've brought them happiness hung precariously in the balance. Who knew where it left their marriage. And Hawke…
Tuyen's hands gripped hers, worry knitting her fine brows. "They are okay?" she demanded, her dark eyes uneasily searching Cait's.
Blue-green eyes filled with tears. "I hope so," she choked, suddenly overwhelmed. What if String had died saving Mike? Would she have wanted her last words to him to have been ones of anger?
She'd never had anything to fear from Tuyen. Her worst fault was String had loved life enough, that he'd risked his to save hers. Could she hate him for that? Or her?
Fleetingly, she thought of Polson, and him holding the kids at gunpoint in the woods. She had no doubt, he would've killed them, just as he would've happily killed her. Would've done his best to kill String…
She'd more than repaid her debt.
Caitlin was sobbing in earnest now. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She could've asked for no better friend than the one Hawke had given her. "I'm sorry…"
Dark brown eyes frowned in confusion as Tuyen took in the redhead's very obvious grief. She doubted she would ever understand the complexities of these Americans. "It does not matter," she whispered firmly, slender brown arms pulling Cait into a comforting hug against her shoulder. Worriedly, she stroked the younger woman's hair, her own thoughts on darker days. "We will wait for Hawke, together."
Squinting, Stringfellow Hawke reached down, picking up the duffel the captain of the ship had issued him. Dressed in a borrowed flight suit, it contained the rather distinctive pale grey Airwolf suit, he usually wore. He figured he'd raise a lot less eyebrows this way.
He hoped.
Mike stirred on the gurney next to him. They'd heavily sedated the pilot for the trip back, but he figured 7 ½ hours was more than enough time for him to shake off the effects of the drug. At least, he'd miss the take-off, he thought, warily eyeing the end of the carrier - his own precipitous landing far too fresh in his mind for his own liking.
"Ready, Captain Hawke?" a young Ensign queried, saluting him.
Returning the salute, he gave a rueful half-grin. "Would it matter if I said no?" he asked.
The baby-faced Ensign smirked. "No, sir."
Hawke rolled his eyes. "Well then," he said dryly, "let's get this show on the road."
Sounds like a plan, sir." The younger officer indicated Hawke should precede him up the fantail of the plane.
String hesitated, casting a quick glance Mike's way as he did so.
The Ensign caught it, correctly interpreting his concern. "We'll see Major Rivers aboard just as soon as you are settled, sir."
Hawke nodded and proceeded up the ramp in silence, the faintest of scowls on his forehead. It was going to be a long trip home.
Saint John paced the hospital corridor, heavy footsteps echoing hollowly down the tiled floor.
Stopping at the nurse's station, he'd made it halfway down the hall when he spotted security. Eyeing Michael's white-clad agent posted outside the door, he snorted. Guess he didn't have to guess too hard which one was Jo's. He lengthened his stride.
The harried-looking nurse he'd just left looked up behind him, catching the eye of a thirty-something doctor with brown fringe as he stepped out of one of the patient's rooms.
Furiously, she pointed down the hall at her retreating visitor's back.
Mitchell Kelly swung, taking in the solidly built, rangy blonde heading down the hall. He arched an eyebrow - it seemed the wandering government agent husband had come home, just as Jo Santini Hawke had said he would.
"Sir!" he called.
There was no reaction as the man kept walking.
Kelly tried again. "Sir!" he called, this time picking up his pace down the wide corridor hall. It made no difference.
"Mr. Hawke!" Gripping his clipboard, he broke into a loose-limbed trot.
Saint John spun warily at the sound of his name.
The doctor skidded to a halt beside him. "We need to talk."