Ghosts

The two fallen trees effectively blocked the now overgrown path that had once, in brighter days, been a roughly cut driveway. Michael pulled the Jeep to a stop, the front bumper nearly nudging the first of the toppled pines. He let out a sigh as he switched the key off. End of the road.

Although he had hoped for the best, he was actually surprised at how well the path had held up. He had turned off the fire access road at least three miles back, expecting at every bend to be confronted by an impassable roadblock. Now, he sat for a moment, considering his position. It had been a long time since he was last in these woods, but he estimated that he was still about two miles from the lake. Dropping the keys into his pocket, Michael climbed out of the vehicle and looked around.

There was a chill here in the deep forest, and he knew he had made the right decision wearing denims and a jacket rather than one of his trademark white suits. Michael reached back into the Jeep and withdrew his cane. Over the course of the years since Red Star, his knee had recovered as much as it ever would. He seldom carried the cane any more, but given the uneven, rocky ground, it wouldn't be easy walking. He closed the door of the vehicle and checked the automatic hanging from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. The weapon was loaded and ready. Michael ducked around the fallen trees and continued up the trail.

He slogged through the muddy underbrush, his knee aching, unaccustomed to hiking over such broken terrain. As he neared the edge of the forest he slowed, hoping to catch a glimpse of what waited for him. Finally, he saw the water, and as he moved closer, he saw the remains of the dock that had once served as a makeshift helipad. It was still standing, but to a quick glance it looked as if it might topple into the water at any moment. The log cabin, on the other hand, appeared little changed. A thin reed of smoke drifted upwards from the chimney.

As he approached the building, Michael reached for the comforting weight of the automatic, and it was in his hand as he stepped onto the porch. The door was unlocked, as it had always been. Cautiously, he pushed it open with his toe and stepped inside.

There was a fire burning in the fireplace. In front of it, a graying dog rested on a folded blanket. As it saw Michael, the dog's tail began to twitch. He scanned the interior of the cabin. Not seeing any immediate threat, he glanced back toward the dog. The twitch had become a half-hearted wag. He looked more closely. "Tet?"

"You'll have to speak louder than that, he's getting deaf."

Michael spun at the sound, as footsteps began to descend the stairs from the loft. He recognized the voice. As the figure came into view, Michael's eyes confirmed the impossibility that his ears had already accepted. He slipped the automatic back into it's holster. "Well I'll be damned. You're supposed to be dead."

Stringfellow Hawke finished his descent. "Sometimes I think I am, and they just forgot to bury the body."

As Hawke crossed the room to the fireplace, Michael took the opportunity to study him. String limped slightly, almost unnoticeably, and a handful of faded scars pot marked his forearms. Michael had no trouble recognizing them. Burns, presumably from the explosion that had reportedly resulted in Hawke's death. There was something else, too. In both appearance and demeanor, the younger man had aged far more than the simple passage of time could justify.

“You're looking good, these days.”

It took Michael a moment to figure out what Hawke was talking about. The glasses, he realized. Back when Hawke had supposedly died, he had still been wearing glasses with a darkened lens. He shrugged. “Long story. Double vision. They finally fixed it.” It had only taken four years and as many surgeries to rid himself of those damn glasses.

“Huh.” Hawke knelt to check the fire, and paused to scratch Tet behind the ears before he rose. "You're a hard man to find, Michael. How long have you been based in Washington?"

"Since..." Michael broke off as the other man looked up, and he finally met Hawke's eyes. There was something in those eyes, something that left a chill shiver running down his spine. It convinced the agent that there was no sense in bringing up the past. "Seven years." He sat down on the sofa, taking the weight off his knee.

“Your aide is an idiot.”

He snorted. “Receptionist. Not aide, not assistant. Not even secretary. And calling her an idiot is a vast overstatement of her intelligence.”

Hawke walked over to the bar and poured glasses of wine. He returned and handed one to Michael. “Someone at the Firm – the Company, as Locke prefers to call it – is working for Horn.”

Horn. John Bradford Horn. That was one name that Michael had hoped he would never hear again. “String, I'm sorry about your brother. And about Dominic.”

Hawke stared silently at his glass. Finally he spoke. “I want Horn. I also want whoever it is at the Firm who's been feeding him information. Give me that, and Airwolf is yours.”

Michael nodded. “Fair enough.”

“One problem.”

“You don't know where she is?” If Hawke didn't, they were back at square one.

“I know where she is. I just can't get her out.” He held up his hands, and Michael saw that they were shaking. “I haven't flown. I've barely even left the lake. Where Airwolf is... it's a tight fit. Not the place to knock the rust off.”

“We'll figure something out.”

“I already figured it out. That's why I called you. I need you to find Cait.” Hawke looked up, accusingly. “Is she working for the Firm?”

“No,” Michael answered, careful of his words. “She's flying for a charter service.”

“Oh?” Hawke sounded suspicious. “I made some calls. I tried checking the pilot's databases. There's no listing for her. O'Shannessy isn't a common name.”

Michael shrugged, trying to look casual. “She's married.”

The pilot raised a brow, surprise registering on his face. “Guess that explains that, then. I take it you've kept in touch?”

“The Firm asked me to find Airwolf. Caitlin's been helping me look.” Michael sipped his wine.

Hawke jerked his thumb toward the bar. “I've got a satellite phone. Get her up here.”

Michael leaned back into the cushions. “I don't know if that's a good idea. What happened – you, Dominic. It tore the hell out of her. I don't know what it will do to her to find out that you're still
alive.” There was a part of him that had other reservations about how she would react. At one time, Caitlin had been interested in Stringfellow Hawke.

“She's the only one who can get the Lady.” Hawke rose and crossed to the bar. He reached down and brought out the phone, placing it on the counter. “If you want Airwolf, make the call.”

Reluctantly, the agent joined him and picked up the phone.

“Tell her to land on the dock.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked at that thing, Hawke? It's falling into the lake.”

For the first time, Hawke showed just the trace of a grin. Just as quickly, it was gone. “Looks it, doesn't it? Great way to discourage unwanted visitors. Until you look underneath and see the steel support beams.”

The agent snorted. “Your idea?”

“St. John's, actually.”

Michael picked up the phone and dialed, making sure that Hawke didn't see the number he was dialing.

Caitlin answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Cait, this is Michael. I need you to meet me at Hawke's old cabin. You can land on the dock, it's sturdier than it looks.”

“Okay.” Even over the phone, he could hear the unasked questions in her voice. “I can be there in about an hour. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. I'll see you then.” He hung up before she could say any more, and turned to Hawke. “Caitlin is on her way.”

“Good.”

Michael sat back down, chewing his lip. “I don't suppose you'd like to explain why we all thought you were dead?”

“Locke's idea, actually. My brother agreed.” Hawke dropped into a chair across from the agent. “I was in rough shape. Not just physically. Locke was afraid someone would take advantage of that. As long as everyone thought I was dead, I wasn't a liability – or a distraction.”

“The Firm doesn't know, I take it?” At Hawke's silent confirmation, Michael paused to consider the ramifications. Locke had known that Hawke was alive, and had kept that secret from everyone, including him. Why? Because he himself was too closely allied to String. If String had reasserted control of Airwolf, Michael might have forced Locke out. He sighed. More damnable Firm politics.

“My brother took me to a private clinic Locke recommended, and they checked me in under an alias. I was there two months. I've been here ever since. St. John brings -- brought -- supplies.”

Alone in the woods. No wonder Hawke seemed even more reclusive than ever. It certainly explained the haunted look in his eyes. Michael could only imagine the effect Dominic's death had had on him, much less his brother's. Worse, thanks to Locke, he had gone through it without even the support of his friends. “Tell me what I can do.”

Hawke stared at him, his eyes unreadable. “Just help me get Horn.” The pilot looked up, cocking his head. “Must be Cait.”

A moment later, Michael heard it too, the approach of the helicopter they had borrowed from the Firm. She had made good time, it had been less than the hour she had predicted. He stood. “I'm going to go out and meet her. She needs to know...” At Hawke's answering nod, Michael stepped out onto the porch.

The white Long Ranger banked in over the lake, coming to a hover over the dock. He could see Caitlin in the cockpit, looking dubiously at the platform. He walked down the path to the dock and waved to her, signaling her to land. She did, finally, lowering the helicopter cautiously, making sure the dock would hold it's weight.

As she shut the helicopter down, Michael ducked under the blades and opened her door.

Caitlin took one look at his face. “What's wrong?”

“It's not a question of what's wrong.” He made sure that her hands were safely off the controls. “Cait, String is alive. He's here.”

Her gaze moved from Michael to the cabin, quickly back again. “What? He can't be.”

“He is.”

Caitlin pulled her safety belts loose and started to climb from the chopper. Michael stopped her. “I haven't told him.”

“Told him what?”

“Any of it. Us. Cambodia. I'm not sure we should. He's not in a good frame of mind. As screwed up as Hawke was before, you can guess what Dom and St. John's deaths have done to him.”

She nodded. “You're probably right.” Caitlin climbed from the helicopter and headed up the path, Michael a few steps behind her. Hawke met her on the porch, and she leapt at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “String, you are alive!”

He responded stiffly, finally patting her awkwardly on the back. “So they tell me.”

They went inside. Hawke poured Caitlin a glass of wine. “I need your help to get Airwolf,” he said, without preamble.

“Okay.” She raised an eyebrow in Michael's direction, obviously surprised by Hawke's curtness.

“I thought we'd stay here tonight, and head out in the morning. Is that going to be a problem?”

“A problem?” she asked.

“Michael said you're married.”

“Oh.” Her lips curved in a smile. “It's all right. My husband won't mind. He knows where I am.”

Hawke nodded. He picked up his fishing pole, and headed toward the door. “I'll go catch some dinner. Michael can fill you in.”

-*-

After they ate, Caitlin pushed Hawke out of the kitchen, insisting she would do the dishes. The men returned to the living room,

Hawke added wood to the fireplace. “Where were you?”

“When?”

The pilot kept his gaze on the fire. “Dom's funeral. I thought you'd be there. I gave Jo a description. She didn't see you.”

Michael wasn't surprised by the question, only by how long it had taken Hawke to ask it. He considered his answer. “I was out of the country.”

Hawke turned, anger on his face. “Come on, Michael. None of your people told you? I know you and Dom weren't the best of friends, but you couldn't be bothered to come back, even just to pay your respects?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“Like hell.”

Caitlin came out of the kitchen, dish towel in her hands. “String--”

Michael shook his head. “Let it go, Cait.”

“No. He needs to hear it.” She turned back towards Hawke. “String, Michael didn't desert you. He wasn't there was because he had gone to Cambodia looking for your brother.”

Hawke looked up at Caitlin. “Is that the story he told you?”

She wiped her hands on the towel. “It's not a story, String. I wasn't in Texas. I was there with him. We rescued seven American POWs from a Khmer Rouge camp, but the whole thing went to hell. Michael nearly died. He was in a hospital in Hawaii when Marella got word. By the time we got back, it was too late. Dom had been buried. We were told that you were dead.”

“Is it true?” Hawke turned to Michael, the anger gone from him.

“Yeah,” the agent admitted, as Caitlin went back to the dishes.

“I guess I owe you an apology.”

“No need. You didn't know.”

Hawke hesitated. “Did Locke?”

“He knew about it after the fact.”

“Bastard never told me.” He shook his head. “Cait said you almost died?”

Michael shrugged. “I took a couple bullets.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Michael caught the look Caitlin gave him, ignored it.

“Wait, you took Caitlin with you into Cambodia?” There was accusation in Hawke's tone.

It was something he had hoped he wouldn't have to explain. “Against my better judgment.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” He kept his voice low, but it was obvious he wasn't pleased.

“I didn't like it either, but it was the best option I had.”

“I would have gone.”

“I know. But I had my reasons. And as it turned out...” He couldn't quite bring himself to say it.

“What?”

Michael looked over at Hawke. “If Caitlin hadn't been in Cambodia... who would have been flying that cargo run?” The helicopter Santini had been flying when it exploded.

Hawke didn't answer for a minute. “Probably Cait,” he said, quietly.

“That's what I thought.”

-*-

Hawke laid in bed, hands folded behind his head, thinking. Michael had explained why he had taken Caitlin into Cambodia, and while he didn't like it, he understood it. How many times had he himself dragged both Dom and Cait into danger while looking for his brother? Michael had a good lead on St. John's whereabouts, and Cait had volunteered to go with him. As much as Hawke hated to admit it, given the same situation, chances were he would have made the same decision that Michael made.

He wasn't sure what he thought of the agent. For so many years, he had assumed that Michael had simply walked away, transfered to some other post without ever giving his friends another thought. Now, he found that wasn't the case. Locke had let him think the worst of Michael. Locke, the man his brother had trusted. The man that he had ultimately relinquished Airwolf to.

Hawke heard soft voices from below, and he quietly got out of bed, slipping to the top of the stairs. Caitlin had piled cushions and blankets in front of the fireplace, apparently intending to sleep there. It brought back memories. The more things changed, the more they remained the same. She had slept there before, nights when they'd come back late from a mission, or had an early stunt shoot. Then, it had been Dom sleeping on the sofa, not Michael.

The two were talking. Despite his celebrated hearing, their voices were too low for him to hear more than the occasional word. As Hawke stood there watching, Michael leaned forward and started to reach across the coffee table for his wineglass, then pulled his arm back abruptly, visibly wincing. Caitlin said something, then came around behind the agent, her hands going to his shoulders, massaging. Michael leaned back into her. While Hawke might not be able to hear their words, the easy familiarity between them spoke volumes.

Suddenly, the pieces snapped together. Caitlin, married to someone who knew where she was, and wouldn't object. Michael's protective attitude. Michael and Caitlin. It was the last thing he would have ever expected, but it explained a great deal. Feeling like some sort of voyeur, Hawke turned and silently went back to bed.

-*-