CLIPPED WINGS
By: CindyR Chapter 1
"We're not exactly talking George Orwell here." Had Jason Locke's skin been any lighter it might have betrayed the flush frustration was rapidly bringing to his cheeks. As it was, sweat began to bead his brow as the argument progressed, his black mustache bristling at the edges. "Considering how sensitive a position you're in, I think it's only reasonable...."
Stringfellow Hawke's youthful face didn't so much as twitch out of the somber mask that was habitual to him. He snatched a rag out of the pocket of his white coverall and swiped at the machine oil on his hands, his gaze focussed over the older man's right shoulder. "I don't care how 'reasonable' you think it is," he growled, "I am not going to wear a tracer."
"Everyone else is wearing one," Locke's resonant baritone edged up a decibel. "Even Jo."
The woman in question slid out from under the red, white and blue JetRanger helicopter that occupied the spacious hangar's center stage. "The Company gave me a tracer right after I discovered Airwolf," she said, dabbing at the grease staining her heavily-made-up, china-doll face. Succeeding only in smearing her eyeliner, she sighed and pulled herself into a sitting pose. "I may not be as 'sensitive' as you, Saint John and Mike are, but the Company likes to keep tabs anyway."
"It's not that we're 'keeping tabs,'" Locke corrected her with more tolerance than he'd thus far shown. "A transponder is merely a safety precaution. You don't fly many Airwolf missions since Stringfellow rejoined the team on a permanent basis, but that doesn't mean you can't still be vulnerable to enemy interest."
"Jason likes to keep all his chicks safe under wing." The amused, slightly nasal tenor came from inside the helicopter. A moment later a long-jawed face topped with short, bronze colored hair and sharp blue-gray eyes peeked out the door to grin down at Jo. "Welcome to the brood. By the way, you have something dripping on you," he added, pointing to a spreading brown stain on her once-white coverall.
She muttered a mild oath and moved hurriedly out of range of the fluid dribbling from somewhere out of sight. "Darn! I must not have sealed that line properly. Somebody quick hand me that bucket over there."
The bronze-haired man started to obey, aborting the action at a cheerful call from the corner. "Never mind, Saint John. I'll get it." Mike Rivers hopped off the workbench he'd been perching on during the preceding argument, and snatched the firebucket off its hook. He toted it to the woman, who had slid even further out of the way of the hydraulics leak. "Here, gorgeous, try this. We can't have those snazzy fashions of yours getting ruined, now can we?"
Jo Santini accepted the bucket without a glance, positioning it where it would catch the drip. "Thanks, Mike. And ... stuff it in your ear."
"She's crazy about me," Mike confided to a gravely watching Stringfellow, who only returned a blank look. He was prevented from elaborating -- something that had turned into an amiable shot-for-shot game for both men over the past couple of months -- by Locke, who stepped forward, hands held palms up and a determined look on his face.
"To get back to my point," the black man rapped, turning to again stand face-to-face with the younger Hawke brother, "I'm issuing transponders as minimum equipment to several of my field agents, and that includes the Airwolf team."
"Maybe we could mount it on your bike," Mike, ever helpful, suggested, uncowered by the possibility of imminent conflict; rather, his light eyes sparkled with mischief despite the conciliatory words. It was quite obvious he was enjoying the squabble hugely.
"You're to have it on your person at all times," Locke went on coolly, full lips tight under his black mustache. "End of discussion. It's called following orders."
Dark blue eyes glittered rebelliously through slitted lids as Stringfellow drew himself stiffly erect. Lean muscles tight as cord, he slowly and deliberately removed his amber sunglasses and placed them in his breast pocket. Recognizing the signs of impending violence, and long acquainted with his mercurial brother's low flash point, Saint John Hawke took a step out of the helicopter, stopping just behind the younger man's left shoulder. "We all agreed they were a good idea the first time one of us ran into trouble on a job," he offered, carefully neutral. "Maybe even life saving."
There was no observable reaction to his words from either combatants; pilot and agent continued to stare at each other implacably, the effect being that of smoldering embers ready to burst into flames. "I think you know where you can stuff that transponder," the brown haired Stringfellow Hawke snarled, unheeding of his brother's words. "And your orders."
"And you can--" Locke began in precisely the same tone. He broke off at the appearance of an elderly man in the doorway leading from the office section. "Who--? Dominic."
"Yeah. Dominic." The man stared from the two near-combatants to the gaping and silent three-person audience, his craggy face registering a hefty dose of annoyance under the full beard he'd grown only weeks before. He brushed the wiry strands down over the collar of his workshirt to hide burn-scars that trailed up from his neck, the gesture having become automatic of late. "Somebody wanna tell me what the devil is going on in here?" he demanded in a gravelly voice. "Are you two fighting again?"
"There isn't anything going on," Stringfellow replied sullenly, continuing to glower at the angry black agent, who was returning the look in full measure. "I'm ready to go back to my cabin...."
The elderly man crossed the hangar at a rapid limp, his badly mutilated right hand going to the younger Hawke's arm, glance just brushing that of the attentive Saint John. He stepped deliberately in front of Locke, breaking the eye contact and the tension. "Oh, no, you don't, kid. You promised to stick around tonight and help me figure out the camera angles on that Bellisarius job for Monday. You know they cancelled our contracts when they thought you an' me were dead, and if this shoot isn't absolutely perfect, they aren't ever gonna renew long term."
Stringfellow stuffed the rag back into his pocket, visibly reining himself in. "Mike can take care of that. I spent all afternoon yesterday with him on the technique."
"I got a gold star and everything!" the irrepressible Rivers called from his side of the hangar. "Wanna see?"
Excepting only a discouraging frown, the newcomer ignored him thoroughly. Hand slipping higher around Stringfellow's shoulders, Dominic Santini, owner/operator of Santini Air and foster father to both the Hawke brothers, steered him around the still glowering Locke toward the offices, his grip friendly but tight enough to brook no debate. "You're the one that knows what O'Connell wants, String. C'mon -- we'll get started on the drafts now and finish up at home tonight over a nice, cold beer."
Once the duo had disappeared, the remaining members of the Airwolf team heaved a collective sigh. "Good old Dom," the bronze-haired Saint John murmured, returning to the helicopter and leaning against its open door. "He always did know how to handle String. Unlike you, Jason," he went on in a louder, chiding tone. "You really blew that one. What are you doing? Bucking for diplomat of the year?"
"They do do a lot of wrangling." Mike rested his fists on his lean hips, grinning ingenuously at the dark glare this earned him. "You know it's true, buddy-boy. You and Saint John's baby brother rock and roll every time you're together more than five minutes."
"Five minutes is the record," Jo added, staring disgustedly at her clothes. "Wonder if Tide with bleach will get that out?"
Leaving Jo to handle her own laundry problems, Hawke cocked his head at the black agent, studying him between narrowed lids in a gaze disturbingly reminiscent of his sibling's. "What is it about you and my brother? I thought it would be Mike that String clashed with, but putting the both of you together is like adding gasoline to a fire. And this time it looked like you went out of your way to push him to the wall."
Locke audibly ground his teeth, smoothing his navy suit jacket with one hand; the movements were jerky and imperfectly designed to cover his indignation. "I can't help it if he won't listen to reason. I've never worked with anyone as infuriating, and that includes, you, Rivers."
Mike contrived to look disappointed. "I've been displaced," he mourned, giving Jo a wink.
The tall Saint John Hawke chuckled, crossing one jeans' clad leg over the other and shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not yet, Mike, but hold that thought." He sobered, turning a sympathetic expression on the still- agitated agent. "Try to understand where he's coming from, Jason. String's had to fight the administration at every turn since he wasn't much more than eighteen years old. If he hadn't ..." He swallowed hard, gray eyes blurring for a single instant before reclaiming their sharp clarity. "... I'd still be a POW in Laos. Or dead."
Locke took another turn, dark eyes burning a hole in the cement floor. "You were MIA in the service of your country. I'm sure in time the United States would have done a more thorough search and rescue even without that rebel stealing a secret, military weapon." The conspicuous silence from the man addressed caught his attention even though his snit, and he lifted his head, instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, but I believe it to be true."
"Do you?" the other man challenged, a spark of bitterness entering his usually even tones. "After fifteen years I was listed as dead, the old projects closed out and my file deleted. Face it, Jason, I was buried and someone wanted me to stay that way. If String hadn't literally blackmailed the Company into maintaining a search, I'd be living in a cage eating rice." He caught himself, forcibly regaining his calm demeanor though firm solidarity remained. "My brother spent almost half his life fighting the Government to keep looking for me, and the only thing that made them listen was his taking Airwolf."
Faced with such protective resolve and fraternal gratitude in his friend, Jason stopped mid-pace, shaking his head. "I don't mean to take anything away from your brother's devotion to you ..." he began.
"You couldn't." But that wasn't directed at Locke so much as himself. Saint John essayed a smile to remove any possible offense. "Besides, even as a kid he was always independent...."
"A maverick, you mean," Locke interjected sourly. "with enough talent to grow up into a hotshot test pilot who never had to learn to follow orders."
"Never to follow them blindly," Hawke corrected quietly. "And that applies to me as well. Independence is one of the reasons we both survived Viet Nam."
The clang of metal scraping on concrete filled the area as Jo readjusted the bucket more directly under the drip. "I should say it does apply to you both," she gibed, grinning over her shoulder at him. "I remember Uncle Dom pulling his hair out over you more than a few times. How about when you were sixteen, and ran off to Mexico with that rock band? Uncle Dom said you had the same wild indian streak that Uncle Allen did."
Dark eyes flashing with irritation, Locke paced the small area in front of the chopper, long legs taking him from Mike's workbench to the tail rotor and back again. "We're not talking about a disobedient sixteen year old," he grumbled, waving his hands. "I swear, Saint John, if Michael wasn't so set on having your brother as a member of this team ..."
"... you'd still be ringing him in on the tough ones," Hawke finished with a knowing wink. "He's been flying Airwolf practically solo for the past two years, and was the primary test pilot for her a long time before that." He gestured at the team in general. "Without him none of us would have made it through that defense perimeter when we pulled Archangel out of Mexico."
"I like to think we'd've done okay even without him," Mike Rivers interjected, looking mildly hurt. "I've flown everything with wings since I joined the Air Force." He paused, honesty compelling him to add, "I liked to think we would have done okay, anyway. A Haversham defense screen is pretty tricky."
"We'd've all crashed and burned in Mexico and you know it," Jo pronounced, giving the bucket a final pat before crawling completely out from under the chopper and getting to her feet. "You should give credit where it's due."
Unmollified, Locke paced forward, then back, highly shined oxfords tapping on the concrete. "I'll give credit when he starts following orders. He's disrupting the morale of this entire team."
"My morale is great," Mike offered, puffing out his chest.
If Locke heard, he gave no indication. "I could have him up on charges for this. Insubordination, disobeying a direct order...."
Saint John straightened, his attitude, as always, protective of his brother while remaining non-hostile to his teammates, including Locke. "That won't solve anything. Threatening String with charges might get you a sock to the chops but that's about it. He's not going to back down over bureaucratic objections." He lifted one shoulder fractionally. "Let's face it, Jason, he hasn't disrupted anything but your feathers. Let me talk to him. I'm sure we can work out something."
"Better listen, Jason." That was Mike again, who was listening with as much interest as amusement. Contrary to expectations, soon after Stringfellow Hawke had returned to the Airwolf team, he and Mike Rivers -- an oil and water mixture if ever there was one -- had established a kind of an amiable camaraderie, composed in the beginning of wary respect for each other's abilities, soon adding a layer of genuine liking despite their dipolar personalities. "Besides, you'd never be able to make any charges stick. Having the Deputy Director of Operations on his side means he's coated with teflon. If Archangel were put to choose between him and you...." He shook his head pityingly, his implication clear.
"He may have to." Locke stopped himself, glancing remorsefully at Saint John. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, either. Your brother may be the finest pilot I've ever seen, but he handles authority as badly as those juvenile delinquents you took camping once."
Hawke smiled. "They turned out fine in the end. So will String. You'll see."
In the path of the pacing black agent, Mike caught his attention by waving both arms and painting on his widest, most buoyant grin. "Cheer up, Jason! Until then, you still have me!"
Locke's groan was heartfelt enough to send Rivers back to work without another word.
***
By: CindyR Chapter 1
"We're not exactly talking George Orwell here." Had Jason Locke's skin been any lighter it might have betrayed the flush frustration was rapidly bringing to his cheeks. As it was, sweat began to bead his brow as the argument progressed, his black mustache bristling at the edges. "Considering how sensitive a position you're in, I think it's only reasonable...."
Stringfellow Hawke's youthful face didn't so much as twitch out of the somber mask that was habitual to him. He snatched a rag out of the pocket of his white coverall and swiped at the machine oil on his hands, his gaze focussed over the older man's right shoulder. "I don't care how 'reasonable' you think it is," he growled, "I am not going to wear a tracer."
"Everyone else is wearing one," Locke's resonant baritone edged up a decibel. "Even Jo."
The woman in question slid out from under the red, white and blue JetRanger helicopter that occupied the spacious hangar's center stage. "The Company gave me a tracer right after I discovered Airwolf," she said, dabbing at the grease staining her heavily-made-up, china-doll face. Succeeding only in smearing her eyeliner, she sighed and pulled herself into a sitting pose. "I may not be as 'sensitive' as you, Saint John and Mike are, but the Company likes to keep tabs anyway."
"It's not that we're 'keeping tabs,'" Locke corrected her with more tolerance than he'd thus far shown. "A transponder is merely a safety precaution. You don't fly many Airwolf missions since Stringfellow rejoined the team on a permanent basis, but that doesn't mean you can't still be vulnerable to enemy interest."
"Jason likes to keep all his chicks safe under wing." The amused, slightly nasal tenor came from inside the helicopter. A moment later a long-jawed face topped with short, bronze colored hair and sharp blue-gray eyes peeked out the door to grin down at Jo. "Welcome to the brood. By the way, you have something dripping on you," he added, pointing to a spreading brown stain on her once-white coverall.
She muttered a mild oath and moved hurriedly out of range of the fluid dribbling from somewhere out of sight. "Darn! I must not have sealed that line properly. Somebody quick hand me that bucket over there."
The bronze-haired man started to obey, aborting the action at a cheerful call from the corner. "Never mind, Saint John. I'll get it." Mike Rivers hopped off the workbench he'd been perching on during the preceding argument, and snatched the firebucket off its hook. He toted it to the woman, who had slid even further out of the way of the hydraulics leak. "Here, gorgeous, try this. We can't have those snazzy fashions of yours getting ruined, now can we?"
Jo Santini accepted the bucket without a glance, positioning it where it would catch the drip. "Thanks, Mike. And ... stuff it in your ear."
"She's crazy about me," Mike confided to a gravely watching Stringfellow, who only returned a blank look. He was prevented from elaborating -- something that had turned into an amiable shot-for-shot game for both men over the past couple of months -- by Locke, who stepped forward, hands held palms up and a determined look on his face.
"To get back to my point," the black man rapped, turning to again stand face-to-face with the younger Hawke brother, "I'm issuing transponders as minimum equipment to several of my field agents, and that includes the Airwolf team."
"Maybe we could mount it on your bike," Mike, ever helpful, suggested, uncowered by the possibility of imminent conflict; rather, his light eyes sparkled with mischief despite the conciliatory words. It was quite obvious he was enjoying the squabble hugely.
"You're to have it on your person at all times," Locke went on coolly, full lips tight under his black mustache. "End of discussion. It's called following orders."
Dark blue eyes glittered rebelliously through slitted lids as Stringfellow drew himself stiffly erect. Lean muscles tight as cord, he slowly and deliberately removed his amber sunglasses and placed them in his breast pocket. Recognizing the signs of impending violence, and long acquainted with his mercurial brother's low flash point, Saint John Hawke took a step out of the helicopter, stopping just behind the younger man's left shoulder. "We all agreed they were a good idea the first time one of us ran into trouble on a job," he offered, carefully neutral. "Maybe even life saving."
There was no observable reaction to his words from either combatants; pilot and agent continued to stare at each other implacably, the effect being that of smoldering embers ready to burst into flames. "I think you know where you can stuff that transponder," the brown haired Stringfellow Hawke snarled, unheeding of his brother's words. "And your orders."
"And you can--" Locke began in precisely the same tone. He broke off at the appearance of an elderly man in the doorway leading from the office section. "Who--? Dominic."
"Yeah. Dominic." The man stared from the two near-combatants to the gaping and silent three-person audience, his craggy face registering a hefty dose of annoyance under the full beard he'd grown only weeks before. He brushed the wiry strands down over the collar of his workshirt to hide burn-scars that trailed up from his neck, the gesture having become automatic of late. "Somebody wanna tell me what the devil is going on in here?" he demanded in a gravelly voice. "Are you two fighting again?"
"There isn't anything going on," Stringfellow replied sullenly, continuing to glower at the angry black agent, who was returning the look in full measure. "I'm ready to go back to my cabin...."
The elderly man crossed the hangar at a rapid limp, his badly mutilated right hand going to the younger Hawke's arm, glance just brushing that of the attentive Saint John. He stepped deliberately in front of Locke, breaking the eye contact and the tension. "Oh, no, you don't, kid. You promised to stick around tonight and help me figure out the camera angles on that Bellisarius job for Monday. You know they cancelled our contracts when they thought you an' me were dead, and if this shoot isn't absolutely perfect, they aren't ever gonna renew long term."
Stringfellow stuffed the rag back into his pocket, visibly reining himself in. "Mike can take care of that. I spent all afternoon yesterday with him on the technique."
"I got a gold star and everything!" the irrepressible Rivers called from his side of the hangar. "Wanna see?"
Excepting only a discouraging frown, the newcomer ignored him thoroughly. Hand slipping higher around Stringfellow's shoulders, Dominic Santini, owner/operator of Santini Air and foster father to both the Hawke brothers, steered him around the still glowering Locke toward the offices, his grip friendly but tight enough to brook no debate. "You're the one that knows what O'Connell wants, String. C'mon -- we'll get started on the drafts now and finish up at home tonight over a nice, cold beer."
Once the duo had disappeared, the remaining members of the Airwolf team heaved a collective sigh. "Good old Dom," the bronze-haired Saint John murmured, returning to the helicopter and leaning against its open door. "He always did know how to handle String. Unlike you, Jason," he went on in a louder, chiding tone. "You really blew that one. What are you doing? Bucking for diplomat of the year?"
"They do do a lot of wrangling." Mike rested his fists on his lean hips, grinning ingenuously at the dark glare this earned him. "You know it's true, buddy-boy. You and Saint John's baby brother rock and roll every time you're together more than five minutes."
"Five minutes is the record," Jo added, staring disgustedly at her clothes. "Wonder if Tide with bleach will get that out?"
Leaving Jo to handle her own laundry problems, Hawke cocked his head at the black agent, studying him between narrowed lids in a gaze disturbingly reminiscent of his sibling's. "What is it about you and my brother? I thought it would be Mike that String clashed with, but putting the both of you together is like adding gasoline to a fire. And this time it looked like you went out of your way to push him to the wall."
Locke audibly ground his teeth, smoothing his navy suit jacket with one hand; the movements were jerky and imperfectly designed to cover his indignation. "I can't help it if he won't listen to reason. I've never worked with anyone as infuriating, and that includes, you, Rivers."
Mike contrived to look disappointed. "I've been displaced," he mourned, giving Jo a wink.
The tall Saint John Hawke chuckled, crossing one jeans' clad leg over the other and shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not yet, Mike, but hold that thought." He sobered, turning a sympathetic expression on the still- agitated agent. "Try to understand where he's coming from, Jason. String's had to fight the administration at every turn since he wasn't much more than eighteen years old. If he hadn't ..." He swallowed hard, gray eyes blurring for a single instant before reclaiming their sharp clarity. "... I'd still be a POW in Laos. Or dead."
Locke took another turn, dark eyes burning a hole in the cement floor. "You were MIA in the service of your country. I'm sure in time the United States would have done a more thorough search and rescue even without that rebel stealing a secret, military weapon." The conspicuous silence from the man addressed caught his attention even though his snit, and he lifted his head, instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, but I believe it to be true."
"Do you?" the other man challenged, a spark of bitterness entering his usually even tones. "After fifteen years I was listed as dead, the old projects closed out and my file deleted. Face it, Jason, I was buried and someone wanted me to stay that way. If String hadn't literally blackmailed the Company into maintaining a search, I'd be living in a cage eating rice." He caught himself, forcibly regaining his calm demeanor though firm solidarity remained. "My brother spent almost half his life fighting the Government to keep looking for me, and the only thing that made them listen was his taking Airwolf."
Faced with such protective resolve and fraternal gratitude in his friend, Jason stopped mid-pace, shaking his head. "I don't mean to take anything away from your brother's devotion to you ..." he began.
"You couldn't." But that wasn't directed at Locke so much as himself. Saint John essayed a smile to remove any possible offense. "Besides, even as a kid he was always independent...."
"A maverick, you mean," Locke interjected sourly. "with enough talent to grow up into a hotshot test pilot who never had to learn to follow orders."
"Never to follow them blindly," Hawke corrected quietly. "And that applies to me as well. Independence is one of the reasons we both survived Viet Nam."
The clang of metal scraping on concrete filled the area as Jo readjusted the bucket more directly under the drip. "I should say it does apply to you both," she gibed, grinning over her shoulder at him. "I remember Uncle Dom pulling his hair out over you more than a few times. How about when you were sixteen, and ran off to Mexico with that rock band? Uncle Dom said you had the same wild indian streak that Uncle Allen did."
Dark eyes flashing with irritation, Locke paced the small area in front of the chopper, long legs taking him from Mike's workbench to the tail rotor and back again. "We're not talking about a disobedient sixteen year old," he grumbled, waving his hands. "I swear, Saint John, if Michael wasn't so set on having your brother as a member of this team ..."
"... you'd still be ringing him in on the tough ones," Hawke finished with a knowing wink. "He's been flying Airwolf practically solo for the past two years, and was the primary test pilot for her a long time before that." He gestured at the team in general. "Without him none of us would have made it through that defense perimeter when we pulled Archangel out of Mexico."
"I like to think we'd've done okay even without him," Mike Rivers interjected, looking mildly hurt. "I've flown everything with wings since I joined the Air Force." He paused, honesty compelling him to add, "I liked to think we would have done okay, anyway. A Haversham defense screen is pretty tricky."
"We'd've all crashed and burned in Mexico and you know it," Jo pronounced, giving the bucket a final pat before crawling completely out from under the chopper and getting to her feet. "You should give credit where it's due."
Unmollified, Locke paced forward, then back, highly shined oxfords tapping on the concrete. "I'll give credit when he starts following orders. He's disrupting the morale of this entire team."
"My morale is great," Mike offered, puffing out his chest.
If Locke heard, he gave no indication. "I could have him up on charges for this. Insubordination, disobeying a direct order...."
Saint John straightened, his attitude, as always, protective of his brother while remaining non-hostile to his teammates, including Locke. "That won't solve anything. Threatening String with charges might get you a sock to the chops but that's about it. He's not going to back down over bureaucratic objections." He lifted one shoulder fractionally. "Let's face it, Jason, he hasn't disrupted anything but your feathers. Let me talk to him. I'm sure we can work out something."
"Better listen, Jason." That was Mike again, who was listening with as much interest as amusement. Contrary to expectations, soon after Stringfellow Hawke had returned to the Airwolf team, he and Mike Rivers -- an oil and water mixture if ever there was one -- had established a kind of an amiable camaraderie, composed in the beginning of wary respect for each other's abilities, soon adding a layer of genuine liking despite their dipolar personalities. "Besides, you'd never be able to make any charges stick. Having the Deputy Director of Operations on his side means he's coated with teflon. If Archangel were put to choose between him and you...." He shook his head pityingly, his implication clear.
"He may have to." Locke stopped himself, glancing remorsefully at Saint John. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, either. Your brother may be the finest pilot I've ever seen, but he handles authority as badly as those juvenile delinquents you took camping once."
Hawke smiled. "They turned out fine in the end. So will String. You'll see."
In the path of the pacing black agent, Mike caught his attention by waving both arms and painting on his widest, most buoyant grin. "Cheer up, Jason! Until then, you still have me!"
Locke's groan was heartfelt enough to send Rivers back to work without another word.
***