Journey into Darkness

Caitlin soon learned that Michael's idea of resting differed from her own. Arriving at his house after quick stopovers at her apartment and the grocery store, they were barely in the door before he was on the telephone. She had put away the groceries and had taken her hastily thrown together suitcase into the guest room to unpack. Now, more than two hours later, Michael was still on the phone, but Caitlin was settled in and had started working a jigsaw puzzle on the dining room table. Between calls, Michael explained that he was trying to find out what had gone on with his division in his absence. Judging from his mood, she suspected he wasn't happy with the answers he was getting.

Finally, he put the receiver down, scowling. He paced the living room, stopping to lean against the fireplace mantle. "That bastard. He screwed me over. Again." Before Michael could continue, the phone rang, and he snatched up the instrument. Caitlin couldn't help but hear his end of the conversation. "Briggs here. Oh, hello, Admiral." Michael chuckled. "Yeah, I told Marklin that I was leaving." There was a long pause, and when he continued, his voice was considerably more subdued. "Well, I can't say I didn't expect it. Thanks for letting me know. I'll talk to you later."

Caitlin watched him as he studied the handset, looking for all the world as if he might decide to hurl it against the nearest wall. Sighing, he finally set it on the end table and eased himself onto the sofa. He looked down toward the floor. *Defeated.* "Michael?"

He didn't look up. "That was the Admiral. He called to warn me that the committee has been in a meeting all afternoon. I've been placed on extended medical leave. It appears I was 'transferred' the day I left on vacation. They put Locke in charge of Airwolf. All of my 'angels' have been reassigned. When I'm ready to go back to work, they'll find me another position." Michael made a sound of disgust. "Assuming that day ever comes."

"What? They can't do that!"

"They can, and they have. As much as I'd like to say that Zeus is behind all of it, I really can't blame them. If I was making the call on one of my operatives, I'd do the same thing."

"But, they didn't pull this after Red Star, did they? Why should this be any different?"

He looked up at her. "Unfortunately, it *is* different. What happened at Red Star was company business, this was on my own time. I told you going in that we were working without a net."

"Even so... We rescued American prisoners. That ought to count for something, shouldn't it?"

Michael stood, and shook his head in negation as he began pacing. "Cait, think about it. I can't drive, I can't change my own shirt. I can't even sign my frigging name. What use am I to the Firm?"

He had stopped himself before he said it, but she knew what he was thinking. *What use am I to the Firm -- or to anyone else?* It tore at her. She wanted to comfort him as he had comforted her, but he was far too proud and stubborn to allow that. “You'll learn, Michael. If worse comes to worst, you'll learn to do things left-handed. Maybe it will never come to that. There's still a good chance that once the swelling goes down you'll be just fine." Caitlin didn't want to think about the fact that the odds against that were growing longer by the moment. It left a lump in the pit of her stomach. What on earth would he do if she was wrong?

"Yeah." Michael answered quietly. He stood looking out the window for a time, then stepped out of the room, headed down the hall towards the master bedroom. He returned a few minutes later, a jacket slung around his shoulders. "I'm going out to get some air," he told Caitlin as he opened the outside door.

She started to protest, but he waved her off. "It's all right. I won't be gone long. I just need a little time to myself."

Caitlin nodded, understanding his need for privacy. "Don't overdo it, okay?" As he stepped through the door, she went back to working on the jigsaw puzzle, sorting the pieces to find the colors she needed to complete the sky.

Dampened by the walls of the house, the sharp sound was a muffled thud. She knew instantly what it was. Caitlin jumped to her feet, almost knocking the chair over. The single shot had come from outside. *No. Please, God, no.* She had already lost String and Dom, she couldn't stand to lose Michael, too. Terrified of what she might find, she threw open the door and rounded the corner of the house at a dead run. "Michael! Mi..." her voice rose, and just as quickly fell silent. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she stumbled to a stop. "Oh, thank God."

The alarm on Michael's face gave way to understanding. He lowered the automatic that he held awkwardly in his left hand. "I'm sorry, Cait." Michael glanced back toward the row of tin cans that lined the top rail of the fence. "I wanted to try some target practice. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Caitlin breathed deeply, gathering her emotions back under control as she slowly walked up beside him. "Target practice?"

He took his time answering her. “It occurred to me that Zeus might convince the committee that I was a security risk.”

A security risk. *The Zebra Squad terminated security risks.* “They wouldn't...?”

“I don't think so. But just in case I'm wrong, I want to be sure I can protect myself. And you.”

Caitlin's stomach knotted. The Firm could be worse than a pack of rabid animals.

Her thoughts must have been echoed in the expression on her face, because he shrugged, a half-hearted, one-shouldered motion. "I'm not ready to throw the towel in just yet." He raised the weapon again. "Stick around, you can watch me make a fool of myself." Michael sighted the automatic carefully, aiming at one of the cans. He pulled the trigger, and Caitlin shuddered at the sound, nearly closing her eyes. The bullet nicked the wood of the fencepost, a few inches below his target. "At least I'm consistent," he muttered, then emptied the rest of the rounds, aiming each one. He hit a couple of the cans, the other shots were reasonably close. He shoved the empty weapon into a pocket, scowling, seemingly less than impressed with his performance. "Remind me to aim center of mass."

"Michael, when you fired... it kicks. It pulled on your chest, didn't it? It hurt?"

"I wouldn't want to go through a box of ammo," he admitted.

"That's the problem. You're anticipating the pain. You're flinching when you pull the trigger."

“You're probably right,” he agreed. "Come on, let's go inside, you can reload this thing for me."

-*-

She was back in the jungle. It was hot, oppressive, sticky. Sweat streamed down her neck, and insects buzzed distractingly around her head. She swatted them away, continuing carefully down the trail. The path was trapped, and mines waited beneath the decaying leaves. She was alone here, apart from the Khmer Rouge. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the M-16 she carried. They were out there, waiting for her.

A line of skulls circled the encampment, the bones long ago picked clean and bleached by the elements. She stumbled past them, tearing her gaze from the empty, gaping sockets. There was a building, a shack of rotting timber and razor wire. That was where they would be. Weapons fire echoed over her head as she crept up to it and reached for the knob. It turned easily, and the door opened inwards. Caitlin stepped into the dim interior, searching for signs of life. There were bunks, figures curled on their sides, each facing the wall. She reached for the first, rolled the silent form toward her.

It was Dominic Santini, his bulky frame charred almost beyond recognition. Stifling a scream, she stepped forward to the second cot. Stringfellow Hawke, his skin blackened and peeling, yet cold and lifeless beneath her touch. His contorted features were frozen in a grimace of pain and terror. Panic rose to consume her as she moved toward the last bunk. She approached it hesitantly, fearfully kneeling beside the still figure. Hands shaking, she reached out to him, turning his face towards her. Michael stared back, unseeing, the automatic falling from his lifeless fingers as she brushed his hair back to find the nearly bloodless hole that pierced his temple.

*No!*

Caitlin woke with a start, gasping for air. She sat there in the center of the bed for a long minute, pulse pounding in her ears as her breathing gradually slowed. Finally, she laid back down on her side, pulling her knees almost to her chin. *It was only a nightmare.* It was just the latest installment of the terrifying dreams that had haunted her sleep ever since Marella had told her of the explosion at Santini Air.

This version had a new and macabre twist. The images of Michael's death lingered in her mind, refusing to go away. There was no more denying it. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that Marella's unvoiced suspicions held more than a grain of truth. Michael was many things, and both he and the Firm he worked for had dubious methods, some of which went against everything she thought she believed in. Despite that, she found that she did care about him, probably far more than she should.

She heard movement from down the hallway, Michael's bedroom. The sound stopped, then a few minutes later, she heard it again. Apparently he wasn't sleeping any better than she was. She listened for a moment, then slipped out of bed, pulling on her robe. Marklin had prescribed sleeping pills. Caitlin doubted if Michael would take them, but at least she could make the suggestion.