Journey into Darkness

-*-

Caitlin awoke slowly, reluctant to abandon the tranquility of sleep for the reality she knew awaited her. She wanted nothing more than to find herself back in her own bed, safe in California.

The Mekong intruded. She could feel as much as hear the soft throb of the diesel and the gentle slap of water on wood, and she could sense their movement. Then there was the heat. It was hot -- brutally, blazingly, oppressively hot.

She opened her eyes, blinking in the relative brightness. Harsh sunlight streamed through the two windows, the streaks of grime doing little to block the sun's rays. The light did little to change her initial impressions from the night before. If anything, it only accented the age and condition of the boat and their accommodations.

Across from her, Michael lazed on his own bunk, leaning back against the wall, his feet up. She wasn't sure if he was awake. Sometime after she had gone to sleep, he had stripped off his shirt. Michael was a well-built man. He was more muscular than she would have guessed, undoubtedly stronger than anyone who saw him in a suit would ever suspect.

There was what looked like a surgical scar on his left shoulder, another extending upwards from somewhere below his waistline. There were other marks, likely the jagged reminders of flying debris. Not wanting to be caught staring, Caitlin looked away. Yawning, she sat up on the edge of the bunk. Despite the heat, she desperately wished she had a cup of coffee.

“About time you got up.”

She glanced over to find Michael grinning. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

That got her attention. “What? Why didn't you wake me?”

“I didn't think you had any important appointments this morning. Unless you're planning to meet Lue...?” he teased.

If she had been holding anything, she would have thrown it at him. Since she wasn't, she made a face. ”I'm starting to think that by the time we get to that camp, I'm going to wish I had let you come here alone.” Caitlin turned serious. “You should have got me up.”

Michael shrugged. “I've dozed this morning, too. Blame it on the jet lag. Too many time zones.” He patted the bench he sat on. “After you fell sleep, I went over the weapons. Everything is in good shape.”

Now she felt guilty. He had shifted just as many time zones as she had. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“As much as I ever get. Sleep is over rated.”

“I think I'll go get changed.” She zipped open her bag pulling out shorts and a tank top, the coolest clothing she had, as well as the other things she needed. “I'll be back.” Caitlin went into the head.

She returned a few minutes later, to find Michael finishing a banana and a granola bar. “Grab yourself something to eat,” he suggested. “You want water or beer?”

“Too early for beer.” Never big on eating breakfast, she just took a piece of fruit as Michael got up to get their drinks.

“I suppose it is if you just got up.” Still ribbing her, he turned to reach into the cooler.

“Oh!” The sound escaped her before she could stop it. *Dear God.* What had happened to him? *Red Star,* she realized. *Marella said that the place burned.*

Michael grabbed a bottle of water and one of beer and closed the cooler. He handed Caitlin the water,
and sat back down. “Wasn't as bad as it looks,” He unscrewed the cap and sipped the beer, grimacing at the taste as he swallowed.

“Yeah.” *Like hell it wasn't.* His back was a mass of scar tissue, patchworked by skin grafts. She couldn't begin to imagine how much pain those scars represented. She tried to imagine the horror of being on the wrong end of that helicopter. “How can you deal with it?”

He looked at her oddly. “I don't have much choice.”

Caitlin shook her head. “I mean Airwolf. You send String on missions, you provide fuel and ammunition, You've even flown with him. How...?”

He looked thoughtful, and took a long moment before he answered. “For one thing, I don't remember any of it. As far as I'm concerned, one minute I was in the limo headed for the test site, the next I woke up in the ICU. For another -- if someone cuts you with a knife, do you blame the knife, or the person holding it? I can't bring myself to blame Airwolf for what Moffet did with her.”

“I don't know if I could be so rational about it.”

“Honestly, I don't know if I would be, if Airwolf was still in the Firm's possession.” He took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I trust Hawke implicitly. And if you ever tell him I said so, I'll deny every word of it.” He set the bottle down. “Enough of this maudlin nonsense. Do you play cards?”

“Some.”

He reached into his bag. “Poker?”

She laughed. “I'm not sure I can afford to play poker with you.”

Michael pulled out a deck of cards. “Penny poker it is, then. Name your game.”
-*-

They played cards most of the day. Caitlin was surprised to find that she won almost as many hands as Michael did. Apparently she had learned the game better than she thought during the break room card games back in the Highway Patrol.

The sun was starting to set when Lue brought a tray with two bowls, a pair of chipped cups and a pot of tea. Michael handed her a book of matches, and she used one to light a candle while Michael spoke with their skipper. Lue went away, and Michael set the tray on the table.

Caitlin eyed their dinner dubiously. “What is it?”

He tasted it, less cautious than she was. “Rice, bok choy, and some sort of fish. Doesn't look like catfish; I think it might be skate. It could use some seasoning, but it's not bad.”

She sampled the other bowl, spearing at a chunk of fish. It wasn't the first time she'd ever used them, but even so, the chopsticks felt awkward in her hand. Michael was right about the flavor. “Needs salt,” she agreed. Caitlin poured the tea. “I'd rather have coffee, but it will do.”

“Lue plans to stop for the night soon. He tells me the river is quiet here, as long as we keep our voices down, we can go out on deck once the sun has set.”

It would feel good to get some fresh air. It might not be much cooler outside, but at least there they might find some hint of a breeze.

They finished eating and waited as darkness descended over the river. Caitlin reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of lotion. She began smearing it on her arms and legs. Michael grinned. “No wonder they don't let women into combat. They'd never survive without their beauty lotions.”

Caitlin glanced up at him. “It's not beauty lotion. Avon Skin So Soft body oil.”

“And the difference is?'

She raised an eyebrow. “You mean there's something you don't know?”

He laughed at that. “Enlighten me.”

“It works as insect repellent. Lots of hunters and fishermen use it.” She finished what she was doing and passed him the bottle. “Try it.”

Michael squirted some out into his hand and sniffed it. “You're sure you're not pulling my leg?”

“I'm not pulling anything.” She watched him apply the oil then reached for the bottle. “Give me. I'll do your back.” Too late to retract her offer, she remembered what a mess his back was.

He looked at her for a moment, then did as she had asked. Caitlin rose and circled the table, sitting down beside him. He turned away from her, and she hesitated. “I'm not going to hurt you, am I?”

“No. That's probably the best thing for it.”

“Hmm?”

“It tightens up. Feels like your skin is half a size too small.”

Caitlin closed her eyes, but she could still feel the damage beneath her hands as she applied the lotion. Shortly after she had started working at Santini Air, she had brushed her arm against the hot engine of one of the helicopters. It had blistered instantly. It had only been a small burn, but it had hurt like the devil, and had taken what seemed like weeks to heal. She forced herself to open her eyes. Michael had lived it, was still living with it. The least she could do was to not look away.

There were other marks, ones not caused by fire. Her first thought was that they were more injuries from Red Star. These were older, though, beneath the burns, so faint she hadn't noticed them earlier. More or less parallel lines. Caitlin bit her lip. *She knew what they were.* “Who whipped you?” she asked quietly, putting the bottle away.

He didn't answer her, instead, Michael reached up and slipped off the eye patch, shoving it into a pocket. He raked his hands through his hair. “Ah, better.”

“Your eyes won't bother you?”

He shrugged. “No one has ever been able to explain why, but when it's as dark as this, the double vision is less of a problem. It's still there, of course, but it's...” he searched for the word, “Muted. I don't get the headaches.” He checked the window. “Should be dark enough.” Michael piled the dishes onto the tray. “Lue said to leave these outside the door.” He picked up the tray, and they went outside.

The moon was nearly full, and the reflection shimmered off the water It was a scene so radically at odds with where they were going, and the camp that awaited them. It was peaceful here, in other circumstances, she might have considered it romantic. They found crates to sit on, and Caitlin breathed deeply, enjoying the night air.

“Mike Briggs. My father,” Michael said, shaking her from her thoughts.

It took Caitlin a moment to realize what he was talking about. “Your father took a whip to you.” She thought she might be sick to her stomach. *What child deserved that?* If his father went by Mike, then it certainly explained why he preferred to be called Michael.

He looked off across the water. “Actually, it was a riding crop. More times than I can remember. I didn't know you could still see...”

“You don't have to talk about it.”

“It was a long time ago.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There were complications when I was born. My mother -- they couldn't stop the bleeding. She died within hours. I think my father blamed me for her death. I was raised by nannies, to the point where I hardly ever saw him. As soon as I was old enough, he sent me off to boarding school. Unfortunately, he never considered school vacations. Suddenly summer came, and he had to deal with the child he couldn't stand to look at. At first, I tried to please him. Then I just tried to stay out of sight.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“Dear God, Michael.” Her heart went out to him.

“I'm sure he would have killed me eventually, either accidentally or intentionally. My grandfather happened to stop by, and he saw the blood on my shirt. I've only seen my father once since.”

“I hope it was at his trial.”

He shook his head. “It was a different time, Cait. Child abuse wasn't looked at the way it is today. I lived with my grandfather after that. I saw my father at the reading of Gramp's will.”

“How old were you when your grandfather died?”

“I was a senior in college, my final semester. He was killed in a car accident. Two weeks later, I was recruited by the Firm. If he hadn't died when he did, I'd probably be working for Boeing or McDonnell Douglas.”

“You studied aeronautics?”

He nodded, the motion barely viable in the darkness. “Aeronautical Engineering.”

“The Firm recruited you for the Airwolf project?”

“No, the Firm recruited me because I had no close family. I was young, idealistic – and alone. There wasn't anyone to talk any sense into me. That's how they get most of their people. Orphans, runaways, victims of abuse, young people estranged from their families for one reason another. Airwolf didn't come along until much later. When they remembered I had the degree, I was put in charge of the project.”

Caitlin wasn't sure what horrified her more, Michael's father, or the Firm's hiring practices. She wondered about Michael's agents. Had he shanghaied them in the same way he had been dragged in? She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice. “Is that where you get your 'angels'? Gabrielle, Marella, Sam?”

“Sam's not one of my recruits, I can't vouch for her history,” he answered. “Gabrielle's father was a friend. He worked for the State Department, on assignment in Israel. His wife was there with him. They were killed in a terrorist attack. Gabrielle ran away from foster care. She was living on the streets of New York, eating out of dumpsters when I caught up with her. Marella... her step father raped her. She took off. As it happened, she tried to pick my pocket on the steps of the Capitol. I'd like to believe that they found a better life in the Firm than they would have had on the outside.”

They sat in silence for a time, Caitlin tried to decide how she felt about the Firm, and about Michael. He was, she decided, a far more complicated individual than she ever would have guessed.

“Ready to go in?” he asked, finally. “I think the bugs are starting to find us.” He swatted ineffectually at something that flew past his head.

“Yeah, let's go.” She led the way back into the cabin.

-*-

Caitlin woke in the darkness, not sure what had roused her. She laid quietly, alert and listening. Water sloshed the hull, and the boat creaked as the slight current pulled against her moorings. Caitlin had just about decided that she'd been dreaming when she heard it again, a low sound, not quite a moan. For a moment, she thought it might be an animal, somewhere on the shore. She heard movement, and knew it wasn't an animal. “No, please, no.” The whispered words were almost too faint to hear.

“Michael?”

There was no answer, and she groped across the table, searching for the book of matches she knew she'd left there. Finding them, she lit one, and in the sudden flare she could see Michael. He curled in the other bunk, his back to her. The match burned uncomfortably close to her fingers, and she flicked it out. Before she could decide what she should do, Michael groaned again.

“Michael? Are you okay?”

There was still no answer. She lit another match, and used it to light their candle.

He writhed in his sleep, as if trying to push away some unseen enemy. Michael called out, the words too low and indistinct for Caitlin to hear most of them. She caught one word. “No.”

“Michael? Come on, Michael. Wake up.”

He was still oblivious to her voice, and she rose to circle the table, planning to shake him awake. As she reached for his shoulder, she remembered the first night she had ever stayed at String's cabin. Dom had warned her about String's nightmares, and about how he sometimes lashed out if someone tried to wake him. Michael's demons were undoubtedly no less powerful.

Caitlin moved to the side, positioning herself where she would be out of the way if Michael swung at her. Her fingers touched the scarred skin. *No wonder he has nightmares.* She shook him gently. “Michael? Michael, it's over. It's okay. It's me, Caitlin.”

He woke, startled, rolling over to face her. “Cait?”

Caitlin slid the candle over, making room to sit on the table. “You were talking in your sleep,” she said. Some part of her didn't want to use the word nightmare.

Michael ran his hand over his face and sat up, resting his back against the wall. “Talking?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I imagine it was a lot more than talking. I scared the hell out of you, didn't I?”

She smiled. “Well, I wouldn't go that far, but I was worried.” Caitlin suspected she knew the reason for his disturbed sleep. “I'm sorry.”

“For waking me? Don't apologize. I'm glad you did.”

“No.” She chewed her lip. “I stirred up too many old memories today. I shouldn't have.”

“You mean my father?”

“Him, Moffet, Red Star. You didn't need to go back there.”

“My father is ancient history. He hasn't had the power to hurt me in a very long time. As to Moffet and Red Star – as I told you, I have no memory of it. It's hard to have nightmares about something you don't remember.”

Caitlin recalled their first meeting. “Germany?”

He shook his head. “Kruger drugged me into trying to kill a man I detest. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but with the influence of the drugs, it didn't take a great deal of persuasion. There are times when I almost wish that Hawke hadn't put the blanks in my gun.” Michael fell silent, staring into space, unmoving. He finally spoke. “Stoner.”

Stoner. Caitlin hadn't been with them when the guys had gone to rescue Michael, and she didn't know all the details. She knew only that Stoner had kidnapped and tortured Michael, trying to get the codes that would enable the Fortune Teller device. *The device String had flown against.* She had never put the pieces together before, but now she did, and the picture gnawed at her. If the Fortune Teller had been installed and operational, then Stoner had gotten what he needed from Michael. *Somehow, Stoner had broken him.*

“He was willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. Sensory deprivation and a heavy dose of hallucinogenics, to start with. It got worse from there.” His words confirmed her thoughts.

Caitlin shuddered. What would it take to break a man who could shrug off everything that had happened to him at Red Star? He interrupted her thoughts. “Go back to sleep, Cait.”

“What about you?”

“I think I'll sit up for awhile.”

“In that case, I think I will, too.”

“Cait, you don't have to--”

“I know. But if I do, then we can both sleep late in the morning.”

He chuckled. “You're just looking for an excuse to get up at noon again.”

“You have an early appointment?” she echoed his earlier teasing.

He swung his feet to the floor, and went over to the cooler. Michael pulled out a beer. “Want one?”

“Sure, thanks.”

He grabbed a second bottle, and twisted off the cap before passing it to her. “Don't say I didn't warn you.” He sat back down. “It's horrid.”

Caitlin tried a sip, and forced herself to swallow. She grimaced. “How can you drink this stuff?”

He shrugged. “I've had worse. Compared to some of the swill they drink in Central America...”

She took another swallow. The taste wasn't quite as bad when you were prepared for it. “How often do you have them?”

“Central American beers?”

Caitlin heard the humor in his voice, and knew he had misinterpreted her question intentionally. “The nightmares.”

He turned serious. “Not as often as I did. The first month... it was every time I closed my eyes. I left on every light in the house. The television, the stereo. Anything to keep from going back into that hell.”

“And now?”

“A couple times a month. I still sleep with the television on.”

The boat was dark and silent. *The worse place he could put himself into, and yet he had been willing to come here, alone.* “Have you talked to anyone? Surely the Firm has people --?”

“Shrinks?” He snorted. “Yeah. You're tortured and barely escape with your life, and when you get back they send you in to be 'debriefed'.” Michael made it sound like a dirty word. “You tell them what they want to hear, then they pat you on the head like a good puppy and send you back to work.”

“In other words, you didn't tell them.”

“That their deputy director was terrified of the dark, and woke up screaming every night? Even then, I wasn't that suicidal.”

“You're not serious? The Firm wouldn't--?”

“If they'd known what a security risk I was, I never would have made it as far as the parking lot. Truthfully, I'm not sure I would have blamed them. If the Russians had locked me in a closet and turned out the light, I would have given them anything they wanted.”

Caitlin shook her head. “That's some bunch you work for, Michael.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Hawke told me the same thing, once.”

They sat in companionable silence for a time, finishing the beers. “Almost dawn,” Michael said, finally, gesturing toward the window behind Caitlin.

She turned, and could see the dull glow seeping into the sky. “Now that it's getting to be light out, you think you can get back to sleep?”

“I hope so.” He looked tired, but the admission still surprised her.

“Good.” She rose from where she had perched on the table, and went back to her makeshift bed. The sky was growing brighter, and she blew out the candle. “If you need... if you need someone to talk to, I'm right here. Now sleep. I don't want you claiming that I only beat you at cards because you were tired.”

Michael laid back down, and she listened to his breathing slow, “Cait?” His voice was thick, and she knew he was near sleep. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she answered, and let herself doze.