Journey into Darkness

Michael and Caitlin crouched just off the trail, hidden from any chance discovery by the dense foliage. After dropping them off at the makeshift dock, Lue had departed quickly into the night, his ramshackle boat motoring downstream with it's other cargo.

They would wait for the first rays of dawn to pierce the heavy tree cover before advancing toward the camp. It was too dangerous to move in the darkness. Caitlin shivered despite the warm, moist air. Michael had lectured her repeatedly about the Cambodian obsession with land mines, reminding her of what even the smallest could do to human flesh. She didn't want to think about that, or about the near certainty that their path would be trapped.

Caitlin took a long, deep breath, fighting to steady her nerves. She searched for something to distract her thoughts from where they were headed, and happened to notice the ring still on her finger. Cubic Zirconia or not, it was too beautiful to wear into combat. She slipped the ring off, and shoved it deep into a pocket.

*Michael was right. She didn't belong here.* Flying Airwolf with String and Dominic might be no safer, but it was a decidedly different sort of danger. The cold, sterile cockpit seemed a lifetime removed from this dank, snake infested jungle and the reek of rotting vegetation. Worse, the man beside her was an unknown, not the familiar, brooding, Stringfellow Hawke.

She still wasn't sure how she felt about Michael. He was charismatic, intelligent, and over the course of the week spent together in the cramped quarters, she had come to actively enjoy his company. Then, he had told her about his past. On the surface, it went against everything that she had ever believed in. But, were the things Michael had done really so different from the things String had done, the things she herself had done? Did it matter that the spy had killed specific targets, one on one, while she and String simply swooped in with Airwolf like avenging angels, destroying whatever might be in their path?

There was a soft touch on her knee, and she startled, nearly jumping out of her skin. "Let's go." Michael barely breathed the words as he rose to his feet. Caitlin nodded agreement, not trusting her voice.

"Stay behind me," he whispered, stepping back onto the trail and heading away from the river.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting flickering, elusive shadows that raised the hair on the back of her neck. The M-16 was a comforting weight in her hands, and every few steps, she swung it around, searching the jungle behind them for any sign that they were being followed. Except for the constant chatter of the birds and the rustle of their own passage, everything seemed quiet. She hurried to keep pace with Michael.

Marella had been right. Michael might have a limp, but when he needed to, he could move more quickly and quietly than she could.

Abruptly, he came to a halt, holding up a hand to warn her. She traced the line of his pointing finger, and after a moment her eyes found the fishing line stretched from tree to tree across the trail, just high enough that an animal's passage wouldn't disturb it.. Caitlin followed the line down to the base of the tree, to something metallic just barely visible beneath the leaves and dirt. *Shit.* She knew that alone, she never would have noticed the trap, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out in horror.

Micheal closed his hand protectively around her wrist, and led her around the hazard. He hesitated before releasing her arm. "Are you okay?" Caitlin knew he could sense her fear, knew that he was judging her, debating how much more she could take.

She willed her hands to stop shaking. She would get through this, she had to. Michael was depending on her. String was depending on her, too, whether he knew it or not. She nodded. "I'm all right."

They started down the trail again, a bit more slowly this time. A hundred yards further, there was another booby trap. They avoided it easily. Caitlin suspected that they were getting close, and her suspicions were confirmed when she heard the faint echo of harsh laughter coming from somewhere ahead of them. Michael heard it too, and he slowed their pace even more, making sure that they stayed hidden in the trees as they crept closer.

The camp was as Michael's contact had described. What had begun as a small natural clearing had been cut deeper into the heart of the jungle; there was a single guard tower, several outbuildings. Tall grasses and vines threatened to overrun a planted area where some sort of crops were growing, perhaps opium poppies. Only two men were in sight: the lone guard in the tower was leaning over the railing, talking with another below. Michael gestured, and she looked at the buildings in more detail. The one he had pointed out had slats nailed across the windows, and chicken wire stretched over that. She nodded her understanding. That was where they would find the prisoners. Michael glanced at his watch, then showed it to her. They were early. There was nearly half an hour until Marella was scheduled to arrive with the Huey.

The minutes dragged. Michael checked his watch again, then nodded. "It's time. All hell is going to break loose as soon as we fire," he reminded her, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "I'll take the tower, you take his friend." Bringing the rifle up, the agent wrapped the sling of his weapon around his left hand, steadying it. He leaned his shoulder against a tree, taking careful aim. He looked over at her, waiting.

Caitlin hesitated. *This wasn't her, this wasn't how she fought. She didn't want to do this, not this way.* For just a moment, she could see the pictures Michael had shown her. The file photographs of the dead. The skulls stacked like cord wood. These were the people who had committed those acts. She raised her weapon. The man on the ground was closer, and she had a better angle. It would be an easier shot than the one Michael had to make. *God forgive me,* she thought. "Ready."

"On three. One... two... three." Two shots rang out, loud against the quiet backdrop. The guards both dropped, the one in the tower lurching over the railing to fall beside his compatriot. For just a moment, there was dead silence. Even the birds had stilled. Then came a jumble of confused shouts from the camp's barracks, as the doors flew open. Half dressed Khmer Rouge commandos rushed out, scattering into the undergrowth.

Michael turned the rifle to full automatic and sprayed the area near the barracks. Men dove for cover. "Go!" he shouted to Caitlin, and she sprinted for the building where the captives were being held.

She stayed low, trying to present a small target to any of the guerrillas who might brave Michael's assault to fire on her. As she reached the door, she heard grenades exploding behind her. The door was locked with a simple padlock and a rusty hasp. She smashed it loose with the butt of the rifle. A hard kick knocked the door open, and she dropped to the floor, rolling, just in case they had been wrong about the building's inhabitants.

The men stared at her blankly, creeping away from her. "Come on, we're here to take you back to the States!" There was no response, except perhaps more fear radiating from them. Michael's words came back to her. These men had been brainwashed, and then they had been taken prisoner again. What would that do to their minds, and what did she have to do to get through to them? Men who had undoubtedly given up any hope of rescue. Hating herself, she waved the rifle at them. "Move, now!" she bellowed, and was relieved as they climbed to their feet. As they emerged into the light, she looked at the faces, searching for St. John.. Too short. Spanish. Dark hair. Too tall. Black. Short. The last man was about the right height and coloring, but she was certain it wasn't St. John. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Are there any other prisoners?"

He shook his head, trying to pull away. "No. No more."

"Hawke. St. John Hawke. He's not here?"

"Gone. Long time ago."

*Damn it!* So close! "Where?"

"Don't know."

Caitlin could tell from the look in the man's eyes that he didn't have any more to tell her, and she released him. He stumbled into the tall grass with the others, and she followed. Michael joined them seconds later, diving into the slight cover of the grass as he slammed another magazine into his M-16. Marella was descending toward them, but couldn't get as close as they had hoped because of the positioning of the tower and the few still standing trees that interspersed the buildings.

"Get them on board. I'll cover you." Michael rose to a crouch and fired off another volley of suppressive fire, keeping the commandos occupied.

"Go! Go! Get in the Huey!" Caitlin commanded, shoving the stragglers in the direction of the helicopter. She ran after them, ducking instinctively as she neared the turning blades of the helicopter. Marella hovered inches off the ground, and the men scrambled in through the open door. She pushed the last man aboard and pulled herself in after him. One quick glance assured her that they were all crawling into seats, strapping themselves in. She turned to see where Michael was.

He had hurled another grenade at the opposition, and was up and sprinting toward the waiting Huey. Caitlin heard the crack of the rifle even over the whine of the turning blades, and she saw him stumble, grabbing for his ribs. Almost in slow motion, his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. Another sharp crack, and a dark stain erupted from his right shoulder. She started toward the doorway, and she saw him mouth the word. *“No!”*

Caitlin jumped from the chopper, spinning to spray the brush with a clip full of ammunition. As she ran, she pulled that magazine free and jammed another into the weapon. She emptied it in the same direction, then slung the rifle as she reached Michael. "Get out of here," he gasped, trying to push her away.

"Not without you. Come on, you've got to move. I can't carry you." She pulled him to his feet, wrapping his left arm around her neck. He grunted with pain, but started toward the chopper.

The short distance to the waiting helicopter seemed more like a marathon. By the time they reached it, Michael was nearly out on his feet. Caitlin dragged him inside with a strength she didn't know she had, climbing in herself as Marella lifted them skyward. Small arms fire rattled ineffectively off the metal below, echoing loud in the cabin. Caitlin grabbed for the waiting radio headset, pulling it on with one hand as she rolled him onto his back.

His shirt was soaked with blood, and she tore it open to reveal his injuries, not bothering with the buttons. It was even worse than she had feared. Blood poured from his shoulder, and there was a second wound to his chest, angled between his ribs. "Marella!" she screamed into the voice activated microphone. "Marella, you've got to get us on the ground. Michael's been hit, bad." She scrambled for the first aid kit, digging out a thick wad of gauze bandage and clamping it to his shoulder.

"I can't. We can't set down until we clear Cambodia." The woman's voice came back over the radio, calm and tightly controlled.

He was wheezing, gasping for breath. Caitlin's fingers went to his throat, searching for a pulse. She found it, horribly weak. "Marella, I need you!" Michael's assistant was the one finishing medical school. She would know what to do. "You've got to land, now, damn it! I think he's dying."

"Cait, I can't. If I land, we all die. Tell me what's going on. I'll help you. Tell me what you see."

She forced down the rising panic that threatened to engulf her. "He was hit twice. The wound in his shoulder is bleeding like a stuck pig. I'm holding a bandage on it and that's helping some. The other one hit him a few inches lower, in the ribs.. His breathing is real bad, like he can't get his breath. I'm not sure if he's conscious or not."

"Get someone to take over holding that bandage. Make sure it stays tight. If it soaks through add another, don't try to change it."

Caitlin looked up at the men they had rescued. She pointed to one who had most resembled St. John. "You, come here." She shouted to be heard above the sound of the engine.

Reluctantly, the man unbelted himself from the seat and lowered himself to the deck beside her. Cait stacked another dressing on top of the first. "Hold this. Don't let go, no matter what." He nodded, taking over for her.

"Okay, Marella. What now?"

"How's his breathing?"

"Even worse. Marella --"

The agent cut her off. "Look at the veins in his neck. How do they look?"

She leaned forward. "Like they're bulging."

"Put your hands on his chest, the injured side. What's it feel like?"

He moaned as she touched him, and she gritted her teeth, hating to cause him any more pain. "Soft. Spongy."

"That's what I was afraid of. Cait, there's a medical bag under the seats. Get it."

Caitlin scrambled for the black bag, retrieving it. "Got it."

"He's bleeding internally into his chest. The bullet ripped a hole in his lung. It collapsed, and now there's blood trapped between the lung and his ribs. It's pressing against his heart and the other lung. You've got to get it out of there or it will kill him."

"What? How?"

"Open the bag. Near the top there is a clear plastic package with a large bore needle in it. You're going to stick it in between his ribs and release the trapped blood."

*No. Please, no.* "I can't! Marella, I'm no doctor. I can't do this!"

"You have to. You're right, he's dying." For the first time, there was emotion in the agent's voice. "He won't live long enough to make it to Thailand. If you release the pressure in his chest he's got a chance."

Caitlin closed her eyes for moment, biting down on her lip. She reached for the medical bag. "All right. Tell me exactly what to do. Step by step."