Chapter 5

It was an old cargo plane that transported Mike Rivers and Jason Locke to the deserted landing strip inside the Mexican border. From there, they hitchhiked the twenty miles into Pindarte, catching a ride on the back of a dilapidated farm truck laden with hay bales. Before long the old clothes they wore as disguise were dusty and covered with straw, and Rivers' allergies were in full swing. Quite understandably, his temper had frayed with the allergy, and by the time they'd boarded the jitney for the la casa del Patron at dawn, he and Locke, the conveniently handy recipient of his choler, were barely on speaking terms.

Rivers edged past the patently uninterested jitney driver and settled onto the narrow bench next to Locke, dropping a battered carry-all bag at his feet. "I should'a found a drugstore somewhere," he mumbled out of the side of his mouth. "I feel like I'm carrying Boulder Dam around in my sinuses."

"Your sinuses are going to have to drain later," Locke returned irritably, also keeping his voice low. "From here on in we're walking a line."

Rivers sniffed and reached into his pocket for a tissue, remembering at the last moment that he was a wondering vagabond bereft of such niceties. He cursed and rubbed his red and itching nose on his jacket sleeve, getting a snootfull of fresh hay for his trouble. He sneezed, cursed again and shrugged the coat off onto the floor. "You walk, I'll stagger," he grumbled, accepting an old but clean handkerchief from an elderly woman sitting to his left. "Gracias, mamacita."

She offered him a gap-toothed grin in return, mumbled something about Nyquil, and inquired politely into his origin. Mike, with a soft spot for old women and recognizing a source of information when he saw one, chatted her up amiably, nodding at the proper times and using the opportunity to gauge her reactions to the place he was going to. He gathered from her gossip that the Patron was not well liked among the peones, ruling his household with fear and an iron hand. It was even rumored, she confided in a lowered voice, that those who displeased him occasionally disappeared without a trace. She knew a lady whose husband's cousin vanished just like that! Mike was forced to assure her several times that he would be indeed careful not to rile the Patron, and asked about the Lady of the house. Was Señora Mejindas so fearsome?

"Señora Mejindas," came back haughtily, is a sainte. As kind as she is beautiful. You will find out for yourself, Miguelito, as soon as you meet her."

"I'm looking forward to it," Rivers returned with a cherubic smile.

Locke, who had been discussing the local terrain with a youthful gardener opposite, nudged Rivers with his elbow. "There's the fortress," he said quietly, pointing to the far window. "Impressive, isn't it?"

It certainly was, even from the distance. Dark stone walls rose twenty feet from a stark plane, the far side bordering a sheer, unscalable precipice. Ensconced within the walls, a block-built building rose, constructed of that same dark granite. The windows were small and wide- spaced, barely large enough for a child to squeeze through much less a man. Marella had said the fortress was old, leading back to the days of the Spanish conquest, and it undeniably looked the part, yet it was sturdy and timeless as well, giving the impression of age and agelessness at once. Incongruous to the scene was the slowly rotating radar dish on the roof, a reminder of the present.

"Bet there's even a dungeon." Mike whistled, pointing at a sign that warned intruders in both spanish and english that trespassing was dangerous. "Mine field. Marella didn't have the pattern, either."

"Maybe Mrs. Mejindas does."

"Let's hope so," Rivers commented grimly. "If we're going to find Archangel, fight our way out of there, and make it to the pickup point all by one o'clock, we're going to need a little expert help. Speaking of which...." He leaned back on the bench, crossing his feet comfortably at the ankle. "What did you think of Stringfellow Hawke?"

"What did you think?" Jason volleyed cautiously.

Mike grinned. "I think I thought he'd be taller, older and a better conversationalist." He raised both hands over his head. "From the rep he's packing, he should have been six-foot-seven and built like John Wayne. Oh, and be able to sway the crowds with a word and a smile." The hands dropped back to his own height, closing inward. "So what do we get? Some guy built no bigger than us normal mortals, who hasn't smiled since he was in diapers and communicates like a rabid bear." He grimaced. "I think I'm disappointed."

"You don't have to be King Kong to fly a chopper," Jason returned over a laugh. He pointedly examined the other's trim if muscled physique. "You're living proof of that."

Rivers eloquently responded by sticking out his tongue at the agent. "My turn. What do you think of Saint John's baby brother?"

Jason chuckled. "I think if you ever call him that to his face, he's going to bust you one in the mouth."

"I figure that myself." The two exchanged a smile, irritation fading as the conversation synchronized them for the upcoming action. "Really, though, you had access to his dossier at some point, didn't you? Ah-HA! I knew it!" Mike crowed when Locke wiggled uncomfortably. "Give me the poop on baby brother."

"Privileged information...." Locke began. He broke off when Mike slapped his leg.

"Don't give me any of that," the blond pilot returned. "Not when my life is riding on this joker. Give."

Locke considered this, then nodded. "If it'll make you feel any better...."

"I doubt it," Rivers muttered, clasping his hands behind his head. "But give it to me, anyway. How would you sum him up?"

Locke fingered the edge of his mustache thoughtfully. "Before now -- obsessed, maybe even unstable. He spent years pushing with government groups, hiring mercs ... the whole thing ... to find out what happened to Saint John. I understand he only worked for the Company at all to use our contacts to investigate reports of MIA sightings. Spent fourteen years at it."

"Determined little bugger, wasn't he?"

Jason rubbed his throat reminiscently. "That's putting it mildly. Did you know the Company offered him a million dollars to steal Airwolf back from Moffett?"

Mike goggled. "A million dollars? They paid him that for one mission?"

Locke shook his head. "I said they offered him a million dollars. He turned it down."

"He--?!"

Locke nodded, his smile slow and lazy. "Instead of the money, he demanded they locate Saint John ... or his remains." He sighed. "See what I mean? He was a pain in the but from the beginning, pestering Research for any info on MIAs, making demands for Airwolf's use." He and Mike shared a long look, each considering the ramifications of a man who would bring his life to a virtual stand-still and devote it to the search for a man probably long dead. "Eventually he became my pain in the butt. I had a lot of sympathy for Archangel after that."

"You didn't get along?" Mike asked innocently.

Jason again rubbed his throat across the larynx. "He tried to take my head off the first day. If not for Company security, he might have succeeded."

"You didn't have him arrested," Rivers pointed out. "Neither did Archangel."

Jason shook his head. "Besides the fact that he still had Airwolf at the time, I couldn't bring myself to strike back at him. Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age ..." Rivers snorted his opinion of that. "... but he wasn't just angry, he was ... desperate. Try not to judge the guy too hard," Jason finished. "He's had some rough spots in his life."

"Haven't we all?" Rivers asked though there was a kernel of understanding in his breezy tone. "Go on. What else?"

"What else?" He pursed his lips then recited as though from memory, "Stringfellow Hawke, the youngest of two sons of former Navy Lieutenant Alan B. Hawke. Stringfellow was born in the Colorado mountains while his father was working with one of the air transport lines there. Family returned to California -- where Saint John had been born four years earlier -- when he was three. Parents died in a boating accident when he was ten -- drowned in front of him. They were going through a divorce at the time. When he was sixteen he bribed a wino to sign for him to join the Army -- Saint John was already in Viet Nam. I understand Santini dragged him home by the scruff of the neck that time, but he re-upped and shipped out to 'Nam when he was seventeen."

"Figured he went in early," Rivers interjected, genuinely interested. "I was still in boot camp when Saigon fell and I think we're the same age.

"Actually, Major," Locke teased, "you're two days older."

"Didn't have any winos to bribe in Malibu," Mike retorted. "I had to wait on my dad, who made me do a couple years of university work first. Then the Air Force Academy. Then I had to earn my rank one grade at a time." He rubbed his chin wistfully. "Wish I could have swung Viet Nam. You pick up promotions pretty fast in the field ... even in the Army."

"Picked up a lot of medals, too. And some scars. The day before he left the United States there was a car accident. His girlfriend was killed. Middle of his second tour he lost Saint John on a mission, was wounded and shipped home all at once. From what I understand, he spent every minute he wasn't flying for the Company or Jo's uncle, or investigating MIA sightings, up on that mountain by himself."

"Too bad," Rivers commented not without sympathy. "I heard him and that old guy, Santini, were pretty close, too."

Locke nodded. "Took him and Saint John in after their parents were killed. You remember he was murdered in the same explosion that hurt Hawke. Had to go through all that believing Saint John was gone, too."

"I can see why the guy is so gloomy," Mike said softly. "But Saint John went through it, too, and he's at least approaching human. Sometimes."

"Saint John," Locke returned, "went through his own brand of torture and handles it in his own way. He did have the advantage of being a little older when everything started going down, but he's got enough scars of his own. Besides, now he knows you. Remember how he was those first couple weeks back?"

Rivers considered, still rubbing his round jaw. "About as cool as baby brother. He's warmed up a lot since then." He brightened. "Maybe now that his big brother is back, the icicle will pick up a sense of humor or something like Saint John did ... or at least, whatever is passing for a sense of humor in Saint John. Guy's got a sneaky way with a quip. But baby brother is a pretty cold fish."

"I don't care if he brings on the next ice age," Locke returned, "so long as he can get Airwolf through that Haversham screen." He rested his head on the side of the bus. "I saw him fly a couple of times back when Airwolf was still in the design stage. His reputation was well-earned; he's easily the best pilot I've ever seen."

"Better than me?" Rivers asked as though such an inconceivable concept had just emerged on the world.

Locke hesitated, then nodded. "Better than you."

Mike pulled himself haughtily erect. "That," he sniffed, "I'll believe when I see it." He sobered suddenly. "And I'd better see it ... at one o'clock this afternoon."

The two maintained a careful silence until the bus had passed between the metal gates inserted in the front wall. They disembarked and were met by a formally suited butler, who greeted them coldly in spanish. "You charwomen know your duties," he snapped in gruff tones, a clipboard held several inches from his thick face. "The rest of you report to your supervisors." He squinted closer at the clipboard. "Miguelito and Juan?"

"Right here, señor." Jason stepped forward, Mike at his heels. "We were ordered to report today?"

The butler nodded. "You'll be assisting Raul in the garden. This way."

The two Americans followed the short, portly man through a servants' entrance to the rear. After a cursory search of both their persons and gear, he delivered them to a gruff Mexican named Raul, who put them to work spreading manure on some flower beds. The task gave them ample opportunity to scout the grounds inside the wall but both were sweating by the time the butler summoned them up the front stairs and into a magnificent reception hall. "Señora Mejindas wishes to see you. Wait," he ordered curtly before disappearing down a side hall. Despite the fortress' gloomy exterior, inside was all color and light, oak panelling on the stone walls, the hard floor covered by thick mauve rugs. The effect was soothing and breath- taking at once.

"Cool," Mike murmured under his breath, gazing at an expensive watercolor on the wall. "Wonder how many agents' lives it took to pay for all this."

Jason, too, had trouble concealing his awe. "Not bad. You did notice the metal detectors built into the foyer."

"No problem." Mike patted the rucksack slung over his arm. "Non-metallic weapons are the wave of the future." He glanced at the cheap watch on his left wrist. "It's after eleven o'clock. Something better happen soon."

"Shhhhhh. Someone's coming."

The two fell silent at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, then the butler reappeared at the heels of a tall woman in a green silk jumpsuit. Perfectly coiffured short black hair fell back from an alabaster forehead, barely tickling the slender shoulders under the silk. Large eyes a peculiarly brilliant shade of green that matched the jumpsuit, gazed at them with professional impartiality. "These are the new workers?" the woman asked in accented spanish.

"Si." The short butler indicated Jason with a stubby forefinger. "This one is named Juan; the other one who resembles an Americano is named Miguelito."

"Miguelito, huh?" The woman dimpled. "Welcome to my home. Pablo, you're dismissed to your duties."

"Gracias, Señora." The butler bowed at the waist then departed, vanishing down another of the myriad corridors comprising the house.

Once he was gone the brunette switched back to english, keeping her voice low. "I understand you are both religious men?" she asked with a tinge of fear.

Mike, willing to take any occasion to comfort a beautiful woman, gave her his widest mega-watt smile. "We make daily offerings to the Archangel."

She relaxed fractionally though still carrying a frightened look. "Good. You were recommended by Mamacita Logan in town, as hard workers, though a little slow in the head." She tapped her temple meaningfully. "We employ several of the mentally retarded from the village; it will give you an excuse to work closely with me."

Mike drew himself up indignantly. "You told them I was el stupido?" he demanded, nevertheless discreetly glancing in all directions and keeping his voice low. "That hurts, Señora." He took a step nearer the beautiful agent, boyish smile taking on a seductive quality. "Or is the name Mina?"

"Until we're out of here," the woman answered firmly, "the name is Señora Mejindas. Afterward...." She skimmed his figure briefly, from long, wavy blond hair down to the good shoulders and trim hips, then gave him a saucy wink. "I may be in the market for a divorce in a day or two. Give me a call."

Locke's very audible sigh was long-suffering incarnate. "If you two are through planning your social calendar, can we get on with this? Our ride will be arriving at siesta time and we don't have more than a rudimentary plan, yet."

Mina Mejindas led the way down a side corridor, gesturing for them to follow. "Casa del Suerte was built in the year of our Lord 1740, by Spanish missionaries under Garcia Mejindas. Coincidentally, my husband is a direct descendent. The foot-thick walls are solid granite, locally quarried."

"You sound like a tour guide," Mike complained, sharp eyes missing nothing of his surroundings.

"Missionaries built this?" Jason asked, also switching into spanish. "What would missionaries want with a fortress?"

The jumpsuit's transparent overjacket wafted lightly when Mina slapped one panelled wall. "During the Spanish conquest of Mexico and California it was deemed necessary to keep the natives under firm but gentle control to prevent the poor heathens from rebelling against God. It's original name was Mission of Saint Simon the Merciful." She snorted. "Swinging title,eh?"

"Way cool." Mike stopped, pointing to a bulge running just under the carpet. "Place wired?"

"Alarms not sound." She tapped Rivers' arm and they resumed their march, down one corridor then another, passing lavishly furnished rooms on either side. Dark-uniformed maids and neatly groomed handy-men bowed respectfully as they passed; Mejindas acknowledged them with a nod but didn't break her stride. "Inquisition lasted a little longer here on the frontier than it did back in Europe. Thanks to that little time warp, we ended up with our very own dungeon occupying the entire sub-basement." She turned into a doorway, her expression sardonic. "It's the little touches that really sell a house. This part is much nicer; it's my music room."

"The dungeon is where they're keeping Archangel?" Jason asked, eying a pair of waiting buckets and mops with resignation. "I assume those are for us."

"You assume right." Mina Mejindas walked past him to the writing desk beside the door, and pulled out a cellophane packet and expensive lighter from the top drawer. "About your boss and mine being kept below, the answer is, yes." She extracted a cigarette from the pack and placed it between her lips. "Up until three months ago, I had free roam of the house. Though I showed no apparent interest, my husband and I held a tacit understanding that I knew what he was up to and subtly approved of anything that made us some money." Red painted lips twitched. "He found that exciting for some reason."

"What happened three months ago?" Jason asked, glancing once into the hall.

Mina flicked the lighter, touching the resultant flame to her cigarette and puffing it to life. "About three months ago we started getting visitors, all with funny, mid-eastern accents. Technicians and nighttime deliveries became commonplace. When I asked Carlos about it he said something about installing a little protection and let it drop. I found out later that that 'protection' was anti-aircraft batteries and three helicopter gunships complete with mercenary pilots. Add that to the mined landscape and foot thick walls and you have a pretty impregnable little hideaway for someone ... or for something."

"Some thing?" Mike prodded, still watching her appreciatively.

The cigarette described a casual arc. "There are two chambers off the main corridor under the house. One leads to the cells; the other used to be a granary -- for when the indians would besiege the fortress in the old days." Ash dropped onto the expensive green jumpsuit and Mina Mejindas loosed a low oath and brushed it away quickly. "Needless to say, there's no grain down there," she resumed, glowering at a minuscule mark on her outfit. "But there is enough computer equipment to run NASA. What it's for, I've no idea."

"Maybe I do." Jason again checked the empty hall before pulling in his head. "Contacts in Kuwait have reported rumors of a planned multi-frontal assault on United States territory. This could be one of their bases."

"Three helicopters and peasant labor isn't going to make much difference to the US Air Force," Rivers snorted, pulling a stalk of straw out of his wheat-colored hair. "Is the guy suicidal?"

"He's a creep," Mina interjected, "but my husband is not suicidal. And he's no fool. There's more to all this than we can see, count on it."

Jason left the door for her side. "Most likely this is a control point for a remote launch. The missiles themselves could be anywhere in the country."

"Guess we've got two jobs cut out for us, don't we?" Mike asked brightly.

Rather than getting to work, Rivers and Locke prowled the spacious chamber curiously. As a music room it certainly lived up to it's name for it was dominated by the beautifully carved grand piano which took up most of the north corner. Around the walls various instruments sat on display. Rivers wandered to a seven-foot bass violin and plucked a string; a deep, resonant note sounded, reverberating from high ceilings. "Who plays Mt. Everest?" he asked, abandoning the bass for a little violin in a case.

"No one living in this place," she said. "The last time anyone actually played an instrument in here was during a party we had in March. Natasha Sczymykov; heard of her?"

Locke, peering out the room's one large window at a neatly kept, private garden, lightly stroked his mustache, a sure sign of cogitation. "The concert pianist? Who hasn't. I assume the grounds within the wall aren't mined?"

"That side of the wall overlooks the precipice," Mina retorted. "With a sheer drop of seventy-five feet, he didn't even bother to set alarms." She smoked quietly for a moment, green eyes following the two men in the wanderings. "Carlos has two armed guards barring the way to the basement, with at least one more guarding Archangel."

Mike finished his browse and returned to the woman's side. He leaned one hip on the desk from where he could meet her gaze at approximately her level. "If you can't get into the basement," he asked reasonably, "how do you know it's Archangel they're keeping downstairs? Your husband could have turned it into a pool hall and he doesn't want you to know."

She dragged on her cigarette, emitting a puff of white smoke through her nostrils. "One thing you have to remember about my husband is that Carlos Mejindas is a gambler, a ratfink and a dreamer. He fancies himself one of the old conquistidors come to life -- like a Latin D'Artagnon. If it ain't dramatic, he don't do it. That's how he got into all this." She indicated the grand room with a wave of her cigarette. "When we moved in here, he spent a lot of time and even more money searching the place for hidden rooms and secret passages."

"He found one?" Jason asked, abandoning the window to again glance out the door.

Mina shook her dark head. "He didn't; I did."

Appreciation sparked Mike's gaze. "And how, may I ask, did a pretty little thing like you manage where the experts failed?"

She shrugged with pseudo-nonchalance. "I didn't say the experts failed, I said my husband didn't find out. I bribed the engineers to say the walls were solid, then had them tell me and only pretty little me where the openings were." She buffed perfectly manicured nails on her jumpsuit. "A minor case of arson insured no one else ever saw the plans and a couple of threats of bodily harm sent the engineers out of the country."

"You are efficient," Mike murmured, touching her cheek. "There's an entry from this room?"

"I brought you here for the view?" Mina crossed from the desk to the nearest inner wall, located directly behind the piano. Lips moving silently, she paced off seven feet to the window and knelt, feeling in the carpet. She heaved and an entire section of carpet and floor swung open on oiled pivots. "I fixed the carpet myself to conceal the joint in the floor. This one leads the length of the house, with stairs going down into the basement and sub-basement."

"Any tunnels leading out under the wall?" Jason asked, stooping to peer into the dark tunnel.

"At one time, maybe. From what I can tell, a major branch collapsed years ago. At least, it was going in the right direction. Oh, you'll find flashlights at the bottom of this hatch." She let the trap door swing shut, then allowed Mike to help her to her feet. "This brings you out less than a dozen feet from where they're holding Archangel. With one guard on the cell, it should be a snap for you to get him out."

"Bringing him back up here?" Mike asked, continuing to hold her hand even after she'd found her balance.

Black hair bounced as she shook her head. "Too much distance to travel to get out. Besides, the guards are barracked on this side of the house. Your best bet is to go right out the kitchen entrance and over the wall. I'm ... uh ... having it painted and there's a ladder or two lying around outside the kitchen door."

Both Jason and Mike regarded her with a healthy dose of respect. "Lady," Locke said, taking her other hand, "when Marella said you were a trained operative, she didn't tell us the half. You're good. I'm starting to believe we'll actually get away with this."

"Remind me to show you my appreciation once we get out of here," Rivers added meaningfully.

Mina Mejindas dimpled. "I'll hold you to it."

It was Jason who brought them all back to sobriety. "Mike, you and I are going to have to scout the kitchen entrance to the basement. We're also going to need an edge to get past the two guards there. If they catch us in those constricted corridors, we're all dead."

Rivers dropped the rucksack and unzipped it, pulling out several pairs of old jeans and used work gloves, dumping them in a heap behind the desk. There was a click and the bottom lifted neatly out, revealing a wide flat receptacle. "Got just the thing," he said, pulling out lumps of what looked like putty. "Plastique and mercury detonators. We plant this stuff in the kitchen and set it to go off when we have our grounded angel."

Locke nodded. "That should give us the diversion we need to get over the wall ... I hope. Once outside our ride should be waiting."

"Provided baby brother is doing his job," Rivers grumbled, again rummaging in the bag.

Mina's forehead wrinkled. "Baby brother? Yours?"

"If he was mine," Mike said, pulling off a wad of the explosive and inserting a tube shaped detonator, "he wouldn't have made it through adolescence. Timer's set; how do we deliver it to the kitchen?"

Mina thought carefully, then made her way to the display racks on the wall. She pulled a tiny flute out of its case and tossed it carelessly on the floor, returning to the men with the empty case. "Put it in here. You can leave it in the kitchen and I'll issue orders that no one is to touch it until I say so. We'll call it a surprise for the Patron."

"Have a little 'gift' delivered to the hangar, too," Mike interjected. "That should prevent the choppers from being used against us later."

"Right."

Appropriating the bag, Jason next extracted two unusually shaped guns. Their color was gray, the material of manufacture making them look oddly like children's toys. They were no toys; made entirely of plastic, these guns had short operational lives but carried the advantage of being invisible to metal detectors. Locke handed one to Mike, stuffing the second into the waistband of his jeans.

"We'll deliver the Patron's present while we're filling these," Mike said, indicating the buckets with a flourish. "You talk to the gardeners and get them to work on the far side of the building out of harm's way. But make sure you're outside the kitchen door at exactly quarter to one." He kissed her fingers then released her and accepted the bucket and mop Locke tendered. "Don't be afraid, schveethart! We're on the job."

Mina nodded and headed for the door. "If your action is as lousy as your Cagney," she shot over her shoulder, "I'm terrified."

"Philistine," Mike mumbled, following her out.

***

Travelling at 800 knots per hour, Airwolf split the air like an obsidian bullet, her passage marked only by the eerie wail of her turbines and the delayed thunder of a sonic boom. Muffled for stealth, she was a ghost, silent and deadly and beautiful.

Within the soundproofed compartment there was not even these audible distinctions. The two men worked together efficiently, with few words exchanged, patterns recently utilized with others reblending as in the past into that mystic gestalt men hailed as a team.

"Turbos running at optimum," Saint John Hawke reported from the engineering station in the rear of the pressurized cabin. "Fifteen minutes in-flight at angel thirty, and fuel consumption within acceptable levels. She's running good."

"She's always running good," the pilot called back, disdaining his helmet radio. "With multiple redundancy on all systems, I'd be surprised if we ran into any glitches."

Saint John adjusted the fuel flow minutely, eyes skimming the tell-tales. "Green on all panels. Estimated time of rendezvous with Jo puts us twenty minutes ahead of schedule."

"Good. Gives me a bit more time to polish up." Stringfellow stretched comfortably, never happier than when united with the sleek gunship. "Prepare to give me rotors. ... Ready.... Now!" A press of a button and the mighty turbines reversed, dropping the airspeed rapidly to subsonic and nearly blacking out the ship's occupants with the resultant g-force. At the same time, Saint John keyed in a sequence on his own board, powering the large blades. String moved the joystick and pedals, and Airwolf, like a wildcat through as hoop, rotated obediently through a three hundred sixty degree combination slow curl-loop, while Saint John watched the gauges.

"Altitude dropped six feet, four inches on that maneuver," he chided, expertly scanning the panels for warning lights. "Sloppy, String."

"I'll work on it," the younger man returned indignantly. Once more Airwolf rotated on her z- and y-axes, her speed remaining steady. "Better?"

"Gain of one foot, two inches," the acting engineer replied. "And that time you yawed off course nearly three degrees." Though the precision of the maneuvers would have impressed an astronaut, the pilot growled something irritably and began putting the helicopter through a quick succession of stunts that made the armor plate shriek with fatigue; all the while Saint John would call out a steady stream of deviations in a pitying tone. It wasn't until Stringfellow had actually begun to curse that he stuck his tongue firmly in cheek and held his peace.

Saint John ducked his head, keeping his eyes on the gamboling magnetic compass and blinking warning lights even though there was no way the pilot could see the mischievous smile that bowed his lips. With the advantage of history he well knew the slightest hint of flaw in his perfectionist brother would wreck this result; from the twinkle in his gray eyes it was obvious he was enjoying the joke hugely.

"Playtime is over!" he called after a particularly dangerous combination of curl and barrel roll. "We've got just enough time to get to Jo." There was a conspicuous silence from the front. "String?"

The silence stretched for another few seconds while Stringfellow leveled the ship out. Not asking Saint John, he used his own controls to disconnect the blades and bring the engines on line. A press of his thumb and Airwolf accelerated suddenly, soon regaining her former supersonic velocity. It was only when they had climbed back up to 10,000 feet that he spoke again. "Saint John?"

"Hmmmm?" the older man replied absently, flipping through radio frequencies. "Weather report still looks good."

"Saint John, maybe...." He stopped.

Saint John, eyes narrowing, glanced sharply at his brother's helmeted head as if he could penetrate the high-impact plastic with a gaze. "What's the matter?"

There was another pause, and the younger man's gruff baritone grew even deeper. "Maybe we ought to hold Jo back for awhile. She can follow us in once we've neutralized all of Mejindas' defenses."

Saint John blinked; obviously, this was not the response he'd expected to his earlier teasing. "What are you talking about? Since when did you ever doubt your flying? Are you all right?"

There was a hesitant shrug. "Your teammate Rivers doesn't seem to think so. If he's right, we won't be able to help Michael, and we're risking another life unnecessarily."

Amusement was replaced by concern and apology. "Look, String, I was only kidding you about messing up the stunts earlier." He adjusted a button, increasing the clarity on the radar. "I used to tease you unmercifully when we were kids. You never took it to heart before. At least, not much."

"I don't take anything to heart," the other protested.

Saint John smiled again though it was little more than a quirk of the lips. "Right. Seriously, though, that's easily some of the best flying I've ever seen. You ought to know that. Even hotshot Mike Rivers couldn't touch it."

"I'm going to have to do a lot better," the younger man returned softly, "to get us through a Haversham screen."

Saint John leaned forward against his straps, stretching one long arm until he could grasp the lean shoulder. "If it can be done at all, I'm looking at the man who can do it." Beneath his hand, tense muscles tightened once then relaxed.

"You're a whole lot surer than I am right now," Stringfellow replied. "Funny. Whether I can or can't do something never usually enters my mind. I just ... do it."

"Pilot's chief assets," Saint John quoted, releasing his brother and returning his fingers to the computer console, "are his cold nerves and hot hands. You didn't doubt yourself when Mike challenged you, and I know you're not doing it because your big brother teases you." A light blinked. "Imperial VOR coming up; course correction, three point two degrees southeast. What you're doing is second-guessing yourself."

Airwolf dipped barely to the right as Stringfellow realigned her on the proper heading. "Who says that's what I'm doing?" he said neutrally.

Saint John puffed out his cheeks against the helmet. "Well, I know better than to think you're scared of combat flying -- not by nature and not in Airwolf. That means it's something else."

In the pilot's seat, Stringfellow essayed a casual shrug. "I just don't think we ought to risk lives unnecessarily, that's all. You know...." He paused, biting his lip. "I don't even need you along on this run. I may even need the extra maneuverability from the lower weight."

Behind him, Saint John's expression underwent a marked change from amusement to affection to acute worry. "String, four of me isn't going to make that much of a difference to these engines, and you won't have immediate access to all the weapons without a gunner." When there was no answer he unsnapped his harness straps, allowing him to slide forward in his seat and rest both hands on his brother's shoulders from behind. "Since when did you become overprotective?"

"I'm not--!" came the immediate protest, bitten off when Saint John ducked his head over the co-pilot's chair and smiled. "I...." Stringfellow sighed, deeply and from the heart. "Is that what I'm being?"

"Like a mother hen with a load of chicks." The older man laughed easily. He abandoned his seat to slide around the console into the co-pilot's position, stretching his large frame gratefully. "You were the same way every time you had to ferry wounded. Come on, kiddo, tell your dear older and wiser brother all about it."

String shot him a look, an unwilling chuckle emerging. "Wiser, huh? How did you manage that? You've spent the last fifteen years secluded like some kind'a nun."

"And you spent your last fifteen years secluded like some kind of hermit," the older Hawke returned with more gentleness than humor. "Is there any difference?"

The truth of that statement wiped Stringfellow's smile away as if it had never been. "I've done all right," he said defensively, studying the crystal sky for all it was worth.

There was sadness in Saint John's gray eyes, born of a lonely past for them both. He rubbed his brother's hunched shoulder, and from his manner it was clear the contact was as much for himself as the other. "We've got the rest of our lives to make up for any lack either of us might have had," he said with real promise, studying the closed profile of the pilot. "Back in 'Nam, we used to watch each other's back, but you never once tried to kick me out of a fight before. What happened?"

"Dom died."

Encouraging smile fading, Saint John looked straight ahead. "I really miss that old man. I wish I could have seen him again. Just once."

"I'm sorry." Hands clenched on the controls, String turned at last, meeting the other's light eyes. "I wish...."

"Hey!" Saint John squeezed his shoulder tight, giving him a rough shake. "There's nothing for you to be sorry for. Dom wasn't your fault any more than my getting captured by the VC was. When am I going to get that through your hard head?" He slapped his brother on the top of the black helmet. There was no change in the other, so he added, "Or the fact that it doesn't matter any more since I'm back now."

That tiny twinkle reappeared in the younger man's blue eyes blossoming into one of those rare, shy smiles that lit his face from within. "Yeah, you're back now," he said contentedly. Then he sobered. "But we never made them pay for Dom."

Saint John returned the smile, his own happiness overflowing. That last stopped him as well. "We don't know who 'them' is yet," he pointed out. "Once Buchard went down, whoever was attacking us disappeared. I figure Buchard was behind it. Paid for a single hit, maybe."

"They didn't disappear," the gray clad pilot stated flatly. "They're laying low. I can feel it. Do you think it was the Firm?" He hesitated. "How much do you trust Locke? Or Rivers, for that matter."

"I trust them," Saint John returned immediately. "Trust means too much to Mike for him to ever break faith. We ... had a problem with the team once that way -- over trust. Mike exploded."

"Your team," Stringfellow murmured, his lips barely moving.

Sharp ears, however, picked up on the wistful statement. "Not just my team. My brother's team, too. Any time he wants in."

That won a wry half-smile and a glance. "I doubt that." The smile faded. "Maybe Rivers isn't a backstabber," he went on, "but Locke is a spy. That's different from a pilot. Different from us."

Saint John again shook his head. "Jason is perfectly capable of a good lie if necessary. But he's not capable of betraying a friend any more than we are."

"He's a spy," Stringfellow repeated unbendingly. "That means he's capable of anything."

"Would you have said that about this Coldsmith-Briggs you seemed to trust?"

"I never said I trusted him." Stringfellow hesitated. "He did have ... has a sense of honor," he said carefully. "But even Michael can't be trusted all the way. He'll do whatever he thinks he's got to." One side of his mouth twitched sardonically though there was no humor in his eyes. "He believes in too many shades of gray. Locke probably does, too, if he's ... in the business."

"That sounds like an old argument," Saint John said, thoughtfully studying him.

"Yeah." There was a sigh, audible through the helmet. "Real old."

The elder Hawke let that pass. "If there is a conspiracy, Jason isn't in on it. I'd bet my life on it."

"You are."

"Safe bet."

Stringfellow considered this a moment. "Do you think they'll be able to pull off this assignment? Can they get Michael out of that fortress?"

"If anybody can...." Saint John waved a hand. "They're pretty resourceful." He stroked his lean jaw. "I guess you don't know very much about them, do you. In a nutshell, Jason is a Company man, born and bred; he's also ex-Viet Nam, like us. Mike's a terrific pilot -- one of the best -- but he didn't make it to 'Nam."

"Too young?" Stringfellow commented smugly. "I thought so."

"He's two days older than you," the other returned with a devilish smile. "Guess there weren't any winos to bribe in Malibu -- or any big brothers to tag along after." String looked disgusted but had the grace to blush at the reference. "Don't worry about Mike; he's Ivy League and Air Force Academy, but he's flown enough combat to have earned his rank honestly."

"Has he earned your trust honestly? What do you know about him?"

Grinning wider, the older man ticked several points off on his fingers. "He's a loud mouthed hotshot who can fly anything with wings -- including Airwolf. He has a soft spot for old ladies and is a sucker for a pretty face. He's as straight arrow as they come so long as you don't cross him. Enough?"

"You sound like you spent a lot of time with him," the other said with deceptive nonchalance.

Saint John sobered. "Quite a bit. He helped me get back in synch with the world. Fifteen years out is a pretty big leap." He shook his head, tapping the crowded instrument panel. "Computers, VCRs, abortion, string bikinis. The end of the war and the resurgence of patriotism. Politics, costs. Dom gone and you hanging on by a thread...." He swallowed. "It was too much to take in all at once, String. Without help."

"And he gave it to you?"

Saint John nodded. "Mike gave it to me. He's become a good friend."

The younger man glanced at him again, face carefully neutral but eyes very cold. "I met Jason once when they transferred Archangel. We ... didn't get along."

"I wouldn't have thought you would, little brother. Jason exudes authority; you like to bust it in the chops." He chuckled. "I would have liked to see that fight."

String smiled. "There wasn't any fight ... not after his security got there. But...."

"But?" the other prodded.

"But he and Rivers helped get you out." The fine-boned face softened fractionally. "That's something I owe them. Jo, too."

"Enough to trust them?

"Not for a minute."

Saint John laughed. "My brother, the skeptic," though there was a minuscule frown when he considered the younger man. "You never learned to trust anyone, did you."

"I trust you. I trusted Dom."

The ensuing silence was more eloquent. Saint John touched his brother's arm. "Jason, Mike and Jo are groovy...."

"Groovy?!" Stringfellow blurted, a near laugh escaping. "That's one I haven't heard in awhile."

The other man blushed. "Hey, if you were locked up for fifteen years, your lines would be a bit stale, too." They shared a smile, then Saint John went on, "Seriously, String, if you really think whoever got Dom is going to try again, maybe you shouldn't stay by yourself up at the cabin. Until Jason comes up with something ..."

"... or not."

"... you can bunk with me for awhile. Jo took over Dominic's old house but I'm renting one a few blocks away. Got a spare room already set up for you."

String grimaced. "In the middle of Van Nuys? It was hard enough staying there when Dom and I had an early shoot." He hesitated. "You know the cabin is half yours. Granddad left it to the both of us."

"And who gets the only bed in the only bedroom?" Saint John teased. "I've spent several days on that couch already. You may have had it re- upholstered, but it's the same thirty-year-old frame."

"You should know," the other retorted. "You helped Granddad pick it out for Grandma's anniversary."

Saint John regarded him with a surprise. "How did you remember that? You couldn't have been older than three."

"I was old enough to remember you and Granddad sneaking out of the house that morning and leaving me behind."

"Tag-along," the older man said fondly. "Besides, you and Jo were both young enough to go with Dom to the circus that year; I had school." He glanced at the clock on the instrument panel, then sidled back to his own seat and strapped in. "We should be seeing Jo and the Huey any minute." He flicked a switch on his panel. "Taxi, this is Red Dog, Taxi; this is Red Dog. Do you read? Over."

There was a moment's static, then Jo's light soprano floated across the airwaves. "Red Dog, this is Taxi. I'm at rendezvous. Where are you?"

String grinned and keyed his own mike. "Look up." With that, he put the great gunship into a power dive, nose nearly at right-angle to the ground. Airwolf dropped from ten thousand feet to one hundred in less than a minute, then levelled off within eyeshot of the drab green Huey, which hovered squatly in mid-air. Through the tinted glass, both Airwolf crewmen could see a vague figure waving at them.

"Show off!" Jo Santini jeered good-naturedly. "And me stuck with this tub. Want to switch?"

"Let's see if we can get that tub back in one piece," String said, pulling back on the engine control until their velocities matched. "Then we'll talk."

"E.T.A. to target," Saint John broke in more seriously, "thirty minutes. Almost game time, boys and girls."

***