Airwolf – Terminal Velocity
Chapter Two
"So," Michael Coldsmith Briggs III sat back from his desk and regarded his two guests with interest now.
Two more completely different individuals he could not hope to meet.
The intelligent, harried, archetypical absentminded scientist, Dr Ely Weeks, and the cool, calm, intimidating and ever vigilant, Stringfellow Hawke.
Archangel had a feeling that they were about as compatible as oil and water.
If he had any misgivings at all, it was about Dr Weeks. He was the unknown quantity in this equation.
Stringfellow Hawke had successfully proven his reliability over the time they had known each other, repeatedly showing that he could get the job done.
Ely Weeks could prove to be the weak link here.
The fatal flaw in their plan.
So, it was a good thing that Dr Weeks was about to be unexpectedly called back to Nevada, to attend to some major complication in the prototype aircraft's airframe or some such.
Although the man didn't know it yet.
Archangel had left the arrangements in Marella's capable hands and knew that as soon as this meeting adjourned she would whisk the scientist away and keep him more than occupied until Hawke's little adventure was over.
Weeks had returned from his cigarette break looking flushed and ill at ease, carrying the scent of cigarette smoke in with him, and after resuming his seat before Archangel's desk, had made short work of two cups of the excellent, strong black coffee that had arrived during his absence.
No wonder the guy was a wreck, Archangel thought looking at his puffy eyes, red lined cheeks, rumpled clothes and sallow complexion. Living on nicotine, caffeine and adrenalin, and not much else he would wager.
On the other hand, Stringfellow Hawke looked a picture of health and vitality, strong, handsome, virile, exuding confidence. A young man in his prime. Archangel had no doubt that he could pull off what was expected of him.
"Gentlemen, let's get down to business," Archangel continued now, having got both men's attention. He opened his top desk drawer and extracted a thin, buff coloured folder and flipped it open casually, quickly scanning the top sheet of paper before looking back up at Stringfellow Hawke.
"So, Project Thunderbird, a highly classified jet fighter currently under development. The main prototype is being developed for use with the Air Force, but if it is successful, then the Army and the Navy will each get a variation on the design for their own use. You, will be going in under an assumed name. Marella is, as we speak, working on your cover story."
Amongst other things, Archangel thought to himself as he saw Hawke's raised eyebrow.
"Let's face it, with a name like Stringfellow Hawke, it would make you easy to check out. Might make someone suspicious that it is just too contrived," he pointed out matter of factly, ignoring Hawke's indignant expression now.
"And what if one of the other pilots recognises me from 'Nam?" Hawke pointed out in a low voice.
"They won't," Archangel assured. "We've already checked. None of the present group of trainees has ever served with you, Hawke," Archangel's voice trailed away, leaving Hawke in no doubt that the present group of trainees had probably been in first grade when he had been flying Huey's in Vietnam.
Terrific ….
That was all he needed.
A double whammy.
He would no doubt have to deal with comments about his being the new guy and an old timer to boot!
As well as playing catch up.
"So tell me, who the hell am I supposed to be?" Hawke growled.
"As I said, Marella is working on the finer points of your cover story, but," Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep sigh as he watched Archangel's good eye flick briefly down to the open file on his desk and then back up to meet his own questioning look.
"Major," Archangel smiled now recalling Hawke's earlier request for a promotion. "Major Roger Dobbs."
Stringfellow Hawke showed his displeasure with a scathing look at the Firm's Deputy Director of Special Projects, but wisely made no comment.
"I'll have to fill you in on the rest later, Roger, but we thought it prudent to start out by using your real military record and build on that. Marella is working out the finer points and making sure that everything ties up."
"When and where do I report for duty?" Hawke snarled impatiently now.
"You report to Heatham at 0.800 hours tomorrow. I know just how much you enjoyed your last little sojourn," Amusement danced in Archangel's good right blue eye now, and this drew another scowl from Hawke.
Heatham Air Base, situated about an hours' drive south of Los Angeles, had been the location of Hawke's recent return to military duty, under cover for the Firm, trying to track down a traitor who was rumoured to be planning to hand over a military aircraft to the Soviets.
It hadn't been the most comfortable of experiences for Hawke, facing resentment and antagonism and natural distrust from his fellow pilots, because he was Army and they were Air Force and they didn't think that he had any rights being in one of their aircraft.
"You will stay there for a month, acclimatising to military life, following their aircraft recertification programme. They retest all their pilots every few years just to make sure that they are A1, and the exchange programme that we took advantage of last time is still operating. All in the spirit of co-operation. You will have a routine physical and take part in basic fitness and stress endurance tests, and then maybe they will let you play with their latest jet fighter, to top up your hours and hone your skills. I'm sure that you know the drill."
Hawke did.
Rousted out of bed before dawn light had begun to creep over the horizon, by some loud, sadistic, over zealous drill sergeant, or whatever the Air Force equivalent was, to haul his ass for ten or fifteen kilometres through all manner of terrain, and over every imaginable obstacle, under the guise of PT, and then be expected to endure hours in classes brushing up on navigation, weaponry and communication skills and safety protocols, then maybe a little marching and another obstacle course, and then, if he was really lucky he might get to wash and wax the jet before finally being allowed to sit in back, to be nurse maided like a green horn, by some baby faced, gung-ho speed merchant.
Stringfellow Hawke's idea of heaven.
Not.
"Don't look like that, Hawke. It's for your own good. Can't send you in there without knowing that you are up to scratch. You are actually going have to participate in this training programme for real …."
"And you think maybe civilian life has made me soft? You don't think that I can handle it?"
"I'm sure you can. But, you really can't blame Uncle Sam for wanting to be certain. You'll be up there with the top flight, top guns, Hawke, and while you'll all be trying to reach the same goal, you know damned well that they won't miss any opportunity to turn it into some kind of competition. Some kind of rite of passage. They all believe that they are there by right. They'll want to make sure that you have the right to be up there with them too, and you will have a lot of ground to make up on them."
"And you want to make sure the old man can keep up with the young pups."
"No Hawke, we need to make sure that you meet the required levels of fitness and skill so that your sorry ass doesn't get canned before you even get a chance to find out what is going on here," Archangel reminded him tersely now. "These people are very particular Hawke, and if you don't measure up …."
"Ok, ok, I get the picture," Hawke sighed deeply, for once feeling relieved that he had maintained his physical fitness levels, keeping in shape with a regular regime that consisted of long runs, swimming in the lake, cutting lumber and pumping weights.
It wouldn't take him long to get back to peak fitness levels.
"Shape up or ship out," Hawke drawled now.
"Exactly. You look fit enough, and God knows, with your combat experience and working all these years for Santini, I doubt there isn't an aircraft known to man that you couldn't handle, or a situation you couldn't deal with, but, we need to make sure that you really are as fit and healthy as you look. We wouldn't want to put you at risk because we didn't make absolutely sure."
"Thank you." However Hawke's tone did not hold any kind of gratitude.
"You raised a valid point about your age, but I can assure you that you fall within the age limit parameters. The upper limit, it has to be said, but you still meet the criteria," Archangel tried to smother a smirk. "They also wouldn't want you to take in any communicable diseases."
"Very funny," Hawke sneered now.
"I'm not kidding, Hawke," Archangel grew serious now.
"Fine," Hawke ground out through clenched teeth.
"You are in your prime Hawke, and if memory serves NASA weren't too bothered about the ravages of age when they put Neil Armstrong, a thirty nine year old, on the moon, but I told you, they are looking for perfect physical specimens, because the rigours of this training programme are more than most men could hope to endure. We're moving into a new age of military aviation, Hawke, you of all people should know what I'm talking about," Archangel gave the younger man a long, pointed and meaningful glare now.
"And yes, the protocols on this project do rank up there alongside NASA, and to avoid suspicion from the get-go, this has to look like the real deal, which in turn means, that you have to look and sound and feel like the real deal, to those already involved."
Stringfellow Hawke lowered his gaze now as he finally had the good grace to look suitably rebuked, as he sat back in his chair and crossed one soft brown suede encased ankle over the other knee.
"That is why your existing background in the military is a good, sound starting point," Archangel's expression softened slightly now, glad that he had finally made his point to the younger man. "And why Marella is being meticulous in putting together a plausible biography for Roger Dobbs. You can rest assured that someone is going to run a background check on you, and we don't want there to be any doubt that you are who you say you are, and that you have the right to be there."
"Ok, Michael," Hawke sighed in resignation now.
"I know you've done this sort of thing before, Hawke, and it will give you a heads up, but this time it's a little different. This time you need to fit in, establish yourself, build trust, a rapport with your colleagues, before you start snooping around. This operation needs a little subtlety and finesse, and it's going to take some time. You're not going to get this job done in five minutes."
"So noted," Hawke responded succinctly, wondering where Dominic Santini was going to fit in with this little adventure.
And, fast coming to the conclusion that, he simply did not.
That his initial gut feeling that this was not about his association with Airwolf, was correct.
Hawke suddenly found himself hoping that Marella was also working on a story he could feed Dominic to cover the fact that he was going to have to drop out of sight for quite a while.
Unless he could persuade Archangel to involve Dominic Santini, somehow. After all, he might need some backup, and he would feel better if he had his old friend Dom covering his six.
If they were intending to leave the old coot of out this, then Archangel was going to have to run some pretty good interference to keep the old guy from barging in and wrecking everything.
"Ok, I guess that's about all I can offer you at the moment, but Dr Weeks will be able to fill you in on the aircraft design and specification, and the kind of tests you can expect to participate in."
Stringfellow Hawke then listened patiently as Dr Ely Weeks waxed lyrical about his miraculous creation, taking in the salient points about design specifications and performance parameters, accepting that the man was naturally proud of his work on the project, and genuinely disturbed about the tragedies that were occurring all around him.
Just before the meeting concluded, Marella arrived and after greeting Hawke with a pleasant smile, handed Archangel a new buff file and leaned in close to his ear to whisper something.
"Dr Weeks, I'm afraid there has been a new development, and you are required to go straight to the prototype's location."
"Oh God, what now?"
"Something to do with a stress fracture in the tail rigging," Archangel waved his hand vaguely. "We have a plane all gassed up and waiting for you. Marella will show you the way."
"What was that all about?" Hawke asked, arching an eyebrow quizzically once Marella and Ely Weeks had departed the office.
"Was it that obvious?" Archangel asked now.
"Only to someone who knows how devious you really are, Michael," Hawke managed a weak smile now.
"You saw the man, Hawke, he's about ready to self destruct. I couldn't take the risk of letting him go back and accidentally blowing your cover."
Hawke nodded, agreeing with Archangel's assessment of the scientist's fragile emotional and mental state.
"So where does Dom fit into all this?"
"He doesn't," Archangel replied succinctly.
"What about the Lady?"
"Absolutely not."
"You expect me to go in there without any kind of backup?"
"I didn't say that. Did you hear me say that? I just said no Santini, and no Airwolf," Archangel growled. "Hell fire, Hawke, keeping Airwolf under wraps is difficult enough at the best of times, so there is no way that the Committee is going to allow you or Santini to flaunt her right under the noses of the Army, Navy and Air Force!" His tone was scathing as his voice rose up through the scale.
"Ok, I get the picture," Hawke sighed deeply now, but he did not like it. "I can understand about the Lady, but what about Dom?"
"We went through this the last time, Hawke. Santini could never pass for a military pilot, and somehow I don't think that Project Thunderbird is recruiting janitors. And on a personal note, I couldn't cope with any more of Dominic's tips on keeping my toilet bowl clean and fresh!"
"Ok Michael, geez. You made your point."
"I'm sorry Hawke, but this time, you go in without the aid of the Santini/Airwolf safety net. I'll make arrangements for some kind of backup, a contact for you to pass information back and forth, but for the time being, my friend, you are on your own."
"So what do I tell him? He'll need to know that I'm not going to be around for a while. He's gonna put two and two together."
"And come up with twenty. I don't care what you tell him, Hawke, that's your problem, just keep us out of it."
"He knew I was coming here, Michael," Hawke reminded.
"Use your imagination, Hawke. It wouldn't be the first time you disappeared off Santini's radar for a while. Let him think I had news for you about St John and you've gone off on one of your crusades."
Hawke threw Archangel another sour look, but he suspected that it might work, for a little while, after all, in the past, he hadn't always shared his quests to find his brother with Dominic.
"Do you? Have news about St John?"
"No," Archangel said simply but his tone clearly said that there was an end to it.
Hawke also realised at the same time as Archangel reached out for the telephone on his desk and turned it around to face him, that he wasn't going back to the Santini Air hangar, or even home to his lakeside mountain cabin.
His mission had already begun.
"You'll be spending the night here, Hawke, give us time to brief you on your bio, and the profiles of the rest of the pilots on the programme, and then we'll provide transport for you to Heatham in the morning."
"Heatham. What about Roper?"
Major Sam Roper had been a real pain the last time Hawke had been at the base, mainly because he was the main suspect on Hawke's radar, as the turncoat planning to deliver a Skyfox F-59 to the Russians in exchange for getting his son back.
Things had worked out in the end, when Hawke and Santini, had used Airwolf to rescue Roper's son, Ho Minh from the Russians, and delivered him safely home to Roper and his Vietnamese wife, Nhi Huong, but there had been a real clash of personalities and mutual distrust in the beginning.
Hawke knew that if Roper was still stationed at Heatham, there could be trouble.
"Is he still stationed there?"
"Sure is," Archangel confirmed. "And he knows you are coming. I called him and filled him in, begged a favour, and he was more than happy to co-operate. Seems he is still grateful for your help a while back, and Nhi and young Stringfellow send their love," Archangel grinned now and Hawke realised that he and Marella really had tried to cover all the bases.
"Major Roper will be your instructor at Heatham, and is willing to make nice. He'll make it seem like he and Roger Dobbs are buddies from way back. He doesn't know the finer details of your mission, only that this is something very important, and he's willing to make things a little easier on you this time around the block, and he has assured me that there won't be any trouble with the rest of the squadron, pointing out that you bear a striking resemblance to a certain Army Huey pilot, or asking questions about what you are doing there."
"Magnanimous of him. Well, I guess you thought of everything."
"We certainly tried," Archangel glanced down at the telephone and then back up at Hawke expectantly.
Stringfellow Hawke reluctantly reached out to take the telephone and dialled the familiar number of Santini Air, a quick glance at his wristwatch confirming that it was late, and that with any luck Dominic would have gone home. Leaving a message on the office answering machine was preferable to speaking to the old man, who no doubt would try to prise out of him what was really going on.
The office answering machine cut in after four rings, and with a sigh of relief, Stringfellow Hawke waited for the beep to sound in his ear, to indicate that the message was being recorded, clearing his throat and trying to decide what he should say to allow Dominic Santini to understand what was going on, without actually having to spell it out for him.
"Hi Dom, String. Look, sorry its kinda short notice, but something came up. I have to go out of town for a while, to visit Aunt Lillian. Don't worry, I'm ok, and I'll be in touch when I can."
Santini Air Hangar, Van Nuys, California.
"Hi Dom, String. Look, sorry its kinda short notice, but something came up. I have to go out of town for a while, to visit Aunt Lillian. Don't worry, I'm ok, and I'll be in touch when I can."
Dominic Santini listened to the message for the umpteenth time, trying to find something in Hawke's voice, some nuance, some clue as to what was really going on, but the younger man sounded calm, casual.
Aunt Lillian.
Damn.
Santini hadn't heard that name for quite a while.
Indeed, he had hoped never to hear it again, for he knew it spelled trouble of one kind or another.
Hawke's message about his need to visit Aunt Lillian was a code.
One that Hawke had devised years ago, to let Dominic Santini know that he had heard some rumour about his brother, St John, and had gone off on some wild goose chase to try to track him down.
Santini had hoped that now that Hawke was involved with The Firm, these little private adventures of his would cease, but it seemed that Hawke wasn't averse to using any method to try to get close to the truth about his brother's fate.
"Ah kid," Santini sighed deeply and rolled his eyes heavenward. "When are you gonna stop chasing shadows …. And ghosts."
Why didn't you come to me?
Why couldn't you trust me? Santini asked silently, but he already knew the answer.
Hawke didn't want to involve his old friend, because he might have to do things that weren't exactly legal. Things that he knew that his old friend would certainly not approve of.
"Take care kid," Santini uttered the words like a prayer, from his heart. "Take care. You know where I am if you need help."
And in the meantime.
"Who is going to do all the work around here?" He sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes heavenward once more. "Me …. that's who!"