Chapter 6
Whistling merrily and making absolutely no attempt at deflecting attention from himself, Mike Rivers retraced his steps down the long hallway to the reception hall, choosing, according to Mina's parting directions, a corridor leading to the left. One of the buckets dangled from his hand, a mop propped across his shoulder, his stroll casual. The cover of a simple minded handyman might be grating on his pride, but from outward appearances he'd managed to submerge ego enough to enjoy the act.
At his side and a pace behind, Jason Locke walked, similarly laden, if less jocular. Dark eyes darted ceaselessly, missing nothing of their journey, taking in the concealed wiring in the walls and alarm boxes installed in the panelling. Long experience had taught him how valuable any scrap of information might be; Rivers, too, though not a covert operative, was an able combatant who had learned the value of knowing the scene of impending battle.
They passed through several chambers where the walls sported rich oils and once even an ancient tapestry. "Bet ol' String would have enjoyed this," Rivers told Locke under his breath. "Those paintings must be worth a fortune."
"Not gonna be worth the price of the canvas," Locke whispered back, "if this place has to go up."
From a comfortably masculine library, the duo arrived at another corridor from the left fork of which came the barely audible sound of rattling pots and pans. One threshold later and the two had reached the kitchen.
"Buenos dias, señor cocinero." Locke, one hand holding mop and the other the flute case, greeted the portly, middle aged man wearing a chef's hat with a humble bob.
Rivers, carrying both buckets, grinned fatuously and made a production of banging the them together. "Have to find the water!"
The cook winced at the clatter, glaring at the incognito pilot. "Use that faucet!" he snapped, jerking his head at a large porcelain tub in the corner. "Get away from my food!"
Mike grinned wider, buckets jangling loudly. "Ooookay-dokey!" Waving at Jason, he sidled around two grim faced, watchful men leaning against a closed door, offering them a sloppy salute as he passed. He reached the sink and began to fill the pails, bobbing his head at the guards all the while.
Trusting the pilot to reconnoiter that section, Jason turned back to the glaring chef, showing his teeth in a weak if friendly smile. "We are here on the orders of...."
"I know," the chef returned gruffly, applying a paring knife to a stack of carrots. "The Señora has already called me. Put your parcel under there ..." He waved a drooping carrot top at a counter against the wall. "... and get out of my kitchen. Now."
"Si! Si!" Jason nodded his head obsequiously, not a hint of offense in either attitude or expression. He deposited the flute case on a little shelf under the spotless formica counter and closed the cabinet door over it, then retreated to the door to await Rivers. From there the entire kitchen could be seen, including the exit to the outdoors. Through one window the garden and high wall were clearly visible, as was Mina Mejindas, who was speaking quietly to a baseball capped man with weed trimmers. The man nodded and gestured to the other workers, who promptly began to file out of the garden.
"Step one," Jason whispered just under his breath, though still earning a sharp look from the cook. He smiled again, a genuine one this time at the sound of Mike's light tenor raised in an off-key, spanish version of Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.
The sound of running water ceased and Rivers recrossed the room. "The buckets are filled!" he called cheerfully, hefting one pail in each hand. "Let's go follow the Señora's orders and begin our scrubbing."
"Go now!" the chef barked, aiming the paring knife menacingly in their direction.
The two went, retracing their route from the kitchen. "Just like Mina said," Rivers commented sotto voce. "Two men carrying AK-47's. We'll have to be on them fast after the charge goes off."
"As long as we can prevent the one in the basement from giving an alarm before we're ready," Jason returned at his side, "I think we'll be able to make it out of here in one piece."
"At least as far as the minefield. Then it's up to the Brothers Hawke."
They fell silent as they entered the library again, adopting bland expressions when they were met by three men all sporting identical khaki uniforms, who were lounging in the expensive leather couches as though they owned the place. "... boring here," somebody was complaining in english as the agents entered.
"Hey, look!" one of them said at the duo's appearance. "Them boys look like Yankees!"
"Definitely Yankees." Another stood, a burly, dark-haired man with a scraggly mustache that trailed over his upper lip. "What are Yankees doing here toting slop buckets?"
"Look like the type to slop the hogs," the first said, laughing gruffly. He was a shorter man than his companion, but stocky, with a florid, clean shaven face and carrot colored hair. Small, pig-like eyes regarded the two with obvious scorn. "Except for the darky there; bopped back to slave days, did ya, colored boy?"
Jason spread his hands wide, bland incomprehension on his face. "Que?"
"Que?" the mustached man mimicked with a short laugh. "You don't speak english, boy? What about your little side-kick, there? Do he speak'a the eeenglesh?"
Addressed, Rivers smiled widely, though anyone who knew him might have noticed the menacing glitter in his eyes. "Are you talking to me, Mr. Army?" he asked innocently.
"He called you Mr. Army," the third, heretofore silent stranger translated from behind a newspaper. "You gonna take him apart for that?"
The mustached man sucked his teeth for a moment, considering the slim Rivers, then Jason. "Just might at that." Stepping closer, he poked one stiffened forefinger into Mike's chest, the force pushing the American pilot back and splashing water out of the bucket onto the expensive rug. "I ain't no Army, blondie," he snarled. "I'm a pilot -- private pilot. You think the Patron's little helicopter squadron flies itself?"
Mike stiffened at the touch, the menace growing. He crouched slightly to place the bucket on the floor, stopping when Jason's fingers dug into his shoulder. "Please excuse my friend's sloppiness, señor," he said, dropping to both knees and dabbing at the rug with a towel. "He is ... just a little slow." He tapped his own temple. "You see?"
"He said blondie is a retard," the third man translated again, still buried in his newspaper.
"A retard?" The redhead scowled disgustedly. "Forget him, B.J. Trashing a retard is supposed to be bad luck."
The men regarded each other for a moment, then the mustache jerked his thumb at the door. "Get out of here before I change my mind."
Jason and Mike smiled again and escaped through the door, feeling those cruel eyes on them the whole way. "Want to change his mind," Rivers muttered once they were out of earshot. "And rearrange his nose while I'm at it."
"'Fraid you'll have to defer pleasure for business," Locke answered, no less angry. "But if we catch 'em in the air...."
"Airwolf will get them instead of us." Rivers shrugged philosophically. "Oh, well. If we wish real hard, maybe they'll give us trouble on the way out."
"Keep a good thought," the black man murmured, picking up his pace.
***
Strong fingers plied the attitude and throttle controls with all the delicacy of a surgeon, making dozens of minute adjustments per minute against the playful crosswinds of the region. As a child, Saint John had teased him about his hands -- though not feminine in the slightest, they were smaller and slim fingered like their mother's, in keeping with the slender build, while Saint John had inherited their father's more rugged good looks, including large bones, muscle and grip. He had delighted, big brother like, in demonstrating his superiority in a myriad contests and battles over their youth, using his greater bulk to advantage. Four years younger and stubborn to a fault, Stringfellow had taken it all personally, and gone out to prove himself, physically and mentally, to be an equal, striving as little brothers will, to match Saint John in any way possible. Though less conspicuously so than his brother, there was power in Stringfellow's wiry muscles, the match of much larger men, and an eventual source of pride and confidence in comparison to anyone and no one at all.
Socially the contest had been less even. Whatever changes Viet Nam had wrought, in high school Saint John had been gregarious and animated and had had every girl in town at his beck and call. Despite their competition, String had minded that least of all. Less outgoing by nature, he'd nevertheless been handsome enough to have attracted his own share of female company, and had thrown himself into his greatest passion -- flying -- with far less distraction. By the time he'd reached sixteen, his skills had surpassed even those of the naturally gifted Saint John Hawke, if not by much. But ... enough to penetrate a Haversham defense screen?
More left pedal ... more right.... The corrections were automatic, requiring little more thought than it took to manipulate parts of his own body. Well, perhaps a little more, for Hawke had been away from the ship long enough for one part of his mind to acknowledge the effort it required to tame the wild creature aptly named Airwolf -- to be aware of every fraction of a degree of change.
For twenty minutes Airwolf hung in mid-air, hovering below the rim of a low hill and out of radar range. Behind, just visible in the corner of Stringfellow's eye, a moderately sized Bell Huey helicopter painted in the dull green of the United States Army squatted on the ground, large blades whirling lazily. Next to Airwolf, Hawke thought, it resembled a fat goose, thick and clumsy, if comfortingly substantial. Comforting, that is, if you were a goose instead of a Hawke.
Humans and machines waited impatiently, tensely, for the moment of truth which was at hand.
"Twelve-forty-five," Saint John reported from the engineering station, giving Stringfellow a single bad moment; he had been expecting Dominic's rough tones. "Time, String." He raised his voice a few decibels. "Jo, are you there?"
"No, I'm in Hawaii," the woman grumbled through the headphone. "Can't you tell how much fun I'm having?"
"Surf a wave for me," Saint John gibed dryly, sounding utterly relaxed. "We're ready to go in."
The Bell's blades beat the air faster, the squat body lifting gently off the ground. "Ready when you are, C.B." Jo called.
"Stay where you are," Stringfellow ordered curtly, experienced eye evaluating the woman's position with a glance. "Another twenty feet and you'll be visible to radar."
Jo sounded puzzled but obediently landed her craft. "What's the scoop? I thought I was supposed to follow your skinny tail like glue."
Saint John snickered at the remark; Stringfellow, long inured to the woman's sisterly teasing, didn't even waste a glare. "I won't be able to concentrate on knocking out the weapons and protecting you at the same time. If we're going to do this, I'm going to need to clean house rather than run interference."
"I was thinking the same thing," Saint John agreed, tapping loudly on his keyboard. "At top speed you're only fifteen minutes from the pickup point. If we make it through, we should be able to shield Jason and Mike until you get there. We'll call you if we need you in early." The emphasis was subtly directed at his brother's head and just as soundly ignored. "Battle computer on-line, all weapons in combat mode."
"Deploy ADF pod," String directed, glancing down once to make sure all needles and gauges were reading at optimum levels.
"ADF pod deployed."
Stringfellow nodded grimly. "We do it then."
"Wait for our signal, Jo," Saint John added to the woman.
"Just make sure your signal isn't a loud boom," Jo shot back with every evidence of the Santini spirit; Stringfellow's heart pinged him once more before he decisively shut if off. "Okay, fellahs. Make it good."
Hawke took a deep breath, his consciousness already submerging into the gestalt being that was man and machine. Ignoring both the farewell and Saint John's cheerful reply, he pulled back on the collective and Airwolf lifted over the rim of the hill like the bird of prey she was. "Turbos," Stringfellow ordered, and pressed the red button on the joystick, activating the twin jets on either side of the ship. Sudden acceleration pushed both pilot and engineer back in their seats as Airwolf shot forward, her nose parallel with the uneven terrain and turbines screaming. She was nearly invisible as she skimmed the ground, targeting the massive black fortress that rose from the sand twenty miles distant.
"Fifty feet," Saint John read off the altimeter. "Speed three hundred knots. You'd better give us a little more altitude so their radar can pick us up."
"Roger." The younger Hawke complied, subconsciously bracing himself as Airwolf nosed straight up into the sky. "I took ack-ack first," he said aloud, actually cheerful now that the action had started. "Then missiles. With Haversham's semi-random patterns, there's no guarantee on the order, though."
In the rear, Saint John grunted his assent. "Without using stealth mode, we're reflecting their radar in all directions."
"We can't sneak in," String replied absently. "We have to take the brunt of the attack."
The air ahead of them suddenly sprouted a half-dozen puffs of what looked like smoke. More man-made storm clouds blossomed and within seconds the sky was dark. "Anti-aircraft," String commented, expertly steering his ship between billows , any one of which might have destroyed a jet fighter. "Right on schedule. It's surrounding the entire perimeter but it doesn't look like it's more than five miles deep. Must be a first line defense only."
"Wow!" Saint John exclaimed, quoting a string of figures off the computer enhanced radar image. "Landscape was blank screen a minute ago, but now it looks like the Mardi Gras down there. I've never seen a ring of defenses that closely packed before."
"You'll find 'em layered out the full twenty miles," String returned lazily, though his eyes glowed. Rather than taking Airwolf above the deceptively harmless looking puffs of smoke, he altered his attitude until the ship was pointed toward the highly visible gun emplacements -- three of them spaced at thousand meter intervals covered his flight corridor. One of the flac clouds mushroomed suddenly in their path, too abrupt to avoid, and there was a loud clatter against the metal skin. Had Airwolf been less superbly designed it might have been all over, but the air intakes were covered with steel mesh, her skin nigh impenetrable. She shuddered, but continued her course.
"Do that too often and we won't have rotors later," Saint John commented unruffledly from the back seat. He considered. "'Course, rolling her in on her belly would cut out their radar advantage." It took a moment for that to sink in, then Stringfellow's lips twitched at memories of other battles fought with this dry humored, nerveless man at his side. He still missed Dom horribly, but the years were already melting away as he and Saint John became what they'd once been: the best aerial combat team in the world.
Silently, Stringfellow began his run. He squeezed the trigger on the stick and Airwolf's 30 millimeter cannon roared, the chain guns leaving a trail of tracer that split the sky. Several figures could be seen fleeing the emplacements as one by one the bullets struck home and the weapons disintegrated into metal shards. The anti-aircraft fire ceased, the dark clouds ever so slowly beginning to dissipate in the immediate area, though the more distant guns continued to spew out their threat if too far away to make a difference.
"One down," the older Hawke brother muttered. He made to say something else than closed his mouth with an audible snap. "First salvo. SAMs. Six fired simultaneously from one position range fifteen miles, heading from two-seven-oh degrees." He paused. "We've been acquired. More launchers appearing on the scope; they must have been underground. Two units in close proximity; bearing dead ahead."
"Let me have a Shrike," the pilot ordered, snapping his helmet visor into place. The automatic targeting system came on-line at once, the computers giving him a clear-as-day view of the second grouping of missile launchers one mile distant. He focussed on them and the computers took their mark, using the movement of his own pupil for direction. A touch of the trigger and the nuclear tipped Shrike missile was off. He didn't tarry to watch the miniature mushroom cloud rise from the sand; he didn't have to. He knew without knowing that the missile had been aimed true and wasted no more attention on it than that.
At the same moment the heavy armor plating rang as something struck it, the great gunship actually swaying under the multiple impacts. String put her in a zig-zag pattern and the clanging ceased. "Fifties," Saint John reported almost unnecessarily. "Probably covered by the ack-ack. They can hurt us if enough of 'em hit the right spot, and I know they'll take Jo down."
Blue eyes narrow, Hawke began a high sweep, being careful to avoid the fading flac clouds, trusting his brother to warn him of the already- launched missiles' approach. He spotted the fifty-caliber guns almost immediately, two of them mounted on the backs of converted jeeps. "Somebody's been watching old Rat Patrol episodes," he commented with grim humor.
"We used to watch old Rat Patrol episodes," the older man reminded him with a grin in his voice. "Besides, it is a good idea to keep them mobile. Missiles closing," he added almost inconsequentially. "Forty-five seconds to impact."
Rather than beginning evasion procedures, Hawke concentrated on the speeding jeeps. From where he sat he could see the two-man team in each, their tan colored uniforms blending them in with the similarly painted vehicles. Lips tightening, he again triggered the chainguns, sending two columns of bullets strafing the first vehicle. It was a direct hit; the jeep exploded as the gas tank was ruptured, catching the second in the fireball. It careened wildly before upending in a ditch.
"Good boy," Saint John acknowledged absently. "Enhanced imaging showing no more of them, but the missiles are twenty seconds and closing."
"Radar or heat seeking?" String asked, voice growing almost supernaturally calm. He might have been discussing the weather.
There was a brief pause as the older man consulted the computer. A low buzzer gave Stringfellow Hawke his answer before the other spoke. "Cannot identify; must be a hybrid. Faster than normal, too. Jamming radar, ion suppressors on." A raucous squeal sounded in the earphones, the bleedoff from the electromagnetic pulse Airwolf was giving off. "No change. Releasing chaff, preparing Sunburst."
Stringfellow pulled back on the cyclic and throttle, easing the sleek black craft higher. She rose slightly, accelerating again, her angle giving the pilot a brief view of a bright grouping also changing its direction, six aerial torpedoes travelling at more than twice the speed of sound.
"Chaff released." From under her belly, Airwolf expelled a cloud of foil designed to confuse enemy radar, even as she began flying a zig-zag pattern, taking her off the direct route. Ignoring the distraction, the missiles punched through the cloud as though it weren't there, sluggishly correcting their own course with each alteration in Airwolf's.
"No good." Saint John shook his head. "They're not radar guided. Heat seekers and closing fast. Ejecting Sunbursts." He pressed another button on the counter-measures board and twin panels opened, one on either side of Airwolf's black skin. Two thermal generators fittingly named Sunbursts dropped straight downward a series of feet, floating lightly on the breeze, followed by two more, than two again. Suddenly they erupted, magnesium bright, at fifteen hundred degrees, hot enough to drown out the heat signature of Airwolf's own engines.
"We're too low," Saint John reported, his breath catching him short when Hawke executed a high speed course change, directing the craft on a nearly perfect vertical course. "Got only one; five reacquiring."
"We need more maneuvering room," String grunted, the extra g's a weight on his own chest.
"Mach one," Saint John read out. "One point two ... one point four. Altitude angel ten. String, they have us!"
No, they didn't. With less than a hundred feet to spare, Airwolf flipped over in midair, her short curling loop taking her in a screaming perpendicular dive, her armor plates groaning their displeasure. Caught out, the five dark projectiles hurtled past, their velocity carrying them miles beyond the fleeing craft.
"Nice," Saint John murmured, the grin plain in his voice. "Preparing another wave of Sunbursts."
"Wait until they're closer," Stringfellow called back, speaking from two- plus years worth of experience. "Don't give them too much time to think things over."
"Roger." Saint John counted as the digital gauge computed the distance in miles then feet. "Missiles within range; thirty seconds to impact."
"Hold on...." Hawke waited, instincts doing his calculation for him. They were nearly at ground level now. "Ready.... Now!"
"Sunbursts away," Saint John said even as String pulled them out of their suicide dive. They could vaguely hear a roar behind the craft, then, suddenly, radar images on every panel flared and blanked out leaving Saint John with only the camera images and String the windscreen. "Hey! What happened?! Blast!"
"We're probably being jammed," String returned matter of factly, narrowed eyes glued on the terrain zipping by. Can you tell if we got all the missiles?"
"Aft camera shows two trails. They're well designed." Saint John paused, his voice growing grim. "You'd better take us back up. You can't fly this low without radar." His brother ignored him and Airwolf raised not one inch. "String!"
Using senses that had baffled the so-called experts back in the Army, Stringfellow Hawke executed the dry canyons and rocky outcroppings making up this section of Mexico, sometimes with no more than inches margin on either side. He didn't think, didn't plan his moves, simply divorced his cognitive processes from his reflexes and became one with the hurtling bullet that was Airwolf. Suddenly a box canyon loomed dead ahead. No way out ... and just what he was looking for. "Rotors, my command!" he yelled, holding his speed.
"Ready."
"Rotors!" He cut the jets with a touch even as the powerful blades began to beat the air, their lift picking Airwolf up bodily hundreds of feet in mere seconds. Synchronously, the ship dropped hundreds of knots velocity, again allowing the missiles to speed past. For Hawke, the terminus of the canyon was suddenly there ... then it wasn't, for Airwolf was nose up, facing the crisp, blue Mexican sky. Audible even through the plating came the sound of high explosives disintegrating solid granite.
"You did it!" Saint John Hawke exclaimed, voice full of astonished pride. "Good work, kid!"
String turned his head slightly, not even his profile visible to the other man, but the light of triumph in his own eyes was beautiful to behold. "Thanks. Ready to go back for the rest?"
"The rest?" The elder brother's gladness faded. "What's next? THORs? ICBMs?" He got his answer a moment later when String suddenly banked the ship just ahead of two brilliant almost ultra-violet beams that split the air directly ahead. "Lasers?" he asked incredulously. "It's like.... What did Mike call it? A video game. What's this guy guarding, anyway?"
"Whatever it is," the younger man returned grimly, "it's worth somebody spending three-quarters of a billion dollars to defend." Airwolf resumed her zig-zag evasive pattern, staying low. "Did you see where they were located?" he asked, circling a particularly large rocky outcropping and resuming his course on the far side.
Again Saint John plied the computer keyboard, then shook his head. "Radar is still out. Life signs garbled. Thermal scan...." He waited, studying the monitor, then sighed. "Two sources, but whatever they're using, disengaged it's throwing out no heat at all. Thought I saw a flash from that embankment to the west--" He stopped, words cut off when Airwolf veered sharply, allowing two luminescent streaks go by. "More missiles?" he guessed mildly, slapping the useless radar; one panel lit on Stringfellow's board, foggy and showing only shadows. "Got aft radar back. Two missiles, closing from one thousand yards. Another Sunburst?"
"No. Turbos." That taciturn reply was preceded by another burst of acceleration that might have blacked both men out save for the g-suits they wore. Like a living thing Airwolf returned to nearly ground level, again following the terrain at nearly the speed of sound. On her tail, two more of the hybrid missiles tracked, their dull painted, torpedo bodies closing inexorably on the elegant death machine. They were within a few hundred yards of the embankment Saint John had indicated earlier when four things happened more or less simultaneously: another of those deadly laser beams flashed out from the deceptively innocent hill, String yelled, "Rotors!" and Airwolf was again headed skyward. Once more too sluggish to correct their course in time, the missiles were past and striking ground.
"Good," Saint John muttered as screens on several panels flickered back to life. "They must have combined their jamming equipment with the laser location. We have full radar capability again."
"Any clue where the other laser system is?" the other asked. That alone was enough to prevent them calling in Jo yet.
A pause. "No."
A slow smile curled Hawke's stern mouth. "Then we're gonna have to bait them a bit." He pulled back on the stick, assuming an altitude of one hundred feet. "How far are we from the fortress?"
"Three miles. Close."
"Not close enough." Hawke suddenly hit the turbos and Airwolf screamed upward, banking to starboard just ahead of another of those ominous violet beams. An induced yaw and the laser again missed, sizzling the air under her belly. "Targeted yet?" he asked with some hint of agitation in his voice for the first time.
Before the other man could answer Airwolf shuddered, a neat hole penetrating the bulletproof glass at an angle and slicing through the port fuselage as though passing through warm butter. Air screamed through the opening, and both men had to swallow hard to equalize the pressure on their eardrums. "Oh, my--" Saint John whispered, staring at the hole. "That was too close."
"Yep," his brother acknowledged, sounding shaken even to himself. Blue eyes flicked once to the hole in the glass, calculating the angle that had missed his head by less than six inches, then he forcibly dismissed it. No sense worrying over might-have-beens. There was enough reality to concern them all. "I hope you got us a target that time."
Saint John took a deep breath, letting it out noisily into the mike. "Computer tracked the energy emission. They're hiding in another embankment one-four-nine degrees relative, distance approximately twenty- five, sixty-one yards. Dug in good, from the readings."
"Make it a Shrike." The black helmet screen snapped down into place over glittering blue eyes, a targeting box appearing on the inside of the helmet. Eyes narrowed as Stringfellow Hawke visually located his target on the simu-display, the internal tracking device again following every movement of his pupils. Target and bullseye came together and Hawke squeezed gently on his trigger; there was a soft plopf, the sound of a nuclear tipped rocket being released.
"We're out'a here," Stringfellow muttered, nosing once more to the sky. Seconds later, the ship shuddered in the shock wave of a powerful explosion, and an entire section of the Mexican hillside joined Airwolf's flight as a cloud of mildly radioactive dust. The purple razor was not seen again.
"Fortress dead ahead," Saint John reported, easily following their progress on his monitor. He turned a dial on his comm board. "Jo?"
"Right here!" came the woman's relieved voice. "Are you two all right?"
Saint John chuckled, a cheerful note in his voice. "We're fine," he answered heartily. "We're outside the Casa's walls but and there's no sign of Jason or Mike on the long-range cameras yet. Begin your run but be careful; I think we took out the trash but we might have missed something."
"We didn't miss anything," the younger brother commented from the front.
Saint John shrugged. "Be careful anyway, Jo."
"You better believe it!" With that fervent if slightly nervous vow the woman signed off, appearing on their restored radar four minutes later, while Airwolf hovered precisely one mile from the great black granite fortress that had once been the product of Spanish religious oppression and now posed a threat to the entire free world.
"Hey, String?"
"Mmmm?"
There was a tiny pause. "You did good, little brother."
"Yeah," Stringfellow Hawke acknowledged, victory tasting very sweet.
***
Simultaneous with the beginning of Airwolf's perilous battle, Mike Rivers and Jason Locke had returned to the music room, locating the concealed entrance to the tunnel only with difficulty.
"I'm telling you, it was seven paces to the hatch," Rivers hissed from his position at the door. "You're only taking six."
"I figure my stride is longer than Mrs. Mejindas'," Locke returned, also keeping his voice low. "It should be right in here."
Rivers threw up his hands. "Did you get a look at her legs? Man, those legs go up to her neck! Trust me, man, take the seven paces like I'm saying."
Locke shot him a skeptical look but obediently returned to his starting point and took the directed seven paces forward before dropping to his knees. Questing fingers examined the patch of carpet right under him, his dark face lined with concentration. Suddenly, his face cleared. "Got it."
"Told you so." Mike cast a last look into the hall before joining his partner. He swept up their hidden bag with one hand even as the trapdoor swung open silently, exposing the pitch black, cavernous opening at their feet. "After you, pard."
"Afraid of the dark, Mike?" the black man taunted, swinging his legs down.
"Afraid of what lurks in the dark," Rivers responded mildly. "Snakes, spiders, man-eating cockroaches...." But he was already talking to himself, for Locke had disappeared into the well. There was a pause and a scuffling sound, then a light flashed on, revealing both man and rough-hewn walls.
"Come on in," Jason called quietly. "The water's fine." He waited until Rivers had hopped lightly to the floor, then gave the trap door a light push. Counterbalances swung it up, locking it back in place with a nearly inaudible click. Jason swung the flashlight around, peering in both directions down the remarkably long if narrow walk space. "Which way do we go?"
Mike pointed to a white chalk mark scribbled onto the wall. An arrow. "At a guess, I'd say we go that way."
"Good guess," the other returned dryly. He led off, the two traversing the narrow passage single-file -- it was barely wide enough for a man to slide through sideways -- both having to crouch to avoid hitting their heads. It stretched about a hundred feet, curving all the while, then dropped almost without warning, becoming crude steps leading farther down into the earth. Quite suddenly, the passage ended.
"Hit a wall," Jason commented, still using hushed tones. "This must be it." Indeed it was. He swung the flashlight around, following another chalk arrow to a barely seen metal ring stuck into the rock. He grasped it and turned off the flash, both he and Rivers drawing their weapons. "Ready?"
"Ready," came the immediate response from behind. There was a low grunt of effort, then a sliver of light penetrated the shaft. Jason hitched one eye around the opening and withdrew his head. "It's clear but I can hear people talking at one end of the hall. It curves in the other direction; that must be where the cells are."
"We'd better get Archangel first," Mike grunted. "Once we hit the computer control, the alarm could go up."
"I agree." He stepped out into the surprisingly bright corridor, Mike behind him, leaving he secret door cracked in case they needed a bolthole. Silently the two men padded around the curve, flattening against the wall when they came into view of what had to be the dungeon area judging by the line of cells on the visible boundary. A bored looking guard stood casually between two cell doors, an AK-47 swung over his shoulder. Beard- shadowed jaws chewed placidly, and dark tobacco juices escaped one of his lips; he calmly wiped it on his sleeve.
"Yuck," Mike breathed. He squared his shoulders and boldly strode forward, barking in spanish, "Report!"
As any good soldier would, the chewer snapped to attention, eyes forward. "Sir!" That was as far as he got. Mike came into view then and the man's eyes grew wide, his mouth opening for a yell. He never made it. Body coiled like a well-tuned spring, Mike snapped his right fist forward, catching his opponent in the diaphragm. The man doubled over, spewing tobacco juice and gasping for breath. Mike followed up with a lovely uppercut, and the guard dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"Yuck!" Mike repeated, staring in disgust at the wet brown stains on his already dirty clothes. "That's gross."
Jason brushed past him. "Archangel?" he called urgently though still keeping his voice low. "Are you in here? Michael!"
Four heads appeared at three tiny barred windows, only one of them sandy blond. "Who is...? Locke? Jason Locke?"
Jason leaped to the blond, squinting into the dark cell. "Michael! Good. We're here to get you out."
"We? Is Hawke...?" He stopped, sadness shading his bright blue eye. "I guess that would be Saint John Hawke flying Airwolf, wouldn't it."
"On their way. Both of them." He interrupted the other's puzzled interrogative by stepping away from the door. Mike, who had been searching the guard, uttered a low cry of triumph and crossed to them, a bunch of keys in one hand.
"Time for our Archangel to fly free," he chortled, inserting the key into the lock. "Long time no see, buddy!"
The door swung open and Michael Coldsmith-Briggs the Third emerged, one hand raised to protect his eyes from the light. He was barely recognizable as the sophisticated and perfectly groomed Deputy Director of Operations for the Firm. Though he still wore his distinctive glasses with one lens blackened, a long, fair beard now covered most of his face. Blond hair, too, had grown wild, trailing down over his collar. Rather than the traditional white suit, he sported tattered khaki fatigues and old sneakers, both of which were several sizes too large.
"You look like a poor man's Grizzly Adams," Mike commented, unable to hide his smirk.
Archangel glowered, having to squint against the bright flourescents. "You should have seen me before my weekly need-it-or-not bath," he snapped back, brushing wavy bangs out of his eyes. "Hello, Rivers. Haven't seen you since you left the Airwolf project."
"You'll be seeing a lot more of me," Rivers returned cryptically, sweeping up the guard's Kalashnikov and handing it to the freed man. "Come on, we've got to pick up a lady and take out this complex all before Airwolf gets here."
"Wait!" Michael grabbed his arm, spreading his other one to stop Jason. "There are three other prisoners here, all top American scientists, all for sale. We have to get them out, too."
"Already on the program." Again Mike plied the keys while Archangel spoke to the other prisoners, giving them no more information than that, if they did as they were told, they were going to be rescued. The doors opened and three other men emerged, all equally as scraggly as Michael, also glare blinded as though having spent a long time in the dark. Archangel herded them against the wall and gestured them to silence.
Making utterly no noise, Jason and Mike made their way back up the corridor toward the tiled chamber ahead. Voices could plainly be heard talking, a dozen computer screens adding a blue glow to the sterile white tiles. Peeking around the entrance, Jason could see four people working, two men and two women, all semitic looking and all clothed in lab coats. Jason held up three fingers to Rivers, counting. One ... two....
On three, the two men leaped across the threshold, leveling their plastic guns at the computer operators before any of them even knew they were there. Gaping stupidly, the scientists stared, then obeyed Jason's curt command, offered in arabic, for them to stand with their hands on their heads.
"This is almost too easy," Mike muttered, gesturing the prisoners against the wall. "Doesn't feel right."
"That's because we're dealing with non-professionals," Locke told him as he passed. "Don't worry, I've a feeling we'll be getting plenty of action up stairs." While Mike held the prisoners at bay, he extracted another lump of plastic explosive from his shirt, dividing it into three portions and inserting timers from a little box at his belt. He placed the deceptively harmless looking clay on several of the instrument panels, and rejoined his companions in the corridor. "Three minutes. That'll give us enough time to get out of here before the room goes up."
Mike checked his watch. "Two minutes thirty before the kitchen goes. Come on; we have to be ready."
They herded the white-clad scientists ahead of them back to where Michael waited with the erstwhile prisoners. The blond agent's face remained professionally impassive when they appeared, lighting up when he recognized the one bringing up the rear. "Ah, Dr. Steiner." He greeted the middle- aged, pudgy man by bringing up his weapon until it was neatly inserted in one of the man's wide nostrils. "I was hoping I'd see you again."
Steiner froze, fleshy lips forming a terrified "O," brown eyes fixed on the other. "I-I...."
"Don't say it," the man code named Archangel said, voice full of menace. "My first and greatest desire is to bind and gag you, and leave you on top of one of the charges." Steiner gulped, and Archangel smiled, slow and deadly. "But it occurs to me you might know things I might want to know. Things you'll be very willing to tell me once we get back to the United States. Isn't that right?"
Steiner made to nod, a difficult action when one has the bore of an assault rifle up one's nostril. He contented himself with gulping again instead.
Michael took this as assent. "One peep out of you," he cautioned, raising two fingers to his lips, "and I get to perform what becomes my life's ambition. Understand? Good." The weapon was lowered and Steiner gasped, his legs nearly spilling him to the floor. Archangel swung him backward into the waiting arms of one of the prisoners, a gaunt man whose pasty coloring told of a much longer stay than Michael's. "Watch him, Dox," he ordered. "If he moves, you know what to do."
"It would be a pleasure," the bearded man replied, flexing his fingers in Steiner's direction.
Moving rapidly the group retreated to the tunnel's one branch corridor. It led to some stairs and an empty basement, then to some more stairs and a closed door behind which the sound of rattling pots could be heard. "One minute, fifteen," Rivers said. He turned at a touch on his elbow to find Archangel regarding him quizzically.
"How were you planning on getting us out?" the Deputy Director asked. "I've been given to understand that this entire area is protected by a Haversham defense screen at the perimeter."
"You were given right," Rivers told him. "Airwolf is coming in for us. I understand baby brother is supposed to be able to pull off an extraction like this."
Under the blond fringe, Michael's brow wrinkled. "Baby brother? Saint John Hawke?"
"Nah." Mike waved casually with his oddly shaped pistol. "Saint John's kid brother. He's doing the flying this time out."
"You mean Stringfellow Hawke?!"
"None other."
Michael's face blanked, then a huge grin broke through the shaggy beard, the blue eyes glowing bright. "Hawke ... Stringfellow is alive?! And risking Airwolf in a hairbrained scheme like this?" The last was intended to be censorious but the disapproval was spoiled by the man's obvious happiness.
Rivers winked. "What kin ah tell ya, pard," he drawled in an exaggerated John Wayne accent. "That boy is plumb loco." He scowled. "Which doesn't say much for the rest of us, does it."
"Ten seconds," Jason hissed. "We're going now!"
Precisely ten seconds later, the kitchen blew up.
***
Whistling merrily and making absolutely no attempt at deflecting attention from himself, Mike Rivers retraced his steps down the long hallway to the reception hall, choosing, according to Mina's parting directions, a corridor leading to the left. One of the buckets dangled from his hand, a mop propped across his shoulder, his stroll casual. The cover of a simple minded handyman might be grating on his pride, but from outward appearances he'd managed to submerge ego enough to enjoy the act.
At his side and a pace behind, Jason Locke walked, similarly laden, if less jocular. Dark eyes darted ceaselessly, missing nothing of their journey, taking in the concealed wiring in the walls and alarm boxes installed in the panelling. Long experience had taught him how valuable any scrap of information might be; Rivers, too, though not a covert operative, was an able combatant who had learned the value of knowing the scene of impending battle.
They passed through several chambers where the walls sported rich oils and once even an ancient tapestry. "Bet ol' String would have enjoyed this," Rivers told Locke under his breath. "Those paintings must be worth a fortune."
"Not gonna be worth the price of the canvas," Locke whispered back, "if this place has to go up."
From a comfortably masculine library, the duo arrived at another corridor from the left fork of which came the barely audible sound of rattling pots and pans. One threshold later and the two had reached the kitchen.
"Buenos dias, señor cocinero." Locke, one hand holding mop and the other the flute case, greeted the portly, middle aged man wearing a chef's hat with a humble bob.
Rivers, carrying both buckets, grinned fatuously and made a production of banging the them together. "Have to find the water!"
The cook winced at the clatter, glaring at the incognito pilot. "Use that faucet!" he snapped, jerking his head at a large porcelain tub in the corner. "Get away from my food!"
Mike grinned wider, buckets jangling loudly. "Ooookay-dokey!" Waving at Jason, he sidled around two grim faced, watchful men leaning against a closed door, offering them a sloppy salute as he passed. He reached the sink and began to fill the pails, bobbing his head at the guards all the while.
Trusting the pilot to reconnoiter that section, Jason turned back to the glaring chef, showing his teeth in a weak if friendly smile. "We are here on the orders of...."
"I know," the chef returned gruffly, applying a paring knife to a stack of carrots. "The Señora has already called me. Put your parcel under there ..." He waved a drooping carrot top at a counter against the wall. "... and get out of my kitchen. Now."
"Si! Si!" Jason nodded his head obsequiously, not a hint of offense in either attitude or expression. He deposited the flute case on a little shelf under the spotless formica counter and closed the cabinet door over it, then retreated to the door to await Rivers. From there the entire kitchen could be seen, including the exit to the outdoors. Through one window the garden and high wall were clearly visible, as was Mina Mejindas, who was speaking quietly to a baseball capped man with weed trimmers. The man nodded and gestured to the other workers, who promptly began to file out of the garden.
"Step one," Jason whispered just under his breath, though still earning a sharp look from the cook. He smiled again, a genuine one this time at the sound of Mike's light tenor raised in an off-key, spanish version of Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.
The sound of running water ceased and Rivers recrossed the room. "The buckets are filled!" he called cheerfully, hefting one pail in each hand. "Let's go follow the Señora's orders and begin our scrubbing."
"Go now!" the chef barked, aiming the paring knife menacingly in their direction.
The two went, retracing their route from the kitchen. "Just like Mina said," Rivers commented sotto voce. "Two men carrying AK-47's. We'll have to be on them fast after the charge goes off."
"As long as we can prevent the one in the basement from giving an alarm before we're ready," Jason returned at his side, "I think we'll be able to make it out of here in one piece."
"At least as far as the minefield. Then it's up to the Brothers Hawke."
They fell silent as they entered the library again, adopting bland expressions when they were met by three men all sporting identical khaki uniforms, who were lounging in the expensive leather couches as though they owned the place. "... boring here," somebody was complaining in english as the agents entered.
"Hey, look!" one of them said at the duo's appearance. "Them boys look like Yankees!"
"Definitely Yankees." Another stood, a burly, dark-haired man with a scraggly mustache that trailed over his upper lip. "What are Yankees doing here toting slop buckets?"
"Look like the type to slop the hogs," the first said, laughing gruffly. He was a shorter man than his companion, but stocky, with a florid, clean shaven face and carrot colored hair. Small, pig-like eyes regarded the two with obvious scorn. "Except for the darky there; bopped back to slave days, did ya, colored boy?"
Jason spread his hands wide, bland incomprehension on his face. "Que?"
"Que?" the mustached man mimicked with a short laugh. "You don't speak english, boy? What about your little side-kick, there? Do he speak'a the eeenglesh?"
Addressed, Rivers smiled widely, though anyone who knew him might have noticed the menacing glitter in his eyes. "Are you talking to me, Mr. Army?" he asked innocently.
"He called you Mr. Army," the third, heretofore silent stranger translated from behind a newspaper. "You gonna take him apart for that?"
The mustached man sucked his teeth for a moment, considering the slim Rivers, then Jason. "Just might at that." Stepping closer, he poked one stiffened forefinger into Mike's chest, the force pushing the American pilot back and splashing water out of the bucket onto the expensive rug. "I ain't no Army, blondie," he snarled. "I'm a pilot -- private pilot. You think the Patron's little helicopter squadron flies itself?"
Mike stiffened at the touch, the menace growing. He crouched slightly to place the bucket on the floor, stopping when Jason's fingers dug into his shoulder. "Please excuse my friend's sloppiness, señor," he said, dropping to both knees and dabbing at the rug with a towel. "He is ... just a little slow." He tapped his own temple. "You see?"
"He said blondie is a retard," the third man translated again, still buried in his newspaper.
"A retard?" The redhead scowled disgustedly. "Forget him, B.J. Trashing a retard is supposed to be bad luck."
The men regarded each other for a moment, then the mustache jerked his thumb at the door. "Get out of here before I change my mind."
Jason and Mike smiled again and escaped through the door, feeling those cruel eyes on them the whole way. "Want to change his mind," Rivers muttered once they were out of earshot. "And rearrange his nose while I'm at it."
"'Fraid you'll have to defer pleasure for business," Locke answered, no less angry. "But if we catch 'em in the air...."
"Airwolf will get them instead of us." Rivers shrugged philosophically. "Oh, well. If we wish real hard, maybe they'll give us trouble on the way out."
"Keep a good thought," the black man murmured, picking up his pace.
***
Strong fingers plied the attitude and throttle controls with all the delicacy of a surgeon, making dozens of minute adjustments per minute against the playful crosswinds of the region. As a child, Saint John had teased him about his hands -- though not feminine in the slightest, they were smaller and slim fingered like their mother's, in keeping with the slender build, while Saint John had inherited their father's more rugged good looks, including large bones, muscle and grip. He had delighted, big brother like, in demonstrating his superiority in a myriad contests and battles over their youth, using his greater bulk to advantage. Four years younger and stubborn to a fault, Stringfellow had taken it all personally, and gone out to prove himself, physically and mentally, to be an equal, striving as little brothers will, to match Saint John in any way possible. Though less conspicuously so than his brother, there was power in Stringfellow's wiry muscles, the match of much larger men, and an eventual source of pride and confidence in comparison to anyone and no one at all.
Socially the contest had been less even. Whatever changes Viet Nam had wrought, in high school Saint John had been gregarious and animated and had had every girl in town at his beck and call. Despite their competition, String had minded that least of all. Less outgoing by nature, he'd nevertheless been handsome enough to have attracted his own share of female company, and had thrown himself into his greatest passion -- flying -- with far less distraction. By the time he'd reached sixteen, his skills had surpassed even those of the naturally gifted Saint John Hawke, if not by much. But ... enough to penetrate a Haversham defense screen?
More left pedal ... more right.... The corrections were automatic, requiring little more thought than it took to manipulate parts of his own body. Well, perhaps a little more, for Hawke had been away from the ship long enough for one part of his mind to acknowledge the effort it required to tame the wild creature aptly named Airwolf -- to be aware of every fraction of a degree of change.
For twenty minutes Airwolf hung in mid-air, hovering below the rim of a low hill and out of radar range. Behind, just visible in the corner of Stringfellow's eye, a moderately sized Bell Huey helicopter painted in the dull green of the United States Army squatted on the ground, large blades whirling lazily. Next to Airwolf, Hawke thought, it resembled a fat goose, thick and clumsy, if comfortingly substantial. Comforting, that is, if you were a goose instead of a Hawke.
Humans and machines waited impatiently, tensely, for the moment of truth which was at hand.
"Twelve-forty-five," Saint John reported from the engineering station, giving Stringfellow a single bad moment; he had been expecting Dominic's rough tones. "Time, String." He raised his voice a few decibels. "Jo, are you there?"
"No, I'm in Hawaii," the woman grumbled through the headphone. "Can't you tell how much fun I'm having?"
"Surf a wave for me," Saint John gibed dryly, sounding utterly relaxed. "We're ready to go in."
The Bell's blades beat the air faster, the squat body lifting gently off the ground. "Ready when you are, C.B." Jo called.
"Stay where you are," Stringfellow ordered curtly, experienced eye evaluating the woman's position with a glance. "Another twenty feet and you'll be visible to radar."
Jo sounded puzzled but obediently landed her craft. "What's the scoop? I thought I was supposed to follow your skinny tail like glue."
Saint John snickered at the remark; Stringfellow, long inured to the woman's sisterly teasing, didn't even waste a glare. "I won't be able to concentrate on knocking out the weapons and protecting you at the same time. If we're going to do this, I'm going to need to clean house rather than run interference."
"I was thinking the same thing," Saint John agreed, tapping loudly on his keyboard. "At top speed you're only fifteen minutes from the pickup point. If we make it through, we should be able to shield Jason and Mike until you get there. We'll call you if we need you in early." The emphasis was subtly directed at his brother's head and just as soundly ignored. "Battle computer on-line, all weapons in combat mode."
"Deploy ADF pod," String directed, glancing down once to make sure all needles and gauges were reading at optimum levels.
"ADF pod deployed."
Stringfellow nodded grimly. "We do it then."
"Wait for our signal, Jo," Saint John added to the woman.
"Just make sure your signal isn't a loud boom," Jo shot back with every evidence of the Santini spirit; Stringfellow's heart pinged him once more before he decisively shut if off. "Okay, fellahs. Make it good."
Hawke took a deep breath, his consciousness already submerging into the gestalt being that was man and machine. Ignoring both the farewell and Saint John's cheerful reply, he pulled back on the collective and Airwolf lifted over the rim of the hill like the bird of prey she was. "Turbos," Stringfellow ordered, and pressed the red button on the joystick, activating the twin jets on either side of the ship. Sudden acceleration pushed both pilot and engineer back in their seats as Airwolf shot forward, her nose parallel with the uneven terrain and turbines screaming. She was nearly invisible as she skimmed the ground, targeting the massive black fortress that rose from the sand twenty miles distant.
"Fifty feet," Saint John read off the altimeter. "Speed three hundred knots. You'd better give us a little more altitude so their radar can pick us up."
"Roger." The younger Hawke complied, subconsciously bracing himself as Airwolf nosed straight up into the sky. "I took ack-ack first," he said aloud, actually cheerful now that the action had started. "Then missiles. With Haversham's semi-random patterns, there's no guarantee on the order, though."
In the rear, Saint John grunted his assent. "Without using stealth mode, we're reflecting their radar in all directions."
"We can't sneak in," String replied absently. "We have to take the brunt of the attack."
The air ahead of them suddenly sprouted a half-dozen puffs of what looked like smoke. More man-made storm clouds blossomed and within seconds the sky was dark. "Anti-aircraft," String commented, expertly steering his ship between billows , any one of which might have destroyed a jet fighter. "Right on schedule. It's surrounding the entire perimeter but it doesn't look like it's more than five miles deep. Must be a first line defense only."
"Wow!" Saint John exclaimed, quoting a string of figures off the computer enhanced radar image. "Landscape was blank screen a minute ago, but now it looks like the Mardi Gras down there. I've never seen a ring of defenses that closely packed before."
"You'll find 'em layered out the full twenty miles," String returned lazily, though his eyes glowed. Rather than taking Airwolf above the deceptively harmless looking puffs of smoke, he altered his attitude until the ship was pointed toward the highly visible gun emplacements -- three of them spaced at thousand meter intervals covered his flight corridor. One of the flac clouds mushroomed suddenly in their path, too abrupt to avoid, and there was a loud clatter against the metal skin. Had Airwolf been less superbly designed it might have been all over, but the air intakes were covered with steel mesh, her skin nigh impenetrable. She shuddered, but continued her course.
"Do that too often and we won't have rotors later," Saint John commented unruffledly from the back seat. He considered. "'Course, rolling her in on her belly would cut out their radar advantage." It took a moment for that to sink in, then Stringfellow's lips twitched at memories of other battles fought with this dry humored, nerveless man at his side. He still missed Dom horribly, but the years were already melting away as he and Saint John became what they'd once been: the best aerial combat team in the world.
Silently, Stringfellow began his run. He squeezed the trigger on the stick and Airwolf's 30 millimeter cannon roared, the chain guns leaving a trail of tracer that split the sky. Several figures could be seen fleeing the emplacements as one by one the bullets struck home and the weapons disintegrated into metal shards. The anti-aircraft fire ceased, the dark clouds ever so slowly beginning to dissipate in the immediate area, though the more distant guns continued to spew out their threat if too far away to make a difference.
"One down," the older Hawke brother muttered. He made to say something else than closed his mouth with an audible snap. "First salvo. SAMs. Six fired simultaneously from one position range fifteen miles, heading from two-seven-oh degrees." He paused. "We've been acquired. More launchers appearing on the scope; they must have been underground. Two units in close proximity; bearing dead ahead."
"Let me have a Shrike," the pilot ordered, snapping his helmet visor into place. The automatic targeting system came on-line at once, the computers giving him a clear-as-day view of the second grouping of missile launchers one mile distant. He focussed on them and the computers took their mark, using the movement of his own pupil for direction. A touch of the trigger and the nuclear tipped Shrike missile was off. He didn't tarry to watch the miniature mushroom cloud rise from the sand; he didn't have to. He knew without knowing that the missile had been aimed true and wasted no more attention on it than that.
At the same moment the heavy armor plating rang as something struck it, the great gunship actually swaying under the multiple impacts. String put her in a zig-zag pattern and the clanging ceased. "Fifties," Saint John reported almost unnecessarily. "Probably covered by the ack-ack. They can hurt us if enough of 'em hit the right spot, and I know they'll take Jo down."
Blue eyes narrow, Hawke began a high sweep, being careful to avoid the fading flac clouds, trusting his brother to warn him of the already- launched missiles' approach. He spotted the fifty-caliber guns almost immediately, two of them mounted on the backs of converted jeeps. "Somebody's been watching old Rat Patrol episodes," he commented with grim humor.
"We used to watch old Rat Patrol episodes," the older man reminded him with a grin in his voice. "Besides, it is a good idea to keep them mobile. Missiles closing," he added almost inconsequentially. "Forty-five seconds to impact."
Rather than beginning evasion procedures, Hawke concentrated on the speeding jeeps. From where he sat he could see the two-man team in each, their tan colored uniforms blending them in with the similarly painted vehicles. Lips tightening, he again triggered the chainguns, sending two columns of bullets strafing the first vehicle. It was a direct hit; the jeep exploded as the gas tank was ruptured, catching the second in the fireball. It careened wildly before upending in a ditch.
"Good boy," Saint John acknowledged absently. "Enhanced imaging showing no more of them, but the missiles are twenty seconds and closing."
"Radar or heat seeking?" String asked, voice growing almost supernaturally calm. He might have been discussing the weather.
There was a brief pause as the older man consulted the computer. A low buzzer gave Stringfellow Hawke his answer before the other spoke. "Cannot identify; must be a hybrid. Faster than normal, too. Jamming radar, ion suppressors on." A raucous squeal sounded in the earphones, the bleedoff from the electromagnetic pulse Airwolf was giving off. "No change. Releasing chaff, preparing Sunburst."
Stringfellow pulled back on the cyclic and throttle, easing the sleek black craft higher. She rose slightly, accelerating again, her angle giving the pilot a brief view of a bright grouping also changing its direction, six aerial torpedoes travelling at more than twice the speed of sound.
"Chaff released." From under her belly, Airwolf expelled a cloud of foil designed to confuse enemy radar, even as she began flying a zig-zag pattern, taking her off the direct route. Ignoring the distraction, the missiles punched through the cloud as though it weren't there, sluggishly correcting their own course with each alteration in Airwolf's.
"No good." Saint John shook his head. "They're not radar guided. Heat seekers and closing fast. Ejecting Sunbursts." He pressed another button on the counter-measures board and twin panels opened, one on either side of Airwolf's black skin. Two thermal generators fittingly named Sunbursts dropped straight downward a series of feet, floating lightly on the breeze, followed by two more, than two again. Suddenly they erupted, magnesium bright, at fifteen hundred degrees, hot enough to drown out the heat signature of Airwolf's own engines.
"We're too low," Saint John reported, his breath catching him short when Hawke executed a high speed course change, directing the craft on a nearly perfect vertical course. "Got only one; five reacquiring."
"We need more maneuvering room," String grunted, the extra g's a weight on his own chest.
"Mach one," Saint John read out. "One point two ... one point four. Altitude angel ten. String, they have us!"
No, they didn't. With less than a hundred feet to spare, Airwolf flipped over in midair, her short curling loop taking her in a screaming perpendicular dive, her armor plates groaning their displeasure. Caught out, the five dark projectiles hurtled past, their velocity carrying them miles beyond the fleeing craft.
"Nice," Saint John murmured, the grin plain in his voice. "Preparing another wave of Sunbursts."
"Wait until they're closer," Stringfellow called back, speaking from two- plus years worth of experience. "Don't give them too much time to think things over."
"Roger." Saint John counted as the digital gauge computed the distance in miles then feet. "Missiles within range; thirty seconds to impact."
"Hold on...." Hawke waited, instincts doing his calculation for him. They were nearly at ground level now. "Ready.... Now!"
"Sunbursts away," Saint John said even as String pulled them out of their suicide dive. They could vaguely hear a roar behind the craft, then, suddenly, radar images on every panel flared and blanked out leaving Saint John with only the camera images and String the windscreen. "Hey! What happened?! Blast!"
"We're probably being jammed," String returned matter of factly, narrowed eyes glued on the terrain zipping by. Can you tell if we got all the missiles?"
"Aft camera shows two trails. They're well designed." Saint John paused, his voice growing grim. "You'd better take us back up. You can't fly this low without radar." His brother ignored him and Airwolf raised not one inch. "String!"
Using senses that had baffled the so-called experts back in the Army, Stringfellow Hawke executed the dry canyons and rocky outcroppings making up this section of Mexico, sometimes with no more than inches margin on either side. He didn't think, didn't plan his moves, simply divorced his cognitive processes from his reflexes and became one with the hurtling bullet that was Airwolf. Suddenly a box canyon loomed dead ahead. No way out ... and just what he was looking for. "Rotors, my command!" he yelled, holding his speed.
"Ready."
"Rotors!" He cut the jets with a touch even as the powerful blades began to beat the air, their lift picking Airwolf up bodily hundreds of feet in mere seconds. Synchronously, the ship dropped hundreds of knots velocity, again allowing the missiles to speed past. For Hawke, the terminus of the canyon was suddenly there ... then it wasn't, for Airwolf was nose up, facing the crisp, blue Mexican sky. Audible even through the plating came the sound of high explosives disintegrating solid granite.
"You did it!" Saint John Hawke exclaimed, voice full of astonished pride. "Good work, kid!"
String turned his head slightly, not even his profile visible to the other man, but the light of triumph in his own eyes was beautiful to behold. "Thanks. Ready to go back for the rest?"
"The rest?" The elder brother's gladness faded. "What's next? THORs? ICBMs?" He got his answer a moment later when String suddenly banked the ship just ahead of two brilliant almost ultra-violet beams that split the air directly ahead. "Lasers?" he asked incredulously. "It's like.... What did Mike call it? A video game. What's this guy guarding, anyway?"
"Whatever it is," the younger man returned grimly, "it's worth somebody spending three-quarters of a billion dollars to defend." Airwolf resumed her zig-zag evasive pattern, staying low. "Did you see where they were located?" he asked, circling a particularly large rocky outcropping and resuming his course on the far side.
Again Saint John plied the computer keyboard, then shook his head. "Radar is still out. Life signs garbled. Thermal scan...." He waited, studying the monitor, then sighed. "Two sources, but whatever they're using, disengaged it's throwing out no heat at all. Thought I saw a flash from that embankment to the west--" He stopped, words cut off when Airwolf veered sharply, allowing two luminescent streaks go by. "More missiles?" he guessed mildly, slapping the useless radar; one panel lit on Stringfellow's board, foggy and showing only shadows. "Got aft radar back. Two missiles, closing from one thousand yards. Another Sunburst?"
"No. Turbos." That taciturn reply was preceded by another burst of acceleration that might have blacked both men out save for the g-suits they wore. Like a living thing Airwolf returned to nearly ground level, again following the terrain at nearly the speed of sound. On her tail, two more of the hybrid missiles tracked, their dull painted, torpedo bodies closing inexorably on the elegant death machine. They were within a few hundred yards of the embankment Saint John had indicated earlier when four things happened more or less simultaneously: another of those deadly laser beams flashed out from the deceptively innocent hill, String yelled, "Rotors!" and Airwolf was again headed skyward. Once more too sluggish to correct their course in time, the missiles were past and striking ground.
"Good," Saint John muttered as screens on several panels flickered back to life. "They must have combined their jamming equipment with the laser location. We have full radar capability again."
"Any clue where the other laser system is?" the other asked. That alone was enough to prevent them calling in Jo yet.
A pause. "No."
A slow smile curled Hawke's stern mouth. "Then we're gonna have to bait them a bit." He pulled back on the stick, assuming an altitude of one hundred feet. "How far are we from the fortress?"
"Three miles. Close."
"Not close enough." Hawke suddenly hit the turbos and Airwolf screamed upward, banking to starboard just ahead of another of those ominous violet beams. An induced yaw and the laser again missed, sizzling the air under her belly. "Targeted yet?" he asked with some hint of agitation in his voice for the first time.
Before the other man could answer Airwolf shuddered, a neat hole penetrating the bulletproof glass at an angle and slicing through the port fuselage as though passing through warm butter. Air screamed through the opening, and both men had to swallow hard to equalize the pressure on their eardrums. "Oh, my--" Saint John whispered, staring at the hole. "That was too close."
"Yep," his brother acknowledged, sounding shaken even to himself. Blue eyes flicked once to the hole in the glass, calculating the angle that had missed his head by less than six inches, then he forcibly dismissed it. No sense worrying over might-have-beens. There was enough reality to concern them all. "I hope you got us a target that time."
Saint John took a deep breath, letting it out noisily into the mike. "Computer tracked the energy emission. They're hiding in another embankment one-four-nine degrees relative, distance approximately twenty- five, sixty-one yards. Dug in good, from the readings."
"Make it a Shrike." The black helmet screen snapped down into place over glittering blue eyes, a targeting box appearing on the inside of the helmet. Eyes narrowed as Stringfellow Hawke visually located his target on the simu-display, the internal tracking device again following every movement of his pupils. Target and bullseye came together and Hawke squeezed gently on his trigger; there was a soft plopf, the sound of a nuclear tipped rocket being released.
"We're out'a here," Stringfellow muttered, nosing once more to the sky. Seconds later, the ship shuddered in the shock wave of a powerful explosion, and an entire section of the Mexican hillside joined Airwolf's flight as a cloud of mildly radioactive dust. The purple razor was not seen again.
"Fortress dead ahead," Saint John reported, easily following their progress on his monitor. He turned a dial on his comm board. "Jo?"
"Right here!" came the woman's relieved voice. "Are you two all right?"
Saint John chuckled, a cheerful note in his voice. "We're fine," he answered heartily. "We're outside the Casa's walls but and there's no sign of Jason or Mike on the long-range cameras yet. Begin your run but be careful; I think we took out the trash but we might have missed something."
"We didn't miss anything," the younger brother commented from the front.
Saint John shrugged. "Be careful anyway, Jo."
"You better believe it!" With that fervent if slightly nervous vow the woman signed off, appearing on their restored radar four minutes later, while Airwolf hovered precisely one mile from the great black granite fortress that had once been the product of Spanish religious oppression and now posed a threat to the entire free world.
"Hey, String?"
"Mmmm?"
There was a tiny pause. "You did good, little brother."
"Yeah," Stringfellow Hawke acknowledged, victory tasting very sweet.
***
Simultaneous with the beginning of Airwolf's perilous battle, Mike Rivers and Jason Locke had returned to the music room, locating the concealed entrance to the tunnel only with difficulty.
"I'm telling you, it was seven paces to the hatch," Rivers hissed from his position at the door. "You're only taking six."
"I figure my stride is longer than Mrs. Mejindas'," Locke returned, also keeping his voice low. "It should be right in here."
Rivers threw up his hands. "Did you get a look at her legs? Man, those legs go up to her neck! Trust me, man, take the seven paces like I'm saying."
Locke shot him a skeptical look but obediently returned to his starting point and took the directed seven paces forward before dropping to his knees. Questing fingers examined the patch of carpet right under him, his dark face lined with concentration. Suddenly, his face cleared. "Got it."
"Told you so." Mike cast a last look into the hall before joining his partner. He swept up their hidden bag with one hand even as the trapdoor swung open silently, exposing the pitch black, cavernous opening at their feet. "After you, pard."
"Afraid of the dark, Mike?" the black man taunted, swinging his legs down.
"Afraid of what lurks in the dark," Rivers responded mildly. "Snakes, spiders, man-eating cockroaches...." But he was already talking to himself, for Locke had disappeared into the well. There was a pause and a scuffling sound, then a light flashed on, revealing both man and rough-hewn walls.
"Come on in," Jason called quietly. "The water's fine." He waited until Rivers had hopped lightly to the floor, then gave the trap door a light push. Counterbalances swung it up, locking it back in place with a nearly inaudible click. Jason swung the flashlight around, peering in both directions down the remarkably long if narrow walk space. "Which way do we go?"
Mike pointed to a white chalk mark scribbled onto the wall. An arrow. "At a guess, I'd say we go that way."
"Good guess," the other returned dryly. He led off, the two traversing the narrow passage single-file -- it was barely wide enough for a man to slide through sideways -- both having to crouch to avoid hitting their heads. It stretched about a hundred feet, curving all the while, then dropped almost without warning, becoming crude steps leading farther down into the earth. Quite suddenly, the passage ended.
"Hit a wall," Jason commented, still using hushed tones. "This must be it." Indeed it was. He swung the flashlight around, following another chalk arrow to a barely seen metal ring stuck into the rock. He grasped it and turned off the flash, both he and Rivers drawing their weapons. "Ready?"
"Ready," came the immediate response from behind. There was a low grunt of effort, then a sliver of light penetrated the shaft. Jason hitched one eye around the opening and withdrew his head. "It's clear but I can hear people talking at one end of the hall. It curves in the other direction; that must be where the cells are."
"We'd better get Archangel first," Mike grunted. "Once we hit the computer control, the alarm could go up."
"I agree." He stepped out into the surprisingly bright corridor, Mike behind him, leaving he secret door cracked in case they needed a bolthole. Silently the two men padded around the curve, flattening against the wall when they came into view of what had to be the dungeon area judging by the line of cells on the visible boundary. A bored looking guard stood casually between two cell doors, an AK-47 swung over his shoulder. Beard- shadowed jaws chewed placidly, and dark tobacco juices escaped one of his lips; he calmly wiped it on his sleeve.
"Yuck," Mike breathed. He squared his shoulders and boldly strode forward, barking in spanish, "Report!"
As any good soldier would, the chewer snapped to attention, eyes forward. "Sir!" That was as far as he got. Mike came into view then and the man's eyes grew wide, his mouth opening for a yell. He never made it. Body coiled like a well-tuned spring, Mike snapped his right fist forward, catching his opponent in the diaphragm. The man doubled over, spewing tobacco juice and gasping for breath. Mike followed up with a lovely uppercut, and the guard dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"Yuck!" Mike repeated, staring in disgust at the wet brown stains on his already dirty clothes. "That's gross."
Jason brushed past him. "Archangel?" he called urgently though still keeping his voice low. "Are you in here? Michael!"
Four heads appeared at three tiny barred windows, only one of them sandy blond. "Who is...? Locke? Jason Locke?"
Jason leaped to the blond, squinting into the dark cell. "Michael! Good. We're here to get you out."
"We? Is Hawke...?" He stopped, sadness shading his bright blue eye. "I guess that would be Saint John Hawke flying Airwolf, wouldn't it."
"On their way. Both of them." He interrupted the other's puzzled interrogative by stepping away from the door. Mike, who had been searching the guard, uttered a low cry of triumph and crossed to them, a bunch of keys in one hand.
"Time for our Archangel to fly free," he chortled, inserting the key into the lock. "Long time no see, buddy!"
The door swung open and Michael Coldsmith-Briggs the Third emerged, one hand raised to protect his eyes from the light. He was barely recognizable as the sophisticated and perfectly groomed Deputy Director of Operations for the Firm. Though he still wore his distinctive glasses with one lens blackened, a long, fair beard now covered most of his face. Blond hair, too, had grown wild, trailing down over his collar. Rather than the traditional white suit, he sported tattered khaki fatigues and old sneakers, both of which were several sizes too large.
"You look like a poor man's Grizzly Adams," Mike commented, unable to hide his smirk.
Archangel glowered, having to squint against the bright flourescents. "You should have seen me before my weekly need-it-or-not bath," he snapped back, brushing wavy bangs out of his eyes. "Hello, Rivers. Haven't seen you since you left the Airwolf project."
"You'll be seeing a lot more of me," Rivers returned cryptically, sweeping up the guard's Kalashnikov and handing it to the freed man. "Come on, we've got to pick up a lady and take out this complex all before Airwolf gets here."
"Wait!" Michael grabbed his arm, spreading his other one to stop Jason. "There are three other prisoners here, all top American scientists, all for sale. We have to get them out, too."
"Already on the program." Again Mike plied the keys while Archangel spoke to the other prisoners, giving them no more information than that, if they did as they were told, they were going to be rescued. The doors opened and three other men emerged, all equally as scraggly as Michael, also glare blinded as though having spent a long time in the dark. Archangel herded them against the wall and gestured them to silence.
Making utterly no noise, Jason and Mike made their way back up the corridor toward the tiled chamber ahead. Voices could plainly be heard talking, a dozen computer screens adding a blue glow to the sterile white tiles. Peeking around the entrance, Jason could see four people working, two men and two women, all semitic looking and all clothed in lab coats. Jason held up three fingers to Rivers, counting. One ... two....
On three, the two men leaped across the threshold, leveling their plastic guns at the computer operators before any of them even knew they were there. Gaping stupidly, the scientists stared, then obeyed Jason's curt command, offered in arabic, for them to stand with their hands on their heads.
"This is almost too easy," Mike muttered, gesturing the prisoners against the wall. "Doesn't feel right."
"That's because we're dealing with non-professionals," Locke told him as he passed. "Don't worry, I've a feeling we'll be getting plenty of action up stairs." While Mike held the prisoners at bay, he extracted another lump of plastic explosive from his shirt, dividing it into three portions and inserting timers from a little box at his belt. He placed the deceptively harmless looking clay on several of the instrument panels, and rejoined his companions in the corridor. "Three minutes. That'll give us enough time to get out of here before the room goes up."
Mike checked his watch. "Two minutes thirty before the kitchen goes. Come on; we have to be ready."
They herded the white-clad scientists ahead of them back to where Michael waited with the erstwhile prisoners. The blond agent's face remained professionally impassive when they appeared, lighting up when he recognized the one bringing up the rear. "Ah, Dr. Steiner." He greeted the middle- aged, pudgy man by bringing up his weapon until it was neatly inserted in one of the man's wide nostrils. "I was hoping I'd see you again."
Steiner froze, fleshy lips forming a terrified "O," brown eyes fixed on the other. "I-I...."
"Don't say it," the man code named Archangel said, voice full of menace. "My first and greatest desire is to bind and gag you, and leave you on top of one of the charges." Steiner gulped, and Archangel smiled, slow and deadly. "But it occurs to me you might know things I might want to know. Things you'll be very willing to tell me once we get back to the United States. Isn't that right?"
Steiner made to nod, a difficult action when one has the bore of an assault rifle up one's nostril. He contented himself with gulping again instead.
Michael took this as assent. "One peep out of you," he cautioned, raising two fingers to his lips, "and I get to perform what becomes my life's ambition. Understand? Good." The weapon was lowered and Steiner gasped, his legs nearly spilling him to the floor. Archangel swung him backward into the waiting arms of one of the prisoners, a gaunt man whose pasty coloring told of a much longer stay than Michael's. "Watch him, Dox," he ordered. "If he moves, you know what to do."
"It would be a pleasure," the bearded man replied, flexing his fingers in Steiner's direction.
Moving rapidly the group retreated to the tunnel's one branch corridor. It led to some stairs and an empty basement, then to some more stairs and a closed door behind which the sound of rattling pots could be heard. "One minute, fifteen," Rivers said. He turned at a touch on his elbow to find Archangel regarding him quizzically.
"How were you planning on getting us out?" the Deputy Director asked. "I've been given to understand that this entire area is protected by a Haversham defense screen at the perimeter."
"You were given right," Rivers told him. "Airwolf is coming in for us. I understand baby brother is supposed to be able to pull off an extraction like this."
Under the blond fringe, Michael's brow wrinkled. "Baby brother? Saint John Hawke?"
"Nah." Mike waved casually with his oddly shaped pistol. "Saint John's kid brother. He's doing the flying this time out."
"You mean Stringfellow Hawke?!"
"None other."
Michael's face blanked, then a huge grin broke through the shaggy beard, the blue eyes glowing bright. "Hawke ... Stringfellow is alive?! And risking Airwolf in a hairbrained scheme like this?" The last was intended to be censorious but the disapproval was spoiled by the man's obvious happiness.
Rivers winked. "What kin ah tell ya, pard," he drawled in an exaggerated John Wayne accent. "That boy is plumb loco." He scowled. "Which doesn't say much for the rest of us, does it."
"Ten seconds," Jason hissed. "We're going now!"
Precisely ten seconds later, the kitchen blew up.
***
