I can't recall offhand who has the copyright for this, but I know it isn't me. Anybody you didn't see in the show, I made up myself. I'm pretending that Series 4 never happened, on the grounds that it was so crashingly awful that I'm sure Borgnine and Vincent insisted on having their characters killed off in Episode 1.
I've researched this as meticulously as I can, but my apologies for any technical errors that may have crept in. If anybody can verify that I've made a mistake please let me know, but please be so good as to tell me where you read it so I can cross-reference your source with my own, and where series canon and my reference books disagree I will invariably side with the latter. (I don't care if they fire off Mavericks in one episode -in the air-to-air role I might add, which is utterly wrong in and of itself- those launch tubes are not two and a half feet wide! Don't even start on Marella implying she's nuclear capable...)
Oh, and anybody curious about the truly singular post-Falklands exploits of the cousin Bob Savage mentions in passing is referred to my His Dark Materials fanfictions.
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III was not in a good mood. He had been dragged halfway across the world at the behest of the Firm to attend the unveiling of a top-secret defence project that the Europeans had been working on for the last couple of years, mere hours before he was about to book himself a vacation.
Nobody at Eurocopter would talk about it, but somebody had noticed that one of Adrian Moffet's proteges -an RAF officer by the name of Richard Burns- had been assigned to the rotary-wing division of the Defence Equipment Research Establishment. He was by all accounts very talented, enough that he had survived Moffet's acrimonious departure after the brilliant but patently unhinged engineer had raped and badly beaten a DERA employee.
Why the hell we took him on after that, I'll never know. Strangely enough, nobody had thought it worthwhile telling Archangel about that.
He limped into the auditorium, inwardly cursing Moffet, long-distance air travel and everything else he could think of. Burns was checking over something under a tarpaulin at the centre of the room, assisted by a woman Archangel was disturbed to recognise as Moffet's ex-wife. They were both wearing flight suits.
"Looks like he shares Dr Moffet's preference for test-flying his own designs," Marella remarked, earning a wince from her boss.
"Let's just hope that's all he shares. I've only got one more damned eye!" Burns was a combat pilot before he was an engineer, Archangel recalled, and had flown strike and close air support missions in Desert Storm.
The room was getting quite full, with a mixture of political leadership and military personnel from a number of governments. Archangel was surprised to notice that there were a few US Air Force and Marine personnel present as well.
Some ten minutes after they were supposed to have started, Burns cleared his throat audibly through a microphone clipped to his collar. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am here before you to demonstrate a radical new departure in rotary-wing technology. The original design concept has been around for some time, originating with one Dr Adrian Moffet, and I'm sure most of you recall what he did with it. However, a copy of the plans has recently been retrieved, and we have been able to recommence the project based upon Moffet's notes and my own largely uncredited contribution. Allow me to introduce you to the Eurocopter Wolverine multi-purpose attack helicopter." He whipped off the tarpaulin.
"Ho... ly... shit!" Marella breathed.
The colour scheme was the standard all-over olive green preferred for vehicles and helicopters in the European theatre, and the engines seemed slightly larger, but it was still recognisable for what it was.
Another Airwolf.
Burns pressed a button on a remote, and the helicopter began to rotate on a platform. Behind him, a screen began displaying a 3-D wireframe view. "As you can see, the Wolverine lacks conventional weapon pylons, but instead launches her missiles from three ventrally mounted launch tubes. Ordinance is carried in magazines little different in principle from the ones in a semi-automatic pistol. We've tested every helicopter-launched battlefield missile in NATO with the Wolverine, and as long as it'll fit inside the hull, there's no reason she can't use it to blow something up. Complementing the missile bay are two gun pods on each wing stub. They're interchangeable in the field -all you need is a spanner, a screwdriver and a couple of strong backs- and we've air-tested just about every gun going. The example in front of you carries two Mauser 27mm cannon and four General Electric .50-calibre miniguns.
"Now for the best part. Notice these two exhaust outlets behind the gun pods. They are precisely what they appear to be; miniature jet engines. On regular turbines the Wolverine can reach two hundred and fifty knots level, three hundred in a dive. But with the turbos engaged..." Burns grinned. "How does Mach 1.5 grab you?" Archangel tuned out for the rest of the discussion. How the hell is it possible? Where did Moffet hide a copy of the blueprints?
He cornered Burns after the conference. "Mr Burns? Sorry, Squadron-Leader Burns. I'm Michael Coldsmith-Briggs. Dr Moffet and I worked together for a while."
Burns grinned, and ran a hand through his straggling black curls. "And you want to know where my employers got the blueprints for Airwolf. Well, that's not really my story to tell. Marie?"
Marie Leclerc walked over. She was a tall, dark-skinned woman, much younger than Moffet and very attractive in an exotic way. She also had a thick Midwestern accent. "Well, lookie here. Good to see you again, Mr Briggs."
"Michael, please. So, would I be correct in guessing that your former husband entrusted you with a copy of the blueprints?"
She laughed. "Yeah, right. I stole 'em. Been keepin' 'em for something I like to call... the right price." She flashed him a megawatt smile. Archangel ground his teeth. "Let's just say I wanted a few things your government couldn't provide, but our employers were more accommodating in arranging."
"You will have heard of the new NATO black-ops unit, I presume," Burns added. "Well, they're being tasked with certain politically sensitive missions; just a matter of tying up loose ends really, but something the guys in suits want kept out of the headlines. As soon as delivery of our complement of Wolverines is complete, we'll be embarking on a somewhat modified crude oil carrier for the south Pacific."
"Vietnam. You're going MIA-hunting in Vietnam." Michael groaned. "Hawke's in on this, isn't he? I am going to kick his ass."
"Good luck," Marie snorted. Archangel scowled, and Burns stifled a laugh. "No, Stringfellow isn't in on this. But he's not the only person with family down and out in Vietnam. My sister's husband is down there somewhere, Mr Briggs, and I want him out of there."
"As for me," Burns added, "I just like getting one up over Uncle Sam." He brushed imaginary dust from his Desert Storm campaign ribbon.
Three days later, the original Airwolf was performing a routine test flight after swapping out one turbine. "Not a blip on the board back here," Dominic reported.
"Good. I'm gonna grab for some height, see how she holds up. Spin up the turbos." "Sure... wait a second. String, we got company. Three contacts at 057, just popping up on radar now. Angels twelve, speed five hundred knots. Trying to classify them now." Hawke sighed. Why was it that every single time they tried to air-test The Lady at anything above treetop level, somebody had to come strolling past and force them back to the deck? It was a royal pain in the ass.
"Holy Mother of God!" Dominic yelled. "The computer thinks they're Airwolf, or Airwolves or something!"
"What? Run a check on the circuits, there's gotta be a fault somewhere."
"Already on it. Try and get a visual on these things, wilya?"
Before he could respond, a mournful howl sounded through the radio. Hawke had to laugh. "Son of a bitch! What in the name of God are you doing out here, Rick?"
"Hello again, String. Got room for a few extra choppers wherever you keep that thing? We've got a proposition for you." Three nearly identical copies of the allegedly unique helicopter assumed formation.
"String? Who the hell is this guy?"
"An old acquaintance from the design programme." As they flew, Hawke explained how he knew Rick. "He was one of Moffet's original team, military liaison from the RAF. God knows how, but the Firm pulled some wires and got him assigned here so he could help Moffet settle in."
"Settle in?" Dominic spluttered.
"The Brits wanted a few of these babies as bad as our people. They also wanted Moffet out of their hair, but he couldn't design them an attack bird from jail so they handed him to the Firm and washed their hands of the son of a bitch. They stiffed us but good; we got the expense of finishing the project and Moffet's bullshit, they got to make Airwolf under license in England and half the take selling them in Europe. Rick got sent over to make sure his old boss stayed out of the sort of trouble that might get back to London."
"Nice. Politics ain't no prettier in the Old World, huh?"
"Nope."
In a truly awe-inspiring display of parallel parking, the four helicopters set down in the cave. Rick was first out of his aircraft, tucking his helmet -a more conventional arrangement than the ones they'd used in the prototype- under one arm. His flight suit was RAF standard, complete with rank insignia and a number of medal ribbons, and an Airwolf patch on one shoulder. The other carried his most recent squadron posting, 41 (Fighter) Squadron RAF. "Hello again, Hawke."
"Rick. So just where did you get these babies?"
"That's something of a long story. First, I'd better introduce you to the rest of my little team. Marie you've already met, I think." She offered a small wave. "This is Robert Savage, my flight engineer." The dark haired, moustachioed ex-Royal Navy airman tried to decide whether he should be saluting or not. "That's Wolf Two's crew roster. Wolf Three is operated by an all-French team. Lucien Delacour and his brother Edouard, both of the Armee l'air, and Fabien Svenson of the French Navy." The three Frenchmen, two brown-haired and one blonde, all bowed deeply. Burns rolled his eyes. "And for Wolf Four we have something of a mixture. Thomas North of the Royal Canadian Air Force, Samantha Curtis of the US Marine Corps helicopter division and Peter Rheinholdt of the Kriegsmarine." Burns turned to his colleagues. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet your new commanding officer, Stringfellow Hawke, and his copilot Dominic Santini." Marie captured their expressions for posterity with a small camera.
"Okay," Hawke said carefully, sipping the coffee provided by Burns. "So Moffet entrusts a copy of the blueprints to Marie before he bugs out to Libya, which she then sits on until she has a cast-iron guarantee that somebody will help find her brother-in-law, which she eventually receives from the French?"
"Actually, it came from on high in Washington and Brussels; there's been a lot of political pressure to initiate a major search-and-rescue for any POWs still out there, and the Wolverine's an extremely sought-after piece of technology," Rick replied. "If it can keep an animal like Moffet out of prison..."
Hawke nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. But why me and Dom?"
"You're the only living people to have flown a Wolverine in combat, which you also happen to be extremely good at. My superiors wanted the best, Hawke, and that meant you." He offered an impish grin. "Of course, I fought pretty hard to get a command role in all this, but apparently I'm a better flier than I am a leader. It doesn't help that I'm supposed to be giving orders to my own wife..."
Marie snorted. "Not in a million years, sugar."
Hawke shook his head. Why am I not surprised?
To Hawke's complete lack of surprise, Archangel was well and truly pissed. He arrived at the cabin whilst the rest of what they'd taken to calling the Wolfpack were over to dinner, and had stalked furiously up to the door looking like he wanted to kill somebody.
"Hawke! What in Christ's name do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Marie Leclerc is being sought on charges of treason and espionage-"
"By who?" Hawke enquired reasonably. "The Firm? Michael, they came to me. They've offered me a better lead on St. John than you've been able to conjure up in ten damn years. I'm keeping my end of the bargain; my brother comes home, Airwolf goes to the US government."
"Bullshit!" Archangel snarled. "This multi-national taskforce doesn't even have a mandate to work on US soil, for Christ's sake!"
"Michael, honey, calm down," Marie suggested, emphasising her accent. "They'll be making Wolverines at Boeing by the end of the year. Quit worryin'." For a brief, hopeful moment it looked as if he were about to have an apoplectic stroke, but instead he turned on his heel and stalked out of the cabin. Hawke grinned.
"I've been waiting to tell him to go piss up a rope since the Reagan Administration." Marella, who had been standing discretely to one side listening to this, gave in to temptation and burst out laughing. Michael went an even deeper shade of puce, but held his peace. Tempted as he was to fire her there and then, he couldn't fly a helicopter and it was a hell of a long walk home.
What a difference a week makes, Colonel Hawke reflected. He, Dom and Caitlin were now commissioned officers in the US Army Air Corps, on long-term loan to the Surreptitious Intervention Force... codenamed JAVELIN.
Airwolf had only recently left the Westland plant, where she'd been brought up to production standard under Hawke's watchful eye. The engines had been replaced with a new Rolls-Royce model designed specially for the Wolverine that generated a few dozen extra horsepower, and the cockpit electronics overhauled. The old bank of dials and gauges in the back had been largely replaced by three large Multi-Function Displays, and the old helmet-cueing system had been replaced by the system developed for the Apache. The helmets contained fewer weighty electronics, and eliminated the rather pointless hydraulic visor-drop that Moffet had incorporated largely on a whim.
The new weapons were interesting, as well. Burns had taken all three new recruits up in Wolf Two to familiarise them with the characteristics of the two new missiles they were getting literally hot off the production line, courtesy of the British government.
"Brimstone's basically similar to Hellfire, same warhead and maximum range. However, there are two significant differences," he said in a tone of radiant national pride. "First of all, you can fire it under turbos; it was designed for the Tornado and new Eurofighter, so it's stressed for supersonic firing. Second, it's totally fire-and-forget; you don't even need to select a target. The seeker uses active radar, and can even recognise specific vehicle types; that last isn't totally free of bugs yet, but it'll cut down on the potential for blue-on-blue accidents a lot.
"Also, we're getting a whole batch of the new air-launched variant of the Shorts Starstreak; they developed it for the Apaches we're supposed to be buying in some time this decade. Slightly shorter range than the Stingers you've been using but a punchier warhead."
"I see. How about the guns?"
"That's actually still to be decided," Burns admitted. "For the time being we're staying with the 27-millimetre/.50-calibre combination we put in the European prototype, but we designed the gun mounts to be able to take just about anything, even Soviet Bloc stuff."
Today was their first formation combat exercise, a dummy attack on a fake airfield at the NATO bombing range at Deciomannau, Sardinia. "We have an exceptionally mixed bag today," Burns told them. "Intelligence estimates that we will be facing at least eight MiG-31s -or F3 Tornadoes masquerading as such- and an indefinite number of MiG-29s... well, Hornets from the Nimitz, but try telling them apart in a dogfight. There'll also be the usual selection of missiles and guns.
"The Foxhounds are target practice in a dogfight but they can murder you at long range. The Fulcrums can actually turn inside of you on turbos, though, so go to rotors at the first hint of a close-in roughouse. If you can avoid combat, do so; fly between the trees if you have to, it'll save time and fuel. Wolf Leader, you have runway-cratering duty. Wolves Three and Four will be attacking the buildings. Defence suppression's my baby. Any questions? Good. Saddle up, lock and load!"
The four Wolverines flew through a series of twisting valleys in tight line-astern formation; there was no room for anything else. They were on main rotors only; no reason to give those patrolling aggressors a big heat bloom to vector on.
"Radar sweep just lit us up," Caitlin reported. "Just under detection threshold, but if they get any lower or closer we're in trouble."
"Roger that. Everyone else pick that up?"
"Hard to miss," Rick said drily. "Recommend we power up the jammers to standby and programme them for Sequence One." It was widely reported that the Soviets were incorporating a home-on-jam setting into many of their long-range missiles, with an eye towards the US Air Force and Navy's preference for medium-level attacks from the cover of electronic countermeasures, so the Wolfpack had perfected a series of intricate and carefully timed manoeuvres to confuse passive radar homing missiles yet still protect them from radar pickup.
High above them, the four-ship of Italian Air Force F3 Tornadoes spread out to 'card' formation, two wing pairs covering one another. "Positive contact!" the lead fighter's radar operator called out. "Four targets dead ahead, extreme low level." They sought a lock with their simulated weapons, but the radar screens were suddenly filled with mush. Virulent Italian obscenities filled the ether as the pilots switched over to Sidewinders and cannon.
"Heat-seekers!" yelled every flight-engineer simultaneously.
"Flares flares flares!" Burns yelled, banking sharply towards the 'incoming missile', simulated by a green dot on his HUD. A quick squirt of turbos and the missile was five miles behind him and without a target. He loosed a Starstreak in the direction of a Tornado that flashed past the Wolverine's, nose then dived for the deck.
"Split up and lose 'em!" Hawke ordered. "Meet up at Checkpoint Three!"
"Copy that," Burns said crisply, swerving into a valley. He was used to doing this kind of thing in Jaguars; between them, the various European NATO Air Forces had just about written the book on low-level combat flying. Occasional short bursts from the turbos kept their speed around five hundred knots, and between their jammers and ground clutter the Wolverines were lost from view.
They found one another again a few minutes later, five miles from the airfield. They hovered for a few moments, and Hawke addressed the others. "We all set?"
"Wolf Two, good to go."
"Wolf Three, good to go."
"Wolf Four, good to go."
"Then let's do it!" Hawke jerked the collective and sent Airwolf rocketing above the crest of a hill, then slammed the stick forward and dived on the target airbase. "Gimme rockets," he requested.
"Rockets up," Caitlin replied. Missile tubes one and three began spitting 70mm rockets into the runway. They were designed for attacking armoured vehicles, and made a gratifying mess of the tarmac. Wolves Three and Four were busily tearing the hangars to pieces with cannon and rockets, whilst Wolf Two... well, Hawke wasn't entirely sure what Wolf Two was doing, but it involved filling the airwaves with loud and continuous swearing from all three crew members.
"Missile tubes are jammed; sodding computer's gone down!" Rick elaborated. "I'm going to try and take out those SAMs with guns, but watch yourselves!" There was a brief crackle of static. "Bob, what the hell are you doing back there?"
Hawke groaned. What are these guys, a stand-up comedy routine? Wolf Two's cockpit was now rapidly filling with smoke, and they rather hastily broke off as half a dozen SAMs lit off all at once. The remaining Wolverines immediately went evasive, but the damage had been done. The airfield was a wreck, and they withdrew feeling well and truly triumphant.
"A smoke grenade," Burns growled, depositing the offending object on the bar. "They put a smoke grenade in my cockpit!"
"It was quite a realistic simulation of an in-flight technical problem," Savage admitted.
"What sort of technical problem are we talking about here, Bob? Somebody accidentally setting fire to the upholstery?" the thoroughly smoke blackened ex-Jaguar pilot demanded in a somewhat strangled tone of voice.
"Skipper, please don't joke about stuff like that; my cousin actually did that once. Okay, so Dave wasn't feeling his best what with getting shot out of his Harrier and chased five miles by a load of pissed-off Argies, but he really should have known better than to light up in the back of a chopper; you know how everything gets covered in oil in the back."
"I'd have paid good money for a few pictures of that," Dom remarked.
"I was provided with several by the Marines who dragged his sorry arse off the battlefield. I'll show you them sometime."
"So this is our base ship?" Hawke said skeptically.
Burns laughed. "What were you expecting? A monolith of gleaming steel covered in weapons and comms antennae?"
The Olympic was a 280-foot crude oil carrier, one of a class of five built in the late 70s by Harland & Woolf for British Petroleum to serve the company's oil rigs in the North Sea, and had spent her entire career plying a fairly regular route between the rigs and various ports in Northern Europe. They were too small to be much use for long-distance export runs, and when pipelines had made them redundant they had been sold off. Three were filling their original roles with new owners -one with a Japanese firm, two in the Middle East- and a fourth was being converted to a general cargo ship. The Olympic, however, was getting to do something far more exciting.
She'd been used hard, and it showed. The hull was streaked with rust, and the paintwork was peeling noticeably in several areas. However, Hawke couldn't help noticing that several areas gleamed like new. "We've deliberately left her exterior largely unchanged," explained the commander, a Spanish naval officer by the name of Hernandez. "Nobody looks twice at a grubby old merchantman. Underneath, however, she's had some impressive modifications."
They boarded, and were given a perfunctory tour of the command centre. "We have a full set of military search and fire-control radar and secure satellite communications, all retracted below the deck. Our main armament consists of one Vickers 4.5 inch gun, twelve vertically launched Sea Sparrow missiles and a pair of Close-In Weapons System turrets, plus a dozen Oerlikon deck guns and a full suite of chaff and infrared decoys. We have hangar space for twelve aircraft; our normal complement will be six Wolverines, four Pumas and two Sea Kings, one configured for anti-submarine warfare and the other for airborne early warning. We don't have our full complement of Wolverines yet, or the Sea Kings, but for this operation we'll be embarking two Super Stallions.
"Our total ground troop contingent stands at one hundred fifty, rotated in from the British Special Boat Service, the US Navy SEALs and other specialists in seaborne warfare. We carry two twenty-man landing craft and six Sea Raider inflatables for situations where helicopters are not desirable."
"Enough to start a small war," Caitlin remarked approvingly. "Or stop one."
"The latter is significantly closer to our stated objectives," Hernandez agreed solemnly, then grinned. "We want peace, and we can and will wage terrible war to achieve it!"
They sailed two days later, maintaining a respectable fifteen knots; Olympic could manage nearly twice that flat out, but at the cost of burning a lot of fuel and drawing unwanted attention to herself. The pilots settled into their new quarters and were introduced to the ground troops.
"As soon as we get close to the Vietnamese coastline, we'll be deploying small parties to areas known to contain POW camps during the war. We're getting limited satellite recce support, but there are a number of Marine Recon and Delta Force teams already in-country," explained the commander, a tough Georgian SEAL by the name of Lt. Commander Buckwell. "We'll be getting our intel from them direct as soon as the satellite repositions." They were borrowing a military communications satellite from the NSA for the duration of the mission.
Sam Curtis took it upon herself to instruct the rest of the Wolverine crews in the fine art of pistol and rifle shooting, getting them involved in practice sessions with the ground troops. To qualify as a Marine Corps pilot she had been required to pass the same basic training as a regular Marine, and was consequently an excellent shot. "I've always admired that," Burns admitted, signing out a pistol and five clips. "One of the few areas where I think we can really learn something from you guys."
Sam snorted at the backhanded compliment, and hefted her rifle.
The issue of weapons had been a rather thorny one. The multi-national nature of the ground force made standardising on a single weapon type difficult. The M16 was considered at one point, but they eventually realised that the weapon common to virtually every Special Forces unit was the ubiquitous Heckler & Koch MP5. H&K marketed a couple of nearly identical weapons cambered for 5.56mm NATO ammunition, with very similar handling characteristics, so they eventually settled on the G41 assault rifle as the unit's standard shoulder arm. For close-quarters battle they carried the usual MP5s and a number of Remington 870 combat shotguns, with the new Minimi light machine gun and the legendary Browning .50 calibre for fire support and a number of M66 Light Antitank Weapon one-use rocket launchers. At one stage or another, the pilots wangled a go with all of them, as well as the Oerlikons. By general agreement, Hawke and Curtis were the best all-rounders, but Savage was better with the heavy weapons. "Started out as an anti-aircraft gunner before I transferred to helicopters," he explained. "I even winged a Mirage in '82 when my Lynx was down for maintenance"
On the fourth day of the voyage they took on fuel and stores from a Dutch fleet replenishment ship, an intricate feat of seamanship involving no end of hard work, and a Royal Navy specialty. To the obvious delight of the US personnel aboard the Olympic, the stores manifest included alcoholic beverages. "You're just about the only 'dry' navy in NATO," Hernandez pointed out. "The rules are somewhat ambiguous, but your personnel rarely abstain when invited on-board our ships as guests."
Rarely abstain, he says?" laughed a Royal Navy officer. "We make it a point of honour to get them all pissed as newts!" One of the USN officers remarked that newts aren't a belligerent species as a rule, getting a general laugh. The only real problem they'd experienced integrating the ship's company was understanding each other's colloquialisms, especially maritime jargon. Burns suspected his flight engineer of taking a perverse delight in confusing the hell out of everybody with 'Jack speak', but in time he was able to learn by context what most of it meant.
It also meant that he was able to get away with intercepting five hundred Mars Bars from the RAS (replenishment at sea) and selling them off because only the RN and Fleet Air Arm personnel knew what he meant by 'nutty.'
On day six, a mere 48 hours from their intended launch point, a senior staff briefing was convened. "There has been a development," Captain Hernandez said dramatically. "We have confirmed the location of the last POW camp in Vietnam." There was an appreciative murmur.
"That puts us nicely ahead of schedule," remarked one of the Delacour brothers; even Fabien had given up trying to tell them apart.
"This information reached us the old-fashioned way," Hernandez continued. "The head guard offered us the information in exchange for fifty thousand US dollars and a ride to Bali."
"Naughty little Communist," Burns chuckled. "How much information did he give us besides a map reference?"
" The name, rank and number of every man in the camp." Hernandez grinned, pausing for effect. "The list included David Leclerc and St. John Hawke." Simultaneous rebel yells erupted from the crews of Wolf One and Two.
A few hundred miles away, in the dense jungles of Vietnam, an old man with a bad limp looked up at the sky, then back towards the collection of huts he was nominally in charge of guarding. "Soon," he muttered to nobody in particular. "Soon you will be with your families once more, and I will have a life worth living again."
It wasn't that he had any feelings of nostalgia towards the old South Vietnamese government, such as it had been; the United States had assumed that they could draw a line on a map, invent a new flag and put up the money for some official buildings and Shazam! New country. The chief guard of Camp Number 23 was both a well-read man and a great respecter of historical precedent, and knew perfectly well that getting people to think like citizens of one country or another is nearly impossible to achieve by brute force, and takes a long time however one chooses to go about it. It isn't as if the imperialist jackal's bladders have exactly brought it off themselves, he thought to himself with bitter humour. Besides, the South had been governed almost exclusively by those who were incompetent, on the make or both.
However, his feelings towards the replacement country were less than fulsomely enthusiastic these days. He wasn't a counter-revolutionary or anything; he still believed that what they had been fighting for had been right. But the current regime bore precious little resemblance to the perfect society the political officers had talked about. The whole economy was held together by sweated labour providing cheap plastic rubbish to the West, and the Party was a bastion of wealth and privilege whilst the People shivered in the cold. And quite frankly, he was fed up with it.
I'm no counter-revolutionary traitor, whatever the secret police might have us believe. I'm just a bitter old man who watched too many friends die for a cause I don't care about any longer.
"Right, folks. This image comes courtesy of a KH-16 pass about half an hour ago. Pretty unremarkable layout; twelve POW huts, two more for the guards, four towers with mounted machine guns. The guards are mostly second-echelon troops, probably ex-Vietcong. There's about two hundred of them, but you can imagine how alert they are.
"As far as we know, the prisoners are in fairly good physical condition, considering their circumstances; the food's probably shit, but the head guard's forbidden the beatings they dished out in wartime and managed to get hold of a doctor for them. We've timed the attack to coincide with his regular evening walk, and a Marine Recon unit will pick him up. They've also put infrared strobes on the huts used by the guards, so we know what to blow up." Burns paused to take a sip of water.
"Now, obviously we can't lift everybody at once. That means we'll be doing this in relays. As soon as the camp's secure, the ground troops will dig into prepared positions and be ready to hold off any opposition forces that deploy. Once we have control of the camp, Wolf One and Wolf Two will maintain CAP. Wolves Three and Four will escort the transports back to the Olympic. Navigation data's already uploaded to your computers. Questions?"
"What's their comms gear like?" Savage enquired.
"One landline, which the Marine Recon unit will disable precisely ten minutes before we go in. Apart from that, they might have a few hand-held radios but that's the size of it."
There were no further questions. "Okay, people. Saddle up, lock and load!"
A klaxon sounded throughout the ship. Up on deck, the hatches over the old crude oil tanks swung open. From the one nearest the bow, a 114mm naval gun emerged, barrel swinging down from maximum elevation. From the ones immediately fore and aft of the bridge superstructure -they'd started calling it 'the island', as per carrier practice- appeared Phalanx Close-In Weapons System turrets, which bore a striking resemblance to R2D2... with an almighty hard-on. Gunners were hastily erecting 20mm Oerlikon light flak guns on the deck rails and hooking up ammunition belts.
From the centre compartments, the helicopters rose majestically. The massive MH-53 Pave Low III transports, USAF special operations variant of the Super Stallion, lifted first. The smaller Pumas were next, then finally the Wolverines emerged, taking up a 'box' formation around the transport aircraft and putting their jammers on STDBY.
They maintained a steady one hundred knots, flying so low that they were kicking up sea spray "Much more of this and we'll mess up the paint," Dom complained.
"The mechanics used to give us hell for that too," Rheinholdt replied. The Marineflieger officer had once been navigator in a Tornado.
"Cut the chatter, people," Hawke ordered tersely. "Feet-dry in ten minutes."
The chief guard and the camp's political officer were old enemies. It wasn't as if the political officer was popular with anybody; they rarely are. But this wasn't just irritation with his constant carping and ideological gunk; it was bitter, violent and extremely personal.
"No, Major, I do not hate those men," the chief guard said icily. "Why should I?"
"They are Americans. It is the duty of all..."
"Major, I have read just about everything in your library. Nowhere does Marx, Lenin or any of the original theorists claim it is the duty of all good Communists to despise anybody! Besides, hatred is an emotion that requires too much energy for an old man like me."
The major gave the chief guard a dubious look. "Did these men not bring so much death and destruction to our country?"
"And to my recollection we repaid them with interest! Damn it, Major, the war is over! We won! Why waste time and energy on holding a grudge against men who were out there fighting for something they probably didn't really believe in themselves? Our population is at least ninety percent conscripts!"
The row ended, as it usually did, with the chief guard stalking out of the compound cursing under in his breath. The guards watched as he headed into the jungle, their expressions ranging from sympathy to contempt. The prisoners kept their own counsel, instead concentrating on the Army vs Air Force basketball game being played between two huts. The baskets had been improvised from bamboo, and one of the friendlier guards had furnished them with a ball in exchange for teaching him and some of the others to play. The political officer had come close to having an aneuerism when word got back to him, but had done no more than protest to the commandant. Since the commandant spent most of his time off his head on sake these days, the matter had been allowed to rest.
A safe distance from the camp, the chief guard cleared his throat politely. Two men in well-worn camouflage fatigues dropped from nearby trees, and four more emerged from foxholes. "Good evening, Major Lin," the senior Marine Recon NCO said in accented but intelligible Vietnamese.
"Sergeant. All is ready, I hope?"
"The aircraft took off ten minutes ago. They should be arriving at 1930 hours. Did you warn anybody?"
"Not yet. I might have an idea to make this night somewhat less bloody. Suppose I were to come running back into the camp yelling that I had seen a US special forces patrol cutting our telephone wires?"
"They'd turn out the guard, probably leave a skeleton staff at the actual camp. This I like the sound of!"
At 1920 hours precisely, the chief guard appeared at an uncharacteristic run. "Intruders!" he yelled. "Six men, Westerners! Probably special forces! I saw them near one of the telephone poles!"
"Turn out the guard!" barked the political officer. "Everybody not on patrol duty form a skirmish line and find the Americans!" He ran for the guardroom, blowing a whistle and waving his arms. The general consensus amongst the prisoners and guards was that he looked like a complete and total prick.
"Three minutes. Combat mode."
"Combat mode."
"Wolf Flight, Lead. Execute hop-up and engage."
As one, the four Wolverines jerked above the treeline beside the rive they'd been following, and engaged their turbos. The transport helicopters assumed a hover and waited for their cue.
In the camp, the chief guard summoned the 'trustys' who worked in the camp kitchens. "Gentlemen, you will soon be departing. Have your fellow prisoners gather up anything of sentimental value."
"Are we being transferred to another camp?" asked one of them, a tall, blonde ex-Huey pilot.
Rotors suddenly became audible. "Not exactly," the chief guard replied with a smile. "I think we should get out of this building; it has an infrared strobe on the roof."
The quartet of Wolverines screamed towards the camp, and walked chaingun fire through the roofs of the empty guard quarters. The remaining guards opened fire, scoring a few glancing hits but doing no damage. "All of you get into the huts and stay in there!" the chief guard bellowed to the prisoners, trying to sound authoritative. They complied instantly, knowing full well what was about to happen. The guards continued firing, but the four helicopter merely circled the camp, bullets bouncing off their hulls. One wag started humming the theme tune to Jaws until somebody else whacked him upside the head.
At this point, the transports arrived, door-gunners volleying suppression fire and men fast-roping to the ground. The guards redirected their fire, immediately bringing on a volley of gunfire from the Wolverines. The survivors wisely threw away their weapons and put their hands up.
The chief guard stuck his head out from the relative safety of a trench, and winced. He'd hoped the bloodshed would be minimal. Those men died for what they believe in, and it could have been a lot worse, he told himself. It almost helped.
The transport helicopters set down in the exercise area as the ground forces began establishing themselves in defensive positions. The prisoners began emerging from the huts, and the captain in charge of the ground troops ordered a roll-call whilst the medics attended to the wounded guards.
Wolf Two, meanwhile, was vectoring to assist the special forces unit.
"See anything yet?" Burns demanded.
"Not yet... Aha! Heat signatures, lots of them. Skirmish line unless I miss my guess. Ten degrees port."
"Right. Let's give them something besides those Marines to worry about!" Rick swerved around and came in at a right angle to the line of soldiers, then let rip with 70mm rockets. Bits of foliage, soil and men flew everywhere as he methodically rained fire along the skirmish line, then performed a brief barrel roll and headed back to the camp. "Nice shootin' hon," Marie said approvingly. Bob repressed a snigger.
The first group of prisoners were already boarding the helicopters by the time they returned. Wolf Leader was on the ground, rotors idling. "Impromptu family reunion?" Bob guessed.
"Probably."
St. John Hawke gratefully accepted a cigarette from one of the soldiers, noting their unit patch with interest. It showed a wolf howling at the moon, above crossed Roman pilums. Beneath it was the national flag of whichever country they were from.
He drew deeply on the cigarette, which was of rather better quality than the ones they were occasionally able to acquire, and watched the weird-looking attack helicopter settle in beside two transports. "What wouldn't I have given for one of those babies in Vietnam," he remarked to nobody in particular.
The attack bird's side door cranked open, and a very familiar figure climbed out. "Told you I'd come back," String said cheerfully.
"Took your damn time!" Sinjin laughed. "Ah, hell, better late than never!"
Laughing and crying, the brothers embraced for the first time in two decades. Dominic emerged from the rear of the Wolverine at a dead run and tearfully embraced his long-lost son.
"Hate to break it up, guys, but we've got company!" Caitlin yelled a few seconds later. "MiG-29s, eight of them!"
"Shit. Catch you later, bro!" String ran for his aircraft.
Burns cursed under his breath. "When the hell did these guys get their hands on bloody Fulcrums? Hold tight, you two!" He fired a three-second burst of turbos and rocketed skywards. "Arm Starstreaks!"
"Starstreaks armed," Savage replied calmly. Rick closed with the nearest pair of Fulcrums and loosed a pair of heat-seekers. The Vietnamese fighters took violent evasive action, but a third let off a burst of cannon fire that narrowly missed them.
"I'll have you for that!" Rick yelled, twisting his Wolverine through several nausea-inducing gyrations and diving on his assailant with cannons roaring. "Yeah! Collectivise that you son of a bitch!"
Mad as a sack of starving ferrets, Bob mused. Typical fighter jockey! "Check six skipper!"
Rick swore, and slammed the brakes on. The pursuing Fulcrum dived to avoid them and ploughed straight into the jungle canopy. The angle was fairly shallow, and the somewhat battered fighter came to rest a full quarter mile from the battlefield. Rick laughed in savage exultation and sought anther target.
Wolf One spun around on her own axis and sprayed gunfire at the MiG on her tail, which blew up. "Got the son of a bitch!" Hawke yelled. "Caitlin? How are we off for Starstreaks?"
"Five gone, seven left!"
"Copy that."
The remaining Fulcrums began to retreat. "Is it just me, or are we winning?" Dominic remarked.
"It's just you; they're going to use stand-off missiles. Stay with them or they'll crucify us!" Rick yelled, engaging his turbos and howling off in pursuit.
Ten miles off the coast, the airborne convoy had the misfortune to overfly a Turya-class hydrofoil, which immediately opened fire with its twin 57mm cannon. Abandonning hope of avoiding detection, the transports grabbed for all the altitude they could get as the Wolverines engaged with Brimstone missiles. The small patrol vessel was blown clean in half under the onslaught, but not before it was able to transmit a general alert to all naval units in the area. A Tarantul-class corvette and four Osa-class missile boats were immediately vectored to investigate.
"TORCH, this is SPRINTER. We have been compromised, repeat, we have been compromised!" And these callsigns are too bloody obvious for comfort, Delacour added mentally.
"Copy that, SPRINTER." Hernandez cursed under his breath in Spanish. He'd been hoping to avoid this. "Arm Sea Sparrows, and ready the main gun."
The Vietnamese Air Force were hastily scrambling every available fighter. Stunned and furious at the losses inflicted on their brand new Sukhoi-27s (incorrectly identified by Rick as the basically similar MiG-29), they were determined not to let the intruders get away with humiliating them so badly. The remaining Flankers and several dozen older MiG-21 'Fishbed' intercepters were being rushed skywards, as were a number of Sukhoi-22 strike aircraft carrying AS-10 air-to-ground missiles. Additionally, it had been realised that the prison camp was now under enemy control. All nearby ground forces were being sent in.
"Hawke, I have a lot of activity on the road to the camp," Caitlin warned. "Tanks and trucks, lots of them."
"We see them too," Rick added. "And those fighters won't take long in coming back." For the first time since they'd known him, the normally laconic pilot sounded very concerned, and small wonder. The communications disruption upon which the success of the plan had largely hinged had evidently gone badly wrong, and things were snowballing badly. "This is becoming a serious Charlie-Foxtrot!"
"Do I want to know what that stands for?" Caitlin enquired sweetly, having a fair idea already.
"Probably not. TORCH, this is RELAY. Recommend you decrease separation; MARATHON's taking too long!"
"Affirmative, RELAY. They're already tracking MARATHON anyhow."
"Copy that." Hawke switched back to the Wolf Flight frequency. "Another item for the list of fuck-ups that shouldn't have happened; TORCH is compromised! Okay, two minutes to target!"
The two Wolverines dived on the mixed convoy of tanks, trucks and APCs with cannons blazing. "Where's Chico when I need it?" Hawke quipped. (Historical Note: 'Chico' was the callsign for a single Phantom of the 366th Tactical Fighter Wing fitted with a pair of underwing 20mm cannon pods and used very successfully as a sort of 'fire brigade' for ground troops suddenly needing assistance.)
"We ain't doin' too bad on our own," Marie replied.
"That, my dear, is understatement worthy of an Englishwoman!" Rick laughed. Burning wreckage littered the narrow dirt track, and a ruined tank lay across both lanes at an angle. "It'll take hours to shift that lot."
Unfortunately, the Vietnamese military is nothing if not resourceful. Four massive, fully loaded Mi-6 'Hook' transport helicopters were scrambled under heavy fighter cover, carrying nearly twice as many troops as the Olympic could support. Accompanying them were two Hind gunships. The Wolverine crews became aware of this just as the transport helicopters began arriving to retrieve the next load of prisoners.
"That's not good," Savage remarked.
"TORCH has incoming missiles!" somebody yelled over the radio.
"That's really not good."
"You Brits just love this understatement thing, don't you?"
The Tarantul fired twice over the Olympic's bow from five miles, calling out a surrender demand. "Return fire," Hernandez ordered.
The 4.5 inch gun swung about and fired five times in rapid succession, hitting the Tarantul four times. One round punched straight through the portside Styx missile launch tube, causing a massive internal explosion. Badly damaged but still under command, the stricken warship made best speed in the opposite direction to the Olympic whilst the crew struggled to contain the severe damage incurred. "Let her go," Hernandez ordered. "Switch fire to those Osas." This was where they really needed their intended complement, he reflected grimly. A Sea King ASW helicopter could have brought two Exocets aloft and blown the corvette sky high from seventy miles away, but even the smallest naval missile ever built was externally carried. Wolverines, for all their far from inconsiderable merits, were unable to carry anything larger than Hellfires.
"Six air contacts on intercept vector bearing zero five two, range eight five miles, altitude ten thousand and descending!" the radar officer called out. "Tentative identification Sukhoi-22 Fitters!"
"Sea Sparrows, batteries released! Fire when ready!"
"Osas launching missiles!"
"CIWS, fire at will!" The Phalanx turrets swiveled, tracking the incoming missiles as the Olympic began a series of rapid evasive manouevres, firing chaff salvoes every ninety seconds. As the missiles came into view, the Close-In Weapons Systems opened fire, spewing explosive shells at two thousand rounds a minute. Five of the incoming SS-N-2 'Styx' missiles were downed, and the rest decoyed by chaff, but by this stage the Fitters were in weapons range and opened fire.
Awkwardly for both sides, the AS-10 and the RIM-7 Sea Sparrow have roughly the same maximum range -about twenty miles- but the latter has difficulty engaging low-level targets. The targeting solutions were so bad that the Principal Warfare Officer didn't even waste a missile trying. Instead, he ordered a volley of magnesium flares and a sharp turn to face the incoming missiles broadside on. The Phalanxes tried their best, but the tiny AS-10 is almost impossible to target accurately with the most modern point-defence system and only three were downed. The rest slammed forcibly into the converted tanker's hull... and that was about it.
Olympic had been built with three hulls, given the toxic nature of her cargo and her intended area of operations in areas heavily dependent on the fishing industry. It had been discovered in the course of her sea-trials that even carrying a full complement of personnel, stores and helicopters she was nowhere near her full design weight, and indeed would need considerable ballasting to be stable enough for helicopter operation in heavy sea states. A highly acceptable solution had been found by filling the cavities between the hulls with extra layers of rod-reinforced concrete. Not only was the desired level of stability achieved, but it was doubtful that anything short of a specialist penetration warhead would seriously inconvenience the Olympic on impact with the hull sides. The deck plating was still relatively vulnerable, though Kevlar had been sandwiched between the original ceiling and a thick layer of titanium, but torpedoes or sea-skimming missiles were slightly less of a threat than they would have been otherwise.
In a display of commendable bravery and fighting spirit but lamentable disregard for their own safety, the Vietnamese pilots pressed on to engage with their 30mm cannon, only to fly straight into a barrage from the Oerlikons, as well as several .50 calibre machine guns and a couple of Stingers that had been left in the hands of the few ground troops who couldn't squeeze aboard the transports. One Fitter jerked upwards straight into the past of another, the pilot more or less decapitated by a shell, and the second aircraft described a near somersault as the first clipped it on the rear fuselage. The pilot somehow managed to eject, landing rather forcefully on the Olympic's deck and breaking his leg. He was carried below decks under the watchful eye of two armed ratings, wondering how the hell he was going to explain this if and when he got back to his unit.
One of the surviving Fitter pilots frantically radioed this information to the Osas, hoping to convince them to cease fire. Before the missile boats could take any sort of decision in this regard, the Wolverines escorting the transports took a few moments to blast all four of them sky high with Brimstones.
The quartet of Mi-6 heavy transports landed in a small clearing some distance from the camp; the occupants preferred a long walk to flying directly above an enemy position containing at least two Stinger teams. From cover, six Marine Recon operatives exchanged looks and began to grin. The four helicopters carried only a two-man cockpit crew, not having troubled with loadmasters in the urgency of the situation.
"TORCH," the unit commander said into the secure radio, "this is Nightshade Three. I have an idea..."
There was a short burst of activity as they checked their maps, and determined that the Olympic was actually closer to Camp 23 than the airfield the Mi-6s had departed from. The Marines immediately converged on the knot of Vietnamese aircrew, most of whom were enjoying a cigarette in the fresh air. Only one of them even thought to draw a weapon, which he immediately threw away on seeing the array of automatic weapons pointing at him.
"Shit," several of them agreed.
Meanwhile, the Wolverine CAP was dodging SA-7 man-portable SAMs and bursts of small arms fire, and getting the odd burst of gunfire in. Neither aircraft had any rockets left, and were getting worryingly short of ammunition.
"Damn it RELAY, we're fast running out of time and ammo and options!" Rick yelled in frustration. "If you can't speed things up somehow the camp's going to be overrun!"
The ground troops were doing their best, but they were badly outnumbered. The Hinds had been narrowly driven off by the Wolverines, after dropping three or four rockets into the camp and causing some bad casualties, and the heliborne troops had been bolstered by at least another hundred men who'd arrived overland. By sheer bloody-minded willpower, both sides had fought one another to a standstill. "Hard pounding this, gentlemen," Bob muttered, quoting the Duke of Wellington. "Let's see who pounds longest."
"RELAY, this is Nightshade Three. We've arranged some additional transportation!"
"What's he talking about?"
Four Vietnamese Army Air Force Mi-6 'Hook' transports appeared on the horizon. Their pilots had pistols against their heads. "Full marks for style, and a couple of bonus points for lateral thinking!" Rick concluded warmly, diving on the Vietnamese ground troops with a vengeance.
They packed the remaining prisoners aboard and raced for the coast, though Wolf Four found time to circle the Mi-6s taking Polaroids of this historic occasion. North promised to supply several to the Vietnamese pilots, who suspected rightly that their superiors weren't going to be best pleased when they heard about this.
The disembarkation was accomplished by stowing the Pumas and Pave Lows in the hangar bay then sealing the hatches and landing the 'Hooks' on the deck. The freed POWs were offloaded, and four Polaroids entrusted to the Fitter pilot, whose plaster cast was now covered with signatures from the prisoners he'd been trying to stop escaping. They were still trying to work out who'd be least popular with their political officers when the four big transports managed to land at an alternate field near the coast.
Fortunately, the Thai government showed remarkable forebearance when the freed POWs had been repatriated. They merely lodged a formal protest at the UN and had their ambassador present the Secretary of State with an invoice for the $2,000,000 needed to repair various parts of their capital. A less understanding administration might have treated it as an act of war.
"I haven't been this hung over since 1945," Dominic groaned.
"I had less of a hangover when I turned eighteen," Bob added, not to be outdone by a man old enough to be his father. "Has John woken up yet?" Apparently the older Hawke brother secretly hated 'Sinjin.'
"None of the POWs have. Come to think of it, has anybody seen String? Or Caitlin?"
"No, and I don't suggest we go looking for them either. Apart from anything else, I'm not sure I want to face him after we duetted for We Are The Champions last night."
"You were in tune more consistently, if I remember right."
"I wish I found that reassuing. Come on, let's go and find some coffee."
The individuals in question were just regaining consciousness at this very moment. It was Hawke who realised his situation first. He was in his own quarters, which was a plus. He was in the company of a very attractive young woman, which was also a plus. He outranked this young woman by two grades, which was a minus. He still had nightmares about the fate of that last woman he'd slept with, which was an even bigger minus. The headache so powerful it barely fit inside his head he considered a more or less neutral factor.
"Oh, what have I done?" he groaned.
"How long have you got?" Caitlin said sleepily.
"Cait, we talked about this. Every single person I've ever been close to, save Dom, died when I walked away."
"Stringfellow Hawke, you are the most hopelessly superstitious person I know!" she giggled. "And who did we spring from a Vietnamese prison camp yesterday?" That, he reflected, was certainly something to think about. "Besides, I sit right behind you in Airwolf; you watch my ass, I'll watch yours."
"That's kind of tricky when you're sitting behind me," he replied drily. "Maybe we can rig up a couple of mirrors..." They laughed.
On the quayside, Acrhangel watched with interest as Marella provided Major Lin with directions to the airport along with a Business Class air ticket, passport and Bank Americard for his fee. "You know, I spent twenty years in Vietnam, and I still can't pronounce it worth a damn," St John Hawke remarked.
"Marella does possess above-average oral dexterity," Michael agreed.
St. John shot him a look. "When you praise your PA's oral deterity I get mental pictures I don't like." Marella demonstrated above-average hearing as well, and gave him the finger.
"So," Archangel continued, "does Stringfellow know I'm JAVELIN's new Head of Intelligence?"
"I think we'll let the aspirin kick in first. Actually, now that you two are working for the same people towards the same goals rather than just using each other, I think you two should get along just fine."
"That maniac Burns disagrees."
"That's not fair, Michael. Running a sweepstake on whether String throws you overboard before you return to Brussels doesn't constitute taking sides."
"You haven't seen the odds he's offering."
Further comment was interrupted by a slightly strangled cry of "He's what?"
"This is gonna be a long, long cruise," Dominic muttered.
And roll credits!
Bibliography:
Most of the information comes courtesy of the Jane's Information Group. I used pretty much their complete range of Recognition Guides at one stage or another in the composition of the battle scenes. The particulars of the firepower come from Jeremy Flack's NATO Air-Launched Weapons, which contains a handful of old Soviet types since Poland and a few other old Warsaw Pact nations came over to NATO. The odd bits of Royal Navy slang in this and future stories were largely picked up from Christopher Terrill's HMS Brilliant: In a Ship's Company.
Okay, now I'm done showing off, here's a little request for you all.
I've got two or three ideas for episodes, but not enough to make a worthwhile series. This is where you all come in. Maybe you've got a really good idea, maybe you even want to try your hand at writing your own episode; either way, let me know. There are only three conditions for the latter:
I must be allowed to beta-read all episodes first, for continuity purposes more than quality control.
No characters are to be killed off without consultation. Again, this is for continuity purposes; somebody else (not least me) might have something in mind for them.
Huge leaps in geography must be avoided. Not as urgent as the other two, but having one episode take place in Antarctica, the next in the Caribbean and the third off the coast of Norway is a lot to ask of one boat! (Write them by all means, but please hold off posting until the rest of the script team can contrive to get the Olympic out there.)
Apart from that, you have a free hand. Go to it, folks!