Hawke sensed the man before he heard him. He raised his head, saw another human being and felt a surge of elation and relief so strong that it made him physically sag. He opened his mouth to shout a greeting and then noticed the man's odd dress. He wasn't a hiker or a camper and he wasn't a ranger or from the forestry service. Staring at the stranger, it occurred to Hawke that he should have heard him first, that he'd been listening to the sounds of the forest all day trying to discern what was normal and what might signify danger.
And then he realized that the birds had gone quiet again.
"Michael," he called to Briggs who was somewhere behind him trying to find enough firewood to get them through another night. He heard a grunted response from among the trees behind him. "Now would be good." His eyes slid to the gun lying on the ground beside the briefcase and he shifted his right hand to where he could grab it quickly if needed.
An odd look passed across the face of the stranger, almost cunning, and his gaze moved from Hawke sitting on the ground to something or someone behind him: Briggs who carried an armful of the dead wood he'd gathered and, kneeling, dropped it to the ground near Hawke. Then he stood, brushing dirt and bits of bark from his hands and his clothes and took a step that put him between Hawke and the stranger.
"Hello."
Hawke thought Briggs sounded cautiously friendly, which was good because something about this guy was setting off his internal alarms.
"I don't suppose that we'd be lucky enough that you're with the Forestry Service and had some means of calling for assistance?"
The man answered but his words were guttural and unfamiliar, without even a hint of a familiar phrase to indicate what language he was speaking.
"I'm sorry," Briggs said. "I don't know what you said, or even what language you used. Between the two of us," he glanced down at Hawke, "we can communicate in English, Spanish, German and Russian. I'm told that my French is as bad as my Spanish but I do comprehend it and can communicate enough to get my point across."
The man just stared at Briggs with a look that Hawke couldn't quite decipher, a mix of triumph and greed or - and Hawke shuddered as it crossed his mind - hunger that had his hand creeping toward the gun.
This time the words were completely different, the language just as unknown except for one word that was at least familiar - Micha'el – and one that was close enough that Briggs stiffened: Archistrategos.
"Yes," he said slowly. "My name is Michael, and this," he waved a hand down at Hawke but didn't take his eyes off the stranger, "is Hawke. We ran into some bad weather and our helicopter crashed into those trees." He pointed at it. "We need assistance or someone who can let the ranger station know where we are, or even just tell us where the nearest ranger station is located."
"Tell me this isn't Armen Cole, or someone he sent," Hawke whispered but Briggs just waved a hand at him irritably.
"Can you help us?"
The stranger's face contorted and he spat out a phrase and then turned and took three long strides away. Hawke blinked and then rubbed his eyes before narrowing them. The man was gone.
"What the hell was that?" Hawke almost shouted.
Briggs was squinting into the woods with a deep furrow in his brow.
"I only caught part of it. He definitely said 'Princeps militiae coelestis quem honorificant angelorum' but I didn't get the rest. My Latin is more than a little rusty."
"So for those of us who don't speak dead languages…?"
"It means 'prince of the heavenly host of angels whom they honor…'" Briggs shook his head. "I've only heard that phrase in a religious context, Greek Orthodox or Roman Catholic. It's not a reference most people throw around just because of my code name."
Hawke felt a chill pass through him that had nothing to do with the angle of the sun or its fading rays.
"What do you make of the clothes he was wearing?
Briggs shrugged and when he turned away from the forest and looked at Hawke, his lips were pressed together. "At first I thought it was a tunic and some kind of cloak or mantle over it, but it's entirely possible that it was a…"
"Hospital gown." Hawke thought about it. "You thinking someone took a walk from a local loony bin?"
"As I said, it's possible."
"So," Hawke said, "a man wearing some kind of long gray tunic or hospital robe suddenly appears in the forest without making any sound, speaks to us in a language neither you nor I have ever heard, calls you Archangel, or Archistrategos or whatever, and then disappears. Again without making any sound."
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for all of it."
But Briggs didn't sound truly convinced.