Disclaimer: See part 1 -- nothing's changed!

With thanks to Gamine for looking over this and nit spotting for me. Also thanks to Laura (glad you're back!) for offering a few salient bits of advice.

Please offer feedback, it tells me how I'm doing.

~*~

There was a long moment of silence in Eric's office. Taylor was completely stunned by Eric's departure -- and decidedly uncomfortable being alone with two people who clearly knew a great deal about her.

Peterson cleared his throat. "The situation is this, Ms Earhardt. At twenty-three hundred hours last night, there was a break in at a research station in the Sierra Nevada. Amongst the information stolen was data pertinent to a top secret national defence project."

"Son of the son of Star Wars," Hawke joked, earning him a glare from Peterson. Hawke looked unrepentant.

"Obviously," Peterson continued, "we need to reacquire that data before the undesirables who have their hands on it can decode it and put it to use, which is where you come in."

"Me?" Taylor echoed.

Peterson nodded. "There is only one aircraft that has the necessary attributes to get in and get out again with the stolen data. It is, as I said earlier, an extremely classified aircraft."

"Are we talking an F-117 here?" Taylor asked.

Hawke snorted. The almost-grin on his face suggested he was trying not to laugh.

"No," said Peterson, glaring at Hawke again. "It's not a 'plane, and when I say classified, I mean it is classified. The F-117 is hardly that any more." Taylor shrugged. "It's a compound rotorcraft. It has all the attributes of a helicopter -- it can hover, it can turn on rotor torque without banking, it can land on the head of a pin, so to speak -- but it also has two turbo-fan jet engines installed on winglets..."

"She can outrun a MIG 29 and outshoot just about anything you care to name," put in Hawke.

Taylor stared at both men, incredulous. "You want me to fly a what?" she finally managed. "That's not possible! Those...you can't..." She stopped, swallowed and managed to pull her thoughts into coherence. "You have to be crazy. You can't make a helicopter do what a fighter jet can do and vice versa. It's..."

"...the fastest way to a carbide pancake," said Hawke. "Was more or less my reaction."

Taylor started to nod, then froze as the implications of Hawke's words sank in. "You're serious."

"Deadly," said Peterson. "It's the principle reason why there are only a limited number of people who are qualified to fly it, mentally and physically. It's why, out of three hundred people we reviewed, you were the only person to match the criteria."

Taylor slowly shook her head. This had to be the dumbest thing she'd ever agreed to do. She had minimal experience with choppers, never having completed the training; she had no experience at all with compound rotorcraft...and they wanted her to fly something that sounded like it broke most laws of physics. "You're crazy."

"But you're going to do it," said Peterson.

"I take it back," Taylor muttered. "It's not you that's crazy, it's me."

Hawke offered her a half smile. "Welcome to the club."

~*~

Taylor wasn't entirely surprised to find a limo waiting outside SGHQ. Nor was she surprised when Peterson indicated she should get into it. What did surprise her was the destination of the limo journey: Silverhills municipal airport.

"I'll see you both at Knightsbridge tomorrow," Peterson stated.

"Huh?" said Taylor.

"Time to meet The Lady," said Hawke.

Taylor swivelled her gaze from Hawke to Peterson and back. "OK. In some parallel universe, that probably makes sense."

Peterson, to her surprise, smiled. "I will leave you in Mr Hawke's extremely capable hands."

"Oh great," Taylor mumbled. Louder she said, "And he...we...are going to do what, exactly?"

"Start your flight training," said Hawke, a smirk on his face.

Taylor stared at Hawke. "No sims?"

That provoked an outright laugh from him.

"Hawke," said Peterson warningly. "Play nicely."

"I always play nicely," Hawke retorted.

Peterson muttered something that, to Taylor, sounded suspiciously like, "Like hell you do." Louder, Peterson said, "OK. Out. I have to get back to Knightsbridge today to play hunt the needle in the haystack."

"Bossy sonuvabitch," Taylor muttered, climbing out of the limo on command all the same. She was more sure than ever Peterson reminded her of someone but she really couldn't place the similarity. It'll probably hit me at three am in the middle of a mission or something, she mused.

Hawke followed suit in climbing out of the limo and a moment later, it drove off.

"So where is this wonder-chopper?" Taylor demanded.

Hawke gave her a smirk. "It's a top secret military aircraft, so you're expecting it to just be sitting on the apron of your local airport?"

"Hiding in plain sight," Taylor retorted, shrugging.

"Well, it's not," said Hawke, still smirking and heading across the tarmac towards a standard, white Bell helicopter of some description. "But that," and he inclined his head in the direction of the white chopper, "is our ride up to The Lair."

"The Lair. Of course it is." Taylor hurried after him. "What the hell is The Lair supposed to be?"

"Cave," said Hawke.

"Cave." Taylor rolled her eyes. "Has anyone told you that getting information out of you is like..."

"...Getting blood from a stone," finished Hawke with a smirk.

"And I thought Eric Myers was bad." Taylor groaned.

"Look," said Hawke as he put his hand on the chopper cabin door. "Quit with twenty questions and you'll get information."

"I don't do patience."

"No shit." Hawke opened the chopper cabin door and gestured for her to get in.

"Would you, roles reversed?" Taylor asked, climbing in and noting he'd asked her to get into the right seat. He was expecting her to pilot this where they were going?!

"I didn't." Hawke climbed into the left seat. "And no, you're not flying all the way to The Lair -- but some of it, once we're clear of civilisation."

Suddenly, finding out where they were going and what was going on seemed of secondary importance. "You do realise I never finished qualifying to fly these things?"

Hawke chuckled and pulled on a headset. Taylor followed suit as Hawke fired up the turbines and the rotors started to turn. "I know."

"You're nuts."

"Cinch in," was the only response.

As Taylor did as she was told, she heard Hawke requesting, and receiving, permission to take off. Moments later, they were off and away, heading, so the instruments told her, north east.

"Airwolf -- Peterson's classified aircraft," Hawke began, "isn't hangared at Knightsbridge."

"I guessed that," said Taylor dryly. "I'm also gonna guess that The Lair is where she is hangared."

"Go to the top of the class," Hawke replied, amusement in his tone. "I guess your next question is 'why' -- to which the answer is pretty complicated."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"OK -- time to take control of this baby," said Hawke. "Just keep her heading as she is, at this altitude. Nothing fancy."

Questions about the whys of Airwolf's hangaring arrangements fled as Taylor found herself pilot-in-charge of the chopper. There was a brief moment of sheer panic, particularly as the altitude suddenly started to drop.

"It's OK. Power-lift. You've got her." Hawke's tone was that of an experienced flight instructor and that, more than anything, broke the sense of panic.

She could do this. Easing back on the collective, the altitude started to climb back up. This wasn't so different from the first time she'd taken the stick, she realised. Only the circumstances were different. Then it had been an outright lesson. This was...well Taylor wasn't entirely sure what it was.

"Adjust your heading a little," Hawke advised. "Bring her round to north-north-east then keep her steady."

"Got it."

Hawke presumably judged she had with that statement because the next thing he said was, "For a start, The Lair was my way of keeping control of Airwolf to force The Firm to keep looking for MIAs in Viet Nam...in particular, my brother."

"You stole a top secret helicopter from the government?" Taylor wasn't sure whether to be appalled or impressed.

"No -- I stole it from the guy who did that. I just didn't give it back." Hawke sounded unrepentant.

Taylor wondered if that was really any better -- and decided it didn't matter. "Did they...?"

"Eventually." The tightness to Hawke's answer told Taylor she didn't want to push any further. "I tried to keep my end of the deal -- tried to give Airwolf back. Trouble was," and Hawke sounded more amused now, "The Firm had figured out that realistically, there were only a handful of people who could fly her; I happened to be the best at it, and the added bonus was, keeping Airwolf at The Lair meant that 'interested parties' -- like, say, the Soviets, or the Chinese, or bin Laden...whoever -- would have a real hard job of stealing her because there was only two people who knew where she was. If she was at Knightsbridge, there'd be a lot of people who'd have to know because they'd see her everyday..."

"And that would mean the interested parties would be more likely to find her and steal her," Taylor completed.

"Got it in one."

"So you got to keep her?"

"More or less," Hawke agreed. "I do -- did -- The Firm's business when necessary, they keep Airwolf in avgas, parts and upgrades. Watch your heading -- she's drifting a bit to the north, need to keep north-north-east."

Taylor corrected the course. "So what's with the past tense of that?" she asked.

"Combat flying is a game for the young," Hawke answered. "And I'm not getting any younger." Taylor debated whether to ask the obvious question. "Before you ask," he continued, "young enough not to be your father. Just about."

"I don't always ask the obvious," Taylor muttered.

Hawke's only response was a dry chuckle.

They flew on for another half an hour in comparative silence until Hawke said, "OK, we're going to come in to land at the base of the mountain you can see at two o'clock." Taylor glanced up to see what he was talking about and nodded. "I want you to bring us to a hover over the landing zone, then gently start to descend."

Taylor swallowed. Hawke had to be nuts.

"Just nice and slow," said Hawke calmly. "Ease back on the stick. Set pitch to hover. Now start to descend. Keep her straight -- watch the yaw, she's drifting round to port...OK, you've got her."

The steady, calm instructions focussed Taylor's attention, preventing the panic that was once again threatening. Following the instructions, the chopper descended in near-perfect fashion. As the skids finally touched down, Hawke nodded appreciatively.

"Good job." Taylor had already got the impression he didn't say things he didn't mean, so she took it as the unstinting praise it was probably intended to be. "OK, shut her down and we'll go inside."

"Inside?" Taylor echoed, doing as she was told.

Hawke chuckled. "The Lair. We've arrived."

Taylor sighed and shook her head. "Silly me."

A moment or two later and Taylor followed Hawke through a narrow fissure in what was otherwise a solid rock wall and found herself standing in a cave. At the centre, apparently spot-lit, was a matt-black helicopter.

Seen from nose on, it looked vaguely shark-like and slightly malevolent. The thin sliver of white-underbelly she could see made the chopper look as if it had a shark's gaping, low-slung jaw and every line and curve suggested this was not just a predator but a super-predator. It was a beautiful, deadly machine.

"Meet The Lady," said Hawke, just a touch of pride in his voice.

Taylor said nothing -- largely because there was nothing to say. The view rather neatly said it all.

"Oh you were born for this," Hawke murmured. "I can see it." He gave a chuckle. "If Michael was here, he'd probably be cursing blind."

Taylor blinked, spell broken. "Michael?"

"Michael Coldsmith Briggs III," said Hawke. "He set up the Airwolf project -- he's Peterson's predecessor."

Taylor waited for further elaboration. When none seemed to be forthcoming, she prompted, "And he'd be cursing now because...?"

"Because you're giving The Lady the same look now I gave her first time I saw her." Hawke sounded amused. "Michael always figured I was one of a kind. Or maybe that should have been hoped..."

At that, Taylor found herself grinning. That sounded familiar.

~*~

The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent going over Airwolf with a fine tooth comb. Hawke talked Taylor through all of the black helicopter's little quirks and major systems -- a dizzying array of information that Taylor knew she wasn't going to be able to remember.

The one thing that did stick in her mind was the answer to her first question: "How do you get her in and out of here?"

For answer, Hawke had pointed upwards. Taylor had looked up and realised that what she'd initially taken for spotlighting was actually natural light coming down through a long, narrow rock chimney.

"You have four feet of clearance port and starboard, between five and six feet forward and aft," Hawke explained. "Beyond that, it's a five hundred foot straight ascent/descent."

"That's why you had me do the landing that way," she realised, feeling just a few qualms -- the clearance might sound a lot, but in practical terms it was very little. One wrong flinch and the rotors would foul against the chimney walls, which would end the flight really quickly.

Hawke nodded. "Yup -- and you'll be practicing that plenty more times, too."

It was Taylor's turn to nod. I must be nuts.

"We'll go up early tomorrow morning," Hawke promised as the explanations wound down. "Give you a chance to put in some practice."

Taylor suddenly had a horrible thought. "You're...you wouldn't..."

"I wouldn't," Hawke agreed. Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm crazy but I'm not suicidal."

"So what happens now?" Taylor asked

"Rack time," said Hawke succinctly. "Tomorrow's gonna be tough."

TO BE CONTINUED...