Chapter 2
They took Santini Air's largest chopper, a vintage Sikorsky repainted in red, white and blue, and able to hold six people and cargo to boot. The trip into the mountains passed quickly, with Rivers, at the controls, telling outrageous anecdotes about his adventures in Mexico, and Locke and Jo trying vainly to shut him up. There was an aura of excitement that gripped the entire team, the adrenal rush of an impending mission, the expectation of receiving one of their own back again. Forty-eight minutes after lift-off they were setting down above the waters of an incredibly blue mountain lake and basking in unobstructed high-altitude sunshine.
"Obviously, the old hiding places are the best," Marella remarked, jumping lightly onto the wooden dock. "After Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow, was reported dead, we never gave this area another look."
Jo filled her lungs with aromatic, pine-scented air, a happy smile lighting her face. "This place hasn't changed at all," she marvelled, spinning in place to examine her surroundings. "It must be four years since I've been here and everything is exactly the way I remember it. Oh! Look!" All eyes followed her pointing finger to watch a great-winged brown and white creature as it glided, rising and falling on the fickle currents. "That's an American Eagle! I didn't know there were any still around here!"
Locke, too, was enchanted by the scenery. "I've never seen a bald eagle before. I didn't imagine them to be so large." He strolled from the dock to the little path leading up to the cabin, dark eyes taking in every sight and sound with pleasure. "It's beautiful here. So peaceful. Perfect for convalescing young pilots, eh?" he said, smiling at Saint John Hawke.
"This is my brother's home," the big blond returned mildly, unzipping his jacket. "He'd've felt caged in my townhouse. And as long as he can get around...." He tipped his head, watching the eagle. "You can't keep people caged; after awhile they start to die ... a bit at a time."
"You were caged for fifteen years," Jo said softly, laying a small hand on his arm.
He looked down at her with that gentle, sad smile that was so much a part of him. "I'm not caged any more, Jo."
"This place is pretty but not convalescent perfect," Rivers muttered grudgingly and just loud enough for all to hear. He sniffed, then sneezed, politely pardoning himself. "I'd go bonkers up here inside of a week. No chicks, no bars...." He pulled a handkerchief out of his jeans' pocket and blew his nose, offering the nearest evergreen a disgusted look. "Terrific."
"Wait a minute, weren't you the Boy Scout?" Saint John asked, fixing him with a puzzled look. "Since when do you hate the woods?"
The younger man screwed his face into a sheepish moue. "I love the woods ... when I've had my allergy shots. I was due for another round last week. Nobody told me we'd be visiting the Hermit of the North on such short notice."
"A Boy Scout is always prepared," Jo quoted impishly. She tugged his arm, pulling him along behind the already moving team. "I'm sure you'll survive a couple of hours. Come on; it looks like we're expected."
They were indeed. A hound dog trotted down the path to meet them, running lazy circles around Jo and howling mournfully until she bent down to scratch his head. "Good dog! Are you still hanging around here?"
Tet licked her hand and edged past Mike, who was watching him apprehensively, to Saint John, who bent to give the animal a quick pat. "Hello, Tet," he said, a tiny smile on his lips. "Looks exactly like the dog I used to have. At least, the dog belonged to me; after the first couple of months, he adopted String." The dog paused then tilted his head, staring back up the way he'd come. He woofed and loped off. "I assume that means my brother is waiting up there for us."
It was no great distance to the cabin, which sat nestled against the mountain one hundred feet from the lake. It was of heavy logs, solidly built, and the gray smoke pouring out of the chimney gave it a pleasant aspect. As the group approached they came to see a young man sitting on the outside step, one arm around the returned hound. He waited until they were only several yards away before coming to his feet; he used the porch railing to pull himself up then balanced easily, favoring one leg, displaying an inborn grace retained despite the awkwardness of injury.
Narrowed blue eyes scanned the group once, settling on Jo Santini, who had come into the lead and reached him first. "Hi, Jo," he greeted her with uncharacteristic shyness, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive posture, then deliberately dropping them. Tension sang in every muscle of the slender body, the impression being almost as though he was expecting to be struck and was determined to allow it.
Jo didn't answer at first. She waited until she'd climbed the first porch step from which vantage she could regard the young man from his own height. She stared expressionlessly for a single moment, searching blue eye meeting guarded one, then slipped her arms around his neck, giving her old friend a brief, hard hug, planting a kiss on his forehead before releasing him. "If you ever pull anything like this on me again, Stringfellow Hawke, I'll kill you myself. Is that clear?"
Little lines appeared around his eyes, more revealing than any grin, banishing the distance between them. "Clear."
"Good."
He touched her arm as she made to move away, looking suddenly very sad. "I'm ... sorry about Dom."
Jo rested one hand on his chest sympathetically. "I'm sorry for you, even more. He might have been my uncle but he was your father." Rather than removing her hand, she frowned and poked familiarly at his bulky brown sweater, tugging it up until she could see the tightly belted jeans. "These clothes must be two sizes too big for you; you're thin as a rail." He retreated from her maternal admonitions, his irritation provoking a mischievous twinkle. "I, however," she added, patting her own perfectly curved hip through her white slacks, "have put on five pounds just this year. Disgusting, isn't it?"
The hard-won smile transformed his face, softening away edges and making him look even younger and less forbidding. "You look wonderful," he said, nevertheless glancing backwards, seeking someone else.
"Just remember that."
She stepped aside, allowing him access to the rest of the group. He nodded at Marella, who beamed right back, looking pleased; she'd never been fond of the reticent young pilot but had always held an appreciation for loyalty -- something Stringfellow Hawke had displayed to a fault. Jason and Mike received only a cursory glance for it was Saint John's gaze he caught and held. The sight of his older brother seemed to be reassuring though he did not lower his guard. "I guess you'd better come in," he invited gruffly, leading the way into the cabin.
"You've met him before," Rivers asked Jason Locke out of the side of his mouth. "Is he always this friendly?"
Locke grimaced. "He's having a good day."
Mike sighed, his work boots thudding on the wooden porch. "I thought Saint John was too serious, but baby brother is downright gloomy. You think that smile he gave Jo hurt his face?"
Locke smothered a laugh in his palm but managed to add, "He hasn't had much to smile about for the last half of his life," before crossing the threshold into Stringfellow Hawke's lair.
The interior was more spacious than outward appearances might suggest, comfortably furnished and unexpectedly homey. The living room was dominated by a large stone hearth against the right wall; the crackling fire in the grate burned nearly to embers but still gave off heat and light.
Marella crossed directly to the tan sofa, seating herself and crossing her long legs comfortably at the knee. "Good to see you in one piece, Hawke," she greeted the pilot, moving her purse so Jo could sit at her side. "I should have known better than to believe the rumors of your death."
"They weren't exaggerated by all that much," the pilot said, fixing a gaze over her shoulder.
"I think I'm the only one here you don't know. Mike Rivers." Mike extended his hand to Stringfellow, the grip being reluctantly accepted and immediately released. "I've heard quite a bit about you."
"He was the one at the hospital," Saint John mentioned, leaning against the stone hearth and crossing one foot over the other.
Recognition lit the younger Hawke's face and he studied the newcomer more closely. "I owe you for that."
Rivers dismissed the gratitude with a nonchalant wave. "No problem, man. We'll discuss repayment the next time I need help landing some chick." He paused for a reaction, receiving only a blank stare in return. "That's a joke, buddy-boy," he relented, slapping the other man on the arm. "Me? Needing help with a chick? A joke, get it?" He blew out his cheeks, spreading his hands ceilingward. "And they talk about tough audiences."
Hawke ducked his head, one side of his mouth turning up almost unwillingly. "I get it."
Rivers surrendered and began to wander the room, beginning with the gleaming cello standing neatly in the far corner. "Bet you can really wail on this thing," he muttered, plucking a single note. "Get booked at many bar mitzvahs?"
Stringfellow joined his brother by the fire. He walked with a pronounced limp, his lips set as though it were still painful to move around. Closer examination revealed both a metal leg brace visible through the neatly slit jeans and an expensive silver-headed walking stick by the door, which was even now growing cobwebs from disuse. "You need something from me?" he asked, fixing Saint John with an inquiring gaze.
"Michael needs something from you," Marella said firmly.
String glanced from his brother to Locke, who had seated himself in the stuffed chair opposite the couch. There was an odd look in his eyes, dawning hope too smothered in pain to fully surface as anything except skepticism. "You told Saint John, Michael was dead."
"We're having a special on resurrections today," Rivers quipped, having left the cello to examine the paintings that hung on each wall. He scowled, peering more closely at the signature adorning one oil. "This can't be right. This is a ... Van Gogh?"
No one acknowledged that last, least of all Stringfellow. He pierced Marella with a sharp gaze, head tilted to the side, expression so perfectly neutral as to scream facade. "If Michael is still alive, where's he been? And why did Zeus assign someone else as ... liaison ... to Airwolf?"
"Don't say it like it's a dirty word," Locke chided in a rough approximation of Mike's insouciance. He was ignored as thoroughly as if he'd not been there at all. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Michael did warn me about you."
"Michael Coldsmith-Briggs has spent the last three weeks, six days as a prisoner in Mexico, waiting for his captors to finish ... negotiations with a country in the Muslim bloc." Marella, ever loyal to her former boss, pursed her lips, teeth grinding in barely suppressed fury. "They'll be selling him to the highest bidder sometime within the next week, according to my source."
Stringfellow again glanced at his brother and the hope struggled upward another notch. Then the hardness seeped back into his rounded jaw. "You're telling me Michael is still alive after all this time, and no one's gone in after him?"
"No one." Marella tossed her dark head then frowned and pulled off her hat, hanging it on the back of the couch. "They can't even risk sending Zebra Squad in there, though they're on stand-by status and will be activated the minute Michael is out of Mexico. Right now the Pentagon is scrambling to plug up the multitude of holes this is going to leave in national security." She sighed. "I can't even imagine how many agents' lives are going to be lost if Michael breaks ... if Zebra Squad fails."
Jo tugged at the black, long-sleeved blouse she'd donned before leaving the airport, loosening the top button in deference to the heat from the fire. Across from her, Locke, again in tie and suit jacket, pulled at his own collar in envy. "I have a question," she began, casting Locke an impish look then unfastening two more buttons. "What's taken them so long? If this Archangel is a member of the DNS...."
"A member of the Central Committee," Locke interjected, smoothing a tiny wrinkle in his brown pants. "Deputy Director of Operations."
"Okay, a top member of the Firm," she picked up again. "What's taken them so long to sell him out? With the kind of information he must be carrying, any country in the world would probably pay through the nose for him, including a couple of allies. Why wait?"
"Maybe his bills become due then," Mike gibed, abandoning a Renoir to take his place behind the sofa. He perched on its back, balancing himself on one hip. "Maybe they were shopping around."
"Or maybe it's a trap?" Saint John Hawke guessed softly. "If they have Archangel, they might know about Airwolf, too."
Marella hesitated, gloved fingers drumming the arm of the couch. "If Khadafy is involved in the negotiations, they most certainly do know about Airwolf; if not, they've probably heard rumors. I've considered the possibility of a trap, of course...."
"Of course!" Rivers leaned forward until he could see the attractive black woman around Jo, white teeth bared in a boyish grin. "So naturally you decided to send us in, anyway."
Marella tipped her head up, piercing him with a glare. "No one's forcing you on this mission, Major. If you're afraid to try...."
"Whoa, whoa!" Rivers raised a hand, cutting her off, indignation flaring in his face. "I never said anything about being afraid." He straightened, patting the top of Jo's head. "As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to practicing my spanish. Them little Mexicana towns are usually stuffed with lonely seƱoritas."
Jo gave him an irritated swat. "One of those seƱoritas are going to be the death of you some day," she growled, brushing her mussed hair back into place.
"We all gotta go sometime, sweetheart," he retorted good-naturedly. "Can you think of a better way?"
Stringfellow Hawke glanced up at his brother, one brow raised inquiringly. "What does he mean by that? This isn't going to be a frontal assault?"
Saint John jerked a thumb first at the placidly lounging Rivers, then to the more serious Locke, the action flapping his light white shirt at the sleeves. "The target is being held inside an old spanish fortress on the coast -- no landing space inside the wall, no way Airwolf would be able to get in without blowing it up."
"And for obvious reasons," Rivers said, flipping a wavy blond lock out of his face, "we'd like to avoid blowing anything up until we've gotten the good guys out of there." He paused, studying Stringfellow's expressionless features. "You're really not a very cheerful person, are you."
"Not one of my faults," Hawke replied, a suspicious twinkle borning then dying in the back of his blue eyes.
Rivers looked startled. "That was almost a joke!" he gasped, pressing both hands to his chest. "I ... I ... I'm speechless."
"It would be the first time," Jo snapped, quelling him with a look. "Would you shut up and let us get on with this? In case you've forgotten, you and Jason are catching a plane for Mexico in a few hours."
Rivers subsided and Marella picked up the story. "I have a contact inside. She'll help Jason and Mike find Archangel and any other prisoners Mejindas is holding, get them outside the fortress by any means possible, where Airwolf can assist in a pickup." She stopped drumming the arm of the couch and spread her fingers in a casual gesture. "That's the mission in a nutshell -- one team going in covert, and Airwolf to run interference for the final extraction."
"That's not the entire mission," Locke reminded her firmly. He pulled a linen handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at the sweat beading his brow, still making no effort to remove his jacket or tie. The look he gave Stringfellow was solemn. "The fortress is very old; the Haversham screen protecting the fortress is very new."
"A Haversham screen?" Even the normally unflappable Stringfellow Hawke looked dismayed at that. "A full screen for some old castle?"
"The man is very rich," Marella gritted, "and has been suspected of running more than one covert operation from that old building. We know he's involved in something more than selling human beings, but have only been able to discern the tip of the iceberg." She gestured at Locke. "Once Jason has decoded the computer disk I gave him, you should have high-res satellite photos of the installation; they'll have a basic floorplan of Casa del Suerte. Beyond that, I can't help you."
Saint John rested one large hand on his brother's shoulder, turning him slightly until they were facing. "If you're up to it ..." He quelled Marella's impending objection with a sharp look. "... we're going to need you in Airwolf. You're the only one of us who's ever flown through one of those systems."
"The only one who's lived to tell about it ... so they say," Rivers added with blatant skepticism.
Stringfellow stiffened, his voice grew soft but the hard edge of steel rang in its depths. "But you don't believe it."
Mike, unperturbed by the implied challenge, offered a lazy grin. "Wellll, I suppose dumb luck might get you through once; that's no guarantee you can do it again. And we don't really need you flying Airwolf. A little floor plan of the defense paradigm ought'a do it."
Saint John tightened his hold on his brother, catching him just as the younger man took a menacing step forward. "Ignore him, String. He always mouths off before a mission. You get used to it."
"This is more than just mouthing off," the younger brother returned coldly, though he did not pull away from Saint John's grip.
Though offered as a statement, the implication was that of a question, and Rivers treated it as such. Jaw tightening, he dropped both feet to the floor and stood, poising himself with hands on his hips. "Let's just say I have a little problem with this arrangement."
"You mean with me," String asserted.
Rivers nodded. "With you."
"What's your problem, Mike?" Saint John asked, no longer leaning against the mantle. His muscles were as taut as Stringfellow's; he stood almost protectively at his brother's side though his stance was devoid of any threat toward Rivers. "If it's legit, spit it out."
"Legit?" String demanded, shooting him an startled look.
Blue eyes for once devoid of boyish mischief regarded Stringfellow Hawke long enough for the look to be actually insulting. Mike waited until the other man's fine lips had drawn into a line before speaking. "I happen to consider my life a 'legit' concern," he began, and there was a no animosity in his voice, just professional calculation. "Once Jason and I are inside that fortress, our only chance of getting back out in one piece is going to rely on Airwolf getting through that defense screen."
"We know that, Mike," Saint John said reasonably. "You don't think Airwolf can make it?"
"Airwolf?" Rivers licked his lips. "I figure maybe if any piece of machinery can make it through a Haversham screen, it's Airwolf. I just don't think he ..." He pointed at Stringfellow, who had not relaxed one iota. "... can do it."
"You...." the younger Hawke began, clenching his fists.
"Why?" That was Marella, and the very interest in her question rooted Hawke in his tracks. "As Saint John said, if your objection is legitimate, spit it out."
"And it had better be good," Jason warned from his chair.
Rivers gestured, his waving hand taking in the man from head to foot. "You've got the reputation of a good pilot," he began generously, "but sad to say, you're not looking that great right now. I understand that crash and burn nearly wiped you permanently."
"Mike! How could you be so cruel?" Jo exclaimed, gaping at the blond pilot in astonishment.
Rivers shot her a look containing a hint of apology. "That's not my intention, sweetheart. Getting out of Casa del Suerte is." He ambled slowly to the Hawke's, making no pretense of subtlety. He and Stringfellow were of a height though Rivers was ten pounds heavier, and both carried themselves with the confident, relaxed alertness of the true predator. "Not counting your bum leg -- explosion nearly ripped your ankle it off, didn't it? -- I'd say your health wasn't anywhere near flight specs. Your reflexes and reaction time have got to be hovering somewhere near zero." He took a final step closer, now nose-to-nose with the glowering Hawke. "I'll add to that the fact that you haven't logged time with anything bigger than a paper airplane in two months."
All eyes shifted to Stringfellow, who had allowed no more than a flash of hurt to touch his features before he could restore the impassive mask. "That is a logical consideration," Marella said, scanning the still-mending man clinically. "Penetrating a Haversham screen will require someone in top form. Are you up to it, Stringfellow?"
Dark blue eyes fastened on the window, focussing on the distant mountains visible through the glass. "I can do the job."
"You say," Mike volleyed.
Saint John again touched his brother's taut shoulder, he addressed Mike though his words were directed to the room. "If my brother says he can take us through, you can bet your life on it."
"That's the problem," Rivers flashed back, making a chopping gesture. "I am betting my life -- and Jason's, and Jo's. And I don't like the odds." He took a deep breath, forcing his tone back to one of calm reasonability. "I propose I take Airwolf in."
"You think you'd have a better chance at penetrating Haversham's mathematics than Mr. Hawke?" Locke asked, studying both men closely.
Mike nodded. "I'm in a lot better shape."
"No good." That was Marella, shaking her dark head. "You're needed to go in with Jason. He can't manage Mejindas' army by himself."
Mike shrugged. "Fine. Let Saint John handle Airwolf. He's logged a dozen missions in the past two months."
"But she's been String's baby for the last two years," Jo remarked fairly. "That has to count for something."
Stringfellow said nothing at first, simply continued to gaze out the window, his face stone. "It's up to you, String," Saint John told him softly. "You're the best one of us for the job, but it is dangerous and you're not recovered yet." He shook the tense shoulder under his hand, strong, solemn features taking on a uniquely gentle aspect that made both Jo and Mike stare at him hard with wonder. "I don't doubt your ability, but almost losing you once makes me feel a little cautious."
"I lost you for fifteen years," the younger man murmured just loud enough for Saint John to hear. To the rest, "I'm the best chance Michael -- or you -- have of getting out. Airwolf is my machine, and Michael is a ... friend," he added, finally looking up at his brother."
Dark blue eye met blue-gray, then Saint John nodded. "It's settled, then." He glanced from String to Mike, who was waiting with an obstinate expression. "If you don't feel good about this, Mike, you'd better stay out of it. Maybe Marella can find someone else to go inside with Jason."
Marella opened her mouth but had no chance to reply before Rivers had thrown up his hands. "Forget it," he snarled. "If Jason is going to have any chance at all of getting out, he's going to need me as backup." He paused, turning grim. "I just hope there's someone there to pick us up once we're clear."
That settled, Jason ran a hand through his short, curly hair. "We'd better get going. We're going to have to run that disk through Airwolf's computers before Mike and I can catch our transportation in."
Rather than rising, Marella stretched, kicking off her shoes comfortably. "Not me, gentlemen. As of last night I'm a security risk. The Pentagon forbade this mission, remember?" She tucked her feet up under her. "If I'm picked up, the Firm will know about this mission -- maybe in time to do something about it. I'm staying right here until you get back. Tet and I will keep each other company for awhile."
"Then the rest of us...."
Anything Saint John was about to say was lost when Jo clapped her hands loudly for attention. "Oh, no, you don't. Before we dig into this assignment, you promised to tell me how you got String out of that hospital and what's been happening since then. The chopper was too loud for the story and I really want to know. Now," she finished, crossing her arms firmly.
"I'd rather like to know myself," Marella added for good measure.
Still touching his brother's shoulder and with Stringfellow's eyes full upon him, Saint John Hawke took a deep breath and told them....
*
The VA hospital was old stone, practically government issue, battered and dirty from many years use. Inside all was organized chaos as with any large facility, white uniformed attendants dancing a delicate pas de deux with military personal, conversation muted by scrubbed tile and gravity.
Saint John entered the bustle though became no part of it; focussed straight ahead and slowing for no one, he passed like Moses through the Red Sea, the crowd parting for him grudgingly but recognizing an unstoppable object when it saw one
Though only permitted to see Stringfellow once, Jo had been able to tell he was in bad shape. Internal injuries, broken bones, burns and concussion. According to her, he'd been so drugged that he'd barely realized she was there at all. "He's dying, Saint John," she'd managed through free tears. "We're going to lose him!"
No, I'm not, Saint John thought doggedly, making his way to the second floor nurses' station. I waited all this time to see my baby brother again; I'm not going to lose him now.
He stopped at the circular desk-barrier, and an elderly woman in horn- rimmed glasses looked up politely at his beckon. "I'm here to see my brother," Saint John blurted, leaning against the counter. "Stringfellow Hawke. Which room?"
Her expression changed from courtesy to consternation. "We didn't know you were.... Oh! Dr. Melloni!"
A man in surgical scrubs deviated his course at her call. "Mrs. Clayton?"
She gestured to an impatiently waiting Hawke with a pencil. "Stringfellow Hawke's brother to see him."
The man regarded Saint John for a split second, then beckoned him to the side of the corridor. "Before you see your brother," he began grimly, "I think you should be apprised of his condition."
"Just what is my brother's condition?" Saint John asked silkily, wanting to rip out the walls if they kept him from String much longer.
After expressing surprise that a relative of the patient had appeared at all, the surgeon, a middle-aged, pot-bellied man with sympathetic eyes, stated flatly that the younger Hawke wasn't expected to survive. "His condition continues to deteriorate," he went on with brusque candor. "His vitals are dropping steadily and we're looking at total system shutdown within a couple of days at the outside."
"But how?" Saint John's mind had reeled from the shock of the news. His brother -- his baby brother -- dying? "You've got him in a hospital," he'd charged the surgeon wildly. "Do something for him!"
A young nurse appeared briefly and spoke a few words; the man waved her aside curtly, returning immediately to Saint John before the pilot would have throttled him. Stepping closer, the doctor lowered his voice, glancing once over his shoulder. "I'm under orders not to discuss your brother's case with anyone ..." He flapped a hand nonchalantly. "... but I've never been very good at taking orders and I think you should know. Mr. Hawke's condition is critical -- grave, in fact. He's fighting -- or perhaps I should say, not fighting a massive infection that the antibiotics are failing to arrest. We're also ninety percent certain he's still bleeding inside, but two exploratories have failed to discover where, and he's much too weak for a third. He needs a specialist, but my instructions forbid calling one in."
Saint John's blood went cold. "Who's instructions?" he asked numbly.
The man shrugged and stepped back. "They came from outside the hospital through the hospital administrator. Something to do with heightened security. That's all I know." He hesitated again, then swallowed and went on. "As the only next of kin, you should also be aware that psychologically your brother is in no better shape than physically. I understand he lost a friend in the same explosion that injured him?" At Saint John's nod, he went on, "There's a good chance there wouldn't be anything a surgeon can do for him anyway if he's given up -- stopped trying to live. He's not even making the minimum progress we would have expected after the interval involved."
String? Stopped fighting? If so, he wasn't the stubborn little scrapper Saint John had -- sometimes exasperatedly -- watched grow up. "I'm here now," he heard himself say through frozen lips. "And I have enough fight left for both of us."
"You may need it."
Something in the man's tone prevented Saint John from immediately resuming his trek toward his brother. "What do you mean?" he demanded, taking a menacing step toward the other and clenching large fists.
Uncowled, the doctor lifted his chin, his wiry beard lifting from his breast. "Because we treat government officials as well as veterans, we've been subject to several sanctions in the past -- CIA types and the like. Add to that the fact that I'm a veteran myself -- saw a lot of action in 'Nam -- and I've picked up a sixth sense about something being wrong." He straightened, his hand on Hawke's wrist. "Mr. Hawke, there's definitely something wrong in your brother's case. For one thing, they have him in an isolated private room instead of ICU; with a heart monitor, serious infection and raging fever, he should have constant attendance rather than sporadic nursing checks." He hesitated as though not wanting to finish. "His heart stopped on us twice in the first few days he was here. The crash cart nearly didn't make it up here in time."
"What else?" Saint John asked, knowing there was more.
"There's rudimentary surveillance on the room -- a guard that takes 'coffee breaks.' Once, I walked in without checking at the desk to find a nurse about to give him an injection."
"So?"
He shook his head. "I know every nurse assigned here and she wasn't one of them. When I confronted her, she made some excuse and left. I never saw her again. I'm still wondering how she got past the guard and who she worked for."
"What was in that hypodermic?" Hawke asked, going cold again.
The man shrugged. "I never found out but whatever it was, it wasn't on your boy's charts."
Your boy ... my boy, Saint John reflected with a thrill. My kid brother. And I'd better start taking better care of him. He glanced down the corridor suspiciously, almost expecting a DNS spook to emerge from every crevice. "This isn't a safe place for him," he said flatly.
"It's not even a good place for him," the doctor agreed, releasing his wrist and resuming a professional demeanor. "If he doesn't receive better care than we're allowed to give him -- something beyond blood expanders, antibiotics that don't work, and enough painkillers to keep him from screaming the other patients awake -- he'll be dead in seventy-two hours ... which seems to be what someone is counting on."
"Can he be moved?" Saint John asked.
Melloni shrugged. "He shouldn't be moved. It's been long enough for his ribs to be mending but the internal injuries...." He shook his head. "Moving him could kill him. But in my professional opinion, if he stays, he's dead anyway. If it was my brother, I know what I'd do ... providing you could move him past the ... government? ... surveillance."
"Just watch me," the pilot mumbled, thanking Melloni with a curt nod and moving off, his brother's room number still ringing in his ears. The sterile hospital corridor passed in a blur of color and shapes, almost as if he was rushing down a long tunnel. For Saint John Hawk, that's precisely what it was -- a tunnel at the end of which waited the brother he hadn't seen in fifteen long years. Hearing was saturated with the sound of his boots thumping on the stone floor, their rhythm keeping counterpoint to the audible rush of blood in his ears. He picked his way past white uniformed humans, mind flying backward of its own accord to the time before Viet Nam and prisoner-of-war camps, before beatings and hunger and endless despair. They'd been a family: himself, Stringfellow, Dominic. Sometimes even Dom's niece Joanna Santini when she wasn't staying with other relatives. Even then, there had been something special about the relationship between his brother and himself. String had been so young when their parents died, so full of guilt and grief, that the elder brother had taken over raising him as much even as Dom, and known himself adored in return. The two had become inseparable. Until 'Nam.
String. If only I'd known what you were doing to yourself before.
One wide shoulder brushed against a high-piled linen cart being trolled down the hall, the sleeve of his black leather jacket catching. He freed himself hastily, acknowledging the nurse's apology with a curt nod. He entered the elevator and pushed the sixth floor button, moving on auto pilot. His attention was focussed not quite thirty years before, on himself at eight teaching the four year old Stringfellow how to use a bow and arrow. The bow and arrow had been a present from Dom. But Dom was....
Something crashed, ripping Saint John from his reminisce and it was only then he realized that the elevator door stood invitingly open. He strode out, skirting a squatting orderly who was picking up pieces of scattered food. Some peripheral sense told him he was being sized up by sharp eyes across the hall -- a swarthy man in a business suit. The big blond never broke his stride. The tunnel narrowed and he stopped, for here was the door. Just beyond this white washed barrier lay the badly injured man who was his brother.
Saint John paused, hand on the cool steel and took a deep breath, then pushed it wide, stepping across the threshold and stopping in shock. String! His first impression was to wonder if he wasn't already too late; could anyone be so totally drained and still be alive? String always had healthy coloring. This man looks like a corpse. The skin was stretched tight across fine-boned features, the underlying color a frighteningly bloodless white. Twin spots of red rode on the high cheekbones, however, a fever that had burned for too long. The heart monitor beeped unnervingly in the silence of the isolated room, raking Saint John's nerves raw and making him clench his teeth against the scream that rose in his throat like bile. In a flash, Saint John compared the man lying there with a mental picture of an eighteen year old man-child, making automatic corrections for injury and finding little in the way of difference. The gold-brown hair was cropped short on the sides, though long enough on top to halo the boyish face. Looking closer, Saint John could see lines drawn around the eyes and mouth that hadn't been there fifteen years ago. Not age, he realized sadly. Heartache. My fault. All because of me. I should have been here.
Most of the body was covered by a sheet, but the figure outlined was slender. That appearance could be deceptive for that slenderness hid a wiry strength that Saint John knew matched that in his own large frame. Bandages covered both arms and part of the right hand, and more were visible beneath the thin sheets. Broken bones, Saint John catalogued dully, internal injuries, concussion, shattered ankle, multiple burns, some of them third degree, infection. To the boy's left an I.V. bag hung, feeding clear fluid into his arm, and he was breathing quickly, obviously in pain. Someone should have checked him sooner, Saint John thought with irritation.
The blue eyes were open, fixed in opium induced apathy on the distant ceiling, bright with fever and filled with despair. Anyone who had met the young man previously would have been astonished at the depth of emotion written there, emotion normally hidden behind an impassive mask. But Saint John was not astonished for this man was well known and long beloved -- this man was Saint John's brother.
Despite the circumstance, Hawke held his breath with elation at the sight. For fifteen long years he'd held on to the memory of this boy, nurturing a single, all-consuming desire to bring the once-inseparable together again, wondering at the kind of man the boy had become. It had been a shock to find Dominic Santini gone; the thought that he might lose his brother too -- and just when they were finally together again -- was a knife twisting in his gut and a pain worse than all he had suffered at the hands of the Vietnamese.
All this ran through his mind in the space of a single heartbeat. The other man turned his head, drawn by movement, listlessly incurious as to his visitor's identity. String squinted, obviously unable to see well, then disbelief blanked his features for a single instant before liquid sunshine lit his face, eyes welling over with the purest joy. No one bothered to tell him about me, Saint John realized angrily, his heart beating like a triphammer. It nearly stopped when he heard the whispered, "Saint John? Is that you?"
His own face tight, Saint John crossed the short distance to the high hospital bed in four strides. "You bet, brother." Was that quavering voice really his? He swooped down on the bed, and String, breath catching in a sob, threw both arms around his neck, engulfing him in a weak but fervent hug. Saint John emitted a sigh of total contentment and gathered his brother in.
Beginning to cry in earnest, String's fingers dug into the dark leather jacket, face pressed against the older man's neck. "There's so much I have to tell you," he babbled disjointedly.
Saint John brushed his cheek on soft hair, keeping his grip gentle and having to fight the urge to squeeze the injured man even tighter. String ... brother. "I know. I know," he murmured soothingly, as afraid for his brother's life as he was happy to see him.
He started to pull back but String clutched at him like a hysterical child, holding on for all he was worth, determined, it seemed, to confess the worst at once. "Dom...."
"I know." Saint John forced steadiness into his voice, and eased away, drinking in his brother's face as though it were ambrosia, his own jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Little brother. He slid his right hand up under String's neck, stroking the soft hair there, cradling his head, the fever hot body warming his own terror chilled bones. Now I'm home, little brother. Now!
Tears streaming down his cheeks, the younger man lightly touched Saint John's chest as though he still couldn't believe he was actually there. He continued to cry, intensity flooding his voice. "Don' let me die," he choked, unfocussed eyes glancing briefly at the ceiling.
Die. Saint John swallowed hard, using his thumb to caress his brother's wet cheek. "You're not going to die," he stated with absolute conviction. "I won't let you."
"I don't want to die in this ... place," String spat unheeding, the last word loaded with hatred and utter despair.
No one's going to take you away from me now. He bent lower, forcing the fever bright, drug vague eyes to center on him. "You won't, String. I promise." Overcome with emotion, he lifted the younger man carefully, a few inches only, wrapping him in a powerful, protective embrace. "I promise."
String put his arms back around Saint John's neck, crying uncontrollably, the imperfect restraint he'd maintained for years in tatters. Saint John cradled him gently, sighing deeply when he remembered a little boy twenty years ago grieving their dead parents in his brother's arms. Tears streamed down his own face, falling unheeded onto the pillow. "You're not going to die," he whispered against his brother's neck. "I've come too far to lose you now. I need you too badly. I need ... I need to come home."
String only held on tighter, face buried against Saint John's jacket. "I don't care if I die. You're back! That's all that counts. But ... not here."
The older man chuckled huskily, surreptitiously rubbing his cheek on the pillow before raising his head. Why was his face wet when his heart soared? "I care, little brother. The whole point of coming back was being with you again." He settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed, trying to strike a balance between hugging his brother tightly and avoiding doing any more damage to the abused body. String had no such deterrence; whatever pain it must have cost him, his arms around Saint John's neck were tight enough to hinder his breathing.
And Saint John Hawke would not have changed that for the world.
They sat holding each other for a long time, until String's crying had begun to slow and sheer exhaustion loosened his clasp. Saint John held him carefully all the while, speaking quietly to calm the hysteria. He was worried at the effects such a reaction could have on his brother's fragile health, even while his own heart was so full to bursting he was hardly coherent himself. "Okay now, kid?" he asked softly many minutes later, easing the younger man back onto the pillow.
Blue eyes, darker than his own, stared back blearily, but there was grief there again and despair, the emotional see-saw tilting again. Drugs, Saint John recognized. String always hated drugs even in 'Nam, and now he's too doped to even see straight. Maybe they help the pain but can't the doctors see what's happening to him? String licked his cracked lips, blinking his eyes clear of the tears though it was obvious the drugs prevented him from seeing much. "He's gone," he said, more confession than statement. "Dom's dead. They ... they killed him. Helicopter...."
Saint John shook him slightly, just enough to cut off the stumbling words. "I know," he managed, throat closing up. He was obliged to swallow before he went on. "They almost got you, too. And they're still out there."
String's fingers closed convulsively on the other's sleeve, his face hardening. "They have to pay. Who ever they are, they have to pay for D- Dom. Like Gabrielle."
Gabrielle? Later. "They'll pay. That's another promise." They would. Saint John Hawke knew this with every fiber of his being. There would be an accounting and soon, but first he had one more important task to take care of. He smoothed the tangled brown hair gently, affection filling his heart when String leaned into the touch, resting his cheek in Saint John's palm and staring up with the purest love shining in his eyes. Heartened by this gesture of trust, Saint John banished thoughts of revenge for the moment and allowed himself to revel in the sheer joy of being home and reunited with the last of his family. "Do you know how good it is to see you again?" he asked, using the sheet to wipe away the tear tracks on the other's face.
Obviously, the feeling was mutual; String blinked at him, then a rare, open smile lifted his lips, sunlight penetrating the clouded eyes. "I knew you were still alive," he said, touching Saint John's wrist. "I knew if I kept pushing, they'd have to find you."
Idly, Saint John wondered how many years of 'pushing' they were discussing and whether or not the boy ... Man, he reminded himself firmly. He's thirty-two ... or is he thirty-three yet? Thirty-four? I don't even know how old my own brother is any more. So far from seventeen. ... had done any of his own living in the meantime. From what Jo had said, very little. He cocked his head, a steady, barely audible whup-whup from above catching his attention. Right on time.
Steadying himself, he turned back to his brother, who was also listening, albeit puzzledly. "Airwolf?" he asked muzzily, head falling back on the pillow, eyes closing. "You're going to take me home?"
Saint John Hawke patted his shoulder. "Listen to me, String, the men who killed Dom are still out there. You're a target too; maybe even me."
Fear widened the blue eyes again -- fear for Saint John. "You won't be safe here. You have to get out! The Firm...."
No way I'm leaving here without you, Saint John thought grimly. "Do you trust them?" he interrupted, staring hard at the other.
"Archangel...."
"There's no angels in this game, kid," the elder brother stated, privately wondering who this Archangel was who could have gained his brother's faith like that and almost resenting it before he caught himself. "Some guy named Locke says he's the DNS liaison. Know him?"
Stringfellow hesitated then shook his head. "We met once. He's one of their's."
As opposed to ours, Saint John supplied. Fair enough. "Okay. It's just the two of us then." He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the helipad on the roof. "I used Airwolf's computers...."
Blue eyes opened wide. "How did you get Airwolf?"
"You gave it to Jo, remember?" Saint John returned, squeezing his brother's neck before releasing him. "To come after me. I also know what you did with it and why. Remind me to thank you properly some day."
Color touched the younger man's pale cheeks, deepening the fever flush. "You're home," he murmured blissfully, again closing his eyes. "You're home."
Doesn't mean I'm ever going to forget that you brought me out of purgatory. "The computers let me run a check on some old friends. Remember Marty Bergman?"
String's light brows drew together. "No ... I.... Medic in 'Nam?"
Saint John looked at his watch. Two minutes. "He's a doctor now. Runs a rehab clinic about two hours airtime from here, with a full surgical staff. We're taking you there where you can recover without the bad guys or the Firm taking pot shots at you."
The younger man shook his head, consciousness obviously little more than a thread. "Saint John, I want to go home. Please?" He snatched again for Saint John's wrist, holding it feebly but desperately. "Please?"
He was beginning to grow agitated, so Saint John leaned close again, now conscious of the passage of time. "You will go home again. I swear it." He ruffled his brother's hair and stood, stopping when his name was uttered as a low whimper.
"Don't go!" String struggled to sit up, and not succeeding. He made it far enough though to drop the sheet down around his waist, revealing the bandages that swathed a section of his lower abdomen. The skin on either side was swollen and red, and there were more dressings on his back and side. The wires leading to the heart monitor pulled threateningly even as the shrill beep-beep increased its tempo. "Please!" he begged. "If you go, this will all be a dream again! You won't be real any more!"
Saint John grabbed his wrist and shoulder, pressing firmly until the younger man subsided. If String pulled those monitor wires off, the alarm at the desk would scream like a stuck pig. "I won't leave you! Trust me, all right?"
"But...."
"I said, stay!" The younger man didn't relax, and Saint John took his face in both hands, tilting it up. "You just lie there and let me handle everything for once. You're going to need every drop of strength to do those two hours air time."
He waited for the fearful nod before leaving the bed. Feeling his brother's eyes glued frantically on him, he crossed on cat's feet to the door and cracked it open, peeking through it and down the hall. A solitary nurse sat at the station several yards away, talking animatedly on the phone, another was just disappearing into a wardroom farther down. He waited until the down elevator appeared and a man stepped out, disreputably dressed in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. A hat was pulled down low over blond curls but the figure was still identifiable as Mike Rivers. Saint John nodded to himself and returned to Stringfellow, who was watching him with desperate intensity.
"We're leaving," he said, beginning to work on the tape securing the I.V. to String's left arm. "I've got a friend outside that'll give us the diversion we need to get past the guard." The tape came loose only after much struggling, and he unwrapped the gauze carefully until reaching the needle. The skin above was flame red and angry looking -- more burns -- but the needle itself came out easily leaving behind only a dab of blood which was easily ignored. Now that he was close by again, String watched him dreamily, infection, stress and narcotics having sapped whatever strength he'd started with.
Allowing the I.V. line to drop carelessly to the floor where it began to dribble some clear fluid on the spotless tiles, Saint John next rummaged in the room's only closet, finding a blanket and returning to the bed. "It's a little chilly out," he explained, spreading it over String's body and tucking it under. "And we've got a long way to go. We can't risk a wheelchair; I'm going to have to carry you to the elevator. Can you put your arms around my neck?"
The younger man glared. "I can walk," he returned sullenly. "You'd better back up your friend."
Saint John actually had to smile. In that much pain and drugged practically unconscious, the kid obviously couldn't even sit much less walk, but that proud, independent spirit he remembered so well was still there, damaged and sedated into near oblivion perhaps, but far from crushed. "Maybe you can," he returned evenly, "but you're not going to." When String pushed his hand away, Saint John pushed back. "Are you going to waste time arguing or do as I say?" he demanded in the same tone that had ensured his stubborn brother's obedience when they were children.
Stringfellow hesitated, searching Saint John's face. Then without a word he complied, putting his arms around Saint John's neck. His grip was weak, one arm falling limply as though the effort at holding on was too much. Saint John slipped his arms carefully under the blanket covered legs and back, fingers encountering a knee-high cast under the rough wool. Shattered ankle, he thought grimly. Not broken -- shattered. He lifted carefully until his brother was cradled in his arms. String stiffened at his touch, a low cry bitten off as soon as it emerged. "I know it hurts, kid," Saint John whispered. "but we can't get any more painkillers yet."
"N-no more drugs," the younger man whimpered. "Let me die ... without any more drugs. ... But ... not here. Home."
The imploring words cut Saint John like a knife, and he briefly dropped his lips to the sweat dampened hair below his chin. "You won't die, little brother. Not if I have anything to say about it."
Saint John crossed to the door, flinching at the thought of the further damage this activity might be causing his brother -- the boy was already barely holding on and the hospital had obviously done little for him. But if he was to going to get the kid to safety there was no time for hesitance; already voices were raised from the opposite end of the hall, Mike's and a woman's, probably one of the nurses. The sound of feet joined the fracas and Saint John could see through the opened door the agent assigned this room run past, one hand reaching into his jacket as Rivers raised his voice in a yell. The din was so overwhelming that the alarm from the heart monitor could barely be heard at all. The elder Hawke tightened his arms protectively, pulling his brother even closer against his chest. "Only as far as the roof," he whispered encouragingly, pushing the door open with his toe.
A glance confirmed that the agent and both nurses were now crowded around the disreputably dressed Rivers, all yelling and gesticulating wildly. Saint John caught the words "Whiskey," and "Detox," but didn't wait to hear any more; if he'd learned anything about the Air Force hotshot it was that Mike Rivers' brashness approached the infinite on demand. Treading carefully, Stringfellow's not-overwhelming weight slowing him not at all, he made his way quietly but quickly down the corridor. Thanks to Rivers the elevator was waiting; it closed with a pneumatic whoosh, rising rapidly to the roof, and it was only then that Saint John remembered to breathe again.
"Th-they'll know it was you," String gasped, face buried in the front of the black leather jacket.
Hawke laughed softly, the weight of his brother's body resting easily in his arms. "As next of kin I don't have a right to check my own kid brother out of the hospital? Besides...."
"Yeah?"
"We have Airwolf."
String nodded, his hair just brushing Saint John's chin. "The Lady's ... covered for us before."
"The Lady?" Appropriate name. The elevator opened and Saint John stepped out into the cool night air. The whup-whup was loud now, the backwash of the spinning blades blowing his bronze hair back and making String shiver. There was a loud crash from the right, the emergency exit door was thrown violently open and Mike Rivers emerged at a dead run.
"They-they're looking for us!" he panted, doffing hat and coat as he ran. "We have to get out of here."
"Help me get him into the chopper," Hawke called, crossing the twenty paces to the chopper at a trot. Rivers popped the passenger's side cockpit door then turned and physically lifted Stringfellow away, holding him until Saint John climbed inside. Saint John settled back against the rear wall and stretched his legs out more or less straight. It was a tight squeeze; even with the rear passenger's seat folded up and the co-pilot's seat removed, he had to twist slightly to avoid the console bank. Two hours in this position would be no joke; unfortunately, it couldn't be helped. String would never survive that long strapped upright. Arranging himself as best he could, he received his brother's limp form into his lap, letting the fair head loll back against his chest.
More figures appeared at the open hospital door, one of them waving a gun. "Let's go!" he yelled, even as Rivers leaped inside and slid the door shut. Two shots rang out, expending themselves harmlessly against the heavy armor plating, then the helicopter shuddered and lifted, leaving behind hospital and agent alike.
Rivers guided the ship in a gentle upward curve, movements precise and designed to not jar the injured man. "There's a blanket under the seat, Hawke. Wrap that baby brother of yours up good; it's gonna be a long flight."
"They'll be coming after us," Saint John warned, loosing String with one hand and reaching under the seat for the heavy wool blanket. Lax fingers moved then, feeling for his sleeve. "It's okay, String," he murmured. "I'm still here.
The pilot patted the console with a laugh. "They won't catch us in this baby. Consider yourselves safe."
"Safe," Saint John echoed, wrapping the blanket around his brother. At first he thought String was unconscious, though his grip on Saint John's sleeve had not loosened. Then he became aware of the low, distressed murmur.
"They took it," Stringfellow muttered fretfully, tugging at the black leather. "We have to go back."
Saint John tilted his head closer, running his fingers through his brother's hair in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "Took what, String?"
With what seemed to be an enormous expenditure of strength he did not have, Stringfellow lifted his right wrist. "Your bracelet."
"My bracelet?" Saint John echoed, shooting a puzzled look at Rivers. He'd never been one for jewelry and had never worn a bracelet in his life.
The younger pilot shrugged. "He probably means an MIA bracelet. A lot of people wore one engraved with the name of a missing friend or relative. So they wouldn't forget."
God himself knows you never forgot, kid, Saint John thought, touched. Neither will I. "Don't worry about it, String," he told the distressed young man he held. "You don't need it anymore." Stringfellow relaxed against him, and he wrapped both arms around the limp form, slumping wearily back against the fuselage. The warmth of his brother's fevered body was a barrier against the chill, and he rocked it gently, continuing to stroke the soft hair with one hand. I'm home! he thought wildly, eyes stinging again. Home. Fear for his brother muted but couldn't crowd out the joy. Maybe I am home, he thought, closing his eyes. But if you don't make it, String, it's not going to mean a thing.
***
They took Santini Air's largest chopper, a vintage Sikorsky repainted in red, white and blue, and able to hold six people and cargo to boot. The trip into the mountains passed quickly, with Rivers, at the controls, telling outrageous anecdotes about his adventures in Mexico, and Locke and Jo trying vainly to shut him up. There was an aura of excitement that gripped the entire team, the adrenal rush of an impending mission, the expectation of receiving one of their own back again. Forty-eight minutes after lift-off they were setting down above the waters of an incredibly blue mountain lake and basking in unobstructed high-altitude sunshine.
"Obviously, the old hiding places are the best," Marella remarked, jumping lightly onto the wooden dock. "After Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow, was reported dead, we never gave this area another look."
Jo filled her lungs with aromatic, pine-scented air, a happy smile lighting her face. "This place hasn't changed at all," she marvelled, spinning in place to examine her surroundings. "It must be four years since I've been here and everything is exactly the way I remember it. Oh! Look!" All eyes followed her pointing finger to watch a great-winged brown and white creature as it glided, rising and falling on the fickle currents. "That's an American Eagle! I didn't know there were any still around here!"
Locke, too, was enchanted by the scenery. "I've never seen a bald eagle before. I didn't imagine them to be so large." He strolled from the dock to the little path leading up to the cabin, dark eyes taking in every sight and sound with pleasure. "It's beautiful here. So peaceful. Perfect for convalescing young pilots, eh?" he said, smiling at Saint John Hawke.
"This is my brother's home," the big blond returned mildly, unzipping his jacket. "He'd've felt caged in my townhouse. And as long as he can get around...." He tipped his head, watching the eagle. "You can't keep people caged; after awhile they start to die ... a bit at a time."
"You were caged for fifteen years," Jo said softly, laying a small hand on his arm.
He looked down at her with that gentle, sad smile that was so much a part of him. "I'm not caged any more, Jo."
"This place is pretty but not convalescent perfect," Rivers muttered grudgingly and just loud enough for all to hear. He sniffed, then sneezed, politely pardoning himself. "I'd go bonkers up here inside of a week. No chicks, no bars...." He pulled a handkerchief out of his jeans' pocket and blew his nose, offering the nearest evergreen a disgusted look. "Terrific."
"Wait a minute, weren't you the Boy Scout?" Saint John asked, fixing him with a puzzled look. "Since when do you hate the woods?"
The younger man screwed his face into a sheepish moue. "I love the woods ... when I've had my allergy shots. I was due for another round last week. Nobody told me we'd be visiting the Hermit of the North on such short notice."
"A Boy Scout is always prepared," Jo quoted impishly. She tugged his arm, pulling him along behind the already moving team. "I'm sure you'll survive a couple of hours. Come on; it looks like we're expected."
They were indeed. A hound dog trotted down the path to meet them, running lazy circles around Jo and howling mournfully until she bent down to scratch his head. "Good dog! Are you still hanging around here?"
Tet licked her hand and edged past Mike, who was watching him apprehensively, to Saint John, who bent to give the animal a quick pat. "Hello, Tet," he said, a tiny smile on his lips. "Looks exactly like the dog I used to have. At least, the dog belonged to me; after the first couple of months, he adopted String." The dog paused then tilted his head, staring back up the way he'd come. He woofed and loped off. "I assume that means my brother is waiting up there for us."
It was no great distance to the cabin, which sat nestled against the mountain one hundred feet from the lake. It was of heavy logs, solidly built, and the gray smoke pouring out of the chimney gave it a pleasant aspect. As the group approached they came to see a young man sitting on the outside step, one arm around the returned hound. He waited until they were only several yards away before coming to his feet; he used the porch railing to pull himself up then balanced easily, favoring one leg, displaying an inborn grace retained despite the awkwardness of injury.
Narrowed blue eyes scanned the group once, settling on Jo Santini, who had come into the lead and reached him first. "Hi, Jo," he greeted her with uncharacteristic shyness, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive posture, then deliberately dropping them. Tension sang in every muscle of the slender body, the impression being almost as though he was expecting to be struck and was determined to allow it.
Jo didn't answer at first. She waited until she'd climbed the first porch step from which vantage she could regard the young man from his own height. She stared expressionlessly for a single moment, searching blue eye meeting guarded one, then slipped her arms around his neck, giving her old friend a brief, hard hug, planting a kiss on his forehead before releasing him. "If you ever pull anything like this on me again, Stringfellow Hawke, I'll kill you myself. Is that clear?"
Little lines appeared around his eyes, more revealing than any grin, banishing the distance between them. "Clear."
"Good."
He touched her arm as she made to move away, looking suddenly very sad. "I'm ... sorry about Dom."
Jo rested one hand on his chest sympathetically. "I'm sorry for you, even more. He might have been my uncle but he was your father." Rather than removing her hand, she frowned and poked familiarly at his bulky brown sweater, tugging it up until she could see the tightly belted jeans. "These clothes must be two sizes too big for you; you're thin as a rail." He retreated from her maternal admonitions, his irritation provoking a mischievous twinkle. "I, however," she added, patting her own perfectly curved hip through her white slacks, "have put on five pounds just this year. Disgusting, isn't it?"
The hard-won smile transformed his face, softening away edges and making him look even younger and less forbidding. "You look wonderful," he said, nevertheless glancing backwards, seeking someone else.
"Just remember that."
She stepped aside, allowing him access to the rest of the group. He nodded at Marella, who beamed right back, looking pleased; she'd never been fond of the reticent young pilot but had always held an appreciation for loyalty -- something Stringfellow Hawke had displayed to a fault. Jason and Mike received only a cursory glance for it was Saint John's gaze he caught and held. The sight of his older brother seemed to be reassuring though he did not lower his guard. "I guess you'd better come in," he invited gruffly, leading the way into the cabin.
"You've met him before," Rivers asked Jason Locke out of the side of his mouth. "Is he always this friendly?"
Locke grimaced. "He's having a good day."
Mike sighed, his work boots thudding on the wooden porch. "I thought Saint John was too serious, but baby brother is downright gloomy. You think that smile he gave Jo hurt his face?"
Locke smothered a laugh in his palm but managed to add, "He hasn't had much to smile about for the last half of his life," before crossing the threshold into Stringfellow Hawke's lair.
The interior was more spacious than outward appearances might suggest, comfortably furnished and unexpectedly homey. The living room was dominated by a large stone hearth against the right wall; the crackling fire in the grate burned nearly to embers but still gave off heat and light.
Marella crossed directly to the tan sofa, seating herself and crossing her long legs comfortably at the knee. "Good to see you in one piece, Hawke," she greeted the pilot, moving her purse so Jo could sit at her side. "I should have known better than to believe the rumors of your death."
"They weren't exaggerated by all that much," the pilot said, fixing a gaze over her shoulder.
"I think I'm the only one here you don't know. Mike Rivers." Mike extended his hand to Stringfellow, the grip being reluctantly accepted and immediately released. "I've heard quite a bit about you."
"He was the one at the hospital," Saint John mentioned, leaning against the stone hearth and crossing one foot over the other.
Recognition lit the younger Hawke's face and he studied the newcomer more closely. "I owe you for that."
Rivers dismissed the gratitude with a nonchalant wave. "No problem, man. We'll discuss repayment the next time I need help landing some chick." He paused for a reaction, receiving only a blank stare in return. "That's a joke, buddy-boy," he relented, slapping the other man on the arm. "Me? Needing help with a chick? A joke, get it?" He blew out his cheeks, spreading his hands ceilingward. "And they talk about tough audiences."
Hawke ducked his head, one side of his mouth turning up almost unwillingly. "I get it."
Rivers surrendered and began to wander the room, beginning with the gleaming cello standing neatly in the far corner. "Bet you can really wail on this thing," he muttered, plucking a single note. "Get booked at many bar mitzvahs?"
Stringfellow joined his brother by the fire. He walked with a pronounced limp, his lips set as though it were still painful to move around. Closer examination revealed both a metal leg brace visible through the neatly slit jeans and an expensive silver-headed walking stick by the door, which was even now growing cobwebs from disuse. "You need something from me?" he asked, fixing Saint John with an inquiring gaze.
"Michael needs something from you," Marella said firmly.
String glanced from his brother to Locke, who had seated himself in the stuffed chair opposite the couch. There was an odd look in his eyes, dawning hope too smothered in pain to fully surface as anything except skepticism. "You told Saint John, Michael was dead."
"We're having a special on resurrections today," Rivers quipped, having left the cello to examine the paintings that hung on each wall. He scowled, peering more closely at the signature adorning one oil. "This can't be right. This is a ... Van Gogh?"
No one acknowledged that last, least of all Stringfellow. He pierced Marella with a sharp gaze, head tilted to the side, expression so perfectly neutral as to scream facade. "If Michael is still alive, where's he been? And why did Zeus assign someone else as ... liaison ... to Airwolf?"
"Don't say it like it's a dirty word," Locke chided in a rough approximation of Mike's insouciance. He was ignored as thoroughly as if he'd not been there at all. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Michael did warn me about you."
"Michael Coldsmith-Briggs has spent the last three weeks, six days as a prisoner in Mexico, waiting for his captors to finish ... negotiations with a country in the Muslim bloc." Marella, ever loyal to her former boss, pursed her lips, teeth grinding in barely suppressed fury. "They'll be selling him to the highest bidder sometime within the next week, according to my source."
Stringfellow again glanced at his brother and the hope struggled upward another notch. Then the hardness seeped back into his rounded jaw. "You're telling me Michael is still alive after all this time, and no one's gone in after him?"
"No one." Marella tossed her dark head then frowned and pulled off her hat, hanging it on the back of the couch. "They can't even risk sending Zebra Squad in there, though they're on stand-by status and will be activated the minute Michael is out of Mexico. Right now the Pentagon is scrambling to plug up the multitude of holes this is going to leave in national security." She sighed. "I can't even imagine how many agents' lives are going to be lost if Michael breaks ... if Zebra Squad fails."
Jo tugged at the black, long-sleeved blouse she'd donned before leaving the airport, loosening the top button in deference to the heat from the fire. Across from her, Locke, again in tie and suit jacket, pulled at his own collar in envy. "I have a question," she began, casting Locke an impish look then unfastening two more buttons. "What's taken them so long? If this Archangel is a member of the DNS...."
"A member of the Central Committee," Locke interjected, smoothing a tiny wrinkle in his brown pants. "Deputy Director of Operations."
"Okay, a top member of the Firm," she picked up again. "What's taken them so long to sell him out? With the kind of information he must be carrying, any country in the world would probably pay through the nose for him, including a couple of allies. Why wait?"
"Maybe his bills become due then," Mike gibed, abandoning a Renoir to take his place behind the sofa. He perched on its back, balancing himself on one hip. "Maybe they were shopping around."
"Or maybe it's a trap?" Saint John Hawke guessed softly. "If they have Archangel, they might know about Airwolf, too."
Marella hesitated, gloved fingers drumming the arm of the couch. "If Khadafy is involved in the negotiations, they most certainly do know about Airwolf; if not, they've probably heard rumors. I've considered the possibility of a trap, of course...."
"Of course!" Rivers leaned forward until he could see the attractive black woman around Jo, white teeth bared in a boyish grin. "So naturally you decided to send us in, anyway."
Marella tipped her head up, piercing him with a glare. "No one's forcing you on this mission, Major. If you're afraid to try...."
"Whoa, whoa!" Rivers raised a hand, cutting her off, indignation flaring in his face. "I never said anything about being afraid." He straightened, patting the top of Jo's head. "As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to practicing my spanish. Them little Mexicana towns are usually stuffed with lonely seƱoritas."
Jo gave him an irritated swat. "One of those seƱoritas are going to be the death of you some day," she growled, brushing her mussed hair back into place.
"We all gotta go sometime, sweetheart," he retorted good-naturedly. "Can you think of a better way?"
Stringfellow Hawke glanced up at his brother, one brow raised inquiringly. "What does he mean by that? This isn't going to be a frontal assault?"
Saint John jerked a thumb first at the placidly lounging Rivers, then to the more serious Locke, the action flapping his light white shirt at the sleeves. "The target is being held inside an old spanish fortress on the coast -- no landing space inside the wall, no way Airwolf would be able to get in without blowing it up."
"And for obvious reasons," Rivers said, flipping a wavy blond lock out of his face, "we'd like to avoid blowing anything up until we've gotten the good guys out of there." He paused, studying Stringfellow's expressionless features. "You're really not a very cheerful person, are you."
"Not one of my faults," Hawke replied, a suspicious twinkle borning then dying in the back of his blue eyes.
Rivers looked startled. "That was almost a joke!" he gasped, pressing both hands to his chest. "I ... I ... I'm speechless."
"It would be the first time," Jo snapped, quelling him with a look. "Would you shut up and let us get on with this? In case you've forgotten, you and Jason are catching a plane for Mexico in a few hours."
Rivers subsided and Marella picked up the story. "I have a contact inside. She'll help Jason and Mike find Archangel and any other prisoners Mejindas is holding, get them outside the fortress by any means possible, where Airwolf can assist in a pickup." She stopped drumming the arm of the couch and spread her fingers in a casual gesture. "That's the mission in a nutshell -- one team going in covert, and Airwolf to run interference for the final extraction."
"That's not the entire mission," Locke reminded her firmly. He pulled a linen handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at the sweat beading his brow, still making no effort to remove his jacket or tie. The look he gave Stringfellow was solemn. "The fortress is very old; the Haversham screen protecting the fortress is very new."
"A Haversham screen?" Even the normally unflappable Stringfellow Hawke looked dismayed at that. "A full screen for some old castle?"
"The man is very rich," Marella gritted, "and has been suspected of running more than one covert operation from that old building. We know he's involved in something more than selling human beings, but have only been able to discern the tip of the iceberg." She gestured at Locke. "Once Jason has decoded the computer disk I gave him, you should have high-res satellite photos of the installation; they'll have a basic floorplan of Casa del Suerte. Beyond that, I can't help you."
Saint John rested one large hand on his brother's shoulder, turning him slightly until they were facing. "If you're up to it ..." He quelled Marella's impending objection with a sharp look. "... we're going to need you in Airwolf. You're the only one of us who's ever flown through one of those systems."
"The only one who's lived to tell about it ... so they say," Rivers added with blatant skepticism.
Stringfellow stiffened, his voice grew soft but the hard edge of steel rang in its depths. "But you don't believe it."
Mike, unperturbed by the implied challenge, offered a lazy grin. "Wellll, I suppose dumb luck might get you through once; that's no guarantee you can do it again. And we don't really need you flying Airwolf. A little floor plan of the defense paradigm ought'a do it."
Saint John tightened his hold on his brother, catching him just as the younger man took a menacing step forward. "Ignore him, String. He always mouths off before a mission. You get used to it."
"This is more than just mouthing off," the younger brother returned coldly, though he did not pull away from Saint John's grip.
Though offered as a statement, the implication was that of a question, and Rivers treated it as such. Jaw tightening, he dropped both feet to the floor and stood, poising himself with hands on his hips. "Let's just say I have a little problem with this arrangement."
"You mean with me," String asserted.
Rivers nodded. "With you."
"What's your problem, Mike?" Saint John asked, no longer leaning against the mantle. His muscles were as taut as Stringfellow's; he stood almost protectively at his brother's side though his stance was devoid of any threat toward Rivers. "If it's legit, spit it out."
"Legit?" String demanded, shooting him an startled look.
Blue eyes for once devoid of boyish mischief regarded Stringfellow Hawke long enough for the look to be actually insulting. Mike waited until the other man's fine lips had drawn into a line before speaking. "I happen to consider my life a 'legit' concern," he began, and there was a no animosity in his voice, just professional calculation. "Once Jason and I are inside that fortress, our only chance of getting back out in one piece is going to rely on Airwolf getting through that defense screen."
"We know that, Mike," Saint John said reasonably. "You don't think Airwolf can make it?"
"Airwolf?" Rivers licked his lips. "I figure maybe if any piece of machinery can make it through a Haversham screen, it's Airwolf. I just don't think he ..." He pointed at Stringfellow, who had not relaxed one iota. "... can do it."
"You...." the younger Hawke began, clenching his fists.
"Why?" That was Marella, and the very interest in her question rooted Hawke in his tracks. "As Saint John said, if your objection is legitimate, spit it out."
"And it had better be good," Jason warned from his chair.
Rivers gestured, his waving hand taking in the man from head to foot. "You've got the reputation of a good pilot," he began generously, "but sad to say, you're not looking that great right now. I understand that crash and burn nearly wiped you permanently."
"Mike! How could you be so cruel?" Jo exclaimed, gaping at the blond pilot in astonishment.
Rivers shot her a look containing a hint of apology. "That's not my intention, sweetheart. Getting out of Casa del Suerte is." He ambled slowly to the Hawke's, making no pretense of subtlety. He and Stringfellow were of a height though Rivers was ten pounds heavier, and both carried themselves with the confident, relaxed alertness of the true predator. "Not counting your bum leg -- explosion nearly ripped your ankle it off, didn't it? -- I'd say your health wasn't anywhere near flight specs. Your reflexes and reaction time have got to be hovering somewhere near zero." He took a final step closer, now nose-to-nose with the glowering Hawke. "I'll add to that the fact that you haven't logged time with anything bigger than a paper airplane in two months."
All eyes shifted to Stringfellow, who had allowed no more than a flash of hurt to touch his features before he could restore the impassive mask. "That is a logical consideration," Marella said, scanning the still-mending man clinically. "Penetrating a Haversham screen will require someone in top form. Are you up to it, Stringfellow?"
Dark blue eyes fastened on the window, focussing on the distant mountains visible through the glass. "I can do the job."
"You say," Mike volleyed.
Saint John again touched his brother's taut shoulder, he addressed Mike though his words were directed to the room. "If my brother says he can take us through, you can bet your life on it."
"That's the problem," Rivers flashed back, making a chopping gesture. "I am betting my life -- and Jason's, and Jo's. And I don't like the odds." He took a deep breath, forcing his tone back to one of calm reasonability. "I propose I take Airwolf in."
"You think you'd have a better chance at penetrating Haversham's mathematics than Mr. Hawke?" Locke asked, studying both men closely.
Mike nodded. "I'm in a lot better shape."
"No good." That was Marella, shaking her dark head. "You're needed to go in with Jason. He can't manage Mejindas' army by himself."
Mike shrugged. "Fine. Let Saint John handle Airwolf. He's logged a dozen missions in the past two months."
"But she's been String's baby for the last two years," Jo remarked fairly. "That has to count for something."
Stringfellow said nothing at first, simply continued to gaze out the window, his face stone. "It's up to you, String," Saint John told him softly. "You're the best one of us for the job, but it is dangerous and you're not recovered yet." He shook the tense shoulder under his hand, strong, solemn features taking on a uniquely gentle aspect that made both Jo and Mike stare at him hard with wonder. "I don't doubt your ability, but almost losing you once makes me feel a little cautious."
"I lost you for fifteen years," the younger man murmured just loud enough for Saint John to hear. To the rest, "I'm the best chance Michael -- or you -- have of getting out. Airwolf is my machine, and Michael is a ... friend," he added, finally looking up at his brother."
Dark blue eye met blue-gray, then Saint John nodded. "It's settled, then." He glanced from String to Mike, who was waiting with an obstinate expression. "If you don't feel good about this, Mike, you'd better stay out of it. Maybe Marella can find someone else to go inside with Jason."
Marella opened her mouth but had no chance to reply before Rivers had thrown up his hands. "Forget it," he snarled. "If Jason is going to have any chance at all of getting out, he's going to need me as backup." He paused, turning grim. "I just hope there's someone there to pick us up once we're clear."
That settled, Jason ran a hand through his short, curly hair. "We'd better get going. We're going to have to run that disk through Airwolf's computers before Mike and I can catch our transportation in."
Rather than rising, Marella stretched, kicking off her shoes comfortably. "Not me, gentlemen. As of last night I'm a security risk. The Pentagon forbade this mission, remember?" She tucked her feet up under her. "If I'm picked up, the Firm will know about this mission -- maybe in time to do something about it. I'm staying right here until you get back. Tet and I will keep each other company for awhile."
"Then the rest of us...."
Anything Saint John was about to say was lost when Jo clapped her hands loudly for attention. "Oh, no, you don't. Before we dig into this assignment, you promised to tell me how you got String out of that hospital and what's been happening since then. The chopper was too loud for the story and I really want to know. Now," she finished, crossing her arms firmly.
"I'd rather like to know myself," Marella added for good measure.
Still touching his brother's shoulder and with Stringfellow's eyes full upon him, Saint John Hawke took a deep breath and told them....
*
The VA hospital was old stone, practically government issue, battered and dirty from many years use. Inside all was organized chaos as with any large facility, white uniformed attendants dancing a delicate pas de deux with military personal, conversation muted by scrubbed tile and gravity.
Saint John entered the bustle though became no part of it; focussed straight ahead and slowing for no one, he passed like Moses through the Red Sea, the crowd parting for him grudgingly but recognizing an unstoppable object when it saw one
Though only permitted to see Stringfellow once, Jo had been able to tell he was in bad shape. Internal injuries, broken bones, burns and concussion. According to her, he'd been so drugged that he'd barely realized she was there at all. "He's dying, Saint John," she'd managed through free tears. "We're going to lose him!"
No, I'm not, Saint John thought doggedly, making his way to the second floor nurses' station. I waited all this time to see my baby brother again; I'm not going to lose him now.
He stopped at the circular desk-barrier, and an elderly woman in horn- rimmed glasses looked up politely at his beckon. "I'm here to see my brother," Saint John blurted, leaning against the counter. "Stringfellow Hawke. Which room?"
Her expression changed from courtesy to consternation. "We didn't know you were.... Oh! Dr. Melloni!"
A man in surgical scrubs deviated his course at her call. "Mrs. Clayton?"
She gestured to an impatiently waiting Hawke with a pencil. "Stringfellow Hawke's brother to see him."
The man regarded Saint John for a split second, then beckoned him to the side of the corridor. "Before you see your brother," he began grimly, "I think you should be apprised of his condition."
"Just what is my brother's condition?" Saint John asked silkily, wanting to rip out the walls if they kept him from String much longer.
After expressing surprise that a relative of the patient had appeared at all, the surgeon, a middle-aged, pot-bellied man with sympathetic eyes, stated flatly that the younger Hawke wasn't expected to survive. "His condition continues to deteriorate," he went on with brusque candor. "His vitals are dropping steadily and we're looking at total system shutdown within a couple of days at the outside."
"But how?" Saint John's mind had reeled from the shock of the news. His brother -- his baby brother -- dying? "You've got him in a hospital," he'd charged the surgeon wildly. "Do something for him!"
A young nurse appeared briefly and spoke a few words; the man waved her aside curtly, returning immediately to Saint John before the pilot would have throttled him. Stepping closer, the doctor lowered his voice, glancing once over his shoulder. "I'm under orders not to discuss your brother's case with anyone ..." He flapped a hand nonchalantly. "... but I've never been very good at taking orders and I think you should know. Mr. Hawke's condition is critical -- grave, in fact. He's fighting -- or perhaps I should say, not fighting a massive infection that the antibiotics are failing to arrest. We're also ninety percent certain he's still bleeding inside, but two exploratories have failed to discover where, and he's much too weak for a third. He needs a specialist, but my instructions forbid calling one in."
Saint John's blood went cold. "Who's instructions?" he asked numbly.
The man shrugged and stepped back. "They came from outside the hospital through the hospital administrator. Something to do with heightened security. That's all I know." He hesitated again, then swallowed and went on. "As the only next of kin, you should also be aware that psychologically your brother is in no better shape than physically. I understand he lost a friend in the same explosion that injured him?" At Saint John's nod, he went on, "There's a good chance there wouldn't be anything a surgeon can do for him anyway if he's given up -- stopped trying to live. He's not even making the minimum progress we would have expected after the interval involved."
String? Stopped fighting? If so, he wasn't the stubborn little scrapper Saint John had -- sometimes exasperatedly -- watched grow up. "I'm here now," he heard himself say through frozen lips. "And I have enough fight left for both of us."
"You may need it."
Something in the man's tone prevented Saint John from immediately resuming his trek toward his brother. "What do you mean?" he demanded, taking a menacing step toward the other and clenching large fists.
Uncowled, the doctor lifted his chin, his wiry beard lifting from his breast. "Because we treat government officials as well as veterans, we've been subject to several sanctions in the past -- CIA types and the like. Add to that the fact that I'm a veteran myself -- saw a lot of action in 'Nam -- and I've picked up a sixth sense about something being wrong." He straightened, his hand on Hawke's wrist. "Mr. Hawke, there's definitely something wrong in your brother's case. For one thing, they have him in an isolated private room instead of ICU; with a heart monitor, serious infection and raging fever, he should have constant attendance rather than sporadic nursing checks." He hesitated as though not wanting to finish. "His heart stopped on us twice in the first few days he was here. The crash cart nearly didn't make it up here in time."
"What else?" Saint John asked, knowing there was more.
"There's rudimentary surveillance on the room -- a guard that takes 'coffee breaks.' Once, I walked in without checking at the desk to find a nurse about to give him an injection."
"So?"
He shook his head. "I know every nurse assigned here and she wasn't one of them. When I confronted her, she made some excuse and left. I never saw her again. I'm still wondering how she got past the guard and who she worked for."
"What was in that hypodermic?" Hawke asked, going cold again.
The man shrugged. "I never found out but whatever it was, it wasn't on your boy's charts."
Your boy ... my boy, Saint John reflected with a thrill. My kid brother. And I'd better start taking better care of him. He glanced down the corridor suspiciously, almost expecting a DNS spook to emerge from every crevice. "This isn't a safe place for him," he said flatly.
"It's not even a good place for him," the doctor agreed, releasing his wrist and resuming a professional demeanor. "If he doesn't receive better care than we're allowed to give him -- something beyond blood expanders, antibiotics that don't work, and enough painkillers to keep him from screaming the other patients awake -- he'll be dead in seventy-two hours ... which seems to be what someone is counting on."
"Can he be moved?" Saint John asked.
Melloni shrugged. "He shouldn't be moved. It's been long enough for his ribs to be mending but the internal injuries...." He shook his head. "Moving him could kill him. But in my professional opinion, if he stays, he's dead anyway. If it was my brother, I know what I'd do ... providing you could move him past the ... government? ... surveillance."
"Just watch me," the pilot mumbled, thanking Melloni with a curt nod and moving off, his brother's room number still ringing in his ears. The sterile hospital corridor passed in a blur of color and shapes, almost as if he was rushing down a long tunnel. For Saint John Hawk, that's precisely what it was -- a tunnel at the end of which waited the brother he hadn't seen in fifteen long years. Hearing was saturated with the sound of his boots thumping on the stone floor, their rhythm keeping counterpoint to the audible rush of blood in his ears. He picked his way past white uniformed humans, mind flying backward of its own accord to the time before Viet Nam and prisoner-of-war camps, before beatings and hunger and endless despair. They'd been a family: himself, Stringfellow, Dominic. Sometimes even Dom's niece Joanna Santini when she wasn't staying with other relatives. Even then, there had been something special about the relationship between his brother and himself. String had been so young when their parents died, so full of guilt and grief, that the elder brother had taken over raising him as much even as Dom, and known himself adored in return. The two had become inseparable. Until 'Nam.
String. If only I'd known what you were doing to yourself before.
One wide shoulder brushed against a high-piled linen cart being trolled down the hall, the sleeve of his black leather jacket catching. He freed himself hastily, acknowledging the nurse's apology with a curt nod. He entered the elevator and pushed the sixth floor button, moving on auto pilot. His attention was focussed not quite thirty years before, on himself at eight teaching the four year old Stringfellow how to use a bow and arrow. The bow and arrow had been a present from Dom. But Dom was....
Something crashed, ripping Saint John from his reminisce and it was only then he realized that the elevator door stood invitingly open. He strode out, skirting a squatting orderly who was picking up pieces of scattered food. Some peripheral sense told him he was being sized up by sharp eyes across the hall -- a swarthy man in a business suit. The big blond never broke his stride. The tunnel narrowed and he stopped, for here was the door. Just beyond this white washed barrier lay the badly injured man who was his brother.
Saint John paused, hand on the cool steel and took a deep breath, then pushed it wide, stepping across the threshold and stopping in shock. String! His first impression was to wonder if he wasn't already too late; could anyone be so totally drained and still be alive? String always had healthy coloring. This man looks like a corpse. The skin was stretched tight across fine-boned features, the underlying color a frighteningly bloodless white. Twin spots of red rode on the high cheekbones, however, a fever that had burned for too long. The heart monitor beeped unnervingly in the silence of the isolated room, raking Saint John's nerves raw and making him clench his teeth against the scream that rose in his throat like bile. In a flash, Saint John compared the man lying there with a mental picture of an eighteen year old man-child, making automatic corrections for injury and finding little in the way of difference. The gold-brown hair was cropped short on the sides, though long enough on top to halo the boyish face. Looking closer, Saint John could see lines drawn around the eyes and mouth that hadn't been there fifteen years ago. Not age, he realized sadly. Heartache. My fault. All because of me. I should have been here.
Most of the body was covered by a sheet, but the figure outlined was slender. That appearance could be deceptive for that slenderness hid a wiry strength that Saint John knew matched that in his own large frame. Bandages covered both arms and part of the right hand, and more were visible beneath the thin sheets. Broken bones, Saint John catalogued dully, internal injuries, concussion, shattered ankle, multiple burns, some of them third degree, infection. To the boy's left an I.V. bag hung, feeding clear fluid into his arm, and he was breathing quickly, obviously in pain. Someone should have checked him sooner, Saint John thought with irritation.
The blue eyes were open, fixed in opium induced apathy on the distant ceiling, bright with fever and filled with despair. Anyone who had met the young man previously would have been astonished at the depth of emotion written there, emotion normally hidden behind an impassive mask. But Saint John was not astonished for this man was well known and long beloved -- this man was Saint John's brother.
Despite the circumstance, Hawke held his breath with elation at the sight. For fifteen long years he'd held on to the memory of this boy, nurturing a single, all-consuming desire to bring the once-inseparable together again, wondering at the kind of man the boy had become. It had been a shock to find Dominic Santini gone; the thought that he might lose his brother too -- and just when they were finally together again -- was a knife twisting in his gut and a pain worse than all he had suffered at the hands of the Vietnamese.
All this ran through his mind in the space of a single heartbeat. The other man turned his head, drawn by movement, listlessly incurious as to his visitor's identity. String squinted, obviously unable to see well, then disbelief blanked his features for a single instant before liquid sunshine lit his face, eyes welling over with the purest joy. No one bothered to tell him about me, Saint John realized angrily, his heart beating like a triphammer. It nearly stopped when he heard the whispered, "Saint John? Is that you?"
His own face tight, Saint John crossed the short distance to the high hospital bed in four strides. "You bet, brother." Was that quavering voice really his? He swooped down on the bed, and String, breath catching in a sob, threw both arms around his neck, engulfing him in a weak but fervent hug. Saint John emitted a sigh of total contentment and gathered his brother in.
Beginning to cry in earnest, String's fingers dug into the dark leather jacket, face pressed against the older man's neck. "There's so much I have to tell you," he babbled disjointedly.
Saint John brushed his cheek on soft hair, keeping his grip gentle and having to fight the urge to squeeze the injured man even tighter. String ... brother. "I know. I know," he murmured soothingly, as afraid for his brother's life as he was happy to see him.
He started to pull back but String clutched at him like a hysterical child, holding on for all he was worth, determined, it seemed, to confess the worst at once. "Dom...."
"I know." Saint John forced steadiness into his voice, and eased away, drinking in his brother's face as though it were ambrosia, his own jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Little brother. He slid his right hand up under String's neck, stroking the soft hair there, cradling his head, the fever hot body warming his own terror chilled bones. Now I'm home, little brother. Now!
Tears streaming down his cheeks, the younger man lightly touched Saint John's chest as though he still couldn't believe he was actually there. He continued to cry, intensity flooding his voice. "Don' let me die," he choked, unfocussed eyes glancing briefly at the ceiling.
Die. Saint John swallowed hard, using his thumb to caress his brother's wet cheek. "You're not going to die," he stated with absolute conviction. "I won't let you."
"I don't want to die in this ... place," String spat unheeding, the last word loaded with hatred and utter despair.
No one's going to take you away from me now. He bent lower, forcing the fever bright, drug vague eyes to center on him. "You won't, String. I promise." Overcome with emotion, he lifted the younger man carefully, a few inches only, wrapping him in a powerful, protective embrace. "I promise."
String put his arms back around Saint John's neck, crying uncontrollably, the imperfect restraint he'd maintained for years in tatters. Saint John cradled him gently, sighing deeply when he remembered a little boy twenty years ago grieving their dead parents in his brother's arms. Tears streamed down his own face, falling unheeded onto the pillow. "You're not going to die," he whispered against his brother's neck. "I've come too far to lose you now. I need you too badly. I need ... I need to come home."
String only held on tighter, face buried against Saint John's jacket. "I don't care if I die. You're back! That's all that counts. But ... not here."
The older man chuckled huskily, surreptitiously rubbing his cheek on the pillow before raising his head. Why was his face wet when his heart soared? "I care, little brother. The whole point of coming back was being with you again." He settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed, trying to strike a balance between hugging his brother tightly and avoiding doing any more damage to the abused body. String had no such deterrence; whatever pain it must have cost him, his arms around Saint John's neck were tight enough to hinder his breathing.
And Saint John Hawke would not have changed that for the world.
They sat holding each other for a long time, until String's crying had begun to slow and sheer exhaustion loosened his clasp. Saint John held him carefully all the while, speaking quietly to calm the hysteria. He was worried at the effects such a reaction could have on his brother's fragile health, even while his own heart was so full to bursting he was hardly coherent himself. "Okay now, kid?" he asked softly many minutes later, easing the younger man back onto the pillow.
Blue eyes, darker than his own, stared back blearily, but there was grief there again and despair, the emotional see-saw tilting again. Drugs, Saint John recognized. String always hated drugs even in 'Nam, and now he's too doped to even see straight. Maybe they help the pain but can't the doctors see what's happening to him? String licked his cracked lips, blinking his eyes clear of the tears though it was obvious the drugs prevented him from seeing much. "He's gone," he said, more confession than statement. "Dom's dead. They ... they killed him. Helicopter...."
Saint John shook him slightly, just enough to cut off the stumbling words. "I know," he managed, throat closing up. He was obliged to swallow before he went on. "They almost got you, too. And they're still out there."
String's fingers closed convulsively on the other's sleeve, his face hardening. "They have to pay. Who ever they are, they have to pay for D- Dom. Like Gabrielle."
Gabrielle? Later. "They'll pay. That's another promise." They would. Saint John Hawke knew this with every fiber of his being. There would be an accounting and soon, but first he had one more important task to take care of. He smoothed the tangled brown hair gently, affection filling his heart when String leaned into the touch, resting his cheek in Saint John's palm and staring up with the purest love shining in his eyes. Heartened by this gesture of trust, Saint John banished thoughts of revenge for the moment and allowed himself to revel in the sheer joy of being home and reunited with the last of his family. "Do you know how good it is to see you again?" he asked, using the sheet to wipe away the tear tracks on the other's face.
Obviously, the feeling was mutual; String blinked at him, then a rare, open smile lifted his lips, sunlight penetrating the clouded eyes. "I knew you were still alive," he said, touching Saint John's wrist. "I knew if I kept pushing, they'd have to find you."
Idly, Saint John wondered how many years of 'pushing' they were discussing and whether or not the boy ... Man, he reminded himself firmly. He's thirty-two ... or is he thirty-three yet? Thirty-four? I don't even know how old my own brother is any more. So far from seventeen. ... had done any of his own living in the meantime. From what Jo had said, very little. He cocked his head, a steady, barely audible whup-whup from above catching his attention. Right on time.
Steadying himself, he turned back to his brother, who was also listening, albeit puzzledly. "Airwolf?" he asked muzzily, head falling back on the pillow, eyes closing. "You're going to take me home?"
Saint John Hawke patted his shoulder. "Listen to me, String, the men who killed Dom are still out there. You're a target too; maybe even me."
Fear widened the blue eyes again -- fear for Saint John. "You won't be safe here. You have to get out! The Firm...."
No way I'm leaving here without you, Saint John thought grimly. "Do you trust them?" he interrupted, staring hard at the other.
"Archangel...."
"There's no angels in this game, kid," the elder brother stated, privately wondering who this Archangel was who could have gained his brother's faith like that and almost resenting it before he caught himself. "Some guy named Locke says he's the DNS liaison. Know him?"
Stringfellow hesitated then shook his head. "We met once. He's one of their's."
As opposed to ours, Saint John supplied. Fair enough. "Okay. It's just the two of us then." He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the helipad on the roof. "I used Airwolf's computers...."
Blue eyes opened wide. "How did you get Airwolf?"
"You gave it to Jo, remember?" Saint John returned, squeezing his brother's neck before releasing him. "To come after me. I also know what you did with it and why. Remind me to thank you properly some day."
Color touched the younger man's pale cheeks, deepening the fever flush. "You're home," he murmured blissfully, again closing his eyes. "You're home."
Doesn't mean I'm ever going to forget that you brought me out of purgatory. "The computers let me run a check on some old friends. Remember Marty Bergman?"
String's light brows drew together. "No ... I.... Medic in 'Nam?"
Saint John looked at his watch. Two minutes. "He's a doctor now. Runs a rehab clinic about two hours airtime from here, with a full surgical staff. We're taking you there where you can recover without the bad guys or the Firm taking pot shots at you."
The younger man shook his head, consciousness obviously little more than a thread. "Saint John, I want to go home. Please?" He snatched again for Saint John's wrist, holding it feebly but desperately. "Please?"
He was beginning to grow agitated, so Saint John leaned close again, now conscious of the passage of time. "You will go home again. I swear it." He ruffled his brother's hair and stood, stopping when his name was uttered as a low whimper.
"Don't go!" String struggled to sit up, and not succeeding. He made it far enough though to drop the sheet down around his waist, revealing the bandages that swathed a section of his lower abdomen. The skin on either side was swollen and red, and there were more dressings on his back and side. The wires leading to the heart monitor pulled threateningly even as the shrill beep-beep increased its tempo. "Please!" he begged. "If you go, this will all be a dream again! You won't be real any more!"
Saint John grabbed his wrist and shoulder, pressing firmly until the younger man subsided. If String pulled those monitor wires off, the alarm at the desk would scream like a stuck pig. "I won't leave you! Trust me, all right?"
"But...."
"I said, stay!" The younger man didn't relax, and Saint John took his face in both hands, tilting it up. "You just lie there and let me handle everything for once. You're going to need every drop of strength to do those two hours air time."
He waited for the fearful nod before leaving the bed. Feeling his brother's eyes glued frantically on him, he crossed on cat's feet to the door and cracked it open, peeking through it and down the hall. A solitary nurse sat at the station several yards away, talking animatedly on the phone, another was just disappearing into a wardroom farther down. He waited until the down elevator appeared and a man stepped out, disreputably dressed in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. A hat was pulled down low over blond curls but the figure was still identifiable as Mike Rivers. Saint John nodded to himself and returned to Stringfellow, who was watching him with desperate intensity.
"We're leaving," he said, beginning to work on the tape securing the I.V. to String's left arm. "I've got a friend outside that'll give us the diversion we need to get past the guard." The tape came loose only after much struggling, and he unwrapped the gauze carefully until reaching the needle. The skin above was flame red and angry looking -- more burns -- but the needle itself came out easily leaving behind only a dab of blood which was easily ignored. Now that he was close by again, String watched him dreamily, infection, stress and narcotics having sapped whatever strength he'd started with.
Allowing the I.V. line to drop carelessly to the floor where it began to dribble some clear fluid on the spotless tiles, Saint John next rummaged in the room's only closet, finding a blanket and returning to the bed. "It's a little chilly out," he explained, spreading it over String's body and tucking it under. "And we've got a long way to go. We can't risk a wheelchair; I'm going to have to carry you to the elevator. Can you put your arms around my neck?"
The younger man glared. "I can walk," he returned sullenly. "You'd better back up your friend."
Saint John actually had to smile. In that much pain and drugged practically unconscious, the kid obviously couldn't even sit much less walk, but that proud, independent spirit he remembered so well was still there, damaged and sedated into near oblivion perhaps, but far from crushed. "Maybe you can," he returned evenly, "but you're not going to." When String pushed his hand away, Saint John pushed back. "Are you going to waste time arguing or do as I say?" he demanded in the same tone that had ensured his stubborn brother's obedience when they were children.
Stringfellow hesitated, searching Saint John's face. Then without a word he complied, putting his arms around Saint John's neck. His grip was weak, one arm falling limply as though the effort at holding on was too much. Saint John slipped his arms carefully under the blanket covered legs and back, fingers encountering a knee-high cast under the rough wool. Shattered ankle, he thought grimly. Not broken -- shattered. He lifted carefully until his brother was cradled in his arms. String stiffened at his touch, a low cry bitten off as soon as it emerged. "I know it hurts, kid," Saint John whispered. "but we can't get any more painkillers yet."
"N-no more drugs," the younger man whimpered. "Let me die ... without any more drugs. ... But ... not here. Home."
The imploring words cut Saint John like a knife, and he briefly dropped his lips to the sweat dampened hair below his chin. "You won't die, little brother. Not if I have anything to say about it."
Saint John crossed to the door, flinching at the thought of the further damage this activity might be causing his brother -- the boy was already barely holding on and the hospital had obviously done little for him. But if he was to going to get the kid to safety there was no time for hesitance; already voices were raised from the opposite end of the hall, Mike's and a woman's, probably one of the nurses. The sound of feet joined the fracas and Saint John could see through the opened door the agent assigned this room run past, one hand reaching into his jacket as Rivers raised his voice in a yell. The din was so overwhelming that the alarm from the heart monitor could barely be heard at all. The elder Hawke tightened his arms protectively, pulling his brother even closer against his chest. "Only as far as the roof," he whispered encouragingly, pushing the door open with his toe.
A glance confirmed that the agent and both nurses were now crowded around the disreputably dressed Rivers, all yelling and gesticulating wildly. Saint John caught the words "Whiskey," and "Detox," but didn't wait to hear any more; if he'd learned anything about the Air Force hotshot it was that Mike Rivers' brashness approached the infinite on demand. Treading carefully, Stringfellow's not-overwhelming weight slowing him not at all, he made his way quietly but quickly down the corridor. Thanks to Rivers the elevator was waiting; it closed with a pneumatic whoosh, rising rapidly to the roof, and it was only then that Saint John remembered to breathe again.
"Th-they'll know it was you," String gasped, face buried in the front of the black leather jacket.
Hawke laughed softly, the weight of his brother's body resting easily in his arms. "As next of kin I don't have a right to check my own kid brother out of the hospital? Besides...."
"Yeah?"
"We have Airwolf."
String nodded, his hair just brushing Saint John's chin. "The Lady's ... covered for us before."
"The Lady?" Appropriate name. The elevator opened and Saint John stepped out into the cool night air. The whup-whup was loud now, the backwash of the spinning blades blowing his bronze hair back and making String shiver. There was a loud crash from the right, the emergency exit door was thrown violently open and Mike Rivers emerged at a dead run.
"They-they're looking for us!" he panted, doffing hat and coat as he ran. "We have to get out of here."
"Help me get him into the chopper," Hawke called, crossing the twenty paces to the chopper at a trot. Rivers popped the passenger's side cockpit door then turned and physically lifted Stringfellow away, holding him until Saint John climbed inside. Saint John settled back against the rear wall and stretched his legs out more or less straight. It was a tight squeeze; even with the rear passenger's seat folded up and the co-pilot's seat removed, he had to twist slightly to avoid the console bank. Two hours in this position would be no joke; unfortunately, it couldn't be helped. String would never survive that long strapped upright. Arranging himself as best he could, he received his brother's limp form into his lap, letting the fair head loll back against his chest.
More figures appeared at the open hospital door, one of them waving a gun. "Let's go!" he yelled, even as Rivers leaped inside and slid the door shut. Two shots rang out, expending themselves harmlessly against the heavy armor plating, then the helicopter shuddered and lifted, leaving behind hospital and agent alike.
Rivers guided the ship in a gentle upward curve, movements precise and designed to not jar the injured man. "There's a blanket under the seat, Hawke. Wrap that baby brother of yours up good; it's gonna be a long flight."
"They'll be coming after us," Saint John warned, loosing String with one hand and reaching under the seat for the heavy wool blanket. Lax fingers moved then, feeling for his sleeve. "It's okay, String," he murmured. "I'm still here.
The pilot patted the console with a laugh. "They won't catch us in this baby. Consider yourselves safe."
"Safe," Saint John echoed, wrapping the blanket around his brother. At first he thought String was unconscious, though his grip on Saint John's sleeve had not loosened. Then he became aware of the low, distressed murmur.
"They took it," Stringfellow muttered fretfully, tugging at the black leather. "We have to go back."
Saint John tilted his head closer, running his fingers through his brother's hair in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "Took what, String?"
With what seemed to be an enormous expenditure of strength he did not have, Stringfellow lifted his right wrist. "Your bracelet."
"My bracelet?" Saint John echoed, shooting a puzzled look at Rivers. He'd never been one for jewelry and had never worn a bracelet in his life.
The younger pilot shrugged. "He probably means an MIA bracelet. A lot of people wore one engraved with the name of a missing friend or relative. So they wouldn't forget."
God himself knows you never forgot, kid, Saint John thought, touched. Neither will I. "Don't worry about it, String," he told the distressed young man he held. "You don't need it anymore." Stringfellow relaxed against him, and he wrapped both arms around the limp form, slumping wearily back against the fuselage. The warmth of his brother's fevered body was a barrier against the chill, and he rocked it gently, continuing to stroke the soft hair with one hand. I'm home! he thought wildly, eyes stinging again. Home. Fear for his brother muted but couldn't crowd out the joy. Maybe I am home, he thought, closing his eyes. But if you don't make it, String, it's not going to mean a thing.
***
