The Wolf's Lair

This story was printed in a multi-media fanzine, RERUN 7 whose editor is Lorraine Bartlett. It is reproduced here with the gracious consent of the author.

RIO DE SOMBRE

By Sheila Paulson

Stringfellow Hawke gave the command for stealth mode and Caitlin O'Shannessy complied. Soon the big helicopter known as Airwolf was purring smoothly and softly over the jungle, almost noiselessly. Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, aka Archangel, of the super secret organization known only as "The Firm," glanced over his shoulder at Cait and wished for the stubborn, reassuring bulk of Dominic Santini. It was not that he didn't trust Caitlin, though he would have been happier if she had never learned of Airwolf, but the fewer people involved in the mission the better. While he had no prejudice against female operatives, using them efficiently and frequently, Caitlin was not a trained agent.

This mission was dangerous, one Michael would have preferred using experienced people for, but Airwolf could get them in and out fast, and time was of the essence. The whole Contra plan needed speed and timing, and the report he was to take back would benefit a lot of people. The White House was behind it, and they hadn't even told Michael all the ramifications. he had to get in and out fast before the Sandanistas came swarming in to halt the data pickup. Regular couriers might have worked as well, but not as quickly as Airwolf. Michael had not been told why the timing was so urgent and preferred at this stage not to know, putting on hold his feelings about the entire Contra affair. With Airwolf backing him, he was guaranteed the best possible chance to come out successfully and save his life, as well as sparing the Firm the embarrassment of another agent exposed in Nicaragua.

Dominic Santini would have been his choice for the rear position, but Dom had a dislocated shoulder and a sprained wrist from a stunt gone wrong, and when Michael had conned Stringfellow Hawke -- if such was the appropriate term -- into taking him along instead of leaving it to a courier, Hawke had volunteered Caitlin rather than relying on one of MIchael's people.

At first it went well. Flying below radar, stealth mode activated, Ariwolf was virtually undetectable, vulnerable only to a visual sighting. It would have been better to go in at night, but there had been no time for that.

"Coming up on the rendevouz point now, Michael," Hawke reported. He did not like the mission and he liked even less the idea of Michael coming along, radiating silent disapproval, which he knew Michae was perceptive enough to notice. "I'll see if I can find a landing place nearly."

Their eyes all scanned the jungle as if expecting a clearing to appear magically in their path. They could see the sinuous trail of a river, one of their visual checkpoints, twisting through the trees, the green water an uninviting, glimmering gold where the afternoon sun brushed it. In one bend, not far from the camp, ten minutes walking at most, even for someone with a bum knee, the trees swept back from the water's edge, presenting a clear place to land. A little more open than Michael liked, but it looked like their only option.

Hawke set the Lady down as smoothly as if he were landing in Piccadilly Circus, and he and Michael climbed out. "Thirty minutes," Archangel decided. "Ten minutes in, ten minutes there, ten minutes out."

"Optimistic, aren't you, Michael?" Hawke asked laconically.

Though Hawke's words may have meant he distrusted the whole plan, Michael brandished his cane. "I won't hold back."

"Not if you can help it," Hawke replied. "Are you sure this contact of yours can be trusted?"

"As sure as I am that you can be trusted," Michael replied, winning a slanting look from Hawke that spoke of skepticism. Turning to Cait, he said, "You stay put. Monitor everything, but don't move until thirty minutes are up. Clear?"

"Then I come in blasting everything in sight." She grinned. "Don't worry, Michael. I can handle it."

"You hope." That qualified for a little grin from Hawke. "Well, come on, Michael," he replied. "I don't know about you, but I don't like the scenery very much." He strode off without looking back, making no concession to Michael's bad knee. "You always bring me to the best places."

Michael followed. At first the going was a little rough, for the undergrowth was thick and his feet tended to tangle in it. Hawke's did too, but his stride didn't falter. Michael's didn't either, but after five minutes of it, all uphill, his knee began to call his attention to it, first with a faint dull ache which gradually became a steady throbbing just below the borderline of outright pain, reminding him he was neither as young nor fit as he had been in his days in the field. If the man he was to meet had not been Luis Sanchez, he doubted he would have let himself be tempted by the opportunity to go into the field once more. He had enjoyed field work, but he found his current job more satisfying in many respects, pulling strings and manipulating events to bring about satisfactory outcomes to difficult problems. He relished the challenge of it, but his mission tasted of nostalgia, and he ignored the dull pounding in his knee, instead taking satisfied breaths of air and looking around with eager enthusiasm which didn't detract from his wariness.

The jungle breathed around them, alive and full of secrets, some far older and more mysterious than the current political mishmash that was Nicaragua. A man could vanish in the jungle and never be seen again and it need have nothing to do with politics. But wherever people went, politics followed, and this seemingly remote location was no different.

He thought of Sanchez, eagerly looking forward to meeting his old friend. It had been ten years since they had last met face to face, but he knew Luis for a man whose honor meant everything to him, who would never betray a friend. It was he who had managed to scrape together the information that Michael was to pick up, and his people during the past ten years had been steadily and consistently reliable, impressing even the unimpressable bastard, Zeus. Michael remembered Luis Sanchez, a tall, dark man with black bangs, a brigand's mustache and knowing, sophisticated eyes. Put Luis into any city in the world without a dime to his name, a weapon or a knowledge of the language, and within a week he would have a suite of rooms at an elegant hotel, a bottle of the best booze going, and the prettiest girl he could find -- or he would go to ground so thoroughly that trained agents couldn't find a whiff of him, and he would return with the knowledge he had been sent to retrieve. Put him outside a city and the results were even more spectacular. Michael knew that whatever he had to deliver would be worth its weight in platinum.

By the time they neared the camp, Hawke slowed, his weapon in his hand, ready for trouble. He turned and held up a hand for silence, and Michael obeyed, drawing his own automatic and checking it.

Even as he did so, a voice barked out a sharp command in Spanish, and Michael, whose Spanish left much to be desired, cast a quick look at Hawke, who replied quickly, asking for Sanchez.

"But does Sanchez wish to see you?" the man demanded in English, appearing around the thick trunk of a tree, leveling an M-16 at him. "This is not the trouist season. YOu would be better off going to Rio."

"We wait for the Carnival to go to Rio," Michael replied.

The man with the gun laughed. "So you know the password. Come this way. Perhaps Sanchez can be persuaded to see you. He is a busy man, but we are all busy men."

Archangel and Hawke were ushered into the camp, a small clearing with stacks of camouflaged supplies concealed under the edges of the overhanging trees. On one side, Michael saw a row of oil drums piled up under netting, and beyond it were three jeeps, two of them covered by tarps. A row of tents lurked matting, it's door ajar. As they crossed the clearing their guide called out something in rapid colloquial Spanish, and a man emerged from the hut, running a weary hand through his graying hair. When he saw Archangel, he stopped, staring, then came galloping across the clearing with a vigor that belied his age.

"Ah, Miguel," he greeted Archangel effusively, flinging both arms around him in an affectionate greeting. "Finally you have come. Let me look at you."

"Luis," Archangel replied, grinning at his old friend's enthusiasm. Luis had not changed except to grow a crop of wrinkles and grey hairs. The familiar exuberance still danced in his eyes. "How are you, you old reprobate?"

"I am well, as always, though very busy these days, and one jump ahead of trouble."

"I wouldn't know you if you weren't."

"But you, my friend, you have been to the wars." His shrewd eyes took in the cane and the eye patch. "You must take better care of yourself in the future, my good, good friend. Someday in our old age, we will retire, you and I, and will have many stories to tell around the campfire -- or in some elegant Parisian bar. It is good, yes?"

"Very good. But you won't retire, you old fox. You'll be going strong when the rest of us are memories."

"Very true," Sanchez replied modestly. "This is your friend?" He looked at Hawke, who stood to one side, observing their reunion with tolerant patience. "Greetings, friend of my friend. You must take very good care of him, on the way home, no? There are evil men who would try to stop you." He shoved an elegant hand into his grubby pocket and took out a very small package, the right shape and size to be a 3.5-inch computer disc. "This is what you have come for, Miguel. Take it now and go. Later, when we have found peace again, you will come to my home and we will drink to the old days."

"I'll look forward to that." Archangel put the package into his own pocket and turned to Hawke. "That's all. We have to go now." He stuck out a hand to Sanchez when gunfire erupted across the clearing.

The first shot caught Sanchez in the upper arm and he fell, clutching the wound, but even as he hit the ground, he was moving for shelter, scuttling sideways to put the hut between him and the attackers. "Get down Miguel," he bellowed.

Michael and Hawke went in separate directions, both toward Airwolf, but on diverging paths, heading for the nearest cover. Archangel saw Hawke dive behind the oil drums, reaching into the pack he carried, and after that, he was too busy evading bullets to watch him. He got a glimpse of Sanchez -- always a survivor -- push himself up from the ground and fling himself behind a fallen tree, taking pot shots at the Sandinistas who were over-running the camp. His own people were setting up a perimeter, but Michael was away from their hastily formed line and could expect no help from them.

If caught, he could be used as a bargaining chip, and he didn't like the idea. But pinned out here, virtually in the open, he was an excellent target.

Then the oil drums went up with a tremendous bang that shook the ground, and a giant fireball shot into the air. Archangel tried to dig himself into the ground, throwing up his arms to shield his head, and a rattle of branches and debris came pattering down, forcing him to seek cover. Pushing himself up with his arms and his good leg, MIchael took full advantage of the distraction, sprinting for the trees.

Hawke would have to come for him; he was angled away from Airwolf's position. Grabbing an abandoned gun, Archangel laid down covering fire for Hawke as the battle began to escalate again.

Even as Hawke galloped toward him, Michael heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind him. Yelling a warning, Hawke fired past him and jumped at Michael in one continuous movement. Bullets rattled the leaves behind Michael's last position and he went down as Hawke slammed into him, his bad knee twisting betrayingly beneath him. Hawke landed just past him, a smear of blood across one forearm, too little to be more than a graze, and then, put off balance by his dive at Michael, he skidded over the lip of a drop and rolled down the steep hillside where the familiar green river narrowed to race between stones in a bubbling cauldron of white water.

Michael tried to grab him, but his leg folded beneath him, dumping him on the edge of the drop, for the first time aware of the stabbing pain in his knee. Though the battle had suddenly moved away from him, soldiers appeared across the river and started firing just as the familiar whispering beat of Airwolf's rotors disturbed the sky.

Hawke froze at the sound, braced against a boulder in the pounding water, unable to get a proper grip on the slippery stones. Bullets ricocheted off the rock not far from his head, and he ducked awkwardly, trying to hold his position.

Michael plunged down the hill after him. Hawke had saved his life and he was determined to return the favor. Cait would cover him as worked into position, and Airwolf would distract the troops long enough to get into place. If he was lucky . . .

Limping down the hillside in a barely controlled fall, he was forced to fling himself down behind a hummock as bullets raked around his position. Before he could move on, he saw Hawke's body jerk and his fingers lose their grip on the treacherously slippery stone.

There was barely room for Caitlin to land -- Michael would have thought it impossible -- but she did, and the two of them met face to face on the river bank. He knew the blank horror on her features was reflected upon his own. "Hawke!" she cried and ran a few yards down the shore in a futile attempt at rescue, but the current was too fast and the banks closed in as the water surged through a steep, high-walled gully in a series of small waterfalls, and she could go no further.

After she helped Michael into the helicopter, her expression strained and taut with the reproach she did not utter, they followed the river for miles, slowly scanning each bank as the afternoon waned and night drew near. If Hawke was down there, he would recognize the sound of Airwolf overhead and signal them, but there was no signal. Airwolf's heat scanners registered nothing either, at least nothing that remotely resembled one wounded, near-drowned American helicopter pilot.

Finally Caitlin turned Airwolf, and in a daze they headed for home. They didn't talk much on the way back. Once she stirred herself out of her misery and asked, "Did you get what you came for?"

Startled, he jerked, then patted his pocket to make sure he hadn't lost it on the river bank. "Yes."

"I'm glad. At least String didn't . . . die for nothing."

She wept in silence most of the way home.

******************************

Archangel's sprained knee ached fiercely with a sharp, stabbing beat that he could not overlook. Fixing his attention on it with single-minded determination, Michael blocked out his office and let himself feel each spasm of the pain he had thought he defeated -- or at least tamed -- by time and therapy. He had been duped into complacence, fooled into believing himself fit again, and cursed bitterly, recalling instances when he'd strolled along arrogantly twirling his cane as if it were an affectation rather than the tool it was meant to be. A help for the handicapped . . .

Damn it all! He slammed his fist down on the white leather arm of his desk chair in impotent rage. He should have known better. Marella would have restrained him, but Marella was still in Stockholm at a conference. Had she been here, it might have been different. He couldn't quite make himself believe it.

Archangel could accept his body's weakness as he had accepted the loss of his eye. What he couldn't accept was the knowledge that someone with two good legs might have saved Stringfellow Hawke. He had pushed hard to go on this mission, and he knew, as Zeus and the Committee did, that an agent who was not fit had no place in the field. But he had taken that risk, bullheadedly pushing his plan through in the face of opposition. He had been so sure, and now, his pride had driven him too far. It was his fault and no one else's that Hawke was dead. Hindsight was marvelous. He grimaced bitterly at the price he'd paid for it.

Once he'd insisted to an operative that he and Hawke weren't friends, that they just used each other, and it was partly true. He had used Hawke. His job and Airwolf made it imperative, and Hawke had integrity, which made him reliable, even if it was a stubborn, pig-headed integrity which sometimes brought him into conflict with the Firm.

But Michael had trusted and valued Hawke and knew he liked him in spite of all the rational reasons he could list for non-involvement. Because of Hawke and Airwolf, Michael had been forced to play a dangerous game, his own integrity the deciding factor as he seesawed between Hawke and the Firm. Until now he had believed his choice the right ones, though they had put him at risk more than once.

He had liked Hawke. He would miss him. Hawke's death was his fault, and he would never forget it.

Michael beat his fist against the armrest again and muttered a curse. Now he had Zeus and the Committee breathing down his neck, demanding Airwolf back. And the man he was waiting for now controlled Airwolf. Michael had known -- roughly at least -- where Airwolf was located for almost a year. He was sure Hawke had guessed it and what Hawke knew, Dominic Santini knew. Archangel had not disputed Caitlin over possession of Airwolf when they returned from Nicaragua last night, and she had flown away with it back to the Valley of the Gods. Somewhere in that place of awesome rock formations and strange solitudes, Airwolf waited -- if Dominic hadn't moved it. Now Santini was on his way and out for blood.

His knee was a constant torment and he welcomed it. He deserved it and much more.

Dominic Santini was boiling mad. Safer than grief, easier to hold onto than his instinctive protests that it wasn't ture. Dom held onto his anger to prepare himself for the interview with the deputy director of the Firm. He had known all along that Archangel would put String into some danger he couldn't get out of. Cait had told Dom that Archangel had completed yesterday's mission in spite of losing String, and Dom wasn't surprised. Trust Mr. Clean to come out intact. What surprised Dom was that MIchael hadn't taken Airwolf back. If he had been determined to repossess the Lady, Caitlin could not have stood alone against his operatives. But he'd want her back now and Dom wasn't having any. String had held the Lady hostage for his brother's return. Dom doubted St. John could be alive but String had believed it, and Dom owed him. He wouldn't make any deals with the Firm.

When Dom was ushered into the office, Archangel was sitting impassively behind his desk like some minor deity, his face revealing nothing. He dismissed his white-clad 'angel' with a wave of his hand and waited for the door to close. Probably didn't even care that String was dead, the bastard.

"I'm not gonna deal, Michael," Dom burst out. "You don't get the Lady from me."

"Have I asked you?" Michael queried mildly. Dom noticed reluctantly that he looked tired and strained after yesterday's crisis. Cait had said he'd wracked up his knee on the mission ,but Dom was not inclined to sympathy and he hardened his heart. What was a gimpy knee compared to a man's life? Thanks to this man, String was dead, and Dom's life was suddenly empty. Michael deserved to suffer for it.

"I know you, Archangel," Santini returned. "You don't ask, you take. You use. Secrets, people, lives, it's all the same to you."

"I do what I have to do, Dominic. What do you expect me to say? I know where Airwolf is, at least roughly. You think I couldn't have taken it back any time I got tired of fighting Zeus and the Committee to keep Hawke's ass out of the fire and my own neck out of a sling?"

"Maybe," Dom conceded reluctantly, refusing to meet the agent's eye. "But it's another ball game now and we both know it. Even Zeus knew it was to his advantage to leave the Lady with String. If you took it back, you'd be answering to Congress, the Pentagon, the White House, hell, maybe even the D.A.R. The Firm wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of keeping it and using it the way you do now."

"Probably true," Michael admitted. "You don't think I could have bucked the upper eschelon for so long if there wasn't something in it for us, do you?"

"And now there isn't?"

"Why should someone else have the use of it? Besides, I had a deal with Hawke."

"St. John," Dominic agreed. "String believed he was still alive. You never found him."

"Do you think I didn't look?" Michael burst out in exasperation. "I had no backing anywhere, but I still tried. I bent every rule in the book for Stringfellow Hawke."

"And in the end you killed him."

Michael's head jerked up at that, his one eye blazing, the black patch over the other eye emphasizing his pallor. "We're not playing acey-deucy, Dominic," he grated out. "The stakes have always been high. Hawke knew that. He accepted it."

"Maybe he did. What choice did he have when his brother's life was on the line?"

"Blast it, Dom, I didn't force him to do anything. He chose to work for me. He knew his options from the beginning. If I was as untrustworthy as you seem to believe, I'd have a strike team securing Airwolf right now while you're here out of the way."

"How do I know you don't?"

"You've got my word." Michael looked down at his desktop and shuffled some papers. You've probably come for the report out of Nicaragua -- if you didn't come to crucify me for Hawke's death. I've contacted as many people in the area as I could."

Dom studied him, considering his words. "Trying to weasel out of it, Michael?" he asked. "If our side found String, we'd know it by now. If the other side did, it would make headlines because his ties with the Firm would come out right away. We've seen that happen before. String would make great propaganada. Why keep prolonging the agony? Guilt?"

"Don't you think I'd give anything to find Hawke alive?" Michael cried in what felt like honest emotion. "I might have got to him if I'd been fit. But my leg kept giving out," he added in a low voice, surprising Dominic, who hadn't expected to like that confession.

"Yeah, then you were the perfect choice for the mission," Dom retaliated, ignoring the raw pain in Michael's voice. "Take any risks you want to for yourself, but leave String out of it."

"Usually String took the risks and I stayed here," Michael shot at him. "Going in with him was your job."

Dom stiffened. He'd thought of that more than once, but with his shoulder out of commission, his arm in a sling, he'd have been less use to String than Michael had. He'd heard Caitlin's report and knew that Archangel had tried to rescue Hawke, though it hadn't been enough. Cait was even blaming herself because she hadn't landed the Lady in time to help. They were a fine lot, blaming themselves and each other for what probably couldn't be helped.

"So we're all bastards," muttered Dom. "Fine. I can accept that. But Im' still not giving into you. Airwolf for St. John has always been the deal and that hasn't changed."

"Damn it, Dom, don't you think I've been trying!"

"You tell me! If you found him, your cozy little trade off would all come to an end."

"You went over to Southeast Asia looking for him a few months ago," Archangel reminded him.

Dom lowered his head. That was true and it had been a good lead, one that Michael had arranged. Even so, Santini couldn't forgive Archangel for String's death. "Fine," he mumbled. "Okay, so you did us one favor. We're real grateful. We more than made up for it. You think you know where Airwolf is? Wrong. If you try coming for it, you'll get a nasty surprise. It's wired. Leave it alone or it blows and we lose all chance of it.

"Agreed."

"You're only saying that because you think I'll calm down and change my mind."

Archangel's mouth quirked. "Maybe. Leave it for now. I'm not doing anything in that direction until I get a full report from Nicaragua. I've got people going up and down the Rio de Sombra and when they get back to me, I'll let you know." He stood up and limped heavily over to the wall computer where he pushed a button or two. A map of the area where Hawke had died sprang to life on the screen Balancing his weight with his good leg, Archangel touched the spot lightly with the tip of his cane. "I won't give up until those reports come in," he finished. "If that's all you had to say, you can show yourself out. I'll be in touch."

"I can hardly wait," retorted Dom sarcastically and stromed from the room.

Rio de Sombra, he thought as he paused in the outer office. Didn't that mean 'River of Darkness' or some such thing? 'Ghost River' maybe. Helluva name.

Seems like he'd heard something about a river named that once, though. What was it? Not that it mattered to String, but still . . . He had hesitated there for a long moment thinking, then he turned back to Michael's office and opened the door.

Archangel had returned to his desk and he sat there, his glasses off, his hands covering his face. His posture spoke of utter dejection, the very picture of one who has must los his last friend, and Dom pulled up short at the sight, finally driven to reluctant sympathy for the man. For all he knew, String was his last friend, and he had been unable to save him. Archangel's shoulders quivered slightly, and while it might be pain, exhaustion or tension, or any of a dozen other things, Dom had the stunning impression that he might be crying.

He backed out of the office as silently as he had come and pulled the door shut softly behind him. Then, waiting a moment, he knocked.

There was a slight pause before Archangel called, "Come in." He didn't sound welcoming, and Dom suspected if he had been one of Archangel's little beauties in white he would have been hesitant to enter. But Dom was braver than that. He flung open the door and went in.

Archangel raised his face and looked at him curiously. If he'd been crying, there was no trace of it now. His glasses were in place and the look he flung at Dom was hostile, braced for further trouble. "Now what?" he asked with elaborate patience. "Did you think of a few more names to call me?"

But there was a lingering trace of defiant brightness in his eye, and Dom realized that someone like Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III had no legitimate way to mourn the death of a friend he could not even claim, no way to lower the walls that protected his feeling from the world, no way to wear any facade beyond that of a deputy director, always in control. He had to be strong and rigid; the job demanded it. Show the slightest trace of weakness and the piranhas would be circling, waiting to strike. If he lost his balance even once, it would be the beginning of the end, and with Michael gone, the Firm would be left to the less than tender mercies of that cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch, Zeus.

But Dom couldn't quite feel sorry for him -- the man had walked into it with his eyes wide open after all. But he wasn't quite as harsh as before when he said quickly. "Rio de Sombra?"

"Yes, why?" Michael looked interested. He could read the nuances every time. "Does it mean something to you?"

"That's the river that vanishes underground, isn't it?"

Michael looked startled. "Underground? We didn't see anything like that and we flew most of its length. Where are we talking about?"

"I don't know for sure. I did some flying down there just after the Korean War. I had a buddy who told me some legends about this Ghost River that used to go underground. Sometimes when the season was dry enough, it would vanish altogether for a month or two. Put the map back up and let me see it."

In a moment the two of them were standing by the map, united with a new and shared purpose. "You were here?" Santini demanded. "That's about where it goes under. Some kind of gorge." He pointed.

"How does that help us?" Michael's voice was flat, almost uninterested, but he was staring at the map as if it was his hope of salvation. Dom realized that the son-of-a-bitch really did care about String.

"Underground caves," he pointed out. "The Lady can do a lot, but she can't scan through solid rock. You couldn't find him. That's where he has to be."

"It doesn't mean he's alive, Dominic," Archangel warned, but he was already limping toward the telephone. Dom watched him bark a string of orders into it. In moments, several assistants had materialized in teh office and everything became very busy. Dom grinned faintly. He liked Archangel better like this, he decided, obnoxious and in charge. Better than seeing the man so damned dispirited.

He knew it didn't mean String was alive. The odds were against it, but it was his best chance, and it was a better one than they'd dare hope for. Dom took a chair and sat there defiantly, trying to find a comfortable position for his aching shoulder. IT would take something powerful as a MiG 23 to dislodge him before this was resolved. In the meantime, Caitlin would keep the Lady safe until, God willing, String came back to them.

Archangel put down the phone, excitement coursing through him like a powerful drug, sending warmth through his veins. It was the middle of the night; hell, it was practically dawn. He couldn't count how many cups of coffee he'd consumed, and his knee was on fire from pacing up and down until he was sure he had worn a path in the white carpet.

He limped awkwardly across the room and bent over Dominic Santini, who was sprawled asleep in his chair. The stubborn old bastard had stuck with them all night, through all the waiting, the endless reports, and in spite of the hostility with which they had parted at the end of their first meeting, Santini's antagonism had eased when he had returned with his theory that Hawke had been carried into the underground cavern. Was it only hope that had changed him, or had he taken time to realize they shared a common bond? Michael had not minded Dominic's harsh words. He'd said them himself already. It was a good thing Dom had given him something new to think about. Deputy Directors of the Firm didn't have the luxury of wallowing in guilt and self-pity.

But now that was past. "Wake up, Dom," he burst out, elated.

Santini shot up, blinking the sleep from his eyes, an 'oof' of pain jarred from him as he pulled on his sore shoulder. He stared at Archangel. "Huh?" he muttered groggily, shaking his head. "What's up now, Mr. Clean?"

"Good news. We've got him.

"Good news?" Dom grabbed Michael's arm so urgently he'd be bruised tomorrow. "Alive?" he demanded.

"Damn right, alive! He was right where you said he'd be. He'll need to spend some time in a hospital -- he's got two bullets in him, but he was lucky; neither of them serious, and they say he'll make it. He's been flown out now." He grinned broadly, like a magician who has just produced a white rabbit from his hat. "That gives us a couple of hours to get some sleep. I, for one, could use it."

"What's the matter, Michael?" Dom asked with a hint of his old asperity. "Guilty conscience keep you awake?"

"Don't push it, Dominic." But the accusation didn't sting like it would have the previous afternoon.

"I don't know about you," Dom returned, "but I'm going to fly down to meet him. Where are they bringing him in? I'll pick Cait up and we'll be there when he wakes up." He paused in the doorway; already there was a jaunty swing to his walk as his life slid back into place. "Why don't you come along?" he offered unexpectedly. "You can sack out on the flight."

"I'm tempted to take you up on that," Michael replied. Why not? He didn't indulge himself very often, and this had been his mission from the beginning. No one would think it odd if he followed it to the end. Did he really care if anyone questioned it? "You have the room?" he asked, to give Santini a chance to back out of his uncharacteristic offer.

But apparently Santini was feeling mellow, and not even the presence of a man he didn't entirely trust could dampen his enthusiasm. "Why the hell not? You can apologize to String firsthand for landing him a stay in the hospital."

"Thanks, Dom. You have a way of making a man feel real welcome."

"It takes years of practice," Santini replied. "Grab your cane, Mike, and let's go."

Archangel grimaced at the nickname he'd never liked, but obeyed. His knee protested sharply as he headed for the door, but right now he didn't give a damn.

There was a strange, fuzzy darkness hovering around Stringfellow and he couldn't quite think clearly. He didn't know where he was or remember how he had come to be there, but occasionally there were voices around him and some of the time, he was being moved, once in a helicopter that was not Airwolf and once in a plane. After that,he was moved again on something that must have been a stretcher and put into bed, and through all this surprising transportation, his mind was not clear enough to make any sense of it, to try to reason out where he was and why he had become a parcel to be transported around the world.

When next anything made sense, there was an IV in his arm and the light was dim. When he opened his eyes, a nurse was checking his pulse and blood pressure, and she seemed startled to find him awake. "Don't try to move yet," she said soothingly. "You're still very weak."

"Where am I?" His throat was dry and the words came with difficulty.

"Miami," she said surprisingly, and gave him water through a straw. When he'd moistened his mouth and eased his parched throat, he went to sleep again, wondering why he was in Miami.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was midday and Dom was sitting beside his bed, dozing comfortably, and that reassured Hawke more than anything else could have. If he had been seriously ill or injured, Dom wouldn't be sleeping.

When Hawke said quietly, "Hey, Dom?" Santini jumped up as if a bee had stung him, and his face creased in a relieved smile.

"Hey, String," he returned happily. "So you've finally decided to stop imitating Sleeping Beauty."

"How long has it been . . . ?"

"We got here yesterday around noon. You've slept for a day since we got here."

"I remember some place dark -- it felt like a cave, and it was cold." He shivered in remembrance. "What happened?"

"Do you remember falling into the river?" Dom asked.

"River?" He wrinkled up his brow, thinking, and then it came back. "Yeah. Michael was there and almost pulled me out, but the current was too fast. I took a bullet in the side. I think." He tried to sit up to look down at himself and fell back, weak with the effort, recognizing the pain there. "Yep, in the side," he confirmed. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough, but you'll be up and around in no time. They were afriad you'd get pneumonia at first, but you didn't. Too stubborn, I think."

Hawke grinned ruefully. "Is Michael okay? It looked like he wracked up his knee."

"Sprained it," Dom confirmed.

Something in his tone made Hawke look at him suspiciously. "What did you do to him Dom? It wasn't his fault I got shot."

"It was his fault you were there at all," Dom disagreed. "But I should have been with you." He looked down at his sling as if it was the Scarlet Letter, and Hawke managed a weak grin. "What is this, a mutual guilt society? Come on, Dom, it just happened. It's not your fault and it isn't Michael's. I didn't want to go down there -- I had a bad feeling about the mission from the beginning."

Dom stared at him. "You mean you had one of those premonitions?" he asked skeptically. "You know, your dad used to get like that sometimes. I remember one time back in the war, when --"

"No, Dom," Hawke replied, amused. "I just didn't like the mission. I'm not sure I buy the whole thing with the Contras, but I went anyway. If you want to blame anyone, blame me."

Dom grinned. "Maybe we should call a halt to this guilt business. It doesn't help. What matters is that you're all right. The reason you remember a cave is because the river went underground and you got swept into that cave. We couldn't find you. You were there nearly two days."

String suddenly realized how much Dom had worried about him and he reached out reassuringly and grasped his friend's arm. "I'm gonna be fine," he vowed. "The sooner I'm out of here and back at the cabin, the happier I'll be. I don't suppose you could do a deal with the doctor?"

"Well, not today, but maybe between us, the Spotless Wonder and I could pull something."

"Michael's here? What about Cait?"

"We've been taking turns sitting with you. This is my turn. They're both outside. Should I bring them in?"

Hawke was dazed -- he knew he wouldn't be able to hold his eyes open much longer -- and the thought of sleep appealed to him, but Cait would be upset if he didn't at least say hello to her. "Send Cait in," he said, and then, remembering the way Dom had reacted earlier, he asked, "What about Archangel?"

"I stomped on him pretty hard, String. I thought he he deserved it, but he thought so even more."

"Oh, yeah? Doesn't sound like his style."

Dom hesitated then said quickly, "He blamed his bum knee for what happened to you."

"Why? He couldn't help getting bunged up."

"No, he thought he shouldn't have gone in the first place because of it."

The light dawned. "Hell, he's the one who knew the contact," Hawke replied. "What happened to Sanchez, anyway? He buy it? He was a good buddy of Michael's."

"No, he got clear. The word came the next day." He shrugged. "Archangel and I had a real go 'round about you."

"That's what you said. Better send him and Cait in before I fall asleep."

Dom did it, but he looked hesitant. "Only five minutes," he cautioned from the doorway.

"Mother hen," muttered Hawke wearily, grinning.

Cait was across the room like a whirlwind, pouncing on him and hugging with relief and enthusiasm. "Don't you ever scare us like that again," she ordered him, kissing his cheek before she pulled free to let him liek back again. Her face was jubilant, but there were still shadows in her eyes that spoke of the hours of anxious vigil at his bedside.

"It wouldn't be my first choice," he reassured her, stretching out a hand to rumpe her hair.

She smiled at him even as she automatically straightened it.

Past her, Dom saw Archangel standing in the doorway and raised his voice. "Don't just hang around out there, Michael. Join the party."

When Michael came in, he was limping heavily and leaning on his cane more than he had at any time since recovering from the original injury. Hawke studied him measuringly, noting that the same shadows that lurked in Dom's and Caitlin's eyes were hovering in his. There were times when Hawke had been furious with Michael, felt resentful of him, or had just plain been irked by the agent's atittude, methods or assumptions, but this was not one of them. Remembering the events in the Contras' camp, Hawke surveyed Archangel, and asked with a wave of his hand at Michael's knee, "Did I do that?"

In the stunned silence that followed, Hawke imagined he could hear the 'thud' as three jaws dropped. Archangel's face was a study, then it cleared and he said in surprise, "I think you did."

Hawke chuckled faintly. "Next time, I'll be more careful."

"Don't hold back on my account," the agent returned. "I prefer it to a bullet in the back."

"I hear Sanchez made it," Hawke said with a smile.

"We got word he did. I suspect he'd survive a missile strike. A natural born survivor." He gave a tentative smile. "A lot like you."

Hawke's smile faded slightly. Sometimes it seemed his survival was at the expense of other people, people he loved, and it was something he had never learned to live with. It was easier to hold people off and avoid the risk. But some risks were worth taking, and he'd been hurt as a result. Gabrielle . . . He shoved that thought back into the compartment where he kept it, safe and protected, and turned to the three people who had rushed down here to hold vigil at his bedside. This time they were alive. This time they were safe. For the moment, that was enough.

"Yeah," he said wearily, his eyelids drooping, noticing Dom starting to make shooing motions at the other two so that he could sleep. "A lot like me."

**

FINIS

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Susan Rossi, Webmistress
February 4, 1999
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