Although somewhat quieter, even at eight o'clock p.m. Van Nuys Airport was
a long way from uninhabited. All across the field owners-mechanics were
busy with the routine daily tasks that kept their vehicles in the air.
Here and there engines revved, tools clanked and men cursed, cramming as
many ground repairs as possible into the evening and thus reserving the
sunlit hours for the practice of fabled Daedalus' gift to humanity -- the
power of flight.
At Santini Air, these never ending chores were accomplished for the day. Three people sat slumped in the rear controller's office, cups of stale coffee clasped in tired hands. Silence was the order for a long time, finally broken by a grease stained Mike Rivers, who wrinkled his nose at his cup.
"Man," he groaned, risking a sniff. "How old is this stuff, anyway? For a minute I thought I got hold of the paint thinner."
Joanna Santini groaned and put her feet up on her desk one at a time. "It could be the paint thinner for all my stomach knows. Anybody have a Rolaid handy?"
"I think I have a Lifesaver," Saint John Hawke offered, digging into his jeans pocket. He withdrew a lint-festooned packet and tossed it the short distance to the woman, who allowed it to bounce off her chest to the floor. "Good catch," he remarked, lethargically watching it roll under her chair.
Jo hmphed, her breath stirring a strand of long blonde hair that had escaped the barrette she wore. "Lifesavers won't cut it, Saint John. I need food. Food and a shower." She rubbed wearily at the oily stains that covered her once white coverall. "How long did it take us to get the Steerman back together, anyway? It feels like we've been working on it for days."
To her right, Mike glanced at his wristwatch, having to scrape grease off its face with his thumb before he could read it. "Nine hours, thirty-seven minutes, not counting the delivery time on the new parts."
"All from cheap fuel," Saint John said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Next time we only go with a supplier with a reference."
"He had a reference," Jo groaned, wiggling her sneaker clad feet on the desk, "from Jake. I think he must be getting a referral fee or something."
Mike indicated the worn auxiliary pump sitting on the stack of newspapers to protect the old carpet. "First thing tomorrow I'm going to take that down to Kimball Oil and shove it up the owner's nose. If there hadn't been so much sediment in his tanks, this would have lasted."
"Think he'll pay for the parts?" Jo asked hopefully. "This really is an expense we can't meet."
Hawke raised his head, fixing her with sharp gray eyes. "Is the money situation really that bad? I know what you told String, but if you need help, I can...."
Jo waved her hand but the smile she gave him was grateful. "Not necessary, Saint John. Santini Air is meeting its own expenses ... or we would be if we weren't spending so much time lately on Jason's assignments instead of charters. He may be paying a salary, but it's not always enough to run a transport business."
"Assignments are basically what I'm here for," Mike pointed out, scratching his stubbled jaw. "Working at Santini Air is my cover for Company missions. Saint John's too, if you get down to it."
"I know that." Jo kicked at the stack of invoices by her left foot; the topmost was emblazoned with the red inked, AMOUNT DUE. "It's just that I ... well, Uncle Dom wasn't rich but he turned a profit with this company and I want to, too. If only to prove I can do it."
"You don't have to prove anything, Jo," Hawke told her. "Not to us."
"I know that too," the woman returned. "But maybe I have to prove it to myself. I've spent my whole life working as a chopper jockey for other people. This is my chance to make it on my own and I really want to make it work even without that salary Jason got for me. Not that it's much for sitting around on stand-by most of the time." She grinned at Mike, who was studying the depths of his cup as though there was something alive in it. "Maybe I should join the Air Force and pull in the big bucks like Major Rivers does."
Mike hooted derisively. "Right. Biiiig bucks. And I get to travel, too -- Iran, Cambodia, Afghanistan...."
Saint John interrupted the familiar if insincere litany. "You need to give yourself a chance, Jo. It's only been three months since you took over Santini Air, and a lot of that was spent working for Locke." He stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. "You need time to build up the clientele again. We've lessons booked through every week, and a few more charters should catch up all those bills. And you'll do even better once word gets around."
"I should already have that from the reputation Uncle Dom had." Jo leaned forward until she could place her mug on the desk without lowering her propped up feet. "According to his books ..." She indicated some ledgers on a shelf behind where Hawke was sitting. "... he was doing fine. Charters were always light but he did real well from those movie shoots. And the stunts...!" She sighed. "I sure would like to sink my teeth into them! But Bellisarius and Warner both cancelled the contracts as soon as they heard about Uncle Dom and String, and none of the other production companies want inexperienced stunt pilots, either."
"Inexperienced?" Mike stared disbelievingly. "Between the three of us, we've got seventy or eighty years air time logged. What kind of experience do they want, anyway?"
"Movie experience," Jo grumbled, brushing that annoying strand of hair out of her mouth. She sighed again, a wistful look on her pretty face. "Just think -- working with stunt men and gaffers and cameramen and best boys ... whatever they are. Actors and actresses. I think that would be great."
"It might be fun at that," Rivers agreed, following Jo's example and also putting his feet up on the desk. "As a kid I used to want to be an actor more than anything. Next to piloting, that is."
Saint John turned his head to regard the younger man with overt amusement. "You, Mike? An actor?"
Round chin in the air, boyish features cavalier, Rivers struck a pose that might have been a formal bow had he not been sitting on his spine. "Whass'a matter?" he asked. "You don't think I'm the leading man type?
Hawke chuckled snidely. "Yeah, for a Godzilla movie."
"I'll have you know, Mister Saint John Hawke, that in high school I played the lead in the school play." Rivers dropped his feet to the floor and straightened, one arm upraised. "You, my friend, are looking at the star of the Malibu High production of The Last of the Mohicans."
"If you played the wolf," Saint John jeered good-naturedly, "I'd call it typecasting."
Mike harumphed back, leaving it to Jo to pick up the lagging conversation. "Be that as it may, I'd still like a few openings in the business. We might not know the photography techniques, but we can at least fly the stunts." She lightly clasped her hands in her lap. "I talked to that Leonardi guy over at Lucas this morning."
"You didn't mention it," Saint John Hawke prodded with interest. "I assume that means we didn't get the job?"
She rolled her eyes. "If we had've gotten the job, everyone from here to Schenectady would have known it. He asked me very politely about the business, gave his condolences on Uncle Dom and asked if String was going to be doing any flying."
"My brother has a pretty good reputation in the business," Hawke said with brotherly pride.
Jo gave him a dirty look. "Yeah, he does. But no one wants to hire Santini Air for stunt flying without Uncle Dom or String in the picture." The dirty look became a glower. "However, if I ever want to become a kept woman, I'm welcome to call Jocko Leonardi any time."
"Everyone should have a career," Rivers remarked to Saint John with unholy glee. "At least you have someone ... er, something to fall back on!"
Disdaining a verbal retort as beneath her, Jo stuck out her tongue instead. "When String gets back I'm going to really push him to help us out at least with the stunt contracts if not the photography side. It's about time he rejoined the human race anyway."
"We could also use some help fixing Airwolf's weapons deployment pod," Mike interjected. "He's been flying the Lady longer than the three of us put together and should know her innards pretty well. Maybe he can show us a few shortcuts on that circuitry."
Saint John sobered at that, his voice dropping and taking on a warning timbre. "Don't press him too hard, either of you. He might not be up to it."
Jo tossed her head. "Nonsense. He'd've stayed up on that stupid mountain forever if Uncle Dom hadn't dragged him down for flying jobs. Uncle Dom said he was starting to come down on his own the last few months, and even went on a couple of dates." Hawke was regarding her doubtfully, and she wiggled in her chair until she could fix him with a direct gaze. "That is what he needs, Saint John, someone to drag him down here and make him part of the team. You said the same thing yourself just this morning. Besides, he shouldn't be alone so much; he'll feel better once he's around people again."
"Yeah, but will we?" Mike said gloomily. "If he and that sweet temper are going to be hanging around, things could be a little abrasive for awhile. In case you didn't notice, he and I don't exactly get along like ... well, like brothers."
A touch of the rogue appeared in Hawke's bland face; he turned one hand palm up. "You just have to learn to ignore him, Mikey, boy. It worked for me while he was growing up. Not very well, maybe, but...."
"I can ignore him right up until I punch him out," Rivers warned only half- joking. "Or him me. There's definitely a confrontation brewing here, comrades, and I don't see any way out of it."
Again Hawke waved that away. "What's a couple of bruises between friends?" Mike growled something unprintable, and Saint John grinned. "String's a little hard to get to know, but he's a good man to have backing you."
"He's got a quality you've always appreciated, Mike," Jo put in. "Loyalty. To a fault. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for a friend, and once he gives you his trust, you have it for life. You saw what he went through for Archangel."
"Of course, nobody's perfect," Saint John grumbled, mouth twisting at the agent's reference.
His companions turned to look at him. "Do I detect dissension in the ranks?" Mike wondered aloud, blue eyes going wide. "Not too fond of your kid brother's boss, eh?"
"His ex-boss," Hawke corrected firmly, sitting up very straight in his chair. "If String's going to be taking any missions, it's going to be with us and Jason, not on his own with that guy."
Jo exchanged a look with Mike, then said cautiously, "String worked off and on for the Firm for years -- with Archangel ever since they started testing Airwolf."
"And look where it got him," Hawke shot testily back. "Left alone to die in some hospital ward, while you all have to go against orders to pull me away from Buchard ... who was hired by the Company! Yeah, I feel real secure knowing String has backup like Michael Briggs."
Even the irrepressible Mike Rivers was sobered by his tone. "Didn't you say they had a meet set up this morning? It could've been a job."
"For information." Hawke's large hand tightened around his cup until the paper began to bend. "String said he was going to refuse any missions for a while."
Ignoring the warning in the gray eyes, Mike plunged on, his expression acknowledging the distaste this concept would engender in his friend. "He's been gone all day, Saint John. Archangel might have persuaded him into going back to work for the Company."
"That guy couldn't persuade String to cross the street," the older pilot growled, "not unless he was holding something over his head."
"Like you?"
"Like me."
Obviously in a suicidal mood, Mike waved one hand casually, a spark of mischief in his face that immediately brought Hawke around to face him warily. "Funny. From what I could see, Archangel and your brother didn't come off as the antagonistic but tolerant enemies you're trying to paint them. Look how glad they were to see each other after we got back from Mexico. Hugged and everything," he added, twisting the knife.
Jo, perceptively picking up on the undercurrents of the conversation, leaned her head back to study Hawke narrowly. "I thought you and Michael were getting along pretty well at the cabin last month. He was certainly grateful for the rescue."
Rivers pulled a towel out of his pocket and used it to wipe grease smears off his face, perversely changing sides just to be irritating. "He was about to be sold to an unfriendly country. Attila the Hun would've been grateful for the rescue."
"Besides which I wasn't expecting any of us to be working with him again," Hawke interjected, tapping his foot. "I thought Newman had this unit sewed up."
Jo smiled wistfully. "I don't know what you have against Michael, Saint John, but I certainly liked him. Such a charming man. And so handsome."
"So are cobras charming and handsome." Hawke retorted, leaning stubbornly back and crossing his legs again. "Doesn't make them any less deadly." He glanced from one teammate to the other, finding curiosity but little commiseration. "All right, let's just say I don't trust him and never did." They stared back blandly, causing him to flush. "So sue me for watching out for my brother! Maybe String doesn't always see the down side in his friends."
"He didn't look all that dense to me, big guy," Mike gibed, eyes sparkling devilishly. "I think he knows exactly what he's doing."
Jo concurred firmly. "String's pretty sharp and you know it, Saint John. He's not the seventeen year old kid we sent off to Viet Nam; he's all grown up." She waggled her fingers, frowning reminiscently. "Even back then he had a good head. No sense of humor but a good head. We never did have to worry about him on that score."
"Maybe," Hawke grumbled, patently unconvinced but forced to concede that particular issue. "But I hope he's choosing his real friends a little more carefully than his business acquaintances."
Jo ignored him, doggedly finishing her point despite the interruption. "And String did take that dangerous mission in Mexico to rescue Michael. That must prove they're friends.
"Any of us would have done that," Mike admitted fairly, balancing one sneaker over the other. "It's part of the job. Besides, he's as addicted to the rush as the rest of us."
"I'm not addicted," Jo returned with a shudder. "Much as I love flying Airwolf, I could live forever without having anyone shoot at me." She paused. "Literally."
That won hard stares from both Mike Rivers and Saint John Hawke. "We didn't know you felt that way, Jo," Saint John told her without reproach. "It never occurred to me you wouldn't love the action as much as we do."
She looked as though she regretted saying anything at all. "I guess it's a little harder going from ferrying choppers to getting shot at in them. At least you two were trained for combat before you got dumped into it. And Caitlin O'Shaunessey was a cop, which must have helped. I ... guess it's just going to take a civilian like me a while to get used to it all."
"When we see Locke we can tell him that," Mike said kindly, with none of his usual razzing. "You won't have to do it anymore."
Jo shook her head vehemently at that. "No way! If you guys are going in, so am I. It's a lot worse sitting here waiting for you than it is being in the thick of things."
Mike nodded understanding. "I'll vouch for that. Can't stand waiting on anyone. Makes me antsy."
"Speaking of which...." Saint John lifted his right wrist, looked at the watch there. "How about one of you giving me a lift home. It's getting late."
Mike assumed an upright stance, rubbing at his back as he straightened. "What happened? Baby brother didn't bring the Jimmy back?"
Gray eyes sparkled with amusement. "One of these days," Saint John warned, "you're going to forget and call him that to his face. And he's going to knock your teeth in."
Mike grinned boyishly. "I've got a feeling that's going to happen sooner or later anyway, no matter what I call him. Who knows? After I beat him up, we might become best friends."
"Provided you survive the experience," Saint John Hawke jeered back amiably. "The guy could always pull his weight."
"When Air force meets Army," Rivers returned with his own pride, "the Air Force always comes out on top." Unit honor satisfied, he changed the subject. "So what are you kids doing tonight? Want to watch a movie? By coincidence, Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter is on the tube."
Hawke and Jo exchanged a disbelieving look. "That's never a real movie?" Jo asked skeptically.
Rivers shrugged without embarrassment. "Well, yeah, it's a real movie. I saw it listed on one of the new cable channels. It should be a ... hoot!"
There were double groans, then Jo heaved herself to her feet. "I think I'll pass. I'm having enough trouble dealing with what's happening on this planet lately."
Hawke yawned and stretched, also standing. "Me, too. Not that I don't think Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter would be a fascinating movie to watch, of course ..."
"Of course," Rivers interjected impishly.
"... but I don't think I'm up for it tonight. I'm spending all day tomorrow working on Airwolf." He poked a finger at the other man. "And you're helping me, don't forget."
Mike stood and led the way to the door. "Suit yourselves, but you'll be missing.... Uh-oh."
"Uh-oh?" Santini and Hawke echoed from a step behind. "Uh-oh, what?" Saint John demanded.
"Uh-oh, me," came a new voice from the passage. It was followed by the appearance of a tall, well-dressed black man a moment later. His tailored brown suit hung from a muscled frame, hair and mustache both perfectly trimmed. He looked as neat as if he'd just stepped out of the shower for all that he must have put in as long a day as the three pilots. The black man smiled. "Glad I caught you before you left."
"Who says you did, Jason?" Mike growled, looking resigned nonetheless. "I'd be happy if we just pretended you'd missed me and came back in the morning."
Jason Locke stepped completely into the room and looked around. "Sorry. No can do." He stopped just across the threshold and gestured at the coffeepot. "Anybody mind?"
"It's your stomach," Rivers muttered, retreating sullenly back to his chair.
Locke shrugged and helped himself to the pot. He poured a white styrofoam cup half full, then added sugar and creamer. During this procedure, Jo also returned to her seat behind the desk and Saint John Hawke leaned against the wall. The three pilots maintained a politic silence until the black agent turned from the pot, doctored coffee held securely in his right hand.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you all here," he began, mustache twitching in a brief smile.
"I'm wondering why I'm not home in bed," Mike grumbled, retrieving his own coffee cup from where he'd left it only minutes earlier on Jo's desk. "I could be watching half naked cave women right about now."
Saint John crossed his arms on his chest, more watchful than sullen. "You've got a mission for us? Or does this have to do with String?"
Locke took the seat abandoned by Hawke earlier. "This doesn't have anything to do with your brother. I've got a mission for this team. Not tonight," he told Rivers, aborting the protest before it could be uttered. "Upcoming. I think you should hear about it now and be ready."
Mike exchanged a glance with Saint John, who maintained a stony silence. "Maybe you ought to talk to Archangel before you plan any missions in Airwolf," the younger pilot mentioned, earning himself a glare from Hawke. "He set up a meeting with Saint John's brother this morning. We don't know what it was about, but Airwolf is a prime possibility."
Locke turned on them both with a frown. "Archangel no longer liaisons with this team," he snapped. "I do."
Hawke spread his hands in a don't-ask-me gesture, then refolded them. "All we know is that String borrowed my car to meet with Archangel. It might not have anything to do with Airwolf; with the ADF pod still damaged, she's not going to be available for at least another day, maybe two."
"And it's not like Michael outranks you or anything," Mike jeered, emphasizing the difference in the two agents' positions by holding one hand high over his head and the other one at knee level.
Again there was that slight humorous twitch of the mustache even though the irritation didn't leave the black man's eyes. "Okay, so I don't rate as high as the Deputy Director of Operations, but procedure dictates that I be notified of any missions impinging on my realm of authority. That includes you all and Airwolf."
Jo brushed the hair out of her face for the dozenth time that day. "As Saint John said, it might not have anything to do with Airwolf. After all, we occasionally do ground missions for the Company; maybe String does, too."
"You only do ground missions when there's a good chance Airwolf will be needed," Locke pointed out firmly, jabbing his cup in her direction for emphasis. "Michael used outside agents freely, but I've been trying to restrict knowledge of the Lady close to this team; that's why I've used you three so much. Besides, Archangel can draw on several hundred people world- wide; he wouldn't need to rely on a maverick ... I mean, independent pilot."
"You can find out what's going on when you get back to Knightsbridge," Saint John said calmly, hard-learned stoicism preventing even a hint of the impatience Jo and Mike were showing from touching his features. "Why don't you tell us about the mission. You said it wouldn't be going down tonight, anyway."
Locke took a gulp from his cup then made a face and stared down into its depths much as Mike had done earlier. "Did I pour the paint thinner by mistake?" He shrugged, took another sip and briefly scanned the assembled trio. "Ever hear of a group called Muhallah?"
"Wasn't that in the newspapers?" Jo asked, large blue eyes wide. "They're that terrorist group working out of ... is it Syria? They've claimed responsibility for blowing up some American installations in Europe."
Locke pursed his full lips grimly. "Not just blowing up American installations. Raiding them."
"Obviously we're talking about American military installations?" Saint John guessed, annoyance melted away now that the discussion no longer centered on his brother.
Locke nodded. "American recently, but they've hit NATO weapons depots all across Europe. Missiles, rockets, ammo -- they've filled somebody's Christmas wish list to the max. Rumor is that they're going to be using those weapons soon. Israel is the target of choice. And Israel," he finished with a genial wave, "is one of our best allies."
Mike sighed and sank lower in his chair. He leaned his head against its back, tilting it until he could watch Locke out of one eye. "And the Company is going to want Airwolf in on the assault against this Muhallah's base of ops, right? As what? Solo or part of a task force?"
"Why not just send in the Air Force or Navy fighters?" Jo asked naively. "Isn't that what they're for?"
There was a moment's hesitation before Locke's head came up. "Officially, the United States can not become involved in any strikes in Syrian air space at this time. There's some high level negotiations going on right now with several of the Palestinian groups that could be jeopardized by a full scale military assault on their turf. But a covert offensive -- one helicopter with enough fire power to cripple Muhallah until the negotiations are over...."
"Provided they're keeping all those weapons in one spot," Saint John said, gray eyes calculating.
Jason waved one hand. "Word has it that they've only got one central stockpile for the stuff right now, but that's going to change soon. As soon as we find out where that stockpile is, we'll be going in after it."
The three considered the implications of this; a single-craft attack against the heavily armed group could be dangerous if not suicidal. "Any leads yet?" Mike asked, not the flicker of an eyelash betraying any of the reservations he must be having.
Jason finished his coffee and put the styrofoam cup on the desk. Jo wearily scooped it up and dumped it in the nearby wastecan. "Locating Muhallah isn't being handled by Newman's department. Pamela, one of Michael's angels, is coordinating that phase. I don't know the particulars but I do know she's managed to identify the head of the raids. He's an American by the name of Bishop Morris."
Saint John stiffened, drawing away from the wall and dropping his hands to his sides. "Bishop Morris. Big guy, black, would be in his mid-forties now, with a scar about here." He traced his jawline from ear to chin.
Cocking his head alertly, Jason too drew himself erect. "That's Morris. How do you know him?"
Gray eyes narrowed with distaste. "Officially, he was a chopper pilot associated with one of my early crews. He flew cover for my team in 'Nam for about a year before Marty Vidor took command and kicked him out. Unofficially, he was Colonel Phil Curtis' right hand man."
"Colonel Curtis!" Jo, like the others, gaped at the familiar name. "The same Colonel Curtis that was killed a few weeks ago when we helped break up that opium ring?"
Hawke nodded. "One and the same. Colonel Curtis had already started selling drugs to the kids in the area, and Morris helped him distribute. He was bad news. He used to brag about making more money there in a week than he could back home in a year. When Curtis got transferred he brought Morris along so they could work as a team at their stinking racket."
"I take it you like him about as much as you liked Curtis," Mike remarked with a wry smile. "How come you never turned him in?"
Hawke tossed his head. "The guy was scum, but clever. Everybody knew what he was doing but he never left evidence around, and he was too good a pilot to throw away without proof." He swallowed as though there was a bad taste in his mouth, his gaze briefly focusing on a scene two decades old. "In 'Nam ninety percent of the troops dealt with the black market in some form or another, even if it was only to score American bubblegum. You minded your own business and did your own job. Way it was."
"It doesn't sound very nice," Jo said, frowning disapprovingly. "You'd think somebody would care if the law was being broken."
Saint John tilted his head until he could meet her eyes, his own curiously flat. "A lot of laws get broken during wartime. You do what you can when you can and wear heavy blinders the rest of the time."
"Amen," Jason muttered, his own days in Viet Nam rife in his dark features. He came back to himself with a snap, face clearing. "It seems Bishop Morris decided to get religion a few months ago ... or, at least, a well paying job with Muhallah. We suspect the next raid will take place on one of the NATO installations in Greece but that's still only rumor. Pamela thinks Archangel had a shot at finding out who was bankrolling Muhallah through Morris."
"Didn't he brief you?" That was Mike, who was yawning but reasonably attentive now that he knew he didn't have to do any flying tonight.
Jason shook his head. "He said only that he had a possible inside contact, who would be able to feed us the information we'd need to make the hit." Irritation crossed his face, the grimace mingled with resignation. "Michael can be even more tight-lipped on this need-to-know stuff than I am when he puts his mind to it. There are times when he pushes the 'they don't tell me, I don't tell you,' principle to new limits."
"Worse than you? That's a little hard to believe," Jo teased, smiling warmly to remove any possible offense from the statement. "You talk about as much as String does when there's something you don't want to say."
Locke smiled back; he'd always liked Jo. "Me as bad as Stringfellow Hawke? Bite your tongue, girl! Although I'd've liked to see what kind of normal rapport he had with Michael. That could have been interesting to watch."
"It would have been boring," Saint John corrected from his post against the wall. "String can go days without uttering more than a grunt."
"And Michael can talk for hours and convey about the same amount of information," Jason volleyed with a chuckle. "Those two were well matched." He sighed and stared at his hands, turning the heavy gold ring on his right pinky around thoughtfully, his slumped shoulders betraying his own weariness. "Unfortunately, that doesn't help us much. Without knowing who Michael's source of information is, we're stuck with sitting and waiting for the word to come down."
"Always the hardest part," Rivers said sympathetically. He, Jo and Jason all jumped when Hawke slapped his forehead with a loud clap.
"String!" the big blond exclaimed. "He's Archangel's source of information."
Jason looked puzzled. "What?"
Fists on his hips, Saint John left the wall to step closer to the trio's chairs. "Archangel had a meeting with String this morning. It probably had something to do with Bishop Morris! I knew Morris about six months to a year before String shipped in. As soon as he got there Bishop made a move on him, trying to recruit him to courier drugs in and out of 'Nam." Hawke's long jaw tightened, disgust deepening the creases around his eyes and wide mouth. "Morris used to hit on all the new kids as soon as they arrived, offer them drugs and women, persuade them to work for him once they were hooked."
"Dealing with the kid brother of ol' Straight-Arrow Saint John Hawke," Mike interjected with a grin, "I'll bet Morris didn't get too far."
Saint John relaxed fractionally, the memory of his brother's reaction removing some of the indignation. "String was only seventeen when I arranged for him to join me after Marty Vidor was promoted to Colonel," he acknowledged with a nod, "but he knew the situation was less than groovy and was steering clear even before I had a chance to warn Morris off." He focussed first on Jason, shifting to stare at a spot on the painted wall. "It didn't dawn on me at first because they only had casual, professional contact before Morris was transferred to Colonel Curtis' staff, but I'll bet String is Archangel's possible source. He might want him to infiltrate on the basis of old Army contacts." He punched one hand with the other, rubbing his knuckles. "Why didn't Michael come to me, instead? I was the one who knew Morris back then."
"Good question. Perhaps he was looking for someone with a little less history?" Locke's dark eyes gleamed as he calculated the probability that this was the answer. "But I thought your brother wasn't doing any jobs for a while. Has he changed his mind?"
"Addicted," Jo murmured cryptically.
Jason shot her a puzzled look but addressed Saint John. "Nevertheless, you may have hit on the answer. Whatever Archangel's source, we'll be leaving as soon as we know where and when, so you and Mike try to stay close."
"What about me?" Jo asked, a curious mixture of eagerness and trepidation shading her pretty face.
"You, too," Jason told her. "Not in Airwolf, but we might need an intermediary on the ground, probably in Athens base. I'll know more once I hear from Archangel."
Jo sighed but her smile was bright. "Well, I always wanted to see Greece. Not necessarily from inside a bunker...."
"All assuming," Hawke interjected reasonably, although there was little doubt and less approval on his strong-planed face, "that that's what Archangel wanted String to do, and that String was willing."
"He must have been," Rivers said. "After all, what else has he been doing all day?"
***
At Santini Air, these never ending chores were accomplished for the day. Three people sat slumped in the rear controller's office, cups of stale coffee clasped in tired hands. Silence was the order for a long time, finally broken by a grease stained Mike Rivers, who wrinkled his nose at his cup.
"Man," he groaned, risking a sniff. "How old is this stuff, anyway? For a minute I thought I got hold of the paint thinner."
Joanna Santini groaned and put her feet up on her desk one at a time. "It could be the paint thinner for all my stomach knows. Anybody have a Rolaid handy?"
"I think I have a Lifesaver," Saint John Hawke offered, digging into his jeans pocket. He withdrew a lint-festooned packet and tossed it the short distance to the woman, who allowed it to bounce off her chest to the floor. "Good catch," he remarked, lethargically watching it roll under her chair.
Jo hmphed, her breath stirring a strand of long blonde hair that had escaped the barrette she wore. "Lifesavers won't cut it, Saint John. I need food. Food and a shower." She rubbed wearily at the oily stains that covered her once white coverall. "How long did it take us to get the Steerman back together, anyway? It feels like we've been working on it for days."
To her right, Mike glanced at his wristwatch, having to scrape grease off its face with his thumb before he could read it. "Nine hours, thirty-seven minutes, not counting the delivery time on the new parts."
"All from cheap fuel," Saint John said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Next time we only go with a supplier with a reference."
"He had a reference," Jo groaned, wiggling her sneaker clad feet on the desk, "from Jake. I think he must be getting a referral fee or something."
Mike indicated the worn auxiliary pump sitting on the stack of newspapers to protect the old carpet. "First thing tomorrow I'm going to take that down to Kimball Oil and shove it up the owner's nose. If there hadn't been so much sediment in his tanks, this would have lasted."
"Think he'll pay for the parts?" Jo asked hopefully. "This really is an expense we can't meet."
Hawke raised his head, fixing her with sharp gray eyes. "Is the money situation really that bad? I know what you told String, but if you need help, I can...."
Jo waved her hand but the smile she gave him was grateful. "Not necessary, Saint John. Santini Air is meeting its own expenses ... or we would be if we weren't spending so much time lately on Jason's assignments instead of charters. He may be paying a salary, but it's not always enough to run a transport business."
"Assignments are basically what I'm here for," Mike pointed out, scratching his stubbled jaw. "Working at Santini Air is my cover for Company missions. Saint John's too, if you get down to it."
"I know that." Jo kicked at the stack of invoices by her left foot; the topmost was emblazoned with the red inked, AMOUNT DUE. "It's just that I ... well, Uncle Dom wasn't rich but he turned a profit with this company and I want to, too. If only to prove I can do it."
"You don't have to prove anything, Jo," Hawke told her. "Not to us."
"I know that too," the woman returned. "But maybe I have to prove it to myself. I've spent my whole life working as a chopper jockey for other people. This is my chance to make it on my own and I really want to make it work even without that salary Jason got for me. Not that it's much for sitting around on stand-by most of the time." She grinned at Mike, who was studying the depths of his cup as though there was something alive in it. "Maybe I should join the Air Force and pull in the big bucks like Major Rivers does."
Mike hooted derisively. "Right. Biiiig bucks. And I get to travel, too -- Iran, Cambodia, Afghanistan...."
Saint John interrupted the familiar if insincere litany. "You need to give yourself a chance, Jo. It's only been three months since you took over Santini Air, and a lot of that was spent working for Locke." He stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. "You need time to build up the clientele again. We've lessons booked through every week, and a few more charters should catch up all those bills. And you'll do even better once word gets around."
"I should already have that from the reputation Uncle Dom had." Jo leaned forward until she could place her mug on the desk without lowering her propped up feet. "According to his books ..." She indicated some ledgers on a shelf behind where Hawke was sitting. "... he was doing fine. Charters were always light but he did real well from those movie shoots. And the stunts...!" She sighed. "I sure would like to sink my teeth into them! But Bellisarius and Warner both cancelled the contracts as soon as they heard about Uncle Dom and String, and none of the other production companies want inexperienced stunt pilots, either."
"Inexperienced?" Mike stared disbelievingly. "Between the three of us, we've got seventy or eighty years air time logged. What kind of experience do they want, anyway?"
"Movie experience," Jo grumbled, brushing that annoying strand of hair out of her mouth. She sighed again, a wistful look on her pretty face. "Just think -- working with stunt men and gaffers and cameramen and best boys ... whatever they are. Actors and actresses. I think that would be great."
"It might be fun at that," Rivers agreed, following Jo's example and also putting his feet up on the desk. "As a kid I used to want to be an actor more than anything. Next to piloting, that is."
Saint John turned his head to regard the younger man with overt amusement. "You, Mike? An actor?"
Round chin in the air, boyish features cavalier, Rivers struck a pose that might have been a formal bow had he not been sitting on his spine. "Whass'a matter?" he asked. "You don't think I'm the leading man type?
Hawke chuckled snidely. "Yeah, for a Godzilla movie."
"I'll have you know, Mister Saint John Hawke, that in high school I played the lead in the school play." Rivers dropped his feet to the floor and straightened, one arm upraised. "You, my friend, are looking at the star of the Malibu High production of The Last of the Mohicans."
"If you played the wolf," Saint John jeered good-naturedly, "I'd call it typecasting."
Mike harumphed back, leaving it to Jo to pick up the lagging conversation. "Be that as it may, I'd still like a few openings in the business. We might not know the photography techniques, but we can at least fly the stunts." She lightly clasped her hands in her lap. "I talked to that Leonardi guy over at Lucas this morning."
"You didn't mention it," Saint John Hawke prodded with interest. "I assume that means we didn't get the job?"
She rolled her eyes. "If we had've gotten the job, everyone from here to Schenectady would have known it. He asked me very politely about the business, gave his condolences on Uncle Dom and asked if String was going to be doing any flying."
"My brother has a pretty good reputation in the business," Hawke said with brotherly pride.
Jo gave him a dirty look. "Yeah, he does. But no one wants to hire Santini Air for stunt flying without Uncle Dom or String in the picture." The dirty look became a glower. "However, if I ever want to become a kept woman, I'm welcome to call Jocko Leonardi any time."
"Everyone should have a career," Rivers remarked to Saint John with unholy glee. "At least you have someone ... er, something to fall back on!"
Disdaining a verbal retort as beneath her, Jo stuck out her tongue instead. "When String gets back I'm going to really push him to help us out at least with the stunt contracts if not the photography side. It's about time he rejoined the human race anyway."
"We could also use some help fixing Airwolf's weapons deployment pod," Mike interjected. "He's been flying the Lady longer than the three of us put together and should know her innards pretty well. Maybe he can show us a few shortcuts on that circuitry."
Saint John sobered at that, his voice dropping and taking on a warning timbre. "Don't press him too hard, either of you. He might not be up to it."
Jo tossed her head. "Nonsense. He'd've stayed up on that stupid mountain forever if Uncle Dom hadn't dragged him down for flying jobs. Uncle Dom said he was starting to come down on his own the last few months, and even went on a couple of dates." Hawke was regarding her doubtfully, and she wiggled in her chair until she could fix him with a direct gaze. "That is what he needs, Saint John, someone to drag him down here and make him part of the team. You said the same thing yourself just this morning. Besides, he shouldn't be alone so much; he'll feel better once he's around people again."
"Yeah, but will we?" Mike said gloomily. "If he and that sweet temper are going to be hanging around, things could be a little abrasive for awhile. In case you didn't notice, he and I don't exactly get along like ... well, like brothers."
A touch of the rogue appeared in Hawke's bland face; he turned one hand palm up. "You just have to learn to ignore him, Mikey, boy. It worked for me while he was growing up. Not very well, maybe, but...."
"I can ignore him right up until I punch him out," Rivers warned only half- joking. "Or him me. There's definitely a confrontation brewing here, comrades, and I don't see any way out of it."
Again Hawke waved that away. "What's a couple of bruises between friends?" Mike growled something unprintable, and Saint John grinned. "String's a little hard to get to know, but he's a good man to have backing you."
"He's got a quality you've always appreciated, Mike," Jo put in. "Loyalty. To a fault. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for a friend, and once he gives you his trust, you have it for life. You saw what he went through for Archangel."
"Of course, nobody's perfect," Saint John grumbled, mouth twisting at the agent's reference.
His companions turned to look at him. "Do I detect dissension in the ranks?" Mike wondered aloud, blue eyes going wide. "Not too fond of your kid brother's boss, eh?"
"His ex-boss," Hawke corrected firmly, sitting up very straight in his chair. "If String's going to be taking any missions, it's going to be with us and Jason, not on his own with that guy."
Jo exchanged a look with Mike, then said cautiously, "String worked off and on for the Firm for years -- with Archangel ever since they started testing Airwolf."
"And look where it got him," Hawke shot testily back. "Left alone to die in some hospital ward, while you all have to go against orders to pull me away from Buchard ... who was hired by the Company! Yeah, I feel real secure knowing String has backup like Michael Briggs."
Even the irrepressible Mike Rivers was sobered by his tone. "Didn't you say they had a meet set up this morning? It could've been a job."
"For information." Hawke's large hand tightened around his cup until the paper began to bend. "String said he was going to refuse any missions for a while."
Ignoring the warning in the gray eyes, Mike plunged on, his expression acknowledging the distaste this concept would engender in his friend. "He's been gone all day, Saint John. Archangel might have persuaded him into going back to work for the Company."
"That guy couldn't persuade String to cross the street," the older pilot growled, "not unless he was holding something over his head."
"Like you?"
"Like me."
Obviously in a suicidal mood, Mike waved one hand casually, a spark of mischief in his face that immediately brought Hawke around to face him warily. "Funny. From what I could see, Archangel and your brother didn't come off as the antagonistic but tolerant enemies you're trying to paint them. Look how glad they were to see each other after we got back from Mexico. Hugged and everything," he added, twisting the knife.
Jo, perceptively picking up on the undercurrents of the conversation, leaned her head back to study Hawke narrowly. "I thought you and Michael were getting along pretty well at the cabin last month. He was certainly grateful for the rescue."
Rivers pulled a towel out of his pocket and used it to wipe grease smears off his face, perversely changing sides just to be irritating. "He was about to be sold to an unfriendly country. Attila the Hun would've been grateful for the rescue."
"Besides which I wasn't expecting any of us to be working with him again," Hawke interjected, tapping his foot. "I thought Newman had this unit sewed up."
Jo smiled wistfully. "I don't know what you have against Michael, Saint John, but I certainly liked him. Such a charming man. And so handsome."
"So are cobras charming and handsome." Hawke retorted, leaning stubbornly back and crossing his legs again. "Doesn't make them any less deadly." He glanced from one teammate to the other, finding curiosity but little commiseration. "All right, let's just say I don't trust him and never did." They stared back blandly, causing him to flush. "So sue me for watching out for my brother! Maybe String doesn't always see the down side in his friends."
"He didn't look all that dense to me, big guy," Mike gibed, eyes sparkling devilishly. "I think he knows exactly what he's doing."
Jo concurred firmly. "String's pretty sharp and you know it, Saint John. He's not the seventeen year old kid we sent off to Viet Nam; he's all grown up." She waggled her fingers, frowning reminiscently. "Even back then he had a good head. No sense of humor but a good head. We never did have to worry about him on that score."
"Maybe," Hawke grumbled, patently unconvinced but forced to concede that particular issue. "But I hope he's choosing his real friends a little more carefully than his business acquaintances."
Jo ignored him, doggedly finishing her point despite the interruption. "And String did take that dangerous mission in Mexico to rescue Michael. That must prove they're friends.
"Any of us would have done that," Mike admitted fairly, balancing one sneaker over the other. "It's part of the job. Besides, he's as addicted to the rush as the rest of us."
"I'm not addicted," Jo returned with a shudder. "Much as I love flying Airwolf, I could live forever without having anyone shoot at me." She paused. "Literally."
That won hard stares from both Mike Rivers and Saint John Hawke. "We didn't know you felt that way, Jo," Saint John told her without reproach. "It never occurred to me you wouldn't love the action as much as we do."
She looked as though she regretted saying anything at all. "I guess it's a little harder going from ferrying choppers to getting shot at in them. At least you two were trained for combat before you got dumped into it. And Caitlin O'Shaunessey was a cop, which must have helped. I ... guess it's just going to take a civilian like me a while to get used to it all."
"When we see Locke we can tell him that," Mike said kindly, with none of his usual razzing. "You won't have to do it anymore."
Jo shook her head vehemently at that. "No way! If you guys are going in, so am I. It's a lot worse sitting here waiting for you than it is being in the thick of things."
Mike nodded understanding. "I'll vouch for that. Can't stand waiting on anyone. Makes me antsy."
"Speaking of which...." Saint John lifted his right wrist, looked at the watch there. "How about one of you giving me a lift home. It's getting late."
Mike assumed an upright stance, rubbing at his back as he straightened. "What happened? Baby brother didn't bring the Jimmy back?"
Gray eyes sparkled with amusement. "One of these days," Saint John warned, "you're going to forget and call him that to his face. And he's going to knock your teeth in."
Mike grinned boyishly. "I've got a feeling that's going to happen sooner or later anyway, no matter what I call him. Who knows? After I beat him up, we might become best friends."
"Provided you survive the experience," Saint John Hawke jeered back amiably. "The guy could always pull his weight."
"When Air force meets Army," Rivers returned with his own pride, "the Air Force always comes out on top." Unit honor satisfied, he changed the subject. "So what are you kids doing tonight? Want to watch a movie? By coincidence, Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter is on the tube."
Hawke and Jo exchanged a disbelieving look. "That's never a real movie?" Jo asked skeptically.
Rivers shrugged without embarrassment. "Well, yeah, it's a real movie. I saw it listed on one of the new cable channels. It should be a ... hoot!"
There were double groans, then Jo heaved herself to her feet. "I think I'll pass. I'm having enough trouble dealing with what's happening on this planet lately."
Hawke yawned and stretched, also standing. "Me, too. Not that I don't think Prehistoric Cave Women from the Planet Hooter would be a fascinating movie to watch, of course ..."
"Of course," Rivers interjected impishly.
"... but I don't think I'm up for it tonight. I'm spending all day tomorrow working on Airwolf." He poked a finger at the other man. "And you're helping me, don't forget."
Mike stood and led the way to the door. "Suit yourselves, but you'll be missing.... Uh-oh."
"Uh-oh?" Santini and Hawke echoed from a step behind. "Uh-oh, what?" Saint John demanded.
"Uh-oh, me," came a new voice from the passage. It was followed by the appearance of a tall, well-dressed black man a moment later. His tailored brown suit hung from a muscled frame, hair and mustache both perfectly trimmed. He looked as neat as if he'd just stepped out of the shower for all that he must have put in as long a day as the three pilots. The black man smiled. "Glad I caught you before you left."
"Who says you did, Jason?" Mike growled, looking resigned nonetheless. "I'd be happy if we just pretended you'd missed me and came back in the morning."
Jason Locke stepped completely into the room and looked around. "Sorry. No can do." He stopped just across the threshold and gestured at the coffeepot. "Anybody mind?"
"It's your stomach," Rivers muttered, retreating sullenly back to his chair.
Locke shrugged and helped himself to the pot. He poured a white styrofoam cup half full, then added sugar and creamer. During this procedure, Jo also returned to her seat behind the desk and Saint John Hawke leaned against the wall. The three pilots maintained a politic silence until the black agent turned from the pot, doctored coffee held securely in his right hand.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you all here," he began, mustache twitching in a brief smile.
"I'm wondering why I'm not home in bed," Mike grumbled, retrieving his own coffee cup from where he'd left it only minutes earlier on Jo's desk. "I could be watching half naked cave women right about now."
Saint John crossed his arms on his chest, more watchful than sullen. "You've got a mission for us? Or does this have to do with String?"
Locke took the seat abandoned by Hawke earlier. "This doesn't have anything to do with your brother. I've got a mission for this team. Not tonight," he told Rivers, aborting the protest before it could be uttered. "Upcoming. I think you should hear about it now and be ready."
Mike exchanged a glance with Saint John, who maintained a stony silence. "Maybe you ought to talk to Archangel before you plan any missions in Airwolf," the younger pilot mentioned, earning himself a glare from Hawke. "He set up a meeting with Saint John's brother this morning. We don't know what it was about, but Airwolf is a prime possibility."
Locke turned on them both with a frown. "Archangel no longer liaisons with this team," he snapped. "I do."
Hawke spread his hands in a don't-ask-me gesture, then refolded them. "All we know is that String borrowed my car to meet with Archangel. It might not have anything to do with Airwolf; with the ADF pod still damaged, she's not going to be available for at least another day, maybe two."
"And it's not like Michael outranks you or anything," Mike jeered, emphasizing the difference in the two agents' positions by holding one hand high over his head and the other one at knee level.
Again there was that slight humorous twitch of the mustache even though the irritation didn't leave the black man's eyes. "Okay, so I don't rate as high as the Deputy Director of Operations, but procedure dictates that I be notified of any missions impinging on my realm of authority. That includes you all and Airwolf."
Jo brushed the hair out of her face for the dozenth time that day. "As Saint John said, it might not have anything to do with Airwolf. After all, we occasionally do ground missions for the Company; maybe String does, too."
"You only do ground missions when there's a good chance Airwolf will be needed," Locke pointed out firmly, jabbing his cup in her direction for emphasis. "Michael used outside agents freely, but I've been trying to restrict knowledge of the Lady close to this team; that's why I've used you three so much. Besides, Archangel can draw on several hundred people world- wide; he wouldn't need to rely on a maverick ... I mean, independent pilot."
"You can find out what's going on when you get back to Knightsbridge," Saint John said calmly, hard-learned stoicism preventing even a hint of the impatience Jo and Mike were showing from touching his features. "Why don't you tell us about the mission. You said it wouldn't be going down tonight, anyway."
Locke took a gulp from his cup then made a face and stared down into its depths much as Mike had done earlier. "Did I pour the paint thinner by mistake?" He shrugged, took another sip and briefly scanned the assembled trio. "Ever hear of a group called Muhallah?"
"Wasn't that in the newspapers?" Jo asked, large blue eyes wide. "They're that terrorist group working out of ... is it Syria? They've claimed responsibility for blowing up some American installations in Europe."
Locke pursed his full lips grimly. "Not just blowing up American installations. Raiding them."
"Obviously we're talking about American military installations?" Saint John guessed, annoyance melted away now that the discussion no longer centered on his brother.
Locke nodded. "American recently, but they've hit NATO weapons depots all across Europe. Missiles, rockets, ammo -- they've filled somebody's Christmas wish list to the max. Rumor is that they're going to be using those weapons soon. Israel is the target of choice. And Israel," he finished with a genial wave, "is one of our best allies."
Mike sighed and sank lower in his chair. He leaned his head against its back, tilting it until he could watch Locke out of one eye. "And the Company is going to want Airwolf in on the assault against this Muhallah's base of ops, right? As what? Solo or part of a task force?"
"Why not just send in the Air Force or Navy fighters?" Jo asked naively. "Isn't that what they're for?"
There was a moment's hesitation before Locke's head came up. "Officially, the United States can not become involved in any strikes in Syrian air space at this time. There's some high level negotiations going on right now with several of the Palestinian groups that could be jeopardized by a full scale military assault on their turf. But a covert offensive -- one helicopter with enough fire power to cripple Muhallah until the negotiations are over...."
"Provided they're keeping all those weapons in one spot," Saint John said, gray eyes calculating.
Jason waved one hand. "Word has it that they've only got one central stockpile for the stuff right now, but that's going to change soon. As soon as we find out where that stockpile is, we'll be going in after it."
The three considered the implications of this; a single-craft attack against the heavily armed group could be dangerous if not suicidal. "Any leads yet?" Mike asked, not the flicker of an eyelash betraying any of the reservations he must be having.
Jason finished his coffee and put the styrofoam cup on the desk. Jo wearily scooped it up and dumped it in the nearby wastecan. "Locating Muhallah isn't being handled by Newman's department. Pamela, one of Michael's angels, is coordinating that phase. I don't know the particulars but I do know she's managed to identify the head of the raids. He's an American by the name of Bishop Morris."
Saint John stiffened, drawing away from the wall and dropping his hands to his sides. "Bishop Morris. Big guy, black, would be in his mid-forties now, with a scar about here." He traced his jawline from ear to chin.
Cocking his head alertly, Jason too drew himself erect. "That's Morris. How do you know him?"
Gray eyes narrowed with distaste. "Officially, he was a chopper pilot associated with one of my early crews. He flew cover for my team in 'Nam for about a year before Marty Vidor took command and kicked him out. Unofficially, he was Colonel Phil Curtis' right hand man."
"Colonel Curtis!" Jo, like the others, gaped at the familiar name. "The same Colonel Curtis that was killed a few weeks ago when we helped break up that opium ring?"
Hawke nodded. "One and the same. Colonel Curtis had already started selling drugs to the kids in the area, and Morris helped him distribute. He was bad news. He used to brag about making more money there in a week than he could back home in a year. When Curtis got transferred he brought Morris along so they could work as a team at their stinking racket."
"I take it you like him about as much as you liked Curtis," Mike remarked with a wry smile. "How come you never turned him in?"
Hawke tossed his head. "The guy was scum, but clever. Everybody knew what he was doing but he never left evidence around, and he was too good a pilot to throw away without proof." He swallowed as though there was a bad taste in his mouth, his gaze briefly focusing on a scene two decades old. "In 'Nam ninety percent of the troops dealt with the black market in some form or another, even if it was only to score American bubblegum. You minded your own business and did your own job. Way it was."
"It doesn't sound very nice," Jo said, frowning disapprovingly. "You'd think somebody would care if the law was being broken."
Saint John tilted his head until he could meet her eyes, his own curiously flat. "A lot of laws get broken during wartime. You do what you can when you can and wear heavy blinders the rest of the time."
"Amen," Jason muttered, his own days in Viet Nam rife in his dark features. He came back to himself with a snap, face clearing. "It seems Bishop Morris decided to get religion a few months ago ... or, at least, a well paying job with Muhallah. We suspect the next raid will take place on one of the NATO installations in Greece but that's still only rumor. Pamela thinks Archangel had a shot at finding out who was bankrolling Muhallah through Morris."
"Didn't he brief you?" That was Mike, who was yawning but reasonably attentive now that he knew he didn't have to do any flying tonight.
Jason shook his head. "He said only that he had a possible inside contact, who would be able to feed us the information we'd need to make the hit." Irritation crossed his face, the grimace mingled with resignation. "Michael can be even more tight-lipped on this need-to-know stuff than I am when he puts his mind to it. There are times when he pushes the 'they don't tell me, I don't tell you,' principle to new limits."
"Worse than you? That's a little hard to believe," Jo teased, smiling warmly to remove any possible offense from the statement. "You talk about as much as String does when there's something you don't want to say."
Locke smiled back; he'd always liked Jo. "Me as bad as Stringfellow Hawke? Bite your tongue, girl! Although I'd've liked to see what kind of normal rapport he had with Michael. That could have been interesting to watch."
"It would have been boring," Saint John corrected from his post against the wall. "String can go days without uttering more than a grunt."
"And Michael can talk for hours and convey about the same amount of information," Jason volleyed with a chuckle. "Those two were well matched." He sighed and stared at his hands, turning the heavy gold ring on his right pinky around thoughtfully, his slumped shoulders betraying his own weariness. "Unfortunately, that doesn't help us much. Without knowing who Michael's source of information is, we're stuck with sitting and waiting for the word to come down."
"Always the hardest part," Rivers said sympathetically. He, Jo and Jason all jumped when Hawke slapped his forehead with a loud clap.
"String!" the big blond exclaimed. "He's Archangel's source of information."
Jason looked puzzled. "What?"
Fists on his hips, Saint John left the wall to step closer to the trio's chairs. "Archangel had a meeting with String this morning. It probably had something to do with Bishop Morris! I knew Morris about six months to a year before String shipped in. As soon as he got there Bishop made a move on him, trying to recruit him to courier drugs in and out of 'Nam." Hawke's long jaw tightened, disgust deepening the creases around his eyes and wide mouth. "Morris used to hit on all the new kids as soon as they arrived, offer them drugs and women, persuade them to work for him once they were hooked."
"Dealing with the kid brother of ol' Straight-Arrow Saint John Hawke," Mike interjected with a grin, "I'll bet Morris didn't get too far."
Saint John relaxed fractionally, the memory of his brother's reaction removing some of the indignation. "String was only seventeen when I arranged for him to join me after Marty Vidor was promoted to Colonel," he acknowledged with a nod, "but he knew the situation was less than groovy and was steering clear even before I had a chance to warn Morris off." He focussed first on Jason, shifting to stare at a spot on the painted wall. "It didn't dawn on me at first because they only had casual, professional contact before Morris was transferred to Colonel Curtis' staff, but I'll bet String is Archangel's possible source. He might want him to infiltrate on the basis of old Army contacts." He punched one hand with the other, rubbing his knuckles. "Why didn't Michael come to me, instead? I was the one who knew Morris back then."
"Good question. Perhaps he was looking for someone with a little less history?" Locke's dark eyes gleamed as he calculated the probability that this was the answer. "But I thought your brother wasn't doing any jobs for a while. Has he changed his mind?"
"Addicted," Jo murmured cryptically.
Jason shot her a puzzled look but addressed Saint John. "Nevertheless, you may have hit on the answer. Whatever Archangel's source, we'll be leaving as soon as we know where and when, so you and Mike try to stay close."
"What about me?" Jo asked, a curious mixture of eagerness and trepidation shading her pretty face.
"You, too," Jason told her. "Not in Airwolf, but we might need an intermediary on the ground, probably in Athens base. I'll know more once I hear from Archangel."
Jo sighed but her smile was bright. "Well, I always wanted to see Greece. Not necessarily from inside a bunker...."
"All assuming," Hawke interjected reasonably, although there was little doubt and less approval on his strong-planed face, "that that's what Archangel wanted String to do, and that String was willing."
"He must have been," Rivers said. "After all, what else has he been doing all day?"
***