Landing the Jet Ranger on the dock and pulling off the radio headset, Hawke took an uneven breath. Reaching for the door handle, he wondered for the umpteenth time how he was going to break the news he had a son to Caitlin. Heck, he thought, he didn't even know what to think of it, much less how to settle her thoughts on it.
Feeling the tension climbing into his shoulders again, he stepped down onto the dock and headed for the cabin. Absently he rubbed Nicky's dog on the head as he stepped over him on the porch and reached for the door handle. Opening it, the tantalizing aroma of the Eggplant Parmesan Caitlin was fixing in the kitchen wafted out.
"Hey, love," Cait called out not turning around. "You're early. Things slow at the airfield today?"
"Yeah," Hawke returned as he slowly closed the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he pulled off his sunglasses as he glanced around for the kids. "Where are Nicky and Amelia?"
"Over at friends for the night. Don't tell me you forgot?" she chuckled. "I can always call them back if you want me to," she teased.
"Uh, no. That's okay," he responded hastily, still hesitating at the door.
Looking up, Caitlin frowned at him. "You sure?" she asked, setting down the dishtowel. "You're acting kinda strange."
"Yeah, well… no," he replied blowing out a harsh breath and raking his hand through short strands of coffee brown hair and standing it on end.
"Well, which is it?" she asked, walking around the counter to stand in front of him, looking up with concern in his eyes.
"You got a minute?" he asked wryly, pulling her over to the sofa, and wrapping her hands in his.
"Hawke," Caitlin said, her eyes wide and searching his. "You're starting to scare me. What's wrong?"
Taking a deep breath, he plunged in wondering if things between them would ever be the same again. "First," he stated, "I need you to listen. Just listen, okay?"
Da Nang - My 1974
Nhi Huong sighed to herself as she handed out another round of beers to the American GI's seated at the bar. It seemed their appetite for alcohol never diminished whatever the shift was she worked, and her feet were killing her.
"Hey, sweetheart!" a bleery-eyed blond slurred at her, as he grabbed her arm as she went by. "How 'bout partying with us?"
"No, don't think so," she stammered trying vainly to pull her arm back. Laughing, the soldier just drug her into his lap, planting a sloppy kiss on her neck.
"Let me go!" Nhi Huong cried, struggling in earnest now, fear making her frantic.
Watching from the bar, Stringfellow Hawke raised an eyebrow before taking another swig of the lukewarm swill that passed for beer.
"Aw, come on honey," the guy slurred, "You know you want to have some fun."
"No, no fun!" she cried, long, dark hair tumbling down askew as she pushed against him trying to break free. Half-sobbing now, she heard the fabric in her sleeve rip as she struggled harder.
Setting the bottle down with a thump, Hawke swung to his feet. "You heard the lady, let her go."
"Back off buddy," the blond snarled. "This doesn't concern you."
"It does if I say so," Hawke grated back, shoving a crying Nhi Huong behind him. "Now why don't you just call it a night Talbert and go on home."
Rising to his feet, the blond shoved his chair back, ignoring the crash as it hit the floor. "Or else what?" he taunted. Hauling back, he swung a ham-fisted sucker punch at Hawke. Blocking it, Hawke swung a fist back, planting his knuckles squarely in the guy's nose. With a rush of satisfaction, he felt the bone crunch under his fist even as blood spurted across his fingers.
Scrambling he lunged, Nhi Huong scabbling away as the chairs overturned and Hawke and Talbert wrestled across the table trading blows. Splintering, the table crashed to the ground sending them both sprawling. Seizing the moment, Talbert rolled to his left and snatched up a chair leg. Grunting he swung it at Hawke.
Flinching, Hawke threw up his arms. Wood thwacked into his forearm and he bit back a groan against the pain. Staggering to his feet, he slammed his shoulder into Talbert's stomach knocking them both to the ground again.
"Enough!" a voice yelled. Rough hands snatched them up, pulling them apart. Shrugging, Hawke tried to shake them off, cradling his injured arm against his chest.
"Captain Hawke," yelled an authoritative voice. "I said that was enough! You too, Talbert unless you both want to end up in the brig!"
Shrugging, Hawke straightened, squaring his stance. Across from him, Talbert smirked insolently as he too stood.
Turning away, Colonel Hammond shook his head. "Like we don't have enough problems fighting the enemy, without our own guys trying to kill each other. You two should know better," he snarled.
Looking at what was left of the bar, he cast his eyes around, spotting Nhi Huong and the girl tending bar - the only Vietnamese locals left on the scene. "Wonderful," he muttered looking at the rubble. "Maybe now's not the best time," he said wryly, "But how'd you like a job with the U.S. Army?" he asked.
Nodding mutely, Nhi Huong agreed. After all, she figured, it wasn't like she'd have a job here at the bar come tomorrow anyway, she thought sighing. And so, she began her job as a translator for the U.S. government.
Carrying paperwork, Capt. Hawke trudged over to Colonel Hammond's office. Not relishing another earful on the previous night's bar fight, he stopped to flirt with Hammond's pretty, blonde secretary. Maybe, he thought hopefully he could just leave the reports with her.
To his surprise, he found in her place a dark, sloe-eyed beauty, long hair pinned up on her head. "Hey," he said in surprise.
"Hi, yourself," she replied laughter crinkling her brown eyes. "You know, I never did get a chance to thank you," she commented, shyly dropping her eyes.
"Hmm-mm? Oh, it was nothing," Hawke said dismissively. "You okay?"
"Yes," she replied, shyly looking up at him once more. "I should probably be asking you that question though," she said giving a pointed glance to his arm.
Grinning, he flexed his arm, pretending he didn't feel the twinge that ran all the way up it as he did so. "I'm good," he replied. "So what are you doing here?"
"Well, she said smiling, "You're looking at Colonel Hammonds new secretary and translator."
"Really?" Hawke said pleased. "Well, who knew a bar fight could be such a good thing…"
Vietnam - July 1974
Rifle fire pounded the ground in front of him, slamming into tree trunks and spraying dirt in the air. Touching down, Hawke spoke to the pilot on his left.
"Any sign of them?"
"Heading this way," was the response. "100 clicks."
"Come on, come on," Hawke muttered. "I've got a bad feeling about this." Warily he waited, tension knotting his muscles, hoping to catch a glimpse of soldiers coming around the bend in the river.
"Hawke, here they come. Got VC right on their tail. They're taking rifle fire!"
"Great," Hawke rasped, jumping down from the helicopter cockpit M-16 in hand. "Get ready!" he yelled. Dropping down into a crouching run, he ran towards them providing ground cover.
"Come on, come on, let's go!" he yelled, snatching one of the men up when he stumbled and spraying the air with rifle fire. Staggering the man made it a few steps before going down again.
Turning, Hawke dropped the rifle to the ground and reached over to haul Talbert to his feet. Grunting he knelt, throwing the wounded man over his shoulder. Hefting him, he ran for the waiting chopper adrenaline and fear slamming through his blood.
Mere yards from the chopper, shots rang out again. Flinching, Hawke tried to pick up the pace even as he did so feeling the blinding pain of bullet ripping into flesh. Fighting the pain that threatened to steal his very breath, Hawke fell to his knees, Talbert slipping from his shoulder and through suddenly numb fingers.
Both men hitting the ground, Hawke struggled to cling to conciousness, darkness beating its wings at him. Strong hands reached down, bodily wrenching both men to their feet and slinging an arm around Hawke, as Talbert stumbled for the chopper. Half-dragging him, Mace Talbert ran for the helicopter.
"Let's go kids, party's over!" quipped Saint John over the beat of the rotor blades.
Reaching out, hands pulled Hawke into the back of the Huey even as Mace swung inside himself. Giving in to the inevitable drag of darkness, String felt himself slide under.
Two days later -
Fingers twisting together nervously Nhi Huong stepped inside the doorway of the 1023rd Evacuation hospital. Looking around, her eyes sought the familiar form of Stringfellow Hawke, finally lighting on the light brown fringe of his hair on far side of the room. Taking a deep breath, she silently stepped towards him.
"…close call yesterday," retorted Saint John to his brother, as she walked up. "I could've used you out there, instead of you lying around, goofing off in here," he laughed, fondly slapping the younger man on the shoulder.
Grimacing at the twinge from his still sore ribs where the doctors had dug the bullet out, String ribbed back, "I'll keep that in mind before I schedule my next vacation."
Looking up, he spotted Nhi Huong behind Saint John. "Hey," he said to his brother, sobering abruptly, "think you could give us a minute?"
Glancing behind him, Saint John raised an inquisitive eyebrow before turning back to String. "Yeah," he said smiling and slapping the other man gently on the leg as he rose to his feet and turned to go. "Some of us around here have to work you know."
Turning to watch him go, Nhi Huong slid silently into his seat.
"Hey, you," Hawke gave her an easy grin, his eyes lighting up to see her.
"Hi, yourself," she replied somberly, worry creasing her forehead.
"Hey, none of that," String said reaching out to catch hold of her fingers, and tugging her down next to him. "It's nothing Nhi," he said blue eyes searching her tear-filled brown ones. "I'm okay. Just a scratch."
"Not just scratch," she replied her English fractured. "I could've lost you." A lone tear trickled down her cheek.
"But you didn't," Hawke said earnestly, pulling her to him. "You didn't."
Quietly, she sobbed and he held her close with his good arm, smoothing the long, dark curtain of her hair falling over them and whispering comforting noises.
At what point things between them changed, he couldn't have said later. He just knew when she started pressing tiny, soft kisses against his neck he couldn't have stopped the jolt of awareness that coursed through his body even if he'd wanted to. And when she pulled back to look at him, perfect crystal teardrops glittering on dark eyelashes, he was lost. Sliding strong fingers around the nape of her neck he pulled her towards him, his lips meeting hers in a kiss as passionate as it was desperate. A kiss as inevitable as time itself.
February 1975
Sweat dripping down his face, Stringfellow Hawke squinted into the blinding sun. He'd been flying for ten hours straight and ducking Charlie's bullets longer than he could count.
Grunting, he set the Huey down with a thud, a fine tremor of exhaustion shaking his arms. Damn, he thought. I would've never dreamed I could be this tired. The radio crackled to life with a burst of static.
"Get her up, Hawke! Get her up!" Atkins voice screamed at him over the radio. "We've got VietCong coming over the hill!"
Slamming the rotors into action, Hawke held his breath as he counted the seconds for them to get up enough speed for him to lift off. Grabbing the cyclic, he flung his bird into the air as hard as he dared and prayed. "Come on, baby, come on" he pled. "You can do it."
Shuddering, the aircraft caught the wind and lurched into motion. Easing up on the stick, Hawke swept into the air skimming the treetops as he headed downriver for the pick-up. "Hang on guys!" he radioed. "We're coming!"
Rotors slashing the air, Hawke swept around the river bend. In horror, his gaze widened as he took in the scene beneath him. Several bodies littered the sand, blood staining the ground around them. The blackened, burning hulk of another Huey lay strewn across the river bed, rotors still sluggishly turning even as flames consumed it.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, he yelled for the ropes to be lowered even as they swooped down. MacKenzie lay down ground fire from the back trying to cover Atkins and what was left of his men as they made for the ropes.
Dragging men in, MacKenzies's voice yelled in his ear. "Go! Go! We're full, get the hell out of here!"
Swinging the Huey around, Hawke made altitude even as they took small arms fire along their flanks.
"Get her up, man, get her up!" Johnson cried from beside him panic in his voice as bullets showered the cockpit. Easing back the collective and pulling up at the stick, String aimed for the sky. Glancing over at his co-pilot, Hawke turned in just enough time to feel the brush of air asa bullet whipped past him and slammed into the seat next to his head. Johnson unfortunately wasn't as lucky, the next one catching him square in the chest. Grabbing his flight suit with startled hands, he turned horrified eyes to Hawke even as the light within those eyes dimmed.
"Hold on Johnson!" Hawke bellowed, tamping down the frustration that clawed at him, knowing there was nothing he could do for his co-pilot and friend. Nothing except keep flying the damn helicopter.
Skimming along the treetops, the Huey made for camp and safety. The distinctive whomp-whomp of her rotors the only thing breaking the silence as Hawke pushed her limits trying to get help, and knowing in his gut the race was already lost.
Even as he dared to slant an unwilling glance over at Johnson, MacKenzie's voice screamed in his head. "Ground fire, Hawke! Two o'clock, look out! Look out! Incoming!"
Ears ringing, Hawke swung hard to the right, then left trying desperately to evade. And for a moment, he thought he'd made it. Then came the shudder that shook through the frame of the entire aircraft and threatened to rip the stick from his hands.
"We're hit, we're hit!" MacKenzie cried.
"You think?" Hawke muttered sarcastically wrestling for control. Both hands were on the stick now as he struggled to keep her in the sky and it was a battle he knew he was losing. "We're going down, Mac" he rasped. "We're going down."
Camp appeared on the rapidly approaching horizon. The ground now rushing up to greet them, Hawke pulled back on the collective flaring the rounded nose of the Huey up even as the skids hit and bumped, the tail smacking hard into the ground behind it. Thrown forward, rotors thwacked into the ground, shearing off and sending shrapnel flying before the whole thing came to a convulsive, shrieking clash of metal.
Dimly Hawke thought of Dom and home as his head smashed into the windshield of the helicopter rising up to meet him. Regret swelled in his throat at the thought of Dom and the pain his death would cause him. "I'm sorry, Dom," he whispered, darkness closing in on him. "So sorry."
May 1975
Wearily Stringfellow Hawke shifted in his seat, stretching aching muscles. Nine hours on a transport plane would do that under the best of circumstances. To a man with still healing bones and internal injuries, it was nothing less than excruciating.
Taking a shuddering breath, he swiped a shaking hand over a clammy brow. Home sounded good, he thought, if only he could hang on that long. Maybe pushing so hard to be released early from the military hospital hadn't been such a good idea after all, he conceded.
Hunching forward against the pain, String gritted his teeth, muscle working in his jaw. If he'd made it through a helicopter crash that'd killed half the other guys on board, and two and a half months in a military hospital, he damn sure wasn't going to let a little thing like a plane ride do him in. Dom and home were an hour away and he sure wasn't giving up now.
Stooped over the Stearman parked outside the hanger, Dominic Santini cursed, first in Italian and then in English. When it ran right, it was his pride and joy, but when it didn't… All he had to show for a mornings work was skinned knuckles and a plane sitting on the tarmac laughing at him.
Tightening the wrench for another try, he wrestled with the stubborn bolt. The phone rang and the wrench slipped, whacking him across the hand. Yelping, he threw it down in disgust.
The phone rang again. "Mama Mia!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Now what?" the exuberant Italian cried as he reached for a grease rag.
The phone continued to peal insistently, and Dominic loped over to pick it up. Grabbing it up, he answered it mid-ring. "Santini Air," he panted.
Listening, a grin broke out over his effusive features. "Really," he chortled. "Today, huh? Thanks buddy, I appreciate it," he said hanging up the phone.
"Woo hoo!" he yelled throwing his arms up in the air, not caring who heard him. "Woo hoo! Alright!"
"Mr. Santini?" quieried a startled voice.
Swiveling bushy eyebrows in that direction, Dom laughed at the shocked look on the skinny teenager's face.
"Everett!" he yelled, running over and enthusiastically pounding the boy on the shoulder. "Get ready, get the place picked up!"
"Huh?" the lanky teenager asked, completely lost and wondering if perhaps his boss had finally lost it.
"String's coming home!" Dom enthused. "My boy's finally coming home!"
The heat on the tarmac stifling, Dominic Santini waited. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades, dampening the dress shirt he wore, but he was oblivious. After eight years of waiting, a few more minutes weren't going to kill him he figured.
In the distance, a plane appeared. Nerves tightening in his stomach, Dom instinctively knew it was String's plane. How he couldn't have said if somebody had asked, he just knew.
Shading his eyes, he waited behind the ropes on the runway with the others, watching the plane taxi to a halt. After what seemed like an eternity, the cabin door opened and passengers poured out, finally slowing to a trickle. Still, no String appeared.
Shifting his weight around uneasily, Dom glanced around. Surely he couldn't have missed the kid? He thought. The trickle of passengers had slowed to a halt now. Searching the crowd one last time with no luck, Dom hesitated. Maybe he'd got the plane wrong? Disappointed he turned to walk back towards the terminal.
He'd barely taken a step when the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Unable to help himself, he turned back to look at the doorway of the plane again. For the longest moment, the doorway remained empty and then Hawke slowly stepped into it. He stood there for a long moment simply looking out at the airfield.
Elation bringing a welcoming smile to his face, Dominic Santini grinned at the boy he'd raised as his own son. Hurrying forward to meet him, he eyed String as he slowly made his way down the stairs. Unease crept into his chest as he watched the stiff, almost painful way the younger man held himself.
Hurrying past the guide ropes now, Dominic grinned his welcome at Hawke even as he catalogued the changes. Gone was the boy who'd left him eight years ago - replaced by a serious faced man. Pain was etched in the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, lines that hadn't been there not so long ago. Underlying it all was an unhealthy pallor to his skin. Conviction dawned that he'd been much closer to losing the boy than he'd ever known.
Ah, String, he thought sadly. What have they done to you and how will I ever make it right again?
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, String gave a sudden grin at Dom, the blue of his eyes matching the cloudless sky overhead. And then all thought disappeared as Dom enveloped him in a joyous bear hug.
"Oh, man it's good to have you back kid!" he exclaimed hugging him like he'd never let him go, tears lining the craggy cheeks.
"It's good to be back, Dom," Hawke replied softly. Hanging on, he hugged the older man back, tears in his own eyes. No matter how bad he hurt, he wouldn't trade this for the world.