To Soar Like a Hawke

By: CindyR
The sun blazed, rays perfectly perpendicular to the baked tarmac of the airport, its scorching heat at odd contrast to the fresh breeze that wafted down from the California mountains not many miles distant. Saint John Hawke, a six-foot, one and a half inch man not yet forty, slouched a little lower on his bench, leaning his back against the metal building that comprised the main workshop of Santini Air. He stretched his legs out straight before him, turning his face up to the sun. It had been only two months before that green jungles had hidden the sky from his view, the sight of lush fronds alternating with stinking underground dungeons and rickety shanties. Oh, he'd been often dragged out to work in the rice paddies; his captors had believed in utilizing their human tools to their fullest ... until they dropped. But even then pleasure of the outdoors had been denied him, pillaged by the whips and beatings of those who held the chain.

He sighed and shut his eyes, letting the fuel pump he'd been servicing drop into his lap, a blissful look easing the lines of his normally stern face. Across the field an engine roared preparatory to take-off; from the roof a dove cooed its pleasure, machines in abundance growled from all across the busy airport. Hawke reacted visibly to none of them though if there was a hint of a smile on his lips, there was no one around to remark upon it.

He'd dozed for some while before one of the sounds penetrated the cacophony of his surroundings, one nearer than the rest. He opened one blue-gray eye, following the progress of a car as it tooled steadily up the long driveway; it disdained the glassed in and mostly unused reception area out front, turning instead toward the rear hanger entrance by which he sat. It was a Cadillac, this year's model, its spotless white body throwing up a glare almost painful to look upon. Hawke watched it until it had come to a stop in front of him, then switched his attention to the driver, who was even more worthy of scrutiny. She opened the car door and stepped out, showing a bare minimum of slender leg in the process. Light brown skin was highlighted by the pert hat, and the elegant white suit she wore did nothing to hide her figure. She glanced sharply at the slouching man and approached, low heeled pumps carrying her safely across the stony ground between tarmac and entrance. "Excuse me. Are you Mr. Saint John Hawke?"

Hawke straightened then came to his feet, towering over her by less than five inches. Automatically he ran his left hand through his short, bronze hair, fingercombing it until it lay straight back. This woman had that affect on a man. "That's me," he answered easily, his voice a pleasant if slightly nasal tenor. "What can I do for you?"

The woman extended one gloved hand, an emotion that might have been called relief crossing her face. "You may call me Marella."

Hawke made to accept the hand, then stopped before the greasy pump would have soiled the pristine cotton. "Uh ... sorry," he apologized, setting it carefully on the bench. "I was working."

Dark eyes danced merrily at him. "Yes. I could see that when I drove up."

A slight quirk lifted one side of his mouth, in the reserved Saint John Hawke almost the equivalent of a broad grin. Beyond that he said nothing, merely waited quietly for the woman to speak.

"I said my name was Marella," she began again, giving his lean but muscled form another scan, from boots to jeans to untucked t-shirt. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Saint John considered briefly, then shook his head. "No. If we'd met anytime in the last two months, I'd remember."

"Beyond the last two months," the woman returned frankly, "and I would have had a Vietnamese name." At Saint John's surprised look, she smiled. "Captain Saint John Hawke, United States Army Air Cavalry. You did two and a half tours in Viet Nam mostly in-country, until you were captured by the Vietnamese and, by routes rather convoluted, remained MIA until two months ago." Her smile broadened and she dug into the ivory colored bag on her shoulder, extracting a leather wallet and flipping it open. "I know all about you, Mr. Hawke. Until one year ago, I was Archangel's assistant on Project Airwolf."

Hawke considered the Department of National Security identification carefully, tilting his head to see it better. "In that case, you probably heard a lot more about me than you wanted to from String and Dom."

Sadness flickered across her lovely features as she slid the wallet back into her purse. She brushed his arm in a sympathetic gesture, withdrawing before he had opportunity to respond. "My condolences. I knew them both quite well. If it's any consolation, your brother was quite devoted to you. I saw him fight the Government at every level to force them to look for you, even at the risk of his own life. They gave up; he never did."

Saint John nodded. "Thank you. Have you met the rest of the team? They're inside." He gestured her toward the door of the workshop. "That way and to the right."

She stepped ahead of him into the cool interior of the hangar, preceding him to the office. "Is Jason Locke here as well? I was under the impression he was still attached to DNS-Los Angeles?"

Hawke shrugged laconically, one broad shoulder rising minimally. "He had something to discuss with Mike. When those two go at it, I usually find a hole 'til the smoke clears."

They wended their way around the red, white and blue Bell, which was receiving her monthly maintenance, then turned to the right, through a warren of computerized diagnostic equipment, spare parts and work benches, emerging into an enclosed area on the far side of the building. A glass door led to an office where three people sat drinking coffee. The place was neatly arranged and relatively clean save for the old stains on the carpet and the still lingering odor of beer in the air, souvenirs of the previous owner. Marella took one step inside and stopped cold, glancing around.

"Good lord!" she gasped, gaping. "The last time I saw this place it was filled floor to ceiling with old manifests, orders and spare parts! What happened?"

"I think maybe I did." One of the three occupants rose from behind the desk. She was a petite blonde, pretty, with china skin and blue eyes, her carefully done make-up at odds with the greasy coverall and safety boots she wore. "I'm Jo Santini. Can I help you?"

"Marella!" A nattily dressed black man leaped to his feet at the same time as the woman, advancing on the newcomer with one hand extended. "I haven't seen you since you were transferred to Langley! What brings you back to California?"

"Jason." Marella allowed her hand to be taken, every evidence of pleasure on her face. "I'm here on business." She smiled at the third person there, a jeans-clad man in his mid-thirties, whose boyish good looks were only enhanced by the perpetually mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "You must be Major Rivers."

Major Michael Rivers, Air Force pilot on loan to Project Airwolf, also gained his feet, swaggering slightly as he crossed the crowded room to the pretty woman's side. "Must I?" he asked, kissing her hand. "Guess I could do a lot worse. I mean, my name could be something weird, like Sinnnn Jinnnnn."

"Die, Rivers," Saint John Hawke returned amiably, inured to his droll teammate by now.

Marella rolled her eyes and Jo groaned aloud. "Just ignore him," the blonde woman said, sneering genially in Rivers' direction. "He gets like this whenever someone walks in, in a skirt."

"I didn't get like this with Mrs. Bridwell," Mike protested, ushering Marella to the chair he'd just vacated. "Of course, she's sixty-four and built like a water buffalo...."

"What does bring you here, Marella?" Jason Locke broke in on Rivers' ramblings, silencing him by the expedient of tossing an empty paper cup at him. "You're on Company business?"

She waited until the other three had arranged themselves comfortably around the room, Jo and Locke in their seats, Hawke to lean comfortably against the wall facing the woman. Mike, who ever enjoyed the center stage, perched on the edge of Jo's desk less than a foot from Marella's shoulder. She glanced at them once, then ducked her head, pretending to examine a non- existent spot on her skirt for several long seconds. "Is this room secure?" she asked, darting a glance at Locke.

"Just swept."

At his assurance, she took a deep breath and clasped her hands loosely in her lap. "This isn't exactly Company business," she began carefully, raising her head. "I'm here ... unofficially."

"You mean, against orders," Mike translated, grinning at the scowl this earned him. "C'mon, I'm right, right?"

Marella bit her lip. "From what I've read in your dossier, a little thing like that shouldn't bother you in the slightest, Major," she retorted. When he only winked at her, she took a deep breath and proceeded to ignore him completely. "Essentially, that is correct. I'm here against Pentagon orders. What I'm about to tell you is classified Eyes Only. I'm committing a serious breach by mentioning this at all."

Locke leaned forward, loosening his maroon tie at the throat, then undoing his top shirt button in deference to the office's stuffy atmosphere. "Are you sure this is what you want to do? You realize you're involving these people in a security matter."

"Don't bother me none," Mike gibed, swinging his foot insolently.

Marella regarded him steadily, no trace of doubt marring her face. "I made up my mind yesterday, Jason. There's no other way. It concerns Archangel."

Hawke crossed his arms across his chest, a slight frown bisecting his blond brows. "According to what Jason told us, Archangel is dead."

"Killed on a mission in Mexico nearly a month ago," Locke continued, picking a tiny piece of lint off his brown dress pants. "Zeus informed me as security head of the Airwolf project. Does this have to do with his mission?"

The black woman pursed her lips. "This has more to do with Michael. Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III," she explained at Jo's puzzled look. "Code named Archangel for more years than I care to remember." Decided on her course, she settled more comfortably in her chair and crossed her legs, much to the delight of an attentative Mike Rivers. "Working off of information received while he was still in Hong Kong, Michael was investigating a mole within the organization -- someone who he suspected has been feeding technical information to whoever was willing to pay the most for it."

"You said 'technical information,' Hawke interrupted, big-boned physique lounging perfectly at ease yet giving the expression of readiness, like a coiled spring. "Is that military information?"

Marella nodded. "Defensive, mostly. He just barely intercepted data on Airwolf's new jamming systems from going down the tube. That did narrow the field, however, since that data was carefully restricted to the project team located at Fordham base on the Arizona border."

"So if it's one of the team," Locke said, tapping impatiently on the desk top, "why not just go in and clean house? Throw everybody out and start over."

"'Everybody' consists of twenty-one of our most valuable scientists," Marella told him, unconsciously swinging her foot in rhythm to Mike's. "Getting rid of all of them would have crippled no less than seven crucial programs in mid-development. Archangel decided to personally go in and root the traitor out." She paused, full lips pressed tightly together, gloved hands clenching. "He went in, all right. His burned out jeep and an unidentifiable body were discovered a few hours later. He didn't even make one report."

"You want us to figure out who the traitor is?" Jo Santini asked gently, nudging the other woman out of her preoccupation. She brushed forlornly at her dirty coverall, obviously uncomfortable beside the other woman's dazzling attire. "We're pilots not spies ... except for Jason. Wouldn't someone in your organization be more suited to the task?"

Marella stared, fingers stroking each other in beautifully concealed stress. "Perhaps you didn't know it, Miss Santini, but Michael and Stringfellow Hawke were friends of a sort. It was Michael who consented to Hawke's deal about trading Airwolf for a continued search for his brother, Saint John." She stared pointedly at Saint John, her expression closed. "This team owes it to Archangel to get him out." That said, she again relaxed, her tone moderating to a calmer one. "Besides, we already know the traitor's identity. Dr. Simon Steiner was secretly a member of the KGB in 1961 before he emigrated from his native Israel. He offered his services as an engineer to the CIA in 1969 and slowly rose in that organization until he was inducted by the DNS three years ago." Her face screwed up with disgust. "He's probably been passing information along for years, if not to the Soviets, to anyone who could afford to pay. I don't even like to think of the number of lives lost thanks to him."

"And he won't tell you where Michael is?" Rivers asked, a dangerous stillness coming over his body. "Give me five minutes with the scum and I might be able to help you out."

"If only it was that easy." But the smile she sent his way was genuine -- and as coldly agreeing. It faded at once. "Steiner disappeared from Fordham base twenty-four hours after Archangel did. We heard nothing from either of them ... until we received this."

She again dug into her purse, extracting a neatly jacketed ROM disk and passing it to Jo. "One of our agents managed to get this out of Mexico; it arrived at the Pentagon two days ago. I heard about it only by accident." The glitter in her dark eyes told her opinion of that.

"So what do we have on that disk?" Hawke asked bluntly, having not so much as twitched a muscle during the foregoing.

Marella tipped her chin up until she could face him directly. Despite his remoteness he was undoubtedly handsome, well-built despite years of abuse by his captors, and a much bigger man than his slender brother had been. Her gaze glimmered with the merest touch of feminine approval before detached practicality regained the upper hand. "I see you're as cheerful and open as Stringfellow," she remarked wryly. "This disk contains blueprints and satellite photos of Casa del Suerte, a renamed eighteenth century Spanish fortress owned by Carlos Maria Garcito de Mejindas, a direct descendent of Spanish royalty. He's a notorious gambler and perhaps the second richest man in the entire country of Mexico."

"Don't tell me. Don't tell me!" Mike raised both hands palms out and fingers spread, waggling his eyebrows comically. "He's rich, he's important and the Mexican government doesn't want to know from spies, am I right?"

Marella nodded. "You're right. They wouldn't even discuss an inspection much less a full military strike, and our hands are tied barring diplomatic hearings that could well last into the next century. The Pentagon has forbidden us to take action for fear of committing some kind of political faux pas. That's why I've come to you."

"Wouldn't be the first time they put the dollar signs ahead of peace," Locke muttered to no one in particular.

Hawke uncrossed his arms, stuffing his hands comfortably in his pockets. "Maybe if you explained that a man's life is at stake...." He trailed off when everyone turned to stare at him.

"Boy, have you been out of circulation too long," Mike remarked sotto voce. "Do you know what the dollar-peso exchange looks like these days?"

Saint John shrugged and subsided, unoffended. "So what do you suggest?" he asked reasonably of the room.

Marella tossed her head, dislodging a single black curl from under the hat. "Already taken care of, Hawke. Do any of you besides Jason speak spanish?"

"Italiano," Jo said apologetically. "My parents both spoke it. And Uncle Dom."

"I speak Vietnamese like a native." Hawke said this bitterly, old memories living in his features for the briefest instant and then were gone. "Mike?"

Rivers grinned cockily and buffed his nails on his white work shirt. "How do you think I managed to woo so many of them seƱoritas down Tijuana way? Four years in school, minor in college and a three year stint on the border hones up the old skills a bit, wouldn't you say?"

"You're going to have to be able to say more than, 'Hey, lady, how much do you charge?'" Jo warned, brushing a strand of shoulder length blonde hair out of her face. "If you can't hold your own...."

Rivers raised a hand. "I can do it, sis," he said with friendly insolence. "Hang tough and go parle your italiano a while." Jo huffed out her cheeks but let that pass, ceding the floor back to Marella.

"You two, then," the black woman picked up as though no interruption had taken place. "Jason and Mike. You'll catch a prop to Pindarte, that's a little town about fifteen miles south of Casa del Suerte. From there, you'll take a bus that makes special runs between the town and the castle for the benefit of live-out employees. Once inside you'll scout the terrain, find Archangel and three unidentified prisoners also reportedly being held, and get them out to where Airwolf can stage a pickup."

"Two man commando operation, eh?" Mike said with unseemly glee. He cast an aghast Locke a wicked smile. "You an' me, partner. Guns a'blazin' and karate chops everywhere! Won't that be fun?"

"I'm going inside a fortress," Locke gulped, pulling his tie off and crunching it in his fist, "with a peppy Clint Eastwood?"

"Once inside you'll have some help," Marella said soothingly, waving one long-fingered hand. "We're assuming our contact has done the prelim work. You just supply the muscle and the escape."

Jo looked worriedly from Rivers to Locke, catching her pink lip between her teeth. "Who is the contact? Is it someone reliable?"

"Very reliable." Marella waited until the room was silent before stating, "Our agent is none other than Mrs. Carlos Maria Garcito de Mejindas. It was she who originally tipped Michael off about Steiner. She's an American -- been with the Firm since before she got married. Almost Steiner's alter ego in that respect. In the past she was able to use her position to act as a courier and pull several major jobs for us in the course of her jet setting travels."

"Awfully convenient," Saint John remarked, "just happening to have an agent married to an international spy?"

Marella gave him a wry look. "There isn't anything convenient about it. The whole relationship has been carefully orchestrated from the beginning; the moment Mejindas made contact with his first Balkan country, this marriage was inevitable." She smiled grimly. "This'll probably be Mina's last job with us, not to mention the end of her marriage. You'd better see if you can get her out with Michael."

"How'z about we handle Steiner while we're at it?" Mike asked, showing his teeth.

Jo, only in the game a total of two months, gaped when Marella simply nodded at the suggestion. "If you can manage it, Mr. Rivers, your country will certainly appreciate it ... without telling you so, of course."

"Of course," Rivers repeated, resembling a shark. "We'll see what we can do."

"There is, however, one tiny little problem."

Locke stopped chewing his mustache to stare at the author of that seemingly innocuous statement. "Marella, I know you well enough for that type of remark to make me really start to sweat. What kind of tiny problem are you talking about?"

Marella looked him straight in the eye. "Casa del Suerte is protected by a Haversham screen."

This meant nothing to either Jo or Hawke, who waited silently for the other shoe to drop. To Mike and Jason, however, the woman might have set off a bomb in the room. "Oh, boy," Jason groaned, less thrilled about this piece of information than the possibility of going undercover with Mike Rivers. "Even Airwolf won't be able to get past that. Mike and I will be left without a pickup."

"What is a Haversham screen?" Jo asked curiously, taking the plunge. "Who was Haversham?"

It was Mike who answered, stone sober for once. "We're talking about a perimeter defense system about as sophisticated as they come. At varying distances from the base, they've laid out a ring of missiles, lasers and antiaircraft designed to cover every square inch of air space with multiple redundancy."

"Alexander Haversham was a mathematician," Marella added, "who devised the configuration for the weaponry. It's not random, but it's so devilishly complicated that your computers can't discern the pattern. Theoretically -- and so far, in practice -- the human mind cannot function fast enough to react to the number and quality of offenses without a tactical computer backup."

"We've gotten through air defenses before," Hawke pointed out imperturbably. "On stealth, we should be in and out before they know we're there."

She brushed that aside with a gesture. "Not with the sensors they'll be using. Airwolf will be detected, make no mistake. Besides, you're going to need Miss Santini in a second helicopter to carry that number of passengers." She tipped her head at Jo. "I've already arranged for a Bell Huey to be standing by for your use. Of course, no Army helicopter will make it through a Haversham screen; your only chance will be for Airwolf to run interference."

Locke stood up, turning until he could face Hawke directly. "That means knocking out their air defenses one at a time, at a low speed and lower altitude, while they're throwing everything they have at us too fast for any known aircraft to react to. Considering those circumstances, without a tactical prediction we won't have enough warning to bring the proper weapons on-line in time to do enough good, and no pilot can react fast enough to do the job without computer assistance." He spun angrily on the waiting black woman, mustache bristling with irritation. "What you're proposing, Marella, is a suicide mission, inside and out."

"Maybe," she flared, going still, "but you owe Michael...."

"Ya know...." Rivers' quiet voice brought silence. "There is one way to penetrate a Haversham screen."

"You know that's impossible," Marella gritted, drumming her nails on the arm of her chair. "Once, perhaps, but not now."

Rivers lifted one brow and slid off his perch, turning to lean his back against the glass enclosure behind the desk. "Is it?"

Jo Santini swept up a thick maintenance schedule from her desk and swung backward, whacking Rivers across the chest; he doubled over with a low 'Whoof!' "Spill it," she ordered, pulling back for another blow. "What is this great, magical way to get Airwolf through their security?"

Rivers retreated from that lethal weapon, raising both hands placatingly. "By finding someone who's flown through one before and lived to tell the tale. If they remember the pattern, we can feed the data into the computers. That advanced warning could be enough of an edge to make all the difference."

"And the only man who's ever made it through a Haversham screen," Marella stated flatly, glaring daggers at Rivers, "is Stringfellow Hawke. Even then Airwolf was damaged so badly he almost didn't make it back."

Unaffected by either woman's ire, Rivers stroked his smooth-shaven chin thoughtfully. "As a pilot, I'd give an arm and a leg to find out how he did it, too. With the tactical computers this side of useless, it would have been like tip-toeing through a minefield blindfolded."

Hawke shifted uncomfortably, though he did not move otherwise. "My brother was born with a sixth sense about his flying. Even in 'Nam he always seemed to know where the enemy was even before they showed up on radar. If there was anyone who could make it through a minefield blindfolded, it would be String."

"Who is dead," Marella shot back, adding apologetically to Hawke, "I'm sorry, but I've no time for the niceties. We're talking about the life of a good man."

Mike tipped his head at the bigger blond. "Saint John?"

A dozen heartbeats passed while Saint John Hawke stared at his friend and partner. Rivers said nothing more, merely waited for the older man to make up his mind. Finally, Hawke nodded. "We do have a pilot," he began quietly, leaving his position against the wall. He crossed to the small radio unit near the door and reached for the microphone, raising it to his lips. He flipped two switches and adjusted the dial until the static was replaced by a clear, open line. "WXSH this is WCSA, do you copy? Over." He waited, body utterly motionless, for one full minute, then pressed the send button again. "WXSH this is WCSA, do you copy? Over."

There was a click and the dead air was filled with a man's voice, low and controlled and infinitely familiar. "I'm here, Saint John."

The voice belonged to Stringfellow Hawke.

*

For Jo Santini, the world spent several seconds attaining a new, right- angled bent, red spots dancing tauntingly before her eyes. This is a trick! she screamed, though no sound emerged. But no, that was Stringfellow Hawke on the other end of that mike; that aloof, solemn tone was unmistakable. But was it a dead man she was listening to or a miracle? Either way would be a miracle, I suppose, she thought hysterically, fighting her way out of the fog.

"I need to see you," Saint John was saying, keeping his attention on the radio as though it were the most important thing on the planet. "And I'm bringing ... friends."

There was a pause, and the spectral voice, when it resumed, sounded more resigned than pleased. "Whatever you say. Out."

The line went dead. Saint John Hawke carefully rehung the mike and hunched his shoulders before turning to face the room again. "If he's strong enough," he said gruffly, "I'm sure you'll have your pilot."

"He's alive," Locke murmured, shaking his head as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "When you took him out of the hospital we naturally assumed...."

"Maybe we have a chance after all," Marella said, eyes shining.

Jo barely heard them. She placed her palms flat on the desk top, using the waning strength in her arms to push herself to her feet. Hawke watched warily as she circled the desk, coming to stand directly to his fore. "Jo, I....

"You insensitive creep!" It was the strongest insult she could manage at the moment, but it was accompanied by an open-handed slap that rocked Saint John's head back on his neck. Irish-Italian temper boiling over, Jo came in for a second swing, only stopping when her wrist was encased in one of Saint John's big hands. "How dare you?!" she snarled, yanking her arm free but not swinging again. "How dare you let me go for two months thinking Stringfellow was dead? I grieved for him! After all these years...."

Hawke rubbed at the rapidly growing red spot on his cheek. "I warned you a long time ago," he started, meeting her glare apologetically. "Do you remember what I told you once? When I was home on leave for the last time? I said that String could look after himself better than any man I'd ever known, but when he couldn't do it, I was going to do it for him. No matter what it cost. Remember?"

She nodded, recalling the conversation very well for all that it had been fifteen-plus years ago and the last time she'd seen him before his rescue from Khmer Rouge. She'd believed him completely then; it didn't look as though all that time in a prison camp had dulled that big-brotherly protective attitude one iota despite the fact that Stringfellow Hawke was easily the most dangerous man she'd ever met. "What about it?" she snapped, in no mood to be mollified.

Saint John opened his arms, a curiously vulnerable pose in so big a man. Vulnerable to me, Jo realized, old friendship cooling her anger a few degrees. "This time he couldn't look after himself, Jo, and I had to do it for him. After all that's happened -- the conspiracy, the government, the camps, I.... And I didn't know you any more. Or them at all," he added, pointing at Mike and Jason, who were paying rapt attention. "Only that you were working with them."

"To get you out of Burma! Besides, you obviously trusted Mike," she accused, poking him in the chest with one long nail. "He knew and I didn't."

Saint John captured her hand again, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. "Mike dealt himself in. He guessed what I was up to and wouldn't let me shake him. Besides, I needed help to get String out of the enemy's reach."

"The Company is the enemy?" Locke asked, only half joking. Trust had been a factor with the team in the past.

Saint John looked him right in the eye. "I don't know. There are too many wheels within wheels, Jason. I don't pretend to understand any of them -- I'm only a chopper pilot. I do know I needed to protect my brother."

"Glad I could be of use where the spy system failed," Rivers interjected, looking irritatingly smug. Jo wished she could slap him, too. "Leave it to the Air Force to pull the Army's bacon out of the fire."

"Maybe the Army can return the favor some time," Saint John told him with a hint of the easy rapport that marked their relationship.

Mike winked. "The Army's come through a couple of times already."

Jo shifted her weight from one foot to the other and Hawke turned back to her. "I couldn't take a chance on anyone else," he went on humor fading. "Jason is still with the DNS ..." He glanced an apology at the black man, who looked away. "... and you're...." He stopped, gazing at Jo with honest affection. "You're no spy, Jo. If you'd known String was still alive, everybody in Van Nuys would have been able to tell. Everybody including the Company." He shook his head. "I couldn't take the chance -- not with String's life at stake. I'm sorry."

She turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. She felt betrayed, angry and happy all at once, yet it wasn't as if she couldn't understand, him. He was right in that she was no agent -- her emotions wrote themselves on her features, open and easy to read just like her father's had been. Just like Uncle Dom.

She was also unsurprised that Saint John had chosen to close his brother off to himself. Her memory was too full of other incidents in their combined past where she had been shut out of that private little circle, isolated from that special closeness the two brothers had always shared -- and she, an only child, had always envied. Uncle Dom had once explained to her that Saint John and Stringfellow were bound to be closer than normal; they were the only family each had left for all that the two Santini's might love them as their own. She sensed Hawke's body close behind, there was a hand on her shoulder, and she sighed. She had finally come to accept that closeness between the brothers all those years ago ... and, just maybe, could accept it now.

Several seconds later she took a deep breath, that sure rooted inner strength she'd always had to draw upon bringing both shoulders back and head up. She turned, searching his face, seeking the assurance she needed. "There's been no danger for almost two months," she pointed out quietly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He spread his hands helplessly, encompassing the others. "There's been no attacks for two months," he corrected her. "Whoever killed Dominic is still out there, maybe waiting for another chance at String. We never did establish that it was Airwolf the assassin was after."

"I never thought of that," Jo admitted fairly.

"We did." Jason reseated himself in the battered chair. "We went through every file we had on either Stringfellow Hawke or Dominic Santini -- every mission since they'd stolen Airwolf."

"I even checked the Pentagon computers for records of Hawke's Army service," Marella said from her own chair. "Between Jason and myself we discovered a dozen and one possibilities but no hard evidence at all."

"Do you really think it could be the Company, Saint John?" Jo asked, eyes wide, mind reeling from the concept.

Jason went still. "We don't do assassinations," he stated flatly.

Mike crossed his arms, regarding the man with his head tilted to the side. "Zebra Squad," he responded enigmatically.

Jo didn't understand the reference but Jason gritted his teeth and shut up. Probably something she didn't want to know anyway, she decided. She became aware again of that warm, large hand on her arm, and looked up into those surprisingly kind blue-gray eyes.

"I swear I wanted to tell you sooner," Hawke finished his confession, "but we decided to wait. I wanted String to have time to recover a bit before the Company knew he was around." He tapped his own temple. "Recover here. He was in pretty bad shape, Jo."

"We decided?" Locke parroted, white teeth flashing under his neat mustache, good humor at least overtly restored. "Knowing you, Saint John, I have to wonder if your brother had any say in the matter at all."

"If Stringfellow..." Mike made a face. "What a name. Anyway, if Stringfellow Hawke is anything like that Army Captain the AF test pilots used to gossip about, you have enough trouble getting this guy to cooperate on something he wants to do, much less anything he's dead set against."

"Amen," Jason added ardently.

"I see you do know my brother," Saint John tossed their way, though his eyes remained locked on Jo Santini's. "California's a long way from Viet Nam, but not far enough from fifteen years."

She stared deep into his strong face, and his genuine regret at hurting her permitted forgiveness. "If you ever do that to me again," she warned, making two fists and waving one under his long nose, "I'll deck you for sure."

Hawke cracked a tiny smile, visibly relieved. "Deal." He waved invitingly at the rest of the group. "Shall we take a little trip? There's a mountain I'd like to reintroduce you to."

***