Chapter 8

Airwolf hung watchfully above the scrambling group, nosed slightly downward so that her occupants could see. Jason Locke was first, distinguishable by his dark coloration. His long-legged lope carried him to the rim of the hillside, but rather than beginning his descent, he turned to hook a hand under the elbow of the next man in line -- Archangel, whose sandy hair and beard gleamed platinum in the bright sun. The blond's leg slowed them slightly, forcing Jason to brace the man going down. Off the slope, however, Michael's permanent limp ceased to be a problem; once on level ground he pulled free of Jason's assistance and sprinted for the waiting Bell at a speed that even Locke was hard put to match.

A quartet of strangers was next, three men in tatters one of whom dragged a fourth man wearing a labcoat. Moving stiffly, they crept down the steep hillside at a slower but still rapid clip, sliding often but remaining well within the tracks left by the large-caliber bullets. Bringing up the rear was Mike Rivers and Mina Mejindas. The woman was faring less well than her male cohorts; between the dainty, impractical sandals and badly blistered feet, the rocky non-path was proving itself to be more mountain than molehill. She stumbled over a rock, falling to her knees, and Mike, his hand still firmly locked around her small one, was dragged down as well. He was up in an instant, drawing her up and forward. She tried gamely but was unable to make a faster pace, and Rivers hung back as well, giving what assistance he was able, the grade too sheer to permit his carrying her as before.

Even as they moved, the front gates to Casa del Suerte swung open long enough for two more of the specially equipped jeeps to dart out. Carrying fifty-caliber Browning machine guns yammering their anger, the vehicles streaked down the unmined access, the road's meanderings bringing them within firing range of the escaping humans. Even at the distance and awkward angle, the gunners' aims were good; frighteningly large chunks of lead raked the side of the stationary Bell, holing it neatly in several places, another track dogging the steps of the second group of prisoners, who were even now reaching the escape ship.

"String!" Saint John called from his place at Airwolf's engineering console. "Those jeeps--!"

The younger Hawke nodded curtly. "I see them." He tapped both cyclic and collective bringing the helicopter around and darting like an arrow toward the jeeps. He pressed the trigger mechanism on his stick, blue eyes glittering as hard as sapphire, and the extended chainguns added their own chatter to the bedlam, loud without the buffer of a sealed cockpit. Stringfellow stitched the ground neatly in the direction of the jeeps; one solid hit from his guns would have ended the threat then and there. It became obvious that the drivers were no tyros with their wares, however; in unison both men pulled hard on the steering wheels and the converted vehicles parted, swinging off the road in opposite directions only seconds before they would have been destroyed. Unable to alter direction quickly enough to compensate, Hawke's twin bullet lines passed harmlessly between them, then another twist on the steering wheel brought the jeeps back to the road and on their original course, obviously barely skirting the first pattern of landmines. The diversion was enough, however, to allow Locke, Archangel and the quartet of escapees to climb aboard the waiting Bell safely.

"Hawk!" came Archangel's voice through the helmet mikes a moment later. "Stringfellow, is that you?"

"Michael?" Stringfellow Hawke's voice came haltingly at first, as though he couldn't quite trust the evidence of his own ears. A warm smile lifted his lips, though, genuine delight transmitting in his voice. "You okay?"

Michael Coldsmith-Briggs laughed happily, his own pleasure communicating itself even through the imperfect medium of the headset. "I'm doing a whole lot better than I was, my friend. Good to have you back."

Saint John, ever practical, came on next. "We'll have to save the reunion for later, guys. Jo, you'd better lift off; your chopper isn't armored and those jeeps are making another run."

"But what about...?" the woman asked, dutifully increasing rotor speed.

"We'll get Mike and Mrs. Mejindas," Saint John promised, even as his brother loosed the 30 millimeter cannons at the returning jeeps. They scattered again but he had no opportunity to pursue them for at that moment more gunshots rang out from the vicinity of the fortress wall. It was now lined with soldiers, each firing at Rivers and Mejindas, who immediately dropped flat. Airwolf realigned herself again, dropping to interpose herself between the gunmen and their prey. Because of the angle, her rotors were tipped nearly vertical, the blowback whipping dust into a veritable tempest. There would be no way for the imperiled couple to get close enough to board. Taking advantage of the brief respite, Mike pulled the girl back to her feet and the two continued their run, aiming for flatter ground where they could be picked up. Their goal was good -- their fortune was not. Even as Hawke twisted his ship to give the snipers another taste of his lead, the jeeps spewed their passengers; men carrying more automatic weapons dug in, while the Brownings scoring direct hits on Airwolf's armored hide.

A loud ping brought Saint John's head up, alarm widening his light eyes. "They got the rotors," he called, slamming his hand down on several switches; three tell-tales muted back to a comforting green; one continued to flash a red warning. "From this range those fifties can hurt us, String."

"Give me a Copperhead," Stringfellow ordered, and Saint John pressed another button on his console. There was a whirring click and the air-to- ground missile snapped into place.

"Copperhead!" Saint John yelled even as Stringfellow launched the weapon at the moving jeeps. Once more they tried to separate; this time it made no difference. The high explosive the Copperhead bore went up on impact, the concussion powerful enough to lift the jeeps straight into the air and carry them thirty feet. They came down in the middle of the minefield where several more smaller explosions immediately followed, two of them the red-hot combustion of gasoline. When the smoke began to clear the jeeps were recognizable only as twisted steel chassis; of the drivers there was no sign at all.

Not waiting to see the results of his assault, Stringfellow pulled Airwolf up and around, back toward the still firing snipers on the wall. He raked the top with the chainguns and it cleared miraculously, then he swooped back around for another pass at the soldiers on the road. He was too late by seconds.

As Mina Mejindas had said, her husband was no fool. The men he'd hired were mercenaries, motivated by greed; they were also the highest trained mercenaries money could buy. Moving like the professional soldiers they were, eight men who'd disembarked from the jeeps ranged themselves along the barrier of the minefield, taking cover behind the various boulders and dead trees scattered in the area. Dug in, they opened fire both on Airwolf and the scrambling Mike Rivers and Mina Mejindas. Even as Stringfellow's chainguns sent the soldiers ducking for cover, Mina, trailing Mike by a step, threw up her hands and went down, again dragging Mike with her. The two tumbled heels over head almost to the bottom of the hill where they lay unmoving.

"Put her down!" Saint John yelled, ripping off his helmet. "They're hit!"

Airwolf settled to rest as close as she was able; the great rotors nearly swept the inclined ground, one wheel brushing the extreme edge of the uncleared minefield. "Hurry!" Stringfellow urged as his brother unstrapped himself and leaped out the passenger side door.

"Cover me," Saint John called back, taking off up the slope at a run. Too close to the defenseless humans to risk another missile, Stringfellow again raised his craft, using the chainguns and cannon to rake the high protecting wall of the fortress and force the armed sentries back to cover. He repeated the action on the side of the road; eyes narrow and without mercy, he strafed the soldiers there, forcing them to scatter ... the ones that were able.

Meanwhile, Saint John Hawke had reached the downed couple and dropped to his knees beside the weakly moving Mike Rivers. "Mike!" he called urgently, blue-gray eyes raking the younger pilot for signs of injury. Blood trailed down one side of his friend's temple near the eye, a spreading bruise coloring the area purple; beyond that he was unmarked. "Say something, man!"

"Mpgfgl," Rivers returned obediently, squinting up into his friend's concerned face. "Wha--?"

Hawke cocked his head. "I guess that qualifies as something." He shook him again, then snagged a handful of work shirt, using his grip to pull the man to a sitting position. "Come on, Mike! Are you all right?"

Rivers shook his head, obviously more than just winded. "I see two of you," he remarked with annoying casualness, "and my head is going to fall off any minute. Other than that, I'm terrific."

Saint John released his grip, patting the man on the back before crawling to the second motionless body. "You're probably concussed. Mrs. Mejindas?"

But if he was expecting an answer he was doomed to disappointment. Green eyes stared sightlessly into the crystal sky, full red lips gaping open as though in surprise. Across the middle of the green silk jumpsuit three holes had appeared, each gaping and bloody, any one of which would have been instantly fatal. Saint John's long jaw tightened, face going expressionless. He sighed and closed the staring eyes even as Rivers crawled up behind him.

"Mina?" the blond pilot called, boyish face creasing with alarm at sight of the woman. "Mina, honey?"

Hawke caught his arm. "We can't do anything for her, Mike."

Rivers shrugged himself free. He slid his arms under the limp body, lifting it tenderly into his lap. "Mina," he groaned, shaking her gently. "Please, wake up."

"Mike." Saint John again grabbed Rivers' arm, using his free hand to try and free the woman from his grasp. "She's dead. I'm ... sorry."

"No...."

But there was no more time! Airwolf had already resettled into place and String was frantically gesturing at them. Hawke pulled Rivers around roughly, slapping him hard in the face, then catching him by both shoulders. "She's dead!" he snapped brutally, staring into the averted face. "And we will be too if you don't snap out of it!"

The bluntness worked. Awareness drained back into the man's blue eyes; he shook his head again and took a deep breath, then gently laid the woman's body down on the chewed up earth. "I'm sorry, honey," he whispered sincerely, allowing Saint John to help him up. He swayed dizzily, one hand going to his temple, then he pulled it away, staring stupidly at the blood on his fingers. "Now, how did that happen?" he wondered aloud, putting his feet into clumsy motion.

To that there was to be no answer for they had made it not six feet farther down the slope when a shot rang out from the direction of the road. Saint John cried out once and dropped, only Mike's rapid grab preventing him from falling into the too-near minefield to their right.

This time covering gunshots came from above. Jo's olive green helicopter swooped low over the road, a blond man leaning perilously out the open side door, AK-47 chattering in his hand. Once more the soldiers scattered for safety, while Airwolf waited impatiently for her passengers.

"Saint John!" Mike called. Still dazed, he dropped down beside the fallen man, feeling for a pulse. He found one almost immediately, even as the light brown lashes fluttered and opened, gazing disorientedly up into his face.

"Wha--?" Hawke muttered, lifting his head, wincing and dropping it back into the dirt.

"Sheer eloquence itself," Rivers joshed weakly, lifting the man's arm. Blood seeped through the gray uniform sleeve, a long gash showing through the ruined nylon material. "Looks like a nasty graze; another inch and it would have taken your arm clear off."

"Horseshoes and hand grenades," the bigger man mumbled, this time making it to a sitting position but no further. He clamped one hand to the sluggishly bleeding arm, teeth gritted as the pain hit. "We've got to get to ... Airwolf."

"We may have to crawl," Rivers muttered, touching his head and paling again. Both men looked up at the yell from the sleek black helicopter so close and yet so far. The pilot's side door opened with and Stringfellow Hawke slid out, doffing the black helmet as he disembarked. A nickel plated Browning High Power was grasped securely in his right hand, sharp blue eyes scanning the terrain as he limped toward them. The automatic roared once, a scream following from a nearly invisible soldier who had somehow crept closer despite the mines.

"What is he doing out of Airwolf?" Saint John growled, displeasedly staring down his long nose at his brother. "He shouldn't be out of the ship!"

"I think he's rescuing us," Mike returned with some attempt at reasonableness, indicating the twitching body of the soldier with his thumb. "Think you can stand?"

"Can you?" the other retorted.

By then Stringfellow had reached them; he scanned Saint John quickly, alarm crossing his youthful face upon spying the bloody wound. "Saint John?" he demanded, returning his attention to the terrain immediately.

"I'm all right," the older brother answered unsteadily, accepting String's free hand and using it to haul himself to his feet.

"We're both all right ... sort of," Rivers interjected caustically, also accepting a helping hand from the younger Hawke. "Come on, Saint John." Leaning on each other, the two wounded men made their way back to the helicopter, String to their fore moving backward, eyes still scanning the terrain, pistol now gripped in a stable Weaver combat grip. All three men glanced skyward at the sudden sound of helicopter blades. It wasn't Jo; she'd made another sweep of the road, Archangel's gun firing again, then retreated out of range of the assault rifles. No, this was no heavy Huey their combat trained ears were picking up. On cue a needle-nosed, tan-and- black swatched gunship rose from behind the shelter of the towering fortress, zipping at high speed for the exposed trio.

"What is it?" Saint John asked in the brief interval between notice and renewed motion.

"Mi-24 Hind," Mike panted, tripping over a rock but recovering instantly. "S-Soviet made, heavily armed ... troop transport."

Saint John pursed his lips. "Swell. As if we didn't have enough troubles."

Doggedly, all three continued on unchecked, then Stringfellow stopped suddenly. "What are you doing!" Saint John yelled, skidding to a halt, Mike nearly slamming into his rear. "Keep going!"

Blue eyes narrowed, String brought the Browning up and down again, pointed directly at Mike's head. "Uh ... if this is about that baby brother crack...." the blond gulped, eyes locked on the large bore.

Muzzle flash and thunder erupted simultaneously, recoil making the weapon jump in Stringfellow's grip. Lead zipped past Rivers and Saint John Hawke, ripping into the form of a khaki clad man who was even then drawing a bead on them from the top of the hill. At the same moment, the swooping combat helicopter opened up with its own weapons, beginning a strafing run on the exposed trio. Saint John whirled, shoving Mike to the side out of the path of that deadly hail; not slowing, he next hurled himself bodily at his still standing brother. He caught String around the waist, carrying them both into the dirt just ahead of and between the double line of bullets that pock-marked the ground on either side.

The helicopter zoomed past, and Stringfellow, winded by the impact, pushed against the heavier man who was lying full length across him and shielding his face with one arm. Saint John lifted his head, glaring down into his brother's face. "What did you think you were doing?!" Saint John bellowed, gray eyes flashing dangerously.

"What was I doing?" the younger man echoed, astonishment blanking his features for several seconds. "Trying to save your life ... in case you didn't notice." He pushed again, more violently this time. "Get off of me!" Saint John rolled off onto his wounded arm, the pain forcing a low groan from between his teeth. String was instantly on his knees, alarmed. "Saint John, I--"

"Chat later," Mike gritted, having reached them at a rapid crawl. "Look." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where two more helicopters, smaller but similarly armed, had joined the Hind; all three hovered together for a single second as though consulting, before turning menacingly for the unmanned Airwolf. "Mejindas is packing a couple of upgraded Sikorskys, too, and enough hardware to flatten Alberquerque. We've got to move, kids." He grabbed Saint John's good arm, String hooking a hand under his shoulder, and between the two of them, they managed to haul the big blond the short distance to safety.

They hadn't even strapped in before Stringfellow, again in the pilot's seat, pulled back on both stick and collective and Airwolf was airborne again. One handed, he donned his helmet, angling the ship out of the way of the three enemy helicopters' first runs. Bullets splashed harmlessly past, giving all three time to slip into the safety harnesses and buckle them.

"Now we're loaded for bear!" Mike crowed through his helmet microphone. His fingers played across the weapons and countermeasures console, expert eyes skimming all tell-tales, gauges and switches. "Weapons in combat mode," he announced. "She's yours, Hawke."

At the engineering station Saint John brought his own computer on-line. He called up several schematics, two of them displaying flashing red arrows. "Minor damage to the rotors," he announced, typing some commands with one finger, the other hand lying useless in his lap. "Adjusting trim to compensate. Metal stress within acceptable limits."

The younger Hawke said nothing. After a single glance at his brother's blood staining his sleeve, he pursed his lips, face growing hard. "Give me turbos," he snapped, pressing the red button on the joystick. The powerful jet engines kicked in at once, shoving all three back in their seats as Airwolf nosed up to the heavens.

"Get going, Jo!" Mike called, peering anxiously through the aft camera at the hesitating Army chopper displayed on his screen. Jo muttered an affirmative, banking sharply just ahead of a long run by one of the enemy craft -- a fierce looking Sikorsky Blackhawk with obvious modifications. Something flashed from under the craft's belly, a missile streaking past the Bell and ramming itself into the rocky ground.

"Yike!" Jo yelped in alarm and poured on the rpm. "Guys, this old tub isn't going to be able to dodge many of those!"

"You just concentrate on getting out," String told her grimly. "We'll take care of the interference."

"Right." She didn't sound happy, but the unarmed Huey responded like the capable machine it was. Behind it, Airwolf dropped from a thousand feet to hover dangerously, facing the three enemy craft in a deadly face-off."

"You have one chance to retreat," String warned, changing radio frequencies with a touch of a button. "Pursue us and I will destroy you."

"Doesn't sound like the black pig slopper," a smirking voice responded through all three helmets. "And I see pretty little Mrs. Mejindas didn't make it all the way."

Stringfellow Hawke stiffened, casting one half-glance over his shoulder. "They're Americans?" he asked, startled.

Mike growled something obscene. "They're slimeballs working for the money. Not worth your concern, pal."

String nodded grimly. "Wouldn't make any difference anyway. We're getting out of here."

Mike grunted agreement, then pressed a selector switch. "Back off, low life," he snapped at the mercenary pilots, hatred flaring in his boyish face. "Or we'll blow you out of the sky."

There was a surprised grunt from one of the unseen pilots even as, in a smooth, coordinated move, the three helicopters separated, assuming different altitudes and courses. "Hey, I know that voice! Isn't that the retard we should'a squashed earlier?"

"You mean the one that put you on the deck?" another taunted. "Sure sounds like him."

"Lucky shot," the first growled, humor fading.

The second one only laughed again. "Sure it was. Hey, retard, bet it ain't you flyin' that killer chopper, is it."

"'Fraid not, Red," Mike returned amiably, though his full lips were drawn back in a feral snarl. "But it's me with his finger on these killer weapons. Wanna take your only chance on getting out of this alive?"

Laughter came from two distinct throats, then one of the enemy Blackhawks darted forward, heavy machine gun's blazing. Tracer burned the air ahead of it, the visible lines heading right for the armored death machine named Airwolf. Stringfellow tipped the cyclic and Airwolf banked gracefully away from that deadly hail of bullets; another deft touch and Airwolf's own guns chattered, forcing the Blackhawk out of its flight path. The second rose slowly until it hovered above the action, then nosed down, also firing, its aim even more accurate.

Airwolf shuddered, smoke beginning to seep out of an inspection hatch in the floor. "Armor piercing!" Mike yelled, turning on the emergency blower. "A couple more hits and those guys can take us down!"

"Primary fuel line hit!" Saint John reported, typing another command into his board. "Switching to secondary source."

"We're gonna blast you and your boyfriend right out of the sky," the voice of the mustached man snarled, sounding pleased at the possibility.

"You can try," Mike returned, too much the professional to remove his gaze from the composite radar image he was studying. "Hawke, one of 'em's sneaking off after Jo!"

"No, he's not," Stringfellow stated matter-of-factly, hitting the thrusters at the same time he pulled the joystick to the right. Airwolf's engines screamed, her sleek black form taking off in pursuit of the Russian-made Hind, which had opened fire on the fleeing Huey. Caught unprepared, the Blackhawks were left behind. Hawke aligned his craft on the big Hind, snapping, "Give me a Maverick!"

"Loaded," Mike called, pressing button.

The black helmet visor snapped down over Hawke's face, the optical tracking system again following the movement of his pupils. He waited until the Hind was centered precisely in the crosshairs, then squeezed the trigger; there was a muffled whoosh from his craft, then a streak from her belly. An obviously experienced combat pilot, the third flyer, recognizable to Rivers by simple elimination as the silent newspaper reader from the library, broke off his attack, veering his craft a split second before the hurtling missile struck. It flashed by harmlessly, expending it's high explosive charge on the rocky ground.

Still moving at a considerable percentage of the speed of sound, Airwolf too flashed by, Hawke pulling hard on the controls and bringing the craft into a high looping arc, placing it between Jo's Huey and the approaching Blackhawks. This was easier said than done, however, since the Blackhawks were obviously modified for speed as well as weaponry, and the Huey, though reliable, was relatively slow by comparison. The Sikorsky Blackhawks, fast as wasps, darted high and low, the Hind taking the flank, all drawing a bead on Airwolf's armored skin.

Suddenly, there was a double flash from two of the enemy helicopters. "Rockets!" Mike yelled, but Hawke had already hit the red thrusters button; Airwolf climbed, veered, then dove, pulling up at the last second and allowing the two rockets to flash past. There was twin explosions and a small hill vanished, then four helicopters resumed their high speed jockeying for position, each seeking the opportunity to loose another projectile.

"Hellfire," Hawke snapped as one of the wasp-like Blackhawks appeared dead center in his windshield. Mike complied and again he pressed a trigger, this time releasing one of the four Helicopter Launched Fire and Forget missiles Airwolf carried. It streaked forward and Airwolf banked again, literally "Forgetting" it. With a solid mile to function and set to track thermal emissions, the missile acquired immediately. The ill-fated helicopter pilot zig-zagged but was unable to escape; he had time to scream before his ship disintegrated into a ball of flaming jet fuel and shrapnel.

In the engineer's chair, Saint John worked his own boards, monitoring and adjusting system after system for maximum efficiency. He regulated the fuel flow, then the hydraulic pressure with each turn or dive, switching from backup to main system, not waiting for the computers to analyze. He also kept a watchful eye on his own screens. "Third guy is after Jo again," he reported. "Preparing to fire."

"String!" Jo screamed through the helmet mike. "Help!"

"Hang on, Jo!" Saint John urged even as Airwolf's secondary turbos again fired, boosting the craft back into range of the Huey and its pursuit. Both remaining enemy ships coordinated their moves -- the Hind realigned on the Huey, the second Blackhawk on Airwolf.

"Double launch!" Mike yelled. "Heat seekers."

There wasn't even time to fire a sunburst interceptor. Stringfellow didn't speak but Airwolf, breaking the sound barrier in seconds, streaked neatly between the second missile and the Huey, imminent death in her wake. The second missile, sensing a hotter source than the low level thermals of the Army chopper, immediately modified its course, now following Airwolf on an angle to and away from the laden rescue ship.

"We're double acquired!" Mike reported somewhat unnecessarily, as Airwolf pushed her speed to nearly twice that of sound. "Impact twenty seconds. Sunburst away."

Again he pressed the panel button marked "Sunburst-Chaff," and a white orb popped from the stubby wing units, flaring into stellar brilliance. The missiles, too close for their simplistic tracking devices to react, flashed past without registering the decoy.

"No good," Saint John said, gritting his teeth. "They're still coming.

Already at 20,000 feet and still nudging Mach 2, Airwolf's thrusters screamed. Hawke waited, continuing his course until Mike began in a deadly calm voice, "Impact, six ... five ... four...."

He'd reached, "Two," when without warning Hawke cut the secondaries, using only one engine and rudder to nose over completely. The precise instant they were at a ninety degree angle to the ground he slammed both primary and secondary turbos on, accelerating back to Mach 1 in a suicide dive. Left behind, the missiles, both having targeted that single point in space previously occupied by the entity called Airwolf, angled together, slamming nose-to-nose and erupting in a fireball.

Caught in the shockwave, the black helicopter began to tumble, rotor over belly over rotor, while three flash shields slammed down, protecting the occupants' faces from the glare. Stringfellow fought the stick and rudder pedals gamely, struggling to balance the great engines with the attitude governors to bring the gunship back under control. As he fought, the altitude slipped away and the ground rushed up to meet them.

"Engage the rotors," Saint John said, his board flashing red right across.

"We'd tear apart," Mike gritted from the co-pilot's seat, knuckles white on his arm rests.

Teeth clenched, Stringfellow ignored them both. Rather than cutting the turbos, he gauged the tumble, waiting until they'd achieved some type of parallel-to-the-ground position, then tapped the primaries; Airwolf, metal plates groaning their protest, rocketed off like an arrow, the internal stresses nearly blacking out all three men. The pressure suits compensated, however, though not without cost. Saint John's arm began to bled again, more freely, and String's breathing came in short gasps for a long minute. Mike blanked for the same period of time, then shook his head to clear it once equilibrium was reestablished.

"Wow," he muttered, blinking his way back to full awareness. Honest appreciation crossed his face and the look he turned to the back of Stringfellow Hawke's helmet was considering. "Talk about your E-ticket."

"The ride's not over," Stringfellow panted, again wrestling the stick. "We've still got two after Jo."

"Correct course to one-one-four relative," Saint John told him, clamping one hand to his wound. "Turbos will have us there in forty seconds."

Stringfellow did as he was told while darting a worried glance over his shoulder at his brother's bloody arm. "How are you doing?" he asked, worry apparent in his voice though his eyes still shone with excitement from the battle.

Saint John unclamped his fingers and examined the wound, then accepted the first aid kit Mike helpfully passed his way. "It's not bad but it hurts like the devil."

"We'll get you to a hospital as soon as possible," String promised.

Saint John Hawke snorted. "Maybe a band-aid; don't need a hospital. Hate the places."

"I know what you mean," the younger brother breathed, eyes sweeping the sky.

"Bogies dead ahead," Mike sang out, scrutinizing his multiple radar screens. "Emphasis on the dead. They're starting to fire on Jo again."

Indeed they were. Though the Huey was flying open throttle, the enemy craft carried more speed and were even now entering assault range. The shots they fired made several strikes but the distance was still too great for them to do any real damage. Yet.

Airwolf, faster by far, streaked into range from above and behind. "Sparrow!" he snapped, aligning the nose with the first ship. Without waiting for acknowledgement he pressed the trigger, smiling his satisfaction when one short-range air-to-air missile and one Russian Hind came together in a ball of flame. The second enemy ship broke off its own strike and whirled to the right, attempting to loop around to attack from behind. Hawke, however, was too experienced to allow that; going fully on rotors for their greater maneuverability, Airwolf latched onto the remaining Blackhawk's tail and hung on doggedly, chainguns and cannon blazing. The Blackhawk began a zig-zag evasive motion to no avail; there was a flash, then trails of oily smoke began to stain the air in her wake.

The enemy pilot thumbed on his mike. "This isn't over, blondie," the redhead's voice snarled.

"Yes, it is," Hawke whispered, firing off the last thermal homing Copperhead he carried. Direct hit and the redhead spoke no more.

Airwolf flew past the smoldering wreckage, looped again and returned to the Huey. "Good job!" Jo gushed as they approached in an escort position. "You did great, boys!"

"Everyone there all right, Jo?" Mike asked, nevertheless smiling at her enthusiasm.

"We're all fine." She leveled out the Huey, altering her course fractionally. "What about you guys?"

Mike answered, "Saint John took a bit of a hit...."

"It's not serious," the older blond interjected, stuffing gauze into the rip in his sleeve. "A graze. Mike may have a concussion, though."

"No way," the other man protested over Jo's double exclamation. "I've had concussions before. This isn't it."

"What about you, String?" Jo asked after a moment during which the two men squabbled amiably over the merits of gunshot wounds over head injuries.

"What about me what?" was the laconic reply.

"Are you all right?"

There came a lull in the argument, Mike and Saint John turning to stare at their pilot, and Stringfellow Hawke's blue eyes glowed even brighter, a tiny smile touching his stern mouth. "Yeah," he answered. "I'm fine."

"Hmmmm." There was a pause, then Jo said, "Jason said we need to maintain silence on this leg until we redeliver the Huey. I'll pick you guys up at the Lair."

"We'll be there," Hawke replied, turning his ship for home.

***