He was reaching for the bath towel, steam still rising from his damp body
when the sound came: it was an engine, a helicopter, coming in low. To an
experienced pilot, the cadence of the rotors identified it even from the
distance as a Jetranger -- a new Jetranger at that.
Quickly he dried off and stepped into the jeans and Army tank top he'd laid out earlier, making no motion to wipe off the fogged medicine cabinet mirror as he dressed. He didn't use the mirror much except when he shaved, and even then he was very careful not to look into his own eyes. Very few people did if they could avoid it.
He snagged a handtowel from the rack and ran it through his hair. It was getting long again, an inch only but actually shaggy compared to the cropped look he usually sported. Still rubbing the gold-brown strands vigorously, he made his way to the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively at the fragrant aroma of fresh perked coffee. He secured a cup from the impeccably arranged cupboard and helped himself to the pot on the stove, nearly tripping over the prone form of a hound dog lying in the path between kitchenette and living room. "I don't want to do this, Tet," he told the dog solemnly, his first words to the animal in nearly two weeks. Tet wagged his tail once lethargically and went back to sleep.
He was tying a pair of battered sneakers when a clatter outside the door announced the presence of his visitor, and for a single unguarded moment, joy lit his face followed immediately by grief-stricken remembrance. "It's not Dom," he whispered to himself, swallowing hard. He stiffened, shoulders coming deliberately back and chin up, a stoic facade shuttering dark blue eyes. Then the door opened and a tall, rugged looking man stood silhouetted there, light shining through his short bronze hair like a halo. "Hey! String!"
"I'm right here," Stringfellow Hawke chided mildly, the welcome peeking through the mask genuine. "You don't have to yell, Saint John."
Saint John Hawke blinked several times to adjust his vision from the bright glare of the outdoors to the gently diffused illumination permeating the sheer curtains, his focus centering on the slender figure on the couch. "I usually have to hunt you down on the lake or in the woods. What happened, get your chores done early?"
"As a matter of fact," Stringfellow replied, "I did. Had to stock up some wood for the fireplace." He indicated the large stone hearth that dominated most of one wall. It was cold now, of course, even the ashes and embers having been meticulously swept up.
Saint John scanned the neat living quarters; there was not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, the expensive paintings on the walls hanging millimetrically precise. "You must have been up pretty early then. There's enough logs in that woodpile outside to take you through the next ice age." He removed the leather gloves he wore, tossing them onto the dining table, and moved closer to one particularly brilliant colored oil behind the door; it showed a beautiful woman holding an infant -- a favorite of his since he was a child himself. "Working off some nervous energy, eh?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Abandoning his inspection of the Rembrandt, Saint John turned until he could see his younger brother, who had not moved. "This is the first time you've been back to Van Nuys Airport since Dominic was killed. If it was me, I'd be a bit stressed about the whole thing."
"I'm not stressed about anything," Stringfellow snapped back, deliberately fixing his attention on his cup.
Saint John scratched his neck, then shrugged, unembarrassed by the rebuff. It was rare for the phlegmatic man to be embarrassed about anything, nor did he avert his gaze from his open scrutiny. "You're starting to get some weight back, I think. Six weeks in a medical clinic left you looking pretty scrawny."
"Listen to who's talking," the younger man retorted waspishly. "What did you weigh when you came back from Burma?"
There was no denying that Saint John weighed more now than he had immediately after his liberation from Southeast Asia, with powerful muscles in his shoulders and arms. But even now, three months after the man's return, there was a leanness to the big-boned frame, the hungry look of a body still recovering from starvation and misuse. Fifteen years as a prisoner of war had indelibly left their marks, etching lines in the still- youthful face and thinning the generous mouth. And there was a suppressed tension as well, a wariness that never completely relaxed, mirrored perfectly in Stringfellow Hawke's slighter form. In tacit acknowledgment of this, Saint John patted his flat stomach. "So we're both doing pretty well. Of course, we carnivores are going to put weight back on faster than you vegetarians."
The last word was an affable sneer and provoked a grunt but nothing more. "You're early," Stringfellow said, changing the subject with all the tact of a sledgehammer.
The elder brother ran a hand through his hair; short cropped, it already lay stylishly straight back. "I'm on my way back from Las Vegas. Had to deliver a charter to Circus-Circus. Honeymooners." He grimaced. "The way they were acting, I was half afraid I'd be met by the vice squad instead of a bellhop."
"They're always the worst," the younger man agreed. "I'd almost rather have someone holding a gun to my head than have to listen to honeymooners go on."
"Jo thought they were cute."
"You should have made Jo transport them." Finished with his laces, Stringfellow indicated the kitchen with a thumb. "Coffee's fresh."
"Thanks." Unzipping his brown bomber jacket, Saint John made his way to the stove, stepping lightly over the hound, who once more deigned to wag his tail before relapsing into an apparent coma. "This dog ever move?"
"Only when he hunts."
The bigger man secured a cup from the cabinet and helped himself to the pot, a disdainful snort clear in the room. "This thing hunts? I'm surprised he's got the energy to make it from here to the woods."
"You makin' fun of my dog?" Stringfellow demanded mildly. "He takes care of himself just fine."
"Yeah, I'll bet." Chuckling to himself, Saint John retraced his steps into the living room and sank down onto the couch next to his brother, cradling his cup in large hands. "Good coffee. I can use this."
Stringfellow took a sip of his own brew, examining the other surreptitiously over the rim of his cup. Saint John did look tired. There were dark circles under the bright blue-gray eyes, and his thin lips were drawn into a line that bespoke fatigue. "Rough night? Or early honeymooner call?"
"Both."
"You don't look like you enjoyed that rough night," Stringfellow prodded gently. "Anything you want to talk about?"
The older man hesitated, burying his nose in his cup for a long moment. "Not much to talk about. Couple of bad dreams, that's all." He waved genially, dredging up a smile for his brother although the gray eyes remained shadowed. "That's the last time I let Mike talk me into eating a triple cheese pizza with four toppings before I turn in."
If his intention was to throw the younger man off the track, he failed. Stringfellow continued to regard him solemnly, enough understanding in his own eyes to make Saint John squirm. "You dreamed about being There?"
"There?" Saint John smiled wider, this time with a spark of ironic amusement. "Do you realize how often you refer to Southeast Asia as There? I can practically hear the capital letter."
Stringfellow shrugged and looked away. He swirled dark liquid in the bottom of his cup, staring at it as though it were incredibly important. "I don't blame you," he began nonchalantly. "I don't like to talk about it, either."
"There's nothing to talk about." Irony became anger, and he stopped, dropping a hand onto his brother's shoulder. "Look, String, sometimes I dream about being back in Asia, but it's not that bad and it's not that often. I had fifteen years to adjust to being there -- that's enough time to work out most of the garbage in here." He tapped his own temple. "The same amount of time you had." He hesitated again, squeezing the sinewy shoulder he still gripped. "How bad do the dreams take you?" There was no answer save a tightening of the younger man's smooth chin; Saint John laughed shortly. "And isn't it a little early to be getting this heavy? Besides, I'm having more trouble acclimating to the United States than I did in Laos." He shuddered dramatically. "Farm work was a whole lot easier to deal with than buying my own supplies. One-twenty-five for gasoline? Wow."
The words were deliberately flippant but carried some kernel of truth if not entirely. No one recovered from what Saint John Hawke had undergone without scarring that would take a long time to heal if it ever did, but the message was clear. I'm all right; don't worry. Stringfellow's gaze softened, the impassive mask slipping again to allow deep affection to seep through. "Long as you are back, I guess we can both settle."
The unfeigned sentiment brought a returning warmth to Saint John's long- jawed face. "I'm most definitely back, little brother. Don't you forget it." He swallowed the rest of his coffee in two gulps and handed the cup across. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah." Stringfellow took both cups, carefully rinsed them in the sink and set them aside, then slipped on a white sweater over his tank top, letting it fall over the top of his belted jeans. He snatched up a leather flight jacket then followed his brother down the short path to the water. He moved gracelessly, limping heavily on his left ankle, that and other aches the legacy of an explosion that had claimed far more than his health three long months ago.
"Damp this morning," Saint John ventured, watching as the younger man slipped his arms into the jacket with as little movement as possible. He rubbed his own back ruefully, bending to stretch the vertebrae. "Or are we just getting old?"
"Speak for yourself." String stopped, a tiny smile quirking one lip. "You should have heard Dom go on about that. Talking about his age was like touching a match to a gasoline can."
"Can't imagine a couple'a extra years slowing him down any," the other replied.
"It didn't."
The red, white and blue Jetranger sat on the sturdy dock that had existed in one form or another since the time of their great-grandfather. Saint John climbed into the pilot's seat, beginning the short procedure to engine start-up, while Stringfellow sat with his hands tightly clasped in his lap, gaze focused on the thick woods which bordered the lake, then shifting to the snug cabin just visible through the trees. So engrossed was he that he started when Saint John spoke.
"Sure you want to go?"
"Of course." He cast a single glance at his brother's knowing face, conceding the lie for what it was. "No choice," he relented grimly a moment later.
"So tell me then," Saint John pursued, nodding when rotor speed hit proper rpm for takeoff, "why did you call? You haven't been back to the airfield since Dominic died. Why now?"
"Got an appointment," Hawke returned laconically, relenting before the other's questioning look, "With Michael. One of his people radioed last night and arranged a meet." He scowled. "Can't imagine why he didn't choose a better place for it, though."
The older pilot skimmed their craft across crystal waters briefly before increasing their altitude and choosing a direction opposite that of the still ascending sun. "It's an Airwolf mission?"
String glanced a last time back at his home before turning forward in the direction of their flight. "I doubt it. They'd have called Locke. Didn't you and Rivers just take the Lady on a mission into South America?"
"A short mission," the other replied, leveling the ship off once they'd reached a comfortable height. "All we had to do was pick up one of Newman's agents and bring them in."
"That wasn't all," the too-perceptive younger man guessed, studying his face.
Saint John gave a short bark of laughter. "I see the Company's been keeping you informed. Let's just say El Presidente didn't take too kindly to losing his right hand man to the imperialist Americans. Some of his ground troops were using armor piercing shells."
"Much damage to the Lady?"
"ADF pod no longer deploys or retracts; it's stuck somewhere in between. We lost some of the interior wiring, a couple of sensor modules. No humans were hurt, either," he added reprovingly, earning a bland look. "It's going to cost us a couple of days repair time but I don't see anything wrong with Airwolf that some sweat won't cure." He guided the helicopter around a barely visible flock of birds, who honked loudly and scattered. "You could give me a little help, you know. Tracing those circuits can be a real pain."
Stringfellow determinedly kept his eyes on the breathtakingly beautiful mountains passing below, the browns and greens dappled occasionally with blue. "Maybe later. After I find out what Archangel wants."
Had he been watching, Stringfellow Hawke might have been surprised by the expression of dislike and open suspicion that crossed his brother's face at mention of the name. "Archangel again. I didn't think you were still working for that guy now that he doesn't have a hold on you anymore."
The emotion in the older man's voice penetrated the cocoon of studied distraction in which Stringfellow had wrapped himself. He glanced up, a puzzled frown bisecting his light brows. "You never did like Michael. Why?"
The blunt question was ignored for a moment. Then Saint John made a throwaway gesture with his left hand, saying as if it explained the matter, "I knew him back in 'Nam."
"But...."
"I knew of him in 'Nam," the other amended quickly. "We never met." The leather seat creaked as he turned then, meeting the questioning blue eyes flatly. "You weren't involved with the intelligence community when you first went over there -- you were young enough for me to make sure of that. But during the early days of my second tour, my unit had a few long- distance brushes with a mysterious agent named Archangel, who sat all high and safe in Saigon and wrote out orders." He looked away again, jaw jutting slightly. "A lot of good men lost their lives on his word without ever knowing why -- it was all too hush-hush for explanations. There were a few other things I'd rather not dredge up."
"It was war," Stringfellow Hawke offered softly, lashes coming down to veil eyes that had seen far too much. "The intelligence community wasn't the only ones who had orders to follow -- orders we didn't like. I'm ... sure Michael only did what he had to do. Besides," he added, more insult than statement, "you work for that guy, Locke. Hasn't he been with the DNS as far back as 'Nam?"
"Birds of a feather, eh?" the other volleyed smoothly. The expression on his brother's face rejected the comparison without a word, and Saint John made a throw-away gesture with his left hand. "I'll admit I didn't trust Jason either at first, but I do now. He proved himself over and over."
"Don't know him," the other grumbled, rubbing his arm. "Or that Rivers guy, except in passing. At least Michael never lied to me about you."
"That you know of."
Blue eyes flashed briefly, then the younger Hawke's expression closed, finality roughening his baritone voice. "I told him I'd come if I was needed. Michael's message said Code Celestial -- American lives at risk. I don't know anything beyond that."
After that, silence reigned most of the one hour flight, neither brother the gregarious type -- not any more. Saint John did take the time to mention some of the new things he was discovering in the world -- fifteen years as a prisoner of war tended to leave a man a little behind.
"... called a Nintendo," he was finishing as they landed at Van Nuys Airport. "I swear, String, if I didn't know better I'd think it was almost the real thing. Especially on the computer monitor setup Mike has."
Stringfellow unsnapped his harness and climbed out of the helicopter, yelling to be heard over the engines. "The world of microchips. People don't need a real life anymore."
"We didn't have all those gadgets when you and I were learning to fly combat," Saint John retorted, also disembarking. "Maybe for the better. There's Jo."
The woman he indicated was petite and pretty, blonde hair bobbing on the shoulders of her greasy coverall. She'd been standing by the hangar when the chopper touched down, and now skipped lightly across the tarmac toward them, greeting Stringfellow Hawke by tossing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek before he could object. "It's about time you showed up here," she scolded, stepping away. "We've been wondering when you were going to pay us a visit."
"I'm ... not exactly here on a visit," String said, glancing uncomfortably around. The place was little changed from the last time he was here -- a Bell occupied its usual position to the left, a biplane was in the hangar. There were only two major differences: there was a faint scorched mark where Dom's old Jetranger had sat, and Dominic Santini himself was not there to greet him. He shivered, hiding the reaction by stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I have to go into town."
"Oh." Jo Santini, Dominic's niece, looked disappointed at the news. "I was hoping you'd decided to keep your promise and teach Saint John, Mike and me the type of aerial photography you and Uncle Dom used to do for the movies. Mike knows a lot about aerial reconnaissance, but intelligence work and the kind of angles and shots producers want are two different things."
"Someday, Jo," he told her gently, looking away but not soon enough to prevent the escape of the silent plea for her to drop the subject.
She opened her mouth ready to argue, but Saint John, accurately reading his brother as he'd always had the ability to do, tapped the woman on the shoulder, breaking her train of thought. "Where's Mike?" he asked, gesturing String away from the still whirling chopper blades with a hand in the small of his back.
She hesitated as though debating finishing her conversation with String first, then jerked a thumb at the hangar. "Engine keeps stalling on Dom's old Steerman. Slightest bank and...." She snapped her fingers. "It almost took me down last yesterday. Mike thinks he knows what's causing it."
As though on cue a man emerged from the hangar and ambled toward them. Mike -- Air Force Major Michael G. Rivers -- was a handsome, round featured man in his thirties, with longish, wavy blond hair and light blue eyes that perpetually sparkled with mischief. His pleasant face was creased thoughtfully now as he approached, his scowl directed at the engine part he held in one hand. "Hey, Jo, I was right. There's something wrong with that auxiliary fuel pump Santini designed to augment the gravity feed during stunts."
"That's not possible," Saint John told him, staring at the greasy hunk of metal with annoyance. "I rebuilt that unit myself two weeks ago. Most of those parts are brand new."
Rivers tossed it lightly in the elder Hawke's direction; Saint John caught it automatically then grimaced at the engine oil that dripped through his fingers. "Either you installed a lemon or something is causing unusual wear. I'm going to have to trace the system back to find out what. I'd appreciate a little help, too." That said, he nodded amiably at Stringfellow, who was watching him warily. "Decided to come down off of Olympus and join us mere mortals?" He waved at Saint John, who was still staring at the greasy fuel pump with distaste. "We can obviously use the help. The Sikorsky needs a maintenance breakdown, and Airwolf has a few holes that need patched, too."
"I was hoping he was going to show us the aerial photography stuff," Jo interjected brightly. "I'd love to work on movies!"
Mike pursed his lips in a whistle. "Stars and starlets ..."
"... action and adventure," Saint John added, shoving the fuel pump back at Rivers while continuing to glare at his grimy hand.
"... money and paid bills," Jo finished wistfully.
That last got the younger Hawke's attention. "You're having trouble with the bills?" he asked, surreptitiously shifting his weight onto his undamaged right leg. "If you need money, just tap into my account. This place is still in my name, isn't it?"
"I can handle it," Jo returned irritably. She brushed a strand of golden hair off her cheek, leaving behind a greasy smear on her makeup. Her smile, however, was apologetic. "I'm going to make this concern pay on its own merits if it's the last thing I do. Besides, we're all drawing a salary from the Company for flying Airwolf missions. That'll keep us going for quite awhile."
Mike dropped the fuel pump to his side, holding it well away from his short- sleeved, loose green shirt. "You missed a bet there, buddy," he told Stringfellow amiably. "You could have probably hit Archangel up for a salary, too, back when you and Santini were holding Airwolf hostage."
The younger Hawke shrugged dismissively, eyes drifting instinctively to his brother's face before dropping away. "We had a deal. Archangel kept his part, I had to keep mine."
Rivers wiggled his eyebrows. "Deals are made to be renegotiated, buddy- boy. Isn't that what they say in the movies?"
"Not any movie I ever saw," Saint John Hawke protested, leaning casually on Mike's shoulder. He tipped his head quizzically until he could see his partner's face. "Which one is that from?"
"Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter," Rivers quoted impishly. "Want to hear about it?"
"No." Jo rolled her eyes, a tiny chuckle escaping her pink lips. "And I don't believe you anyway."
"I do." Saint John snagged a rag from Mike's belt and used it to wipe his palm clean. "And it scares the heck out of me."
Mike jabbed him playfully in the ribs, grinning at the grunt this produced. "Watch it, pal; we're talking about art, here." He returned his attention to Stringfellow Hawke, who was watching the friendly interchange between the Air Force pilot and his brother with an oddly remote expression. "So, if you're not here to work, why'd you come? I'd wager my hard earned salary it's not a social call."
Stringfellow cast one last involuntary glance at the scorched mark on the tarmac before purposely turning his back. "No. Business. In town."
"Company business?" Mike asked, regarding him with interest.
Dark blue eyes narrowed. "My business."
An answering spark of temper flared in the other man's lighter blue eyes. "So get on with your business," he retorted hotly, shifting his weight forward onto his toes. "Who needs you, anyway?"
Stringfellow deliberately removed his amber sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. Saint John, recognizing the signs in his companions, stepped between the two before mayhem could develop. "Calm down, both of you," he ordered in the tones of one who's gone through this before. "We're supposed to be on the same team, remember?"
"Not my team," Rivers retorted brusquely, flipping a blond curl out of his eyes. Stringfellow said nothing although his lips tightened dangerously. After a moment, Mike turned away. "I'll see if we can get another pump delivered. We can modify it this afternoon." He strode off, without looking over his shoulder.
Stringfellow's glare bored into the retreating back. He replaced the sunglasses on his nose, looking down when Jo touched his arm. "Why don't you and Mike like each other?" she asked with the barest hint of censure. "You've only met a couple of times -- not long enough to develop an abiding animosity."
"Once is enough," he returned shortly, sticking his hands obstinately back into his pockets.
Saint John chuckled. "Maybe they're too much alike, Jo. Put two stubborn hotshots together and what do you expect?" He dug into his jacket and extracted a set of keys, tossing them at his brother, who caught them in one hand. "Take my Jimmy. It's parked around front."
"Thanks." Stringfellow limped off in the direction indicated, his back ramrod straight, his jaw set.
Saint John watched him go with fond exasperation. "I wish I knew what to do with him. String was always pretty serious, but these days he's positively grim." He glanced down at Jo, who was also watching the disappearing younger Hawke. "Was he this bad before Dom died?"
She bit her lip. "Most of the time. I don't remember him smiling all that much even before you two went away to Viet Nam. After you left he just got worse. And when he came back and you didn't...." She shook her head deliberately, then humor lightened her own serious expression. "Now on top of everything, I think he's jealous."
"Jealous?" Saint John regarded her quizzically. "Jealous of what?"
She dimpled. "You and Mike! The way the two of you get along, heckle each other, act like best friends. Next time you're all together, watch his face when you and Mike are joking around. I think he's afraid Mike's going to take his place with you, and he doesn't want to admit it."
The tall, bronze-haired pilot blinked at her, then looked up again at the sound of an automobile engine turning over. A red Jimmy appeared from around the corner of the hangar, the slim figure of Stringfellow Hawke identifiable in the driver's seat. It turned onto the main access road and accelerated towards the airport exit. "Mike may be my best friend," Saint John said evenly although with a thoughtful expression. "But String's my kid brother. Nothing's ever going to change that."
The petite woman slipped her arm through his and they strolled back toward the Santini Air hangar. "You know, you're not quite as bad, but you do the same thing he does -- set up those walls no one's allowed to cross except each other. Remember how long it took Uncle Dom to win him over after the accident?"
Hawke sighed. "A lot longer than it took him with me. String was really shaken when Mom and Dad died -- we both were. But String was just a kid. I had four, almost five years on him and could handle it better. At least, I could thanks to Dom."
"I miss him too." Jo laid her head briefly against his shoulder. "He was always more of a father to me than Tony ever was. Not that Tony isn't trying to make up for it now that his cancer is in remission. I got another letter from him this morning."
If Saint John had heard the last he made no mention of it. His focus was still on his retreating brother. "Maybe you're right. If we can get String to help out here a bit, we might be able to integrate him into the team before he realizes what's happening."
"Do you think he ever will come back here?" Jo asked wistfully. "He might be a grouch, but I kind of like having him around." She giggled. "Especially with you here! Put the two of you together and it used to be like watching a Marx Brothers routine!"
"That was a long time ago," the older brother replied, giving her a squeeze. "I don't know about now. With that temper of his, he and that hot- head, Rivers, would be clashing constantly. I could end up playing United Nations ... with a baseball bat."
"Uncle Dom would've known how to handle it. He was always able to bring out the best in String." Jo sighed, taking the towel from her old friend and scrubbing at a large spot of grease on her coverall. "He even smiled sometimes. I wish Uncle Dom were here right now."
"So do I," Saint John Hawke replied sadly. "So does String. That's the problem."
***
Quickly he dried off and stepped into the jeans and Army tank top he'd laid out earlier, making no motion to wipe off the fogged medicine cabinet mirror as he dressed. He didn't use the mirror much except when he shaved, and even then he was very careful not to look into his own eyes. Very few people did if they could avoid it.
He snagged a handtowel from the rack and ran it through his hair. It was getting long again, an inch only but actually shaggy compared to the cropped look he usually sported. Still rubbing the gold-brown strands vigorously, he made his way to the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively at the fragrant aroma of fresh perked coffee. He secured a cup from the impeccably arranged cupboard and helped himself to the pot on the stove, nearly tripping over the prone form of a hound dog lying in the path between kitchenette and living room. "I don't want to do this, Tet," he told the dog solemnly, his first words to the animal in nearly two weeks. Tet wagged his tail once lethargically and went back to sleep.
He was tying a pair of battered sneakers when a clatter outside the door announced the presence of his visitor, and for a single unguarded moment, joy lit his face followed immediately by grief-stricken remembrance. "It's not Dom," he whispered to himself, swallowing hard. He stiffened, shoulders coming deliberately back and chin up, a stoic facade shuttering dark blue eyes. Then the door opened and a tall, rugged looking man stood silhouetted there, light shining through his short bronze hair like a halo. "Hey! String!"
"I'm right here," Stringfellow Hawke chided mildly, the welcome peeking through the mask genuine. "You don't have to yell, Saint John."
Saint John Hawke blinked several times to adjust his vision from the bright glare of the outdoors to the gently diffused illumination permeating the sheer curtains, his focus centering on the slender figure on the couch. "I usually have to hunt you down on the lake or in the woods. What happened, get your chores done early?"
"As a matter of fact," Stringfellow replied, "I did. Had to stock up some wood for the fireplace." He indicated the large stone hearth that dominated most of one wall. It was cold now, of course, even the ashes and embers having been meticulously swept up.
Saint John scanned the neat living quarters; there was not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, the expensive paintings on the walls hanging millimetrically precise. "You must have been up pretty early then. There's enough logs in that woodpile outside to take you through the next ice age." He removed the leather gloves he wore, tossing them onto the dining table, and moved closer to one particularly brilliant colored oil behind the door; it showed a beautiful woman holding an infant -- a favorite of his since he was a child himself. "Working off some nervous energy, eh?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Abandoning his inspection of the Rembrandt, Saint John turned until he could see his younger brother, who had not moved. "This is the first time you've been back to Van Nuys Airport since Dominic was killed. If it was me, I'd be a bit stressed about the whole thing."
"I'm not stressed about anything," Stringfellow snapped back, deliberately fixing his attention on his cup.
Saint John scratched his neck, then shrugged, unembarrassed by the rebuff. It was rare for the phlegmatic man to be embarrassed about anything, nor did he avert his gaze from his open scrutiny. "You're starting to get some weight back, I think. Six weeks in a medical clinic left you looking pretty scrawny."
"Listen to who's talking," the younger man retorted waspishly. "What did you weigh when you came back from Burma?"
There was no denying that Saint John weighed more now than he had immediately after his liberation from Southeast Asia, with powerful muscles in his shoulders and arms. But even now, three months after the man's return, there was a leanness to the big-boned frame, the hungry look of a body still recovering from starvation and misuse. Fifteen years as a prisoner of war had indelibly left their marks, etching lines in the still- youthful face and thinning the generous mouth. And there was a suppressed tension as well, a wariness that never completely relaxed, mirrored perfectly in Stringfellow Hawke's slighter form. In tacit acknowledgment of this, Saint John patted his flat stomach. "So we're both doing pretty well. Of course, we carnivores are going to put weight back on faster than you vegetarians."
The last word was an affable sneer and provoked a grunt but nothing more. "You're early," Stringfellow said, changing the subject with all the tact of a sledgehammer.
The elder brother ran a hand through his hair; short cropped, it already lay stylishly straight back. "I'm on my way back from Las Vegas. Had to deliver a charter to Circus-Circus. Honeymooners." He grimaced. "The way they were acting, I was half afraid I'd be met by the vice squad instead of a bellhop."
"They're always the worst," the younger man agreed. "I'd almost rather have someone holding a gun to my head than have to listen to honeymooners go on."
"Jo thought they were cute."
"You should have made Jo transport them." Finished with his laces, Stringfellow indicated the kitchen with a thumb. "Coffee's fresh."
"Thanks." Unzipping his brown bomber jacket, Saint John made his way to the stove, stepping lightly over the hound, who once more deigned to wag his tail before relapsing into an apparent coma. "This dog ever move?"
"Only when he hunts."
The bigger man secured a cup from the cabinet and helped himself to the pot, a disdainful snort clear in the room. "This thing hunts? I'm surprised he's got the energy to make it from here to the woods."
"You makin' fun of my dog?" Stringfellow demanded mildly. "He takes care of himself just fine."
"Yeah, I'll bet." Chuckling to himself, Saint John retraced his steps into the living room and sank down onto the couch next to his brother, cradling his cup in large hands. "Good coffee. I can use this."
Stringfellow took a sip of his own brew, examining the other surreptitiously over the rim of his cup. Saint John did look tired. There were dark circles under the bright blue-gray eyes, and his thin lips were drawn into a line that bespoke fatigue. "Rough night? Or early honeymooner call?"
"Both."
"You don't look like you enjoyed that rough night," Stringfellow prodded gently. "Anything you want to talk about?"
The older man hesitated, burying his nose in his cup for a long moment. "Not much to talk about. Couple of bad dreams, that's all." He waved genially, dredging up a smile for his brother although the gray eyes remained shadowed. "That's the last time I let Mike talk me into eating a triple cheese pizza with four toppings before I turn in."
If his intention was to throw the younger man off the track, he failed. Stringfellow continued to regard him solemnly, enough understanding in his own eyes to make Saint John squirm. "You dreamed about being There?"
"There?" Saint John smiled wider, this time with a spark of ironic amusement. "Do you realize how often you refer to Southeast Asia as There? I can practically hear the capital letter."
Stringfellow shrugged and looked away. He swirled dark liquid in the bottom of his cup, staring at it as though it were incredibly important. "I don't blame you," he began nonchalantly. "I don't like to talk about it, either."
"There's nothing to talk about." Irony became anger, and he stopped, dropping a hand onto his brother's shoulder. "Look, String, sometimes I dream about being back in Asia, but it's not that bad and it's not that often. I had fifteen years to adjust to being there -- that's enough time to work out most of the garbage in here." He tapped his own temple. "The same amount of time you had." He hesitated again, squeezing the sinewy shoulder he still gripped. "How bad do the dreams take you?" There was no answer save a tightening of the younger man's smooth chin; Saint John laughed shortly. "And isn't it a little early to be getting this heavy? Besides, I'm having more trouble acclimating to the United States than I did in Laos." He shuddered dramatically. "Farm work was a whole lot easier to deal with than buying my own supplies. One-twenty-five for gasoline? Wow."
The words were deliberately flippant but carried some kernel of truth if not entirely. No one recovered from what Saint John Hawke had undergone without scarring that would take a long time to heal if it ever did, but the message was clear. I'm all right; don't worry. Stringfellow's gaze softened, the impassive mask slipping again to allow deep affection to seep through. "Long as you are back, I guess we can both settle."
The unfeigned sentiment brought a returning warmth to Saint John's long- jawed face. "I'm most definitely back, little brother. Don't you forget it." He swallowed the rest of his coffee in two gulps and handed the cup across. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah." Stringfellow took both cups, carefully rinsed them in the sink and set them aside, then slipped on a white sweater over his tank top, letting it fall over the top of his belted jeans. He snatched up a leather flight jacket then followed his brother down the short path to the water. He moved gracelessly, limping heavily on his left ankle, that and other aches the legacy of an explosion that had claimed far more than his health three long months ago.
"Damp this morning," Saint John ventured, watching as the younger man slipped his arms into the jacket with as little movement as possible. He rubbed his own back ruefully, bending to stretch the vertebrae. "Or are we just getting old?"
"Speak for yourself." String stopped, a tiny smile quirking one lip. "You should have heard Dom go on about that. Talking about his age was like touching a match to a gasoline can."
"Can't imagine a couple'a extra years slowing him down any," the other replied.
"It didn't."
The red, white and blue Jetranger sat on the sturdy dock that had existed in one form or another since the time of their great-grandfather. Saint John climbed into the pilot's seat, beginning the short procedure to engine start-up, while Stringfellow sat with his hands tightly clasped in his lap, gaze focused on the thick woods which bordered the lake, then shifting to the snug cabin just visible through the trees. So engrossed was he that he started when Saint John spoke.
"Sure you want to go?"
"Of course." He cast a single glance at his brother's knowing face, conceding the lie for what it was. "No choice," he relented grimly a moment later.
"So tell me then," Saint John pursued, nodding when rotor speed hit proper rpm for takeoff, "why did you call? You haven't been back to the airfield since Dominic died. Why now?"
"Got an appointment," Hawke returned laconically, relenting before the other's questioning look, "With Michael. One of his people radioed last night and arranged a meet." He scowled. "Can't imagine why he didn't choose a better place for it, though."
The older pilot skimmed their craft across crystal waters briefly before increasing their altitude and choosing a direction opposite that of the still ascending sun. "It's an Airwolf mission?"
String glanced a last time back at his home before turning forward in the direction of their flight. "I doubt it. They'd have called Locke. Didn't you and Rivers just take the Lady on a mission into South America?"
"A short mission," the other replied, leveling the ship off once they'd reached a comfortable height. "All we had to do was pick up one of Newman's agents and bring them in."
"That wasn't all," the too-perceptive younger man guessed, studying his face.
Saint John gave a short bark of laughter. "I see the Company's been keeping you informed. Let's just say El Presidente didn't take too kindly to losing his right hand man to the imperialist Americans. Some of his ground troops were using armor piercing shells."
"Much damage to the Lady?"
"ADF pod no longer deploys or retracts; it's stuck somewhere in between. We lost some of the interior wiring, a couple of sensor modules. No humans were hurt, either," he added reprovingly, earning a bland look. "It's going to cost us a couple of days repair time but I don't see anything wrong with Airwolf that some sweat won't cure." He guided the helicopter around a barely visible flock of birds, who honked loudly and scattered. "You could give me a little help, you know. Tracing those circuits can be a real pain."
Stringfellow determinedly kept his eyes on the breathtakingly beautiful mountains passing below, the browns and greens dappled occasionally with blue. "Maybe later. After I find out what Archangel wants."
Had he been watching, Stringfellow Hawke might have been surprised by the expression of dislike and open suspicion that crossed his brother's face at mention of the name. "Archangel again. I didn't think you were still working for that guy now that he doesn't have a hold on you anymore."
The emotion in the older man's voice penetrated the cocoon of studied distraction in which Stringfellow had wrapped himself. He glanced up, a puzzled frown bisecting his light brows. "You never did like Michael. Why?"
The blunt question was ignored for a moment. Then Saint John made a throwaway gesture with his left hand, saying as if it explained the matter, "I knew him back in 'Nam."
"But...."
"I knew of him in 'Nam," the other amended quickly. "We never met." The leather seat creaked as he turned then, meeting the questioning blue eyes flatly. "You weren't involved with the intelligence community when you first went over there -- you were young enough for me to make sure of that. But during the early days of my second tour, my unit had a few long- distance brushes with a mysterious agent named Archangel, who sat all high and safe in Saigon and wrote out orders." He looked away again, jaw jutting slightly. "A lot of good men lost their lives on his word without ever knowing why -- it was all too hush-hush for explanations. There were a few other things I'd rather not dredge up."
"It was war," Stringfellow Hawke offered softly, lashes coming down to veil eyes that had seen far too much. "The intelligence community wasn't the only ones who had orders to follow -- orders we didn't like. I'm ... sure Michael only did what he had to do. Besides," he added, more insult than statement, "you work for that guy, Locke. Hasn't he been with the DNS as far back as 'Nam?"
"Birds of a feather, eh?" the other volleyed smoothly. The expression on his brother's face rejected the comparison without a word, and Saint John made a throw-away gesture with his left hand. "I'll admit I didn't trust Jason either at first, but I do now. He proved himself over and over."
"Don't know him," the other grumbled, rubbing his arm. "Or that Rivers guy, except in passing. At least Michael never lied to me about you."
"That you know of."
Blue eyes flashed briefly, then the younger Hawke's expression closed, finality roughening his baritone voice. "I told him I'd come if I was needed. Michael's message said Code Celestial -- American lives at risk. I don't know anything beyond that."
After that, silence reigned most of the one hour flight, neither brother the gregarious type -- not any more. Saint John did take the time to mention some of the new things he was discovering in the world -- fifteen years as a prisoner of war tended to leave a man a little behind.
"... called a Nintendo," he was finishing as they landed at Van Nuys Airport. "I swear, String, if I didn't know better I'd think it was almost the real thing. Especially on the computer monitor setup Mike has."
Stringfellow unsnapped his harness and climbed out of the helicopter, yelling to be heard over the engines. "The world of microchips. People don't need a real life anymore."
"We didn't have all those gadgets when you and I were learning to fly combat," Saint John retorted, also disembarking. "Maybe for the better. There's Jo."
The woman he indicated was petite and pretty, blonde hair bobbing on the shoulders of her greasy coverall. She'd been standing by the hangar when the chopper touched down, and now skipped lightly across the tarmac toward them, greeting Stringfellow Hawke by tossing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek before he could object. "It's about time you showed up here," she scolded, stepping away. "We've been wondering when you were going to pay us a visit."
"I'm ... not exactly here on a visit," String said, glancing uncomfortably around. The place was little changed from the last time he was here -- a Bell occupied its usual position to the left, a biplane was in the hangar. There were only two major differences: there was a faint scorched mark where Dom's old Jetranger had sat, and Dominic Santini himself was not there to greet him. He shivered, hiding the reaction by stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I have to go into town."
"Oh." Jo Santini, Dominic's niece, looked disappointed at the news. "I was hoping you'd decided to keep your promise and teach Saint John, Mike and me the type of aerial photography you and Uncle Dom used to do for the movies. Mike knows a lot about aerial reconnaissance, but intelligence work and the kind of angles and shots producers want are two different things."
"Someday, Jo," he told her gently, looking away but not soon enough to prevent the escape of the silent plea for her to drop the subject.
She opened her mouth ready to argue, but Saint John, accurately reading his brother as he'd always had the ability to do, tapped the woman on the shoulder, breaking her train of thought. "Where's Mike?" he asked, gesturing String away from the still whirling chopper blades with a hand in the small of his back.
She hesitated as though debating finishing her conversation with String first, then jerked a thumb at the hangar. "Engine keeps stalling on Dom's old Steerman. Slightest bank and...." She snapped her fingers. "It almost took me down last yesterday. Mike thinks he knows what's causing it."
As though on cue a man emerged from the hangar and ambled toward them. Mike -- Air Force Major Michael G. Rivers -- was a handsome, round featured man in his thirties, with longish, wavy blond hair and light blue eyes that perpetually sparkled with mischief. His pleasant face was creased thoughtfully now as he approached, his scowl directed at the engine part he held in one hand. "Hey, Jo, I was right. There's something wrong with that auxiliary fuel pump Santini designed to augment the gravity feed during stunts."
"That's not possible," Saint John told him, staring at the greasy hunk of metal with annoyance. "I rebuilt that unit myself two weeks ago. Most of those parts are brand new."
Rivers tossed it lightly in the elder Hawke's direction; Saint John caught it automatically then grimaced at the engine oil that dripped through his fingers. "Either you installed a lemon or something is causing unusual wear. I'm going to have to trace the system back to find out what. I'd appreciate a little help, too." That said, he nodded amiably at Stringfellow, who was watching him warily. "Decided to come down off of Olympus and join us mere mortals?" He waved at Saint John, who was still staring at the greasy fuel pump with distaste. "We can obviously use the help. The Sikorsky needs a maintenance breakdown, and Airwolf has a few holes that need patched, too."
"I was hoping he was going to show us the aerial photography stuff," Jo interjected brightly. "I'd love to work on movies!"
Mike pursed his lips in a whistle. "Stars and starlets ..."
"... action and adventure," Saint John added, shoving the fuel pump back at Rivers while continuing to glare at his grimy hand.
"... money and paid bills," Jo finished wistfully.
That last got the younger Hawke's attention. "You're having trouble with the bills?" he asked, surreptitiously shifting his weight onto his undamaged right leg. "If you need money, just tap into my account. This place is still in my name, isn't it?"
"I can handle it," Jo returned irritably. She brushed a strand of golden hair off her cheek, leaving behind a greasy smear on her makeup. Her smile, however, was apologetic. "I'm going to make this concern pay on its own merits if it's the last thing I do. Besides, we're all drawing a salary from the Company for flying Airwolf missions. That'll keep us going for quite awhile."
Mike dropped the fuel pump to his side, holding it well away from his short- sleeved, loose green shirt. "You missed a bet there, buddy," he told Stringfellow amiably. "You could have probably hit Archangel up for a salary, too, back when you and Santini were holding Airwolf hostage."
The younger Hawke shrugged dismissively, eyes drifting instinctively to his brother's face before dropping away. "We had a deal. Archangel kept his part, I had to keep mine."
Rivers wiggled his eyebrows. "Deals are made to be renegotiated, buddy- boy. Isn't that what they say in the movies?"
"Not any movie I ever saw," Saint John Hawke protested, leaning casually on Mike's shoulder. He tipped his head quizzically until he could see his partner's face. "Which one is that from?"
"Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter," Rivers quoted impishly. "Want to hear about it?"
"No." Jo rolled her eyes, a tiny chuckle escaping her pink lips. "And I don't believe you anyway."
"I do." Saint John snagged a rag from Mike's belt and used it to wipe his palm clean. "And it scares the heck out of me."
Mike jabbed him playfully in the ribs, grinning at the grunt this produced. "Watch it, pal; we're talking about art, here." He returned his attention to Stringfellow Hawke, who was watching the friendly interchange between the Air Force pilot and his brother with an oddly remote expression. "So, if you're not here to work, why'd you come? I'd wager my hard earned salary it's not a social call."
Stringfellow cast one last involuntary glance at the scorched mark on the tarmac before purposely turning his back. "No. Business. In town."
"Company business?" Mike asked, regarding him with interest.
Dark blue eyes narrowed. "My business."
An answering spark of temper flared in the other man's lighter blue eyes. "So get on with your business," he retorted hotly, shifting his weight forward onto his toes. "Who needs you, anyway?"
Stringfellow deliberately removed his amber sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. Saint John, recognizing the signs in his companions, stepped between the two before mayhem could develop. "Calm down, both of you," he ordered in the tones of one who's gone through this before. "We're supposed to be on the same team, remember?"
"Not my team," Rivers retorted brusquely, flipping a blond curl out of his eyes. Stringfellow said nothing although his lips tightened dangerously. After a moment, Mike turned away. "I'll see if we can get another pump delivered. We can modify it this afternoon." He strode off, without looking over his shoulder.
Stringfellow's glare bored into the retreating back. He replaced the sunglasses on his nose, looking down when Jo touched his arm. "Why don't you and Mike like each other?" she asked with the barest hint of censure. "You've only met a couple of times -- not long enough to develop an abiding animosity."
"Once is enough," he returned shortly, sticking his hands obstinately back into his pockets.
Saint John chuckled. "Maybe they're too much alike, Jo. Put two stubborn hotshots together and what do you expect?" He dug into his jacket and extracted a set of keys, tossing them at his brother, who caught them in one hand. "Take my Jimmy. It's parked around front."
"Thanks." Stringfellow limped off in the direction indicated, his back ramrod straight, his jaw set.
Saint John watched him go with fond exasperation. "I wish I knew what to do with him. String was always pretty serious, but these days he's positively grim." He glanced down at Jo, who was also watching the disappearing younger Hawke. "Was he this bad before Dom died?"
She bit her lip. "Most of the time. I don't remember him smiling all that much even before you two went away to Viet Nam. After you left he just got worse. And when he came back and you didn't...." She shook her head deliberately, then humor lightened her own serious expression. "Now on top of everything, I think he's jealous."
"Jealous?" Saint John regarded her quizzically. "Jealous of what?"
She dimpled. "You and Mike! The way the two of you get along, heckle each other, act like best friends. Next time you're all together, watch his face when you and Mike are joking around. I think he's afraid Mike's going to take his place with you, and he doesn't want to admit it."
The tall, bronze-haired pilot blinked at her, then looked up again at the sound of an automobile engine turning over. A red Jimmy appeared from around the corner of the hangar, the slim figure of Stringfellow Hawke identifiable in the driver's seat. It turned onto the main access road and accelerated towards the airport exit. "Mike may be my best friend," Saint John said evenly although with a thoughtful expression. "But String's my kid brother. Nothing's ever going to change that."
The petite woman slipped her arm through his and they strolled back toward the Santini Air hangar. "You know, you're not quite as bad, but you do the same thing he does -- set up those walls no one's allowed to cross except each other. Remember how long it took Uncle Dom to win him over after the accident?"
Hawke sighed. "A lot longer than it took him with me. String was really shaken when Mom and Dad died -- we both were. But String was just a kid. I had four, almost five years on him and could handle it better. At least, I could thanks to Dom."
"I miss him too." Jo laid her head briefly against his shoulder. "He was always more of a father to me than Tony ever was. Not that Tony isn't trying to make up for it now that his cancer is in remission. I got another letter from him this morning."
If Saint John had heard the last he made no mention of it. His focus was still on his retreating brother. "Maybe you're right. If we can get String to help out here a bit, we might be able to integrate him into the team before he realizes what's happening."
"Do you think he ever will come back here?" Jo asked wistfully. "He might be a grouch, but I kind of like having him around." She giggled. "Especially with you here! Put the two of you together and it used to be like watching a Marx Brothers routine!"
"That was a long time ago," the older brother replied, giving her a squeeze. "I don't know about now. With that temper of his, he and that hot- head, Rivers, would be clashing constantly. I could end up playing United Nations ... with a baseball bat."
"Uncle Dom would've known how to handle it. He was always able to bring out the best in String." Jo sighed, taking the towel from her old friend and scrubbing at a large spot of grease on her coverall. "He even smiled sometimes. I wish Uncle Dom were here right now."
"So do I," Saint John Hawke replied sadly. "So does String. That's the problem."
***