Chapter 9

Maintaining strict radio silence except for a few necessary communications, Airwolf escorted the Huey back into 'safe' airspace, leaving her only a few miles from the Army base sponsoring the maneuvers Marella had referred to earlier. There, Jason Locke's authority overrode the security procedures, allowing the former prisoners to receive unquestioned medical attention and transportation back to Company headquarters in Los Angeles. Archangel waved off the hovering doctors, using the opportunity instead to get a fast shower and don a borrowed uniform before rejoining Jo and Jason one half- hour later, still damp but far more comfortable.

Meanwhile, the Hawke's and an unusually quiet Mike Rivers returned Airwolf to the extinct volcano Stringfellow had christened 'the Lair' in a rare display of humor. He guided the craft easily down the great stone chimney, settling it on the landing pad Jo had assembled on Archangel's recommendation. A touch of two buttons and the engines cut off, the only sound remaining being the soft whish of the lazily rotating blades.

Mike doffed his helmet and leaned back in his seat, tired blue eyes gazing at the lighted ceiling panels. "First floor," he said, wearily. "Bras, girdles and lingerie. Everybody out."

"Easier said than done," Saint John mumbled, struggling one-handedly with his harness. "I feel like I'm rooted to this seat." He looked up when a helpful hand reached back and unsnapped the buckle. "Thanks."

His brother withdrew, studying him from head to foot, gaze finally settling on the wound. "How's the arm?"

Saint John clamped it again though no new blood welled on the clumsy bandages. "I was happier when it was numb. But I don't think it's going to kill me."

Mike popped the co-pilot's side door and swung it wide. "You'll feel better once we get that disinfected and bandaged," he said, climbing stiffly out of the cockpit and reaching in a hand for the older Hawke. "Then, I have just the cure."

"Aspirin?" Saint John guessed, allowing the other man to help him down.

Mike looked horrified. "Do you know what that stuff does to your stomach? What I have in mind is more of a full body remedy ... in liquid form."

"Knew I could count on you." They grinned at each other, turning in unison to greet the silent Stringfellow, who approached from the pilot's side. His limp was more pronounced than before, and he walked without giving the usual impression of tightly controlled power that had characterized him. He looked drained, a whiteness around his lips betraying the discomfort he was in.

"Looks like we aren't the only ones who can use my full body remedy, Saint John, me bucko," Mike remarked, jabbing his friend in the ribs. To Stringfellow he asked amiably, "How ya doin', buddy?"

The younger Hawke glanced at him once, no more than a flick of an eyelash, then pointedly dismissed both the question and the dangerous spark that lit Mike's light blue eyes at the snub. Despite his limp, he took his wobbling brother's arm, supporting him around the metal railings to one of the padded console chairs. "We'd better take care of that wound," he said quietly, unzipping the older man's flight suit.

"No full body remedy?" Saint John teased, slipping his arms out of the gray sleeves. String just looked at him, and he sighed. "You know, little brother, sooner or later all that laughter you're saving up is going to bust your gut."

"I see humor isn't a strong family characteristic," Mike remarked from the direction of Airwolf. "Think it could be genetic?"

"If so, you're probably related to the Marx brothers," Saint John shot back, grinning up into Stringfellow's face. "Right?"

A single spark lit the younger man's dark blue eyes then was gone. "I'll get the first--"

"First Aid kit," Mike said from behind. He shoved the tin box at Stringfellow, then, using both hands, ripped Saint John's flannel work shirt open at the sleeve, turning the man's arm into the light. "You're right, it's not bad. You should probably have some stitches or you're going to have a nasty looking scar."

Saint John waved a disinterested hand. "What's one more?" He caught his brother's sharp look and shut up, sitting quietly while the two younger men disinfected and rebound the wound, then accepted the aspirin, swallowing two with water from a thermos. When he was through tying a crude sling, String took back the bottle and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You should get some rest," he said. "Bullet wound shocks the body."

"I'm a little cold," the older brother admitted, pressing his palm against his forehead, "but nothing serious. I'll be fine in a couple of hours."

"So why push it, then?" Mike asked, helping himself to the aspirin. "We're probably looking at another hour before Jo gets here with some transportation. Use the time to relax. I'm going to take a look at the damage they did to Airwolf."

Stringfellow straightened. "I'll give you a hand. I want to make sure that laser didn't do more than punch a hole in the windshield."

"Don't forget the bullet through the fuel line," Saint John reminded them, sitting back and closing his eyes. "Probably knocked out a half-dozen circuits at the same time."

Mike slapped him on the back. "We'll take care of it."

Working quietly, the two began an initial diagnostic exam of the damaged gunship, unconsciously falling into a coordinated working rapport. Mike, never one to maintain a silence for long, chatted good-naturedly, seeming to pay no attention to the fact that very few of his friendly overtures were answered. He was actually surprised when, after a period of quiet that lasted nearly a minute, Stringfellow said hesitantly,

"You and my brother work well together. You've gotten pretty close, haven't you?"

Mike waved the screwdriver he was applying to an access panel. "We've shared a beer or two. Guy was really out of touch with the rest of the world when he came back. Computer illiterate, oldies music, bell bottom pants; he even thought the braless look was still in ... we wish. I took it upon myself to give him a little ... uh ... reeducation."

Hawke didn't move for several seconds. "I'm glad he had someone to help him catch up. Fifteen years is a long time to be a prisoner."

Mike glanced at him. "A man can catch up with the styles pretty fast. It takes awhile for the other garbage to work itself out."

"I know," Stringfellow said more to himself than the other. "I was a prisoner of war for two months; I can imagine what it was like for fifteen years. I.... It was Saint John that got me out." Mike raised one brow at this new information, and Hawke swallowed, forcing the neutral mask back over his features, again tucking in the pain behind steel barriers. "I can see how your reeducation is going," he said in a lighter tone. "His sense of humor is getting worse.

Mike stuck his tongue in his cheek. "Think he's starting to sound like me?" He grinned cherubically. "You're not jealous, are you? 'Fraid I might take your place with big brother?"

Rather than returning the smile, Hawke turned his eyes full on the other; their gazes locked. "I'm glad you're friends," he said quietly. "Saint John can use someone more ... in touch around him right now."

The surprising candor actually stopped the flippant Mike Rivers cold for several long seconds. His grin flickered, then returned with an effort. "If you'd come down off Pike's Peak once in awhile," he began, resuming his teasing tone, "you could do some catching up, too."

Hawke lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug and looked away. "The mountain is my home."

Rivers reached out, touching his arm with the casual straightforwardness that was part of his nature. "It's a cage," he returned seriously, "like the one Saint John was in. The only difference is that you built that one for yourself." Barriers slammed down over hard features, the blue eyes flashing their Keep Out! signs. Realizing he'd pushed that fierce privacy too far, Rivers shook his head and went back to the access panel, pulling it open and peering inside. "We're going to need a new windshield; no way we're going to be able to patch this one enough to maintain cabin pressure. Ditto with some new armor plating. Looks like this wiring can be saved, though."

Hawke looked thoughtful. "I don't know how we're going to get the windshield without alerting anyone to the special order. Maybe Archangel can arrange something."

Mike glanced at him, puzzled. "Why would he have to do that? Jason can put in an invoice and we'll pick up the parts in a couple of days." Receiving a sharp look, he shrugged. "We're kind of unofficial subcontractors these days. The Committee knows we have her safe and sound ... well, some of the Committee, anyway. We keep our mouths shut and let Jason handle the negotiations." He waved breezily. "Hey, she did what you wanted her to do -- she brought Saint John back. That means you can share the wealth a bit, you know."

That won a moment's silence while Hawke glanced at Saint John dozing in the chair, then around him at Airwolf's lit panels, finally down at his hands. "I ... guess you're right. It's just been so long...."

Ignoring the previous warning, Mike again touched the other man's arm though immediately withdrawing. "Hey, think of it as one burden you don't have to carry anymore," he said with easy sympathy. "I guess I know how I'd feel if it was my brother missing and no one did anything. But now that Hawke's back, you can afford to blow off a few of the ghosts and do a little cruising." He made a droll flying away gesture with both hands. "Take off, buddy-boy!" He stopped at the other's still-closed expression and finished carefully, "If you can?"

Hawke's ducking down to closely examine the floor rudder pedals effectively closed that conversation. Mike rolled his eyes and returned to his own work, applying wire strippers and spare computer chips from a small box kept for such purposes. It wasn't ten minutes later, however, that he began to talk again, obviously content to discuss the day's doings without input from his companion.

"... the look on his face!" he chortled, describing his ground encounter with the three mercenary pilots. "You'd've thought I punched him somewhere beside the gut! And once Mina got there, they weren't about to charge two guns." Hawke, head under the dash and legs dangling over the co-pilot's set, grunted something. "What?"

"I said, it's too bad we couldn't get Mrs. Mejindas out safe," the other man dutifully repeated a little louder. "She sounds like quite a woman."

Humor vanished from Mike's open face. "She didn't deserve to go down like that," he said sadly.

Stringfellow emerged from under the control dash, twisting until he could catch a glimpse of the blond man. "I'm sorry. You liked her, didn't you."

In answer, Rivers shrugged philosophically, maintaining his own carefully neutral facade. "It's not the first time someone I liked went down. Unlike most of them, though, Mina Mejindas didn't deserve what she got. I just wish I could have done something."

Another move at near contortionist levels and Hawke's head appeared above the seat. "There wasn't anything you could have done," he began carefully. "It wasn't your fault."

Mike met his gaze bluntly. "You don't have to worry about me, pal, I'm not going to be doing any wallowing over it. I know there wasn't anything I could have done; if there had been, I would have done it." He looked away, full lips drawn into a line. "I regret what happened, but I'm not guilty. The ones that were responsible for Mina's death have already paid."

"Mejindas didn't pay," the other man pointed out grimly. "You said he got away."

Rivers clenched his fists, then slowly and deliberately relaxed them, the calculated control of a trained warrior giving him a suddenly dangerous air. "So he did. We'll have to see about that, won't we."

Finished with the laser-holed panel, he next turned to the ROM disk in the flight recorder; a touch of the button and the gleaming laser disk slid smoothly out of it's slot. "The nose cameras recorded the whole mission you know," he began, lifting it by the edges. "Including your flight in."

"Airwolf records everything," Hawke returned nonchalantly, gathering up an assortment of tools scattered on the metal floor. "We didn't know that until a few months ago."

Rivers stared at the glittering disk as though mesmerized for a long moment. "I replayed it on the monitor on the way back. I was curious to see how you managed to penetrate a Haversham defense screen."

"Not easily," the other man breathed fervently, still shaken.

Mike chuckled. "So I saw. I've flown a lot of combat -- against MiGS, missiles, you name it -- but I've never seen such a dense perimeter ring of anti-aircraft weaponry. Even my last mission into Iraq was a piece of cake compared to that."

Hawke waved it aside. "If Locke was right about that being a control center for future missile launches, then Mejindas had a lot to hide."

"He almost got away with it, too." Mike hesitated, then brought his head up, scooting around the co-pilot's seat until he could see the other man; he waited until Hawke had looked up at him, a question in his eyes, before speaking. "That trick you did with the missiles.... I'm good, I know that -- the best the Air Force has. But I don't know for a fact that I could have done it -- I honestly don't think I would have made it through a Haversham screen. If I couldn't, I doubt Saint John could have." He smiled then, for once completely without ego, and held out his hand. "I guess I was wrong about your flying. You may have the Right Stuff, after all."

Much to the surprise of them both, Hawke blushed hotly, his eyes glowing from both compliment and pride of accomplishment. He accepted the offered handclasp and ducked his head. "Thanks. Whatever that is."

Mike laughed. "You don't do many movies, do you. 'S'okay, not many single chicks hang out there anyway. Now I know this little club right outside Van Nuys...."

But his audience wasn't listening any more. Hawke sat stock still, head tilted upward. "Jo is coming."

Mike, too, cocked his head, face screwed up for several seconds, then he nodded. "I hear it. Let's get this stuff stowed, then we can write up a shopping list for Jason." He patted the nearest console lovingly. "We'll get this Lady back in shape in no time flat."

Sure enough, the elderly Sikorsky Jo was again flying landed in the outer cavern less than five minutes later. That accomplished, there was a chorus of exuberant voices as three people disembarked and made their way through the passage to the central chamber, Jo Santini, Jason Locke and Michael [Archangel] Coldsmith-Briggs III.

Mike Rivers called a greeting, nudging a yawning Saint John awake. "C'mon, Hawke, the gang's all here and it sounds like they're having quite a party!"

"A loud party," the big blond groused with a half smile. The two crossed to the cave entrance, waiting with Stringfellow Hawke for the trio to arrive. "You guys sure took your time about getting here!"

"As if you could coax any more speed out of that relic I was stuck with?" the woman charged, dancing a little ahead of her companions. "It's sure good to see you three still kicking."

"It's good to see us three any way you can get us," Mike returned cheerfully. He greeted Locke with a nod. "Hey, Jason, next time try and get me a flying job, okay? Or give me time to pick up some allergy medicine before I hit the wide open spaces.

"Let's keep you in the cockpit," the black man returned amiably. "At least then I know where you are." He slapped the grinning Rivers on the back then glanced at Saint John's sling. "How's the wing?"

Saint John held his arm a little closer to his chest though still managing an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. "I've had worse. Buttoning my shirts is going to be my biggest problem for awhile." He smiled at Jo but focussed his attention on the medium-height, platinum haired man, whom Jason was leading with a hand under his arm. "I take it this is Archangel?"

"Yes, this is Archangel," Michael snapped, two paces to Locke's rear. "Would anybody mind if I unmasked now?"

Jo stood on tip-toes and untied the knot, and Michael whipped off the cloth covering his eyes. He finger combed back his unbound bangs while darting a glance at the equipment laden cave. "This place looks like Frankenstein's laboratory," he muttered, one blue eye brightening at the sight of the black helicopter on her lighted pad. "Thank goodness Airwolf is still in one piece.

"Glad you approve, Dad," Mike quipped, earning a scowl from Jason.

Archangel too shot him a disapproving look but said nothing for at that moment he noticed the quietly waiting Stringfellow Hawke. He broke into a broad smile and strode forward, pretending to examine the younger man minutely. "Hawke! I should have known better than to believe any reports about your death! You've got more lives than a black cat."

"You're lookin' pretty good for a corpse, too, Michael," Hawke drawled, one of his infrequent grins lighting his face.

Archangel extended a hand that was immediately accepted, but rather than shaking it he used the grip to pull the younger man toward him, wrapping him in a hard, full bearhug. "Good to see you again, Stringfellow," he said warmly. He held the embrace even when the younger Hawke stiffened, a look of such utter astonishment on his face that both Locke and Rivers broke out in loud guffaws, and Jo giggled. Then Stringfellow was pounding him on the back in return, and Archangel pulled away though still holding him by the upper arms. "You're looking well," he said more seriously. "Better than I expected."

"You're looking shaggy," the Stringfellow replied, blue eyes dancing with barely suppressed glee. "Love the hair. And the beard...." He shook his head. "It's you."

The blond agent gave the young man a playful shake before releasing him altogether. "Rascal," he teased affectionately. He ran a hand through his platinum locks, now secured at his nape with a rubber band. He next scratched the straggly beard and grimaced. "I have seen more stylish days," he admitted wryly. "I hope somebody thought to store my clothes properly. I'd hate to have to face Zeus under this kind of tactical disadvantage."

"Clothes make the man, eh?" the other returned, still smiling.

"As if you can talk!" Michael again scanned his friend. "I can't leave you alone for a minute can I? A short transfer to Hong Kong and you get yourself in trouble again."

"I wasn't the one that got myself kidnapped by the Mexicans," Stringfellow retorted, shifting his weight to his good leg.

"He's got a point," Saint John told Mike as an aside.

The quip got Michael's attention, however, and he turned from Stringfellow to face the older brother directly. "You must be Saint John Hawke," he said, extending his hand. He stopped, noticing the bloody right sleeve, and contented himself with a smile instead. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last. I've heard about you a great deal more than I ever wanted to. No offense intended, of course."

Saint John tipped his head amiably, distinctly unself-conscious about the subject. "Everyone's been saying the same thing lately."

Archangel chuckled. "Believe me when I say I am very glad you're back. If I'd've had to deal much more with your brother on his quest ..." He jerked his thumb at the happy looking younger man, Stringfellow's smile widening his own. "... I would have been tempted to go right back to that nice, safe dungeon in Mexico."

Saint John glanced at his brother, gray eyes meeting dark blue, and warmth flashed between them. "Knowing String as I do, I wouldn't've blamed you."

As usual the younger Hawke refused to rise to the bait. Michael slapped him on the back again and returned his scrutiny to his surroundings. His attention fastened greedily on the shining helicopter framed in the center, drinking it in with old appreciation. Then he skimmed the computers, communications and maintenance equipment filling the rest of the available space, experienced gaze weighing, gauging and analyzing in a glance.

"I take it you've never been here before, Archangel?" Jason asked, appropriating the ROM disk from Mike and crossing to one of the terminals.

"It's certainly more rustic than I expected," Michael returned, single eye bright with interest, "despite all the new Firm-owned hardware. I'd say Miss Santini did a good installation job, wouldn't you, Stringfellow?" Ignoring Hawke's irritated grunt at the mention, he began to wander, starting with Airwolf's landing pad. He circled the craft once, reaching out to touch the sleek black surface with covetous fingers. "She's just as beautiful as the day Moffett designed her. And this is somehow a fitting setting; she looks like a gemstone." He left Airwolf for the computer consoles, neck craned to peer up the stone chimney at the sky. "I always wondered what the inside of this place looked like."

"Inside?" Stringfellow picked that up immediately. Looking alarmed, he following the Department of National Security's Deputy Director at a slower hobble. "What do you mean, inside? Are you telling me you knew where this place was all the time?"

"It would have been in line with the rumors I heard," Jason interjected, watching the two with professional interest. "Gossip around the water cooler said you could have picked up Airwolf any time you wanted to."

Archangel smoothed a wrinkle in his borrowed Army fatigues, looking more than a touch uncomfortable. "Not all the time," he began, clearing his throat. "And not officially," he added, glancing at Jason sternly. "Let's just say I had my ... uh ... suspicions. I simply neglected to pursue them to the fullest degree."

"Blindfold wasn't really necessary, was it," Saint John put in drolly, again lowering himself into a chair. "Is there any more of that aspirin left?"

Jo, helping herself to some water from the thermos, was at his side immediately, a worried frown bisecting her blonde brows. "You should be in a hospital," she scolded, placing a small hand on his forehead. "You've got a fever."

"Used to be a chill." Saint John brushed her aside gently. "It's a very mild one and my arm is taken care of. There isn't anything a hospital can do for me that a good night's sleep can't."

"Men," she huffed, placing hands on her hips. "I suppose Mike isn't going to be checked for a concussion, either? And you, String, how's your ankle?"

"I'm fine," Hawke and Rivers responded in tandem.

Jo sighed and gave up. "Michael," she said, next turning to the older blond. "There's something I always wondered about. Why did you provide all this equipment? I had only discovered Airwolf two days earlier; how could you have known that?"

"I've been wondering the same thing," Jason interjected, foregoing his computer work to look up. "Not that we were looking a gift horse in the mouth, but...."

"Perhaps you should have," Archangel returned wryly, brushing past Stringfellow to Locke's console. "It keeps you alive longer." Jason looked offended and Michael chuckled. "Why? Because I was furious, that's why. Zeus pulls some high-handed stunt like sending me to Hong Kong -- legitimate assignment, I might add -- then moves you in with orders to get Airwolf at all costs?" He shook his head. "Did he think I was so stupid as to not see through his ploy?"

"Maybe he just expected you to follow orders," Locke said seriously.

That won a full throated laugh. "He certainly knows me better than that! Besides, I figured Hawke -- junior, that is...."

Stringfellow looked mildly horrified. "You're not going to call me that all the time, are you? Just because Saint John's back...."

"Older and wiser," the older brother returned smugly, putting his feet up on the console and clasping one hand behind his neck.

"Besides," Archangel started again, glaring the two into silence, "I figured that Hawke was going to need an edge when the Firm moved in for the kill ... metaphorically speaking, of course. Without communications and computer access, he would be too dependant on Zeus' ... and Jason's good wishes."

Ignoring the black agent's scowl, Mike leaned one hip on Jason's console and crossed his arms. "You've got a special frequency, scrambled comm unit feeding you info off our equipment, don't you," he stated matter-of-factly, patting the monitor. "Nice setup."

If Jo, Jason and Saint John looked startled, Michael was even more so. "How did you know that?" the older man stuttered, gaping at the blond pilot.

Mike grinned. "Knew that's what I'd do if I was going to be so generous with this equipment. Keeping your hand in, Archangel?"

Michael recovered and smiled sheepishly. "Keeping an eye on my investment," he returned dryly. "Airwolf cost me quite a bit over the years; I wasn't about to give her to Zeus so easily as that."

"Zeus isn't taking a direct hand in the project anymore," Jason said, securing his computer equipment and shutting it down. "Apollo is."

Michael's smile turned into a sneer. "So Donald got his promotion, did he? How is the old hypocrite?"

"Mr. Newman is doing fine," Jason returned with some hint of professional disapproval. "He's taken over all your files."

Mike clunked the black agent's chair with the toe of his boot, his tone sardonicism personified. "And to keep them, he courageously didn't stage a rescue while you were in Mexico."

"At least he didn't activate Zebra Squad," Jason volleyed, determined, it seemed, to defend his boss despite the fact he couldn't stand him and had said so on more than one occasion.

Jo hiked up the sleeves of her flying jacket, using the movement to hide a shudder. "I found out what that Zebra Squad, is, and I can't believe you even have such a thing. We're Americans! We're supposed to be the good guys."

"Ask Marella to explain it to you sometime," Michael returned dryly. "She has a much more convincing argument on the subject than I do, and I was the one who initiated the unit in the first place."

Jo's eyes widened. "You were lucky they didn't come after you, then. I'm assuming you're considered a danger, too."

Michael smiled at her, looking particularly unruffled by the possibility. "They tried ... once. They didn't succeed only because I had a friend pull me out in time." He winked at Stringfellow, who contrived to look modest. "I made sure it couldn't happen again."

Jo turned away. "I don't think I want to hear about that part of it. Hey, String, how about springing for dinner in that mountain cabin of yours. Flying through artillery barrages makes me hungry."

The younger Hawke brother draped his flight suit across a convenient communications unit, then tucked his t-shirt into the waistband of his jeans and reached for the brown sweater he'd discarded there the day before. "We'll have to see if Marella left us anything."

Archangel turned to him, startled. "Marella? Of course! I should have sensed her fine hand in this. I assume they didn't trace her to you."

"They might have traced her to my cabin," Hawke said, next helping his brother step out of the uniform he still half wore. "We left her there with Tet. No surveillance dust, no transmitters, nothing."

Archangel sighed his relief. "Good. If I work quickly enough I might -- I say, might -- be able to salvage her career. Going against orders the first time this happened might have been forgiven; this time...." He shook his head. "She and I are going to have to do a fast soft shoe on this one."

"If anyone can," Stringfellow muttered, still with that strange impish look. "Uh ... if you don't mind, I'd still feel better if you were blindfolded going out. Old habits kind of die pretty hard."

***

With seven people congregated within its walls, even the elegantly furnished log cabin seemed a bit crowded. The company, however, was pleasantly jocular, the mood celebratory. Marella had been at the dock to greet the returning heroes, welcoming Michael back with a hearty embrace and even heartier kiss, which, professional decorum aside, had been returned with gusto. In the spirit of the mood she'd even kissed Stringfellow on the cheek, allowed Mike to whirl her around in a little dance then hugged Michael again. Her gratitude went out to the entire team; she and Michael Coldsmith-Briggs had worked together many years, developing an abiding friendship even above normal camaraderie, and her pleasure at his return was genuine.

With so many present, dinner was a confusing, happy hub-bub, all jostling elbows and bad jokes, while the strains of one of Mozart's piano concertos played off a CD. Contrary to Hawke's remark about Marella's voracity, there was plenty of food, frozen trout from the freezer and fresh vegetables filling the bill. Finally, stomach's filled and adrenalin fading, the group repaired to the living room area with drinks and the comfortable lethargy that comes with the end of a day's work well done.

"... will go to prison," Michael was saying, swirling brandy around the bottom of his snifter. "Had Dr. Steiner retained his Israeli citizenship, he might have gotten off with being deported; as it is, I'm going to see that it's a long time before he sees daylight again."

"It still won't be long enough," Marella muttered, seated on the stone hearth. She pointed to Saint John, comfortably sprawled in the chair opposite the couch, his wounded arm-plus-sling resting across his chest, then waved vaguely, encompassing the entire team. "When I think of all the trouble he caused...."

The government agent code named Archangel slumped back into his corner of the sofa and stretched his stiff leg out straight. "He'll pay, Marella. I'll see to that." He scratched at his beard, grimacing when his fingers tangled in the long strands. "I wish I'd borrowed a razor back at the base. This thing is irritating."

"I think it makes you look rakish," the black woman decided, lifting one brow drolly. "Very piratical."

Jo, who'd volunteered herself and Mike Rivers to clear the table, called out from the surprisingly modern kitchenette, "I'm with Marella. Whatever they do to Steiner, it just doesn't seem enough. But at least he won't be in any position to do something like this again. Oh, you do look a little rakish with the beard, Michael."

Mike Rivers handed her some plastic wrap from a cupboard, tearing off a piece himself and using it to cover some leftover salad. "Steiner won't be able to come back at us," he said grimly, uncharacteristically ignoring the opening for a joke. "Mejindas will."

Lamplight glittered off good crystal as Jason, occupying the opposite end of the sofa, waved his own glass in agreement. "He's right, Michael. I would have felt a lot better knowing Mejindas didn't get away with what he tried to do -- and is never in a position to do it again."

That won a philosophical shrug from the older man. "He's still being protected by the Mexican government. Even though reports of Airwolf's presence are already reaching the White House ..."

"You heard from them?" Jason asked, surprised.

"President's having a fit, eh?" Saint John Hawke interjected, unperturbed by the possibility.

Michael smiled humorlessly. "After twenty years in the business, I don't have to hear from anyone to know how things work. Mexico will file a formal protest, the President will deny knowing anything about any black helicopter attack, someone will mention terrorists and that will be the end of it."

"Until Mejindas decides to relocate and try again," Rivers grumbled, closing the refrigerator door and accepting the towel Jo proffered. "And all the while, Mina is still dead." He wiped his hands, then tossed the towel on the counter and followed the blonde into the living room. "That part stinks."

"Yes, it does." Jason fixed him with a sympathetic look. "I'm truly sorry about Mina Mejindas. After all that time undercover, it would have been nice to be able to bring her home."

"She was quite an agent," Marella said, sipping thoughtfully at her brandy.

"She was quite a woman," Rivers shot back, eyes flashing. "Don't ever forget that." He stopped at the startled looks from his companions, and turned to stare into the small fire that had been lit more for the sake of ambiance than to offset the oncoming evening. "I won't."

The stereo clicked off, Mozart's work dying away and leaving an odd vacuum that gave the conversation pause. It was replaced a moment later by the strains of a cello coming from outside. The notes were pure and sweet and slightly sad, and just over them the cry of a hunting eagle was audible in the distance.

"That's beautiful," Jo said, cocking her head in a listening attitude. "I'd forgotten how well he played. The guitar, too. Well, now. I still remember when he sounded like he was strangling cats."

Michael rubbed at his sore knee, took another sip of his brandy and stretched with almost decadent delight. "I must admit I've always enjoyed his impromptu concerts. There's a grand feeling to this place that suits the music. I do wish he'd play something cheerful occasionally, though. Stringfellow can be an incredibly depressing young man when he sets his mind to it."

Mike Rivers, once more composed, turned from the fire and leaned against the mantle. "So, what about the musician's big brother?" he asked, the irrepressible imp rising in his eyes. "Do you serenade the wildlife too, or are we talking tin ear, here?"

Saint John buffed his nails on the front of his borrowed, blue flannel shirt, blue-gray eyes twinkling. "String got the musical talent in the family; I ended up with all the looks."

"And your fair share of the ego," Jo teased, leaning forward to slap him playfully on the leg. "Not that there's much to choose between the two of you on that front."

Locke twisted until he could peer at the exit over his right shoulder. "I didn't even notice he'd disappeared. Hawke moves pretty quietly when he wants to." His mustache twitched humorously. "I presume it's not the company?"

"Too many people around." Saint John cautiously probed his injured arm then winced and settled for clasping it sling and all tighter against his chest. "String never did feel comfortable in a crowd. I never did either until recently."

"Nice to have a little security around, eh?" Jason asked understandingly, having lived through his own fair share of Viet Nam.

"Yeah."

Mike left the mantle for the breakfast bar, where a crystal decanter of brandy waited. He chose one of the glittering snifters aligned on the side and poured himself a generous dollop. "I almost feel bad driving a man out of his own house," he said, lifting the amber fluid to eye level then taking a sniff. "Mmmmm. Of course, 'almost' only counts in--"

Michael snorted, looking far from uncomfortable in his nook. "It's a little difficult to drive Hawke out of anywhere he doesn't want to go." He grinned at Saint John. "Trust me. I've tried hard enough in the past."

"Boy always was stubborn," the older Hawke remarked with agreeable humor. "I was the cooperative one."

Jo lowered herself onto the couch next to Michael and sniggered. "That's not what Uncle Dom used to say. He said between the two of you and a mule, the mule was a real diplomat."

"And now we have two mules to deal with," Michael said, offering the smiling Jason Locke a sympathetic look. "Perhaps I'll reconfirm my transfer to Hong Kong after all."

"Two pains in the butt," Jason mourned, dark eyes glinting mischievously, "and Rivers? Maybe I can go to Hong Kong with you?"

This elicited general laughter, then Saint John stood, having to struggle to escape the overstuffed chair. "I'll be back," he offered with mock affront. "I think I need a little air." He strode for the front door and stepped outside, pausing to stare at the breathtaking vista of dusk on the high mountain lake. At six o'clock during this time of year, the sun was just kissing the farthest peak, the slanted rays dying the waters ruby. High above, the eagle rose and fell on invisible thermals, her raucous cry echoing once before dying away.

Against this magnificence a lonely figure in white sweater and jeans sat on the stump of the three hundred year old oak that had once sheltered the cabin, a gentle breeze blowing back his longish brown hair. The cello was held against his body, the bow moving delicately across the strings. Saint John regarded the figure a long moment, a fond smile softening the lines around his mouth, then he left the porch and made his way down the little path that led to the water.

"I see you've been practicing," he said by way of greeting, sitting next to his brother on the makeshift bench. "You're actually starting to coax something besides hen squawks out of that thing."

Stringfellow never looked at him; his gaze remained fixed on the soaring eagle, but tiny creases appeared around his eyes, a spark of amusement peeking through. "From you I guess I'd better take that as a compliment."

"From me, that is a compliment." Saint John followed his line of sight, grinning when the eagle suddenly dipped into the water and rose bearing a wiggling body in its talons; the large trout struggled gamely for a moment before slipping free and returning to the lake with a splash. "You played the guitar quite a bit in 'Nam but I haven't heard you play a cello in years."

"Wouldn't fit in my backpack," his brother returned dryly.

Saint John snorted. "Last time I saw you with one of those, you were still in high school. Horsehair bow or not, I thought you were gonna saw that thing in half."

"You kept hoping I would," the younger man retorted. He trailed off, maintaining his silence through a difficult piece, eyes unfocussing after the passage. "Dom didn't like to listen much. He kept asking me why I didn't learn any jazz."

"Did you?"

Stringfellow broke off the classical number, his fingers moving over the strings in a base walk that reeked of New Orleans. "Not hard, just different. It sounds better under a piano melody." He resumed the concert, still carrying that far-away look in his eyes. "How's your arm?"

Reminded, Saint John rubbed it gently through the sling. "No problem. How's your ankle?"

"Fine."

Conversation lagged for several minutes, long enough for the eagle to circle twice and the ruby waters to become purple. Finally, Saint John leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee and looking up into his brother's dreamy face. "String?"

"Hmmmm?"

"What are you going to do now?"

Stringfellow gave him a blink and a brief glance. "Do about what?"

"The rest of your life."

That won him a full stare. "Airwolf already has a full flight crew," he said curtly, unconsciously changing the music from Mendelson to Tchaikovsky in reflection of his mood.

Saint John laughed shortly, filling his lungs then emptying them in a long, slow breath. "After today, Jason might question that," he joshed. "But what I meant," he began again, "is, that now that you're flying again, are you going to come back to Santini Air? We've been talking about starting up with the movie stunts like you and Dom used to do. We could tap your contacts if you're going to be doing any of the flying."

Stringfellow shrugged. "You can use my name to tap any contacts you want; you don't need me to be there."

"Maybe not," the older brother remarked gently, "but that doesn't mean I don't want you there."

The music faltered before continuing, slower, once again sad, and the blue eyes refocussed on the distant horizon. "It wouldn't be the same without Dom."

Saint John touched the other's shoulder, and his expression, usually so closed, was a mixture of compassion and a curious wistfulness born from the need in his own abused soul. "No, it wouldn't," he admitted soberly. "But different doesn't necessarily mean bad. And I'll be there." He squeezed the lean shoulder under his hand. "You can't sit up here forever, String."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Stringfellow returned with wry amusement. Again that brief flash of amusement faded. "It wasn't like that, you know -- not completely. I didn't spend all my time up here."

"No?" the elder man prodded with a raised eyebrow.

The negative dislodged a strand of light brown hair; it fell down over Stringfellow's forehead into his eyes. He flipped it back self- consciously, his words halting, unwilling. "Dom ... Dom wouldn't let me. Sometimes. But I kept coming back. This place has always been my home."

Saint John Hawke turned his head slowly, seeming to absorb every detail of his surroundings in a single sweep. "I always loved it up here. But since I got back.... Well, being around people -- being in the thick of everything -- that's when I'm most comfortable. Being alive again. It helps the worst of it. Keeps me from having to think too hard, I guess."

The younger man bit his lip. "That's what Dom used to say, too. I didn't want to think but.... I didn't want to deal with ... what was out there, either. And ... after we got Airwolf there was so much we had to do ... people who needed us." He cast his brother a glance. "Most of it -- most of the people -- I didn't want. But there were a few good ones. A few."

Saint John nodded slowly, eyes downcast in remembrance. "There were a few for me, too. Friends I miss, men and women who helped each other through the rough times." He stopped, swallowing hard. "I wish I knew what happened to Kim Nyon. And Jeff Cannon; he was captured the same time I was. And Maridel. She was...."

"Close to you?" Stringfellow asked when he trailed off.

"Yeah."

Anything further they would have said was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and closing, then uneven footfalls making their way down the path toward the wide stump. "I can see the attraction of the great outdoors today," Michael Coldsmith-Briggs said, coming to a stop only feet from where the brothers sat. "This is a superb panorama, particularly at sunset."

"You've seen it before," the younger Hawke pointed out, finishing a chord and lifting his bow.

Michael grinned, white teeth showing through his uneven beard. "Freedom makes everything more brand new," he returned, leaning on the silver headed walking stick he'd borrowed from its corner. "If anyone, you two should know that."

"I do," Saint John answered more to himself, and his gray eyes were alight. He squeezed Stringfellow's shoulder again then released him to cradle his injured arm closer. "Believe me, that I do know."

The government agent hesitated, fingers tight on the top of the walking stick. "I wanted to thank you both for coming after me today. I knew the Firm had cut me off and...."

Stringfellow Hawke fixed him with a grim look. "You work in a sewer, Michael."

Archangel tipped his head. "Don't mince words, Hawke. Tell me what you really think." He adjusted his partially darkened glasses then turned slightly until he could see the colorfully hued lake. "Shades of gray, Stringfellow," he said with some abstraction. "Being in the business requires that you consider black and white as nothing more than a luxury. You have to accept those shades of gray even when they roll over on you." He jabbed the tip of the cane at the brown-haired pilot. "You're naive to believe good will always triumph. Oh, sometimes it does, but rarely in the same form it enters the battle. You understand that, I think," he said to Saint John, their eyes meeting and locking. Saint John remained silent, suddenly distant, and Michael returned his gaze to the sharp blue eyes regarding him warily. "Someday even you may come to see that, Stringfellow." He hesitated, dropping the tip of the stick back to the ground. "But for both our sakes, I hope you never do. Maintain whatever shreds of that blissful innocence you can."

The bow sawed a few more notes, discordant and unconnected. "Is that what you call it?" the younger Hawke asked in a low voice, expression more weary than challenging. "Not stupidity?"

Michael took a step nearer, resting his hand on Hawke's shoulder in the exact same spot Saint John had only moments earlier. "No, Stringfellow," he said gently. "Never stupidity."

He stepped back looking uncomfortable, and it was Saint John who broke the sudden tension by slapping his brother on the leg. "String and I were just talking about the future. I'm trying to convince him to come back to Santini Air so we can start doing some of those movie stunts we've heard so much about."

"Oh, yes! Do, String!" There was a clatter from the porch then Jo started toward them, large eyes growing even wider when they lighted on the lake. "That's so pretty!"

"Beautiful," Locke agreed, as he and the rest of the group followed at a slower pace. They trooped down to where the three men waited, each expressing their own delight. Jason shivered and fastened the top button of his work shirt, fingers unconsciously reaching for the tie that wasn't there. He sighed and crossed his arms instead. "What about it, Mr. Hawke? We do have a good team flying Airwolf, but there's always room for her original pilot."

"Moffett was her original pilot," Stringfellow replied, glancing at the circle of people with suppressed discomfort. "I was only a test pilot."

Marella assumed a stance beside Coldsmith-Briggs, her posture bespeaking her happiness to have him back. "After two years of dangerous missions, I'd hardly call you only a test pilot ... any more."

"Only a test pilot?" Jo parroted, sneering at Saint John. "Who got all the ego again?"

He gawked in manifest disbelief. "You're calling my brother humble?"

That elicited a snicker from Marella and an unlady-like snort from Jo. "How gullible do I look?" the blonde retorted, raising a small hand. "Say it and I cream you right there."

In unison they both turned to look at the impassive Stringfellow, laughing lightly. "Don't worry about it, String," Saint John chuckled. "We'll save the personality dissection for later."

"Better him that me," Mike joked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I've been on the receiving end all evening." He scanned the skies, keen eyes flicking from horizon to apex and back. "Thought I heard that big turkey out here. Like to see that thing on a plate with some stuffing."

"The eagle?" String asked, gesturing vaguely across the lake. "She flies wherever she wants to. She's free."

"Only you would look at a bald eagle and think Thanksgiving, Mike," Jo scolded, slipping her arm through his. "So, what about it, String? Coming to work with us?"

"Jason, Michael and I were discussing three upcoming Airwolf missions that would be right up your alley," Marella added, drawing pained looks from the assembled pilots. She gulped sheepishly. "Uh, maybe I ought to save the details for later."

"Much later," Mike growled unhappily, giving Jo a friendly squeeze.

The younger Hawke cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I...."

"If it's any inducement," Jason said in tones of one making an unrefusable offer, "you can even draw a paycheck. Reservist plus combat pay, standard rates when you're on stand-by."

Stringfellow lifted one shoulder unconcernedly. "I don't need money."

Rivers rolled his eyes. "You really have been up here too long. Okay, so how about the adventure? Fame? Babes?" He broke off when Jo jabbed him in the side. "Babe?" he amended quickly.

Stringfellow Hawke ignored him. He glanced at Saint John, on his left, and Michael directly to the fore. "If you ever need me," he said quietly, "I'll come."

Archangel slapped his thigh. "Fair enough! I'm going to hold you to that, Hawke."

"Hold him to it tomorrow," Saint John admonished, resting his elbow on his brother's shoulder with easy familiarity. "Tonight let's just enjoy the sunset."

"In freedom," Michael added, taking a deep breath.

Stringfellow Hawke gripped his brother's hand, looking contented and utterly at peace for the first time. "In freedom."

Overhead, the eagle circled one last time and headed for home.

***

finis

***