Eight o'clock brought another beautiful day to Van Nuys Airport and a busy
one for Santini Air. The biplane was back together and restored to its
position tied down in one of the slots, but there was maintenance work
needed for the Sikorsky, and the first of the day's paying jobs was
scheduled for ten. This cluttered agenda was complicated by the fact that
two of the three persons attached to the company would be spending most of
the day at the mountain refuge known as the Lair working on a damaged
Airwolf.
With such a cluttered agenda before them, it was not surprising that Santini Air's three resident pilot/mechanics were taking advantage of what few minutes they had before the day's official start. They lounged in the reception area at the front of the building, leisurely enjoying coffee and donuts, and discussing their upcoming chores.
Mike finished sugaring his coffee, taking an experimental sip before opening the Dunkin' Donuts box Jo had brought in with her. He studied its contents curiously, giving the box a shake. Puffs of cinnamon and chocolate dust rose around him, deliciously scenting the air. "What? No powdered sugar?" he asked plaintively, shoving confectioneries aside with his stirrer when shaking failed to disclose his favorite.
"What're you doing, panning for gold?" Jo snapped, taking the box out of his hands. "I don't like powdered sugar, okay? You want powdered sugar, you buy them next time."
"I'm a chocolate fan, myself," Saint John said, leaning over her shoulder and selecting a gooey, chocolate topped donut. He considered and took another, shoving the first into his mouth and swallowing it in a single gulp. "And cinnamon," he managed, gulping again. "And sugar. And....
"And you're going to be big as a house if you keep that up." Jo again relocated the box, this time back in range of Rivers' questing fingers. She sighed and gave it up to inspect Hawke's big boned, athletic figure, then shook her head. "Or not. I don't know where you put it. You eat like a moose and never put on a pound."
"I've put on fifteen pounds since I've been back from Asia," Saint John corrected her. He flexed one bicep, winking when the muscle bulged under the short sleeve of his white t-shirt. "Pumping that lead is paying off."
"That's iron," Mike interjected, spraying cinnamon in Jo's direction. He gulped and hurriedly wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Sorry. That's pumping iron, Saint John. Arnold would be ashamed."
"Arnold who?" the older Hawke brother asked, puzzled by the unfamiliar reference.
Mike stared as though he'd never seen the tall pilot before. "Macho soldier type like you hasn't caught any of Schwarzeneger's movies? Well, boy, are we going to fix that! His last one had this scene...."
Jo cleared her throat loudly. "If it's all the same to you two lead pumpers, I'd rather not discuss Arnold Schwarzeneger this early in the morning. Testosterone and steroids were never drawing points for me." She put a donut on a paper napkin and settled in the naugahyde armchair usually reserved for prospective clients. "I'd rather discuss that birthday party we're doing this afternoon."
"Again?" Mike sighed, drooping.
"You mean, discuss as in who's going to be flying it?" Saint John selected the swivel chair behind the bare receptionist's desk and set his styrofoam cup down on one corner. "Forty ten-year-old kids covered with ice cream, cake and punch, all wanting to go up in the chopper at once?" He shuddered. "No, thanks. Besides, you know I've got to start those repairs on Airwolf. Jason's supposed to drop off those replacement parts sometime this morning, then I'm off for the Lair."
"I've got the main initiator circuits pulled already," Mike put in, perching on the opposite edge of the desk. "I'm going to try and recalibrate them before I leave here. Those armor piercing shells fried quite a bit more than just the armaments deployment pod."
"I could work on Airwolf," Jo pouted, picking dispiritedly at her food. "Even flying combat is less hazardous than doing one of those birthday parties."
Hawke shook his head sympathetically. "Sorry. NavCom is your specialty, weapons is mine. It's kismet. Maybe Mike would volunteer to do the birthday party after he's through with the initiator circuit."
Mike's round face split in a grimace. "You kidding? I'd rather fly the Arctic route into Moscow in a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."
"You're still doing that charter at ten, aren't you?" Jo asked, shooting him an alarmed look. "I have to get the Bell ready for the party." When he hesitated, she sank slapped the desk, gazing at him through large, dismayed eyes. "Darn it, Mike, you promised!"
Beneath such an appeal, stronger men than Mike Rivers had cracked. "Well ... sure," he said, manfully hiding his reluctance behind a faint smile. "It's not like it's honeymooners or ten-year-olds. I'll handle that, then I can join Saint John up at the Lair."
Obviously relieved, Jo returned his smile, then sighed. "I always get stuck with the birthday parties," she grumbled around a healthy swig of her coffee. "The last time I did one, some little ... darling got a lollipop stuck in my new hairdo. Cost me thirty bucks and a tip to get it out without having to go for a crewcut."
"It's because you're wonderful with children, Jo," Saint John said, an impish twinkle appearing in his gray eyes. "They seem to flock to you."
"So maternal," Mike added, his sincerity only spoiled by the humorous twitch of his full lips. "You know, I really think you'd make a wonderful mother. Don't you think she'd make a wonderful mother, Saint John?"
"Wonderful," the bronze-haired pilot agreed, nodding vigorously.
Jo scowled, used to being teased by these two by now. "I love children," she returned tartly, "and I'd like to have several of my own. Some day. Some other day," she added, emphasizing the point by making a chopping motion with her right hand. "And it's not fair. Saint John, about the ADF pod...." She trailed off at his far away expression. "What is it?"
He pointed out the large glass window that comprised the outer wall, and both Jo and Mike turned to follow his line of sight. A car was making its way up the long driveway leading to the hangar. It was a year-old brown sedan with tinted windows and Government plates. "Jason's coming to pay us a call. Wonder if it means he's got a line on Muhallah."
Mike too watched as the sedan turned into one of the parking spaces outside the door. "We'll soon find out. Looks like you may have to fly that birthday party without even moral support, Jo."
Jo offered the blond pilot an unfriendly look. "I'd rather fly against the Russian Air Force."
The three fell quiet, watching as two people emerged from the sedan. One was Jason Locke, his slate colored suit the perfect shade to offset his rich brown skin, the expensive leather briefcase he carried adding to the impression that he should be attending a board of directors meeting rather than visiting the run down reception area of a small air transport service. It was his companion that riveted the male eyes in the room, however. The woman was tall, nearly Locke's height, with shoulder length spiral-curled hair that gleamed a rich chestnut under the sun. A beautifully tailored white jumpsuit sheathed her body, showing off every inch of her voluptuous figure without appearing to show off anything at all. She nodded graciously when Locke opened the door for her, stepping through it ahead of him as though it were her due.
"You picked a bad day, Jason," Jo informed the black agent in lieu of a greeting. "I assume that briefcase has the parts we needed for the you- know-what?"
"Nice to see you, too, Miss Santini," Jason returned dryly, placing the bag on the desk. "And no, it doesn't. Those will be along this afternoon via courier." He noticed the two male pilots' stunned expressions and beckoned the woman a little closer. "Gentlemen, Jo, I'd like you to meet Pamela Billingsley. She's one of Michael's Angels."
"She certainly is," Mike murmured, finding his voice and wits at roughly the same time. He blinked and smiled boyishly, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "Major Mike Rivers, Air Force Intelligence. And a pleasure it is to meet a fellow professional."
"Please come in!" Saint John too leaped to his feet, appropriating the amused woman's hand from Rivers' and leading her to the nearest chair. "I can't imagine why I haven't run into you before. I thought the intelligence community was such a small one."
"It's certainly full of small minds," Jo muttered, rolling her eyes. Despite the quip she smiled in a friendly way at the other woman. "Don't pay them any attention, Pamela. Their glands just go into overload this early in the morning. Happens all the time."
"I don't mind at all," the pretty agent returned smoothly, freeing her hand from Saint John's and using it to smooth her white jumpsuit. "At least, I wouldn't if I were here on other than business."
Mike laced his fingers theatrically on his chest, face raised dramatically heavenward. "My hopes are dashed. Oh, well. We still have Paris."
One perfectly drawn brow rose coolly. "Paris? When was that?"
The boyish grin returning, Rivers draped himself across the desk, propping his head on one hand. "How does next weekend sound?"
"It sounds like your oldest pickup line," Jo interjected, swatting him on the back. "And get off my desk."
Mike sighed and complied. "The course of true love, etc., etc."
"I'm afraid your social life is going to have to wait, Major," Locke said, pulling up a straight chair next to Pamela's. "We're here on serious business."
Jo took a nibble of her donut, wiping her lips immediately and scowling when some of her pink lipstick smeared off. "If this is about what we talked about last night," she said, using the napkin to wipe her mouth, "your timing stinks, Jason. Santini Air has a full flight schedule today -- a full paying schedule."
"Jo isn't feeling very patriotic today," Mike said to Pamela. He re-took his favorite perch on the edge of the desk, to the brown haired woman's right and out of Jo's way. "I, on the other hand, was born singing The Star Spangled Banner."
"Which really freaked out his mother," Hawke commented, resuming his own chair and retrieving his coffee. "What can we do for you, Jason? Is this the Pamela you mentioned yesterday?"
"Perhaps we'd better clear the air before we get into why I've come." Pamela crossed long legs, swinging one white pump off her toe. "Before you ask, I've worked with Archangel for over five years, and have been teamed with Marella on several missions in which Airwolf was called in. As Jason might have mentioned yesterday, my present assignment is to locate Bishop Morris and hopefully trace his full connection with Muhallah."
"You were right to mention this," Mike told her, finger combing his blond curls into place. "There shouldn't be any secrets between us."
Hazel eyes reproved him with a look. "I'm here on a very serious matter, Major."
Jason, more experienced at ignoring the irrepressible Mike Rivers, addressed the quietly attentive Hawke, who was sipping his coffee. "Saint John, I understand you brought your brother into town yesterday?"
Hawke regarded the black agent over the top of his cup, gray eyes instantly wary. "I brought him to the airport yesterday. He borrowed my Jimmy and went into town ... or wherever ... on his own."
"Have you heard from him since then?" Pamela Billingsley asked, piercing him with a sharp gaze.
Hawke met Mike's eyes beyond her, then shook his head. "He didn't come back last night."
Jo chewed a knuckle, her pretty face creased worriedly. "What's all this about, Jason? What happened to String?"
There was a moment's hesitation, then a casual wave in Hawke's direction. "We don't know that anything has happened to him. We do know that Archangel was supposed to meet him yesterday." He dropped his hand and adjusted his cuff. "When a man in Archangel's position doesn't check in for over twenty-four hours, the Company starts to sweat."
"Maybe they just had another appointment?" Mike guessed more out of form than belief.
Pamela licked one red-painted lip, tapping the desktop with a long nail. "It's not like Michael to break standard operating procedure like that. Especially procedure he helped devise. Besides, he couldn't send Stringfellow Hawke in until we had more information to go on."
Saint John sat up very straight. "In where?" he demanded with a hard edge to his tone.
The female agent regarded him blandly. "In after Bishop Morris, of course. Michael was quite certain he could persuade your brother to go undercover -- use his past relationship with Morris to get a foot in the organization."
Hawke loosed a low, vicious oath, broad features showing not a little anger and more than a trace of disgust. "For your information, lady, the only 'relationship' my brother had with Bishop Morris was to tell him to pedal his drugs somewhere else." He put his coffee cup down so hard liquid slopped over the top onto the desk. "I knew Archangel was looking for more than just a friendly little chat. He couldn't resist trying to lure String in on more of his little games."
"Michael wouldn't exactly have held a gun to his head," Billingsley retorted acidly. "And whether or not your brother was willing, nothing was going to go down yesterday anyway. Something must have happened to him -- to both of them."
Mike glanced from Hawke's tight face to Jason's somber one, finally settling his gaze on the white clad Pamela Billingsley, who was running her fingers agitatedly through her hair. "Do you have any clues at all?" he asked, for once devoid of drollery.
She shook her head, square jaw tight. "Nothing yet. What we're trying to do is trace Archangel's movements after he left Knightsbridge yesterday. At this point we're not even sure he did make the meeting."
Jason noticed the donut box and helped himself, rooting through the remaining pickings before giving up and selecting one at random. "I'm involved not only because of the inter-departmental Airwolf mission, but also because Stringfellow is more officially connected with my section now that Michael's no longer coordinating this team." He took a bite of the donut, then looked around frantically for a napkin when cinnamon dusted his suit. Jo passed him a stack, which he took gratefully. "Thanks. Good thing it wasn't powdered sugar."
"Mr. Hawke." Billingsley leaned forward, resting her elbow on her crossed knee. "Are you certain your brother mentioned nothing more about his meeting with Michael? Not where it was supposed to take place, or even why he chose not to meet at the cabin?"
Saint John frowned at that, gray eyes growing narrow. "You're mistaken. String didn't choose where the meeting was supposed to be. Archangel set it up."
Pamela and Jason exchanged a surprised look, the black agent replacing his donut without taking a second bite. "Are you sure about that?" he asked earnestly. "According to our information, Michael requested a meeting at the mountain cabin. It was Stringfellow who changed the meeting location although we're not sure to where. Michael got a message only a few minutes before he left for the rendezvous; it was scrambled and carried Hawke's personal confirmation code."
The tall pilot rubbed his fresh shaven chin, his frown deepening. "I'm starting to get a very bad feeling about this." He tilted his head up at the sound of engines directly overhead. "We've got more company."
A helicopter swept past the front of the building, low and obviously about to land. It rose slightly, disappearing over the roof in the direction of the landing slots to the rear. "It's a CHiPs chopper," Mike said with a shrug. "So what?"
"So you'll excuse me if I get a little curious as to what the police want with Santini Air at a time like this," the big blond retorted, gaining his feet and heading for the door leading into the rear hangar area.
"If they're coming here at all. They could be going to Angelo's or Ozzie's," Jo said.
"It's a big airfield out there," Mike added, also gaining his feet.
Saint John shook his head and continued his way. "They're coming here."
Mike and Jo scrambled after him, soon followed by the two DNS agents. The group wended its way through the dim hangar, emerging into the sunshine just as a white-painted helicopter bearing the CHiPs logo touched down. The roar of the engine cut suddenly although the whoosh of the air through the still turning blades created a brisk zephyr that ruffled hair and clothing.
Two people were visible through the clear plexiglass partially enclosing the open cabin, both clad in the traditional light uniforms of the California Highway Patrol. A tall, boyishly slender woman climbed out of the pilot's position, and removed her headset, allowing chin length red hair to spill forward around her face. She then pulled off her sunglasses and examined her surroundings through wistful green eyes. "Wahl, ah see not much has changed around this place," she drawled in a voice laden with the tones of old Texas. "Guess that's kind'a nice."
"Caitlin?" Jo ducked the still whirling blades, a pleasant if puzzled welcome on her face. She darted a curious glance at the second newcomer, a powerfully built male, but addressed the woman. "Caitlin! It is you!"
The redhead nodded amiably. "Yep! Sure is! How you all doin'?"
"I'm fine." Jo gave the helicopter a professional scan then led the way back to where the rest of the group waited by the open hangar. "Guys, you remember Uncle Dom's former employee, Caitlin O'Shaunessey."
Saint John stepped forward out of the pack, hand extended. "Hello, Caitlin. I haven't seen you since that special memorial service the Navy held for Dominic."
"Two weeks after you got back in the country. I remember." Caitlin grinned suddenly, her pixy-ish face splitting in a flash of white teeth. "After hanging around String and Dom for a year and a half, it's not likely I'm gonna fergit you!"
Hawke pressed her fingers once and released them. "After hanging around String and Dom for a year and a half, you probably wish you could!" He pointed at the rest of the team, standing nearby. "You've met Mike Rivers but not Jason Locke. He's a ... co-worker," he finished after a cautious look at Caitlin's heretofore silent companion. "And this is Pamela Billingsley."
Caitlin glanced at the tall, chestnut haired woman's spotless white attire and grinned cheekily. "I kin guess who she works for! Think ah might'a met you once, didn't I?"
Billingsley nodded. "Marella introduced us. A pleasure, Miss O'Shaunessey."
"All mine, Miss Billingsley." Caitlin tugged her associate, a dark haired, olive skinned man, nearer. "Like y'all to meet my partner, Ramon Gutierrez. Ramon, the names you didn't hear belong to Saint John Hawke and Jo Santini."
Gutierrez was two inches taller than Caitlin, bringing him roughly on level with Mike Rivers, but stocky, wide shoulders and massive arms betraying many hours spent lifting weights. Intelligent dark eyes examined the group briefly, even as full lips under a straggly mustache parted in a friendly smile. "Meet 'cha," he responded in a pleasant, lightly accented baritone.
"What brings you here, Cait?" Jo asked. "If you're looking for String, he's not around right now."
"I stopped by to see him couple'a weeks ago up at the cabin. Gave him royal heck for not calling me sooner." Caitlin puffed her cheeks out, the very picture of exasperation. "Still can't believe he survived that helicopter explosion and didn't even let me know about it! 'Course, you kind'a learn to expect stuff like that out'a him." Green eyes flashed dangerously. "Not let him get away with it, understand, but expect it."
"I see you know my brother pretty well," Saint John chuckled, tucking his t- shirt more securely into his jeans.
She tossed her head pertly. "Lot better'n most, I guess."
"So what does bring the California Highway Patrol to Santini Air?" Jason interrupted the pleasantries, continuing a furtive scrutiny of the quiet Latino policeman. "Nothing to do with our helicopters, I assume." His question's hidden meaning was obvious: Nothing to do with Airwolf?
It was Gutierrez who answered. He pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Mr. Saint John Hawke, do you own a red GM pickup, license number HAWKE-1?"
Saint John stiffened, every muscle tensing into watchful readiness. "I do."
"The vanity plates were my idea," Mike added to Pamela as an aside. "I figured a little style never hurt anyone."
Ramon spared him a bare glance. "No argument there, Sir, but I do think you should know that the Jimmy was found abandoned in the parking lot of some strip joint called Ling-Ling's this morning. We're not sure how long it's been there; since they're open twenty-four hours a day, the owner didn't call us until some would-be thief set off the alarm. Bar being that far outside've town, our airborne unit was called in."
Caitlin fingered her sunglasses before hooking them in the neck of her buttoned shirt. "While we were answering that call we found another car that didn't belong to anyone in the bar. A white Lincoln." This she addressed to Pamela and Jason, who had visibly pricked up their ears. "Plates traced back to the Feds. I was gonna phone your organization after we talked to Saint John, here."
"Caitlin seems to think it could belong to some kind of a Government official," Gutierrez interjected, dark eyes scanning each member for reaction. "She insisted we stop off here before reporting it to Central. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tumble that Cait knows who that car belongs to."
Jason Locke and Pamela Billingsley exchanged a knowing look, then Locke addressed the CHiPs officer, choosing his words with great care. "Officer O'Shaunessey's assumption is correct. The car belongs to Michael Coldsmith- Briggs III. He's a top official with the Department of National Security."
"Operating out of that complex on the outskirts of L.A.?" Gutierrez asked with surprise. "I heard of you guys. Central's SWAT team worked with your men on some operation on the waterfront last year. Some terrorists took over a boat."
"I remember that one well," Caitlin mumbled under her breath.
Ramon cocked an inquiring brow at his partner. "You worked for them, too, Cait?"
The redhead hesitated then shook her head. "I worked with them for a while. Nothing official." She turned back to the waiting group. "I'm assuming Hawke and Michael were on a case?"
"Information only," Saint John stated obstinately, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets in a habitual pose. "Michael was looking for background on a former colleague of ours."
She digested this a moment, seeming to take in as much from his expression as the words. "If that's true, why did they want to hook up in some old dive like Ling-Ling's? Can't imagine it being Hawke ... I mean String's idea; he hates places like that."
"Michael wasn't fond of them, either." That was Pamela, her aristocratic face tight, fingers twining together at her waist. "It was a clever trap by someone who obviously knew Michael wouldn't bring a woman to a place like Ling-Ling's. Whatever else, Michael was always a gentleman and rather protective in that way."
"And since he hadn't assigned any of his top male agents to this particular case," Jason added, thoughtfully stroking his mustache, "they could count on him showing up alone."
"Alone except for my brother." Saint John took a breath, his face reflecting a deep worry beyond the precise control he usually exerted over his emotions. "There's a lot of people who'll be glad to get their hands on String now that word's gotten out he's still alive."
"You think maybe we're dealing with foreign agents, then?" Gutierrez asked, swarthy face alight with interest. "For what reason? Information?"
"More than that." Saint John swallowed hard, his shoulders hunching ever so slightly with the tension he was internalizing. "If they have String they can only be after one thing." In deference to Gutierrez' presence he declined to say what that one thing was, not that it was even necessary. Jo laid a hand on his arm.
"We'll get him back, Saint John," she said encouragingly.
Pamela's hazel eyes echoed the sentiment. "Both of them."
Hawke thanked them with an absent smile, his own gray eyes glinting like polished steel. "Yes. We will." There was no doubt in his tone -- nothing but a deadly conviction more certain than any oath.
Nodding his agreement, Jason regarded the Latin CHiPs pilot seriously. "Officer Gutierrez, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to maintain strict security on this matter. That means reporting only that you located the owner of the Jimmy without repeating anything you learned here to your superiors. This is now a Federal matter."
"That's against reg--" Ramon began. He broke off when Caitlin jabbed him with her elbow.
"We understand," she said firmly. "It's all right, Ramon. These guys are on the level and the two abductees are friends of mine." She smiled at Jason. "Don't worry, Ramon and I have worked together almost three months now. I'll vouch for him."
Ramon glanced at her gratefully. "And if Caitlin says you guys are okay, I'll go along." He hooked his thumbs in his belt and twisted slightly until he could address Saint John directly. "Caitlin talks a lot about your brother, Mr. Hawke. He sounds like a fine man. I hope you'll keep us in mind for back-up if you need it."
Saint John managed a returning smile. "Count on it."
The two police officers took their leave then, promising to run checks on the club and patrons they questioned in case there were any connections, improbable though that may be. "I can even have a buddy of mine in forensics go over the area unofficially," Caitlin promised with a wink. "Jack owes me a favor. And I'll be calling in anyway every couple of hours. Don't forget, I care what happens to Hawke and Michael, too."
The team waited until the helicopter had taken off before gathering in a loose huddle by the hangar's front door. "Could the abductions have anything to do with the investigation on Bishop Morris or Muhallah?" Mike asked, fingering the buttons on his shirt pensively.
Jason shrugged. "We're following up on it. No connection yet except for the time frame."
"What about that man, Morris?" Jo asked, leaning her back against the building. "Isn't there anything new on him?"
"As a matter of fact, there is." Locke left off stroking his mustache to tug at it. "We red flagged his description and probable origin at all customs checkpoints. A routine passport check gave us a positive identification -- Pamela picked up the dispatch personally this morning on her way out the door, so there's no possibility of a leak. The Company will be making 'friendly' contact this afternoon."
"It might be our one shot," Mike said soberly. "Hope you assigned someone good to the job."
Pamela patted her chestnut hair and assumed a seductive pose, hand on hip. "As a matter of fact," she crooned silkily, "he did. The very best the Firm has to offer."
***
With such a cluttered agenda before them, it was not surprising that Santini Air's three resident pilot/mechanics were taking advantage of what few minutes they had before the day's official start. They lounged in the reception area at the front of the building, leisurely enjoying coffee and donuts, and discussing their upcoming chores.
Mike finished sugaring his coffee, taking an experimental sip before opening the Dunkin' Donuts box Jo had brought in with her. He studied its contents curiously, giving the box a shake. Puffs of cinnamon and chocolate dust rose around him, deliciously scenting the air. "What? No powdered sugar?" he asked plaintively, shoving confectioneries aside with his stirrer when shaking failed to disclose his favorite.
"What're you doing, panning for gold?" Jo snapped, taking the box out of his hands. "I don't like powdered sugar, okay? You want powdered sugar, you buy them next time."
"I'm a chocolate fan, myself," Saint John said, leaning over her shoulder and selecting a gooey, chocolate topped donut. He considered and took another, shoving the first into his mouth and swallowing it in a single gulp. "And cinnamon," he managed, gulping again. "And sugar. And....
"And you're going to be big as a house if you keep that up." Jo again relocated the box, this time back in range of Rivers' questing fingers. She sighed and gave it up to inspect Hawke's big boned, athletic figure, then shook her head. "Or not. I don't know where you put it. You eat like a moose and never put on a pound."
"I've put on fifteen pounds since I've been back from Asia," Saint John corrected her. He flexed one bicep, winking when the muscle bulged under the short sleeve of his white t-shirt. "Pumping that lead is paying off."
"That's iron," Mike interjected, spraying cinnamon in Jo's direction. He gulped and hurriedly wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Sorry. That's pumping iron, Saint John. Arnold would be ashamed."
"Arnold who?" the older Hawke brother asked, puzzled by the unfamiliar reference.
Mike stared as though he'd never seen the tall pilot before. "Macho soldier type like you hasn't caught any of Schwarzeneger's movies? Well, boy, are we going to fix that! His last one had this scene...."
Jo cleared her throat loudly. "If it's all the same to you two lead pumpers, I'd rather not discuss Arnold Schwarzeneger this early in the morning. Testosterone and steroids were never drawing points for me." She put a donut on a paper napkin and settled in the naugahyde armchair usually reserved for prospective clients. "I'd rather discuss that birthday party we're doing this afternoon."
"Again?" Mike sighed, drooping.
"You mean, discuss as in who's going to be flying it?" Saint John selected the swivel chair behind the bare receptionist's desk and set his styrofoam cup down on one corner. "Forty ten-year-old kids covered with ice cream, cake and punch, all wanting to go up in the chopper at once?" He shuddered. "No, thanks. Besides, you know I've got to start those repairs on Airwolf. Jason's supposed to drop off those replacement parts sometime this morning, then I'm off for the Lair."
"I've got the main initiator circuits pulled already," Mike put in, perching on the opposite edge of the desk. "I'm going to try and recalibrate them before I leave here. Those armor piercing shells fried quite a bit more than just the armaments deployment pod."
"I could work on Airwolf," Jo pouted, picking dispiritedly at her food. "Even flying combat is less hazardous than doing one of those birthday parties."
Hawke shook his head sympathetically. "Sorry. NavCom is your specialty, weapons is mine. It's kismet. Maybe Mike would volunteer to do the birthday party after he's through with the initiator circuit."
Mike's round face split in a grimace. "You kidding? I'd rather fly the Arctic route into Moscow in a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."
"You're still doing that charter at ten, aren't you?" Jo asked, shooting him an alarmed look. "I have to get the Bell ready for the party." When he hesitated, she sank slapped the desk, gazing at him through large, dismayed eyes. "Darn it, Mike, you promised!"
Beneath such an appeal, stronger men than Mike Rivers had cracked. "Well ... sure," he said, manfully hiding his reluctance behind a faint smile. "It's not like it's honeymooners or ten-year-olds. I'll handle that, then I can join Saint John up at the Lair."
Obviously relieved, Jo returned his smile, then sighed. "I always get stuck with the birthday parties," she grumbled around a healthy swig of her coffee. "The last time I did one, some little ... darling got a lollipop stuck in my new hairdo. Cost me thirty bucks and a tip to get it out without having to go for a crewcut."
"It's because you're wonderful with children, Jo," Saint John said, an impish twinkle appearing in his gray eyes. "They seem to flock to you."
"So maternal," Mike added, his sincerity only spoiled by the humorous twitch of his full lips. "You know, I really think you'd make a wonderful mother. Don't you think she'd make a wonderful mother, Saint John?"
"Wonderful," the bronze-haired pilot agreed, nodding vigorously.
Jo scowled, used to being teased by these two by now. "I love children," she returned tartly, "and I'd like to have several of my own. Some day. Some other day," she added, emphasizing the point by making a chopping motion with her right hand. "And it's not fair. Saint John, about the ADF pod...." She trailed off at his far away expression. "What is it?"
He pointed out the large glass window that comprised the outer wall, and both Jo and Mike turned to follow his line of sight. A car was making its way up the long driveway leading to the hangar. It was a year-old brown sedan with tinted windows and Government plates. "Jason's coming to pay us a call. Wonder if it means he's got a line on Muhallah."
Mike too watched as the sedan turned into one of the parking spaces outside the door. "We'll soon find out. Looks like you may have to fly that birthday party without even moral support, Jo."
Jo offered the blond pilot an unfriendly look. "I'd rather fly against the Russian Air Force."
The three fell quiet, watching as two people emerged from the sedan. One was Jason Locke, his slate colored suit the perfect shade to offset his rich brown skin, the expensive leather briefcase he carried adding to the impression that he should be attending a board of directors meeting rather than visiting the run down reception area of a small air transport service. It was his companion that riveted the male eyes in the room, however. The woman was tall, nearly Locke's height, with shoulder length spiral-curled hair that gleamed a rich chestnut under the sun. A beautifully tailored white jumpsuit sheathed her body, showing off every inch of her voluptuous figure without appearing to show off anything at all. She nodded graciously when Locke opened the door for her, stepping through it ahead of him as though it were her due.
"You picked a bad day, Jason," Jo informed the black agent in lieu of a greeting. "I assume that briefcase has the parts we needed for the you- know-what?"
"Nice to see you, too, Miss Santini," Jason returned dryly, placing the bag on the desk. "And no, it doesn't. Those will be along this afternoon via courier." He noticed the two male pilots' stunned expressions and beckoned the woman a little closer. "Gentlemen, Jo, I'd like you to meet Pamela Billingsley. She's one of Michael's Angels."
"She certainly is," Mike murmured, finding his voice and wits at roughly the same time. He blinked and smiled boyishly, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "Major Mike Rivers, Air Force Intelligence. And a pleasure it is to meet a fellow professional."
"Please come in!" Saint John too leaped to his feet, appropriating the amused woman's hand from Rivers' and leading her to the nearest chair. "I can't imagine why I haven't run into you before. I thought the intelligence community was such a small one."
"It's certainly full of small minds," Jo muttered, rolling her eyes. Despite the quip she smiled in a friendly way at the other woman. "Don't pay them any attention, Pamela. Their glands just go into overload this early in the morning. Happens all the time."
"I don't mind at all," the pretty agent returned smoothly, freeing her hand from Saint John's and using it to smooth her white jumpsuit. "At least, I wouldn't if I were here on other than business."
Mike laced his fingers theatrically on his chest, face raised dramatically heavenward. "My hopes are dashed. Oh, well. We still have Paris."
One perfectly drawn brow rose coolly. "Paris? When was that?"
The boyish grin returning, Rivers draped himself across the desk, propping his head on one hand. "How does next weekend sound?"
"It sounds like your oldest pickup line," Jo interjected, swatting him on the back. "And get off my desk."
Mike sighed and complied. "The course of true love, etc., etc."
"I'm afraid your social life is going to have to wait, Major," Locke said, pulling up a straight chair next to Pamela's. "We're here on serious business."
Jo took a nibble of her donut, wiping her lips immediately and scowling when some of her pink lipstick smeared off. "If this is about what we talked about last night," she said, using the napkin to wipe her mouth, "your timing stinks, Jason. Santini Air has a full flight schedule today -- a full paying schedule."
"Jo isn't feeling very patriotic today," Mike said to Pamela. He re-took his favorite perch on the edge of the desk, to the brown haired woman's right and out of Jo's way. "I, on the other hand, was born singing The Star Spangled Banner."
"Which really freaked out his mother," Hawke commented, resuming his own chair and retrieving his coffee. "What can we do for you, Jason? Is this the Pamela you mentioned yesterday?"
"Perhaps we'd better clear the air before we get into why I've come." Pamela crossed long legs, swinging one white pump off her toe. "Before you ask, I've worked with Archangel for over five years, and have been teamed with Marella on several missions in which Airwolf was called in. As Jason might have mentioned yesterday, my present assignment is to locate Bishop Morris and hopefully trace his full connection with Muhallah."
"You were right to mention this," Mike told her, finger combing his blond curls into place. "There shouldn't be any secrets between us."
Hazel eyes reproved him with a look. "I'm here on a very serious matter, Major."
Jason, more experienced at ignoring the irrepressible Mike Rivers, addressed the quietly attentive Hawke, who was sipping his coffee. "Saint John, I understand you brought your brother into town yesterday?"
Hawke regarded the black agent over the top of his cup, gray eyes instantly wary. "I brought him to the airport yesterday. He borrowed my Jimmy and went into town ... or wherever ... on his own."
"Have you heard from him since then?" Pamela Billingsley asked, piercing him with a sharp gaze.
Hawke met Mike's eyes beyond her, then shook his head. "He didn't come back last night."
Jo chewed a knuckle, her pretty face creased worriedly. "What's all this about, Jason? What happened to String?"
There was a moment's hesitation, then a casual wave in Hawke's direction. "We don't know that anything has happened to him. We do know that Archangel was supposed to meet him yesterday." He dropped his hand and adjusted his cuff. "When a man in Archangel's position doesn't check in for over twenty-four hours, the Company starts to sweat."
"Maybe they just had another appointment?" Mike guessed more out of form than belief.
Pamela licked one red-painted lip, tapping the desktop with a long nail. "It's not like Michael to break standard operating procedure like that. Especially procedure he helped devise. Besides, he couldn't send Stringfellow Hawke in until we had more information to go on."
Saint John sat up very straight. "In where?" he demanded with a hard edge to his tone.
The female agent regarded him blandly. "In after Bishop Morris, of course. Michael was quite certain he could persuade your brother to go undercover -- use his past relationship with Morris to get a foot in the organization."
Hawke loosed a low, vicious oath, broad features showing not a little anger and more than a trace of disgust. "For your information, lady, the only 'relationship' my brother had with Bishop Morris was to tell him to pedal his drugs somewhere else." He put his coffee cup down so hard liquid slopped over the top onto the desk. "I knew Archangel was looking for more than just a friendly little chat. He couldn't resist trying to lure String in on more of his little games."
"Michael wouldn't exactly have held a gun to his head," Billingsley retorted acidly. "And whether or not your brother was willing, nothing was going to go down yesterday anyway. Something must have happened to him -- to both of them."
Mike glanced from Hawke's tight face to Jason's somber one, finally settling his gaze on the white clad Pamela Billingsley, who was running her fingers agitatedly through her hair. "Do you have any clues at all?" he asked, for once devoid of drollery.
She shook her head, square jaw tight. "Nothing yet. What we're trying to do is trace Archangel's movements after he left Knightsbridge yesterday. At this point we're not even sure he did make the meeting."
Jason noticed the donut box and helped himself, rooting through the remaining pickings before giving up and selecting one at random. "I'm involved not only because of the inter-departmental Airwolf mission, but also because Stringfellow is more officially connected with my section now that Michael's no longer coordinating this team." He took a bite of the donut, then looked around frantically for a napkin when cinnamon dusted his suit. Jo passed him a stack, which he took gratefully. "Thanks. Good thing it wasn't powdered sugar."
"Mr. Hawke." Billingsley leaned forward, resting her elbow on her crossed knee. "Are you certain your brother mentioned nothing more about his meeting with Michael? Not where it was supposed to take place, or even why he chose not to meet at the cabin?"
Saint John frowned at that, gray eyes growing narrow. "You're mistaken. String didn't choose where the meeting was supposed to be. Archangel set it up."
Pamela and Jason exchanged a surprised look, the black agent replacing his donut without taking a second bite. "Are you sure about that?" he asked earnestly. "According to our information, Michael requested a meeting at the mountain cabin. It was Stringfellow who changed the meeting location although we're not sure to where. Michael got a message only a few minutes before he left for the rendezvous; it was scrambled and carried Hawke's personal confirmation code."
The tall pilot rubbed his fresh shaven chin, his frown deepening. "I'm starting to get a very bad feeling about this." He tilted his head up at the sound of engines directly overhead. "We've got more company."
A helicopter swept past the front of the building, low and obviously about to land. It rose slightly, disappearing over the roof in the direction of the landing slots to the rear. "It's a CHiPs chopper," Mike said with a shrug. "So what?"
"So you'll excuse me if I get a little curious as to what the police want with Santini Air at a time like this," the big blond retorted, gaining his feet and heading for the door leading into the rear hangar area.
"If they're coming here at all. They could be going to Angelo's or Ozzie's," Jo said.
"It's a big airfield out there," Mike added, also gaining his feet.
Saint John shook his head and continued his way. "They're coming here."
Mike and Jo scrambled after him, soon followed by the two DNS agents. The group wended its way through the dim hangar, emerging into the sunshine just as a white-painted helicopter bearing the CHiPs logo touched down. The roar of the engine cut suddenly although the whoosh of the air through the still turning blades created a brisk zephyr that ruffled hair and clothing.
Two people were visible through the clear plexiglass partially enclosing the open cabin, both clad in the traditional light uniforms of the California Highway Patrol. A tall, boyishly slender woman climbed out of the pilot's position, and removed her headset, allowing chin length red hair to spill forward around her face. She then pulled off her sunglasses and examined her surroundings through wistful green eyes. "Wahl, ah see not much has changed around this place," she drawled in a voice laden with the tones of old Texas. "Guess that's kind'a nice."
"Caitlin?" Jo ducked the still whirling blades, a pleasant if puzzled welcome on her face. She darted a curious glance at the second newcomer, a powerfully built male, but addressed the woman. "Caitlin! It is you!"
The redhead nodded amiably. "Yep! Sure is! How you all doin'?"
"I'm fine." Jo gave the helicopter a professional scan then led the way back to where the rest of the group waited by the open hangar. "Guys, you remember Uncle Dom's former employee, Caitlin O'Shaunessey."
Saint John stepped forward out of the pack, hand extended. "Hello, Caitlin. I haven't seen you since that special memorial service the Navy held for Dominic."
"Two weeks after you got back in the country. I remember." Caitlin grinned suddenly, her pixy-ish face splitting in a flash of white teeth. "After hanging around String and Dom for a year and a half, it's not likely I'm gonna fergit you!"
Hawke pressed her fingers once and released them. "After hanging around String and Dom for a year and a half, you probably wish you could!" He pointed at the rest of the team, standing nearby. "You've met Mike Rivers but not Jason Locke. He's a ... co-worker," he finished after a cautious look at Caitlin's heretofore silent companion. "And this is Pamela Billingsley."
Caitlin glanced at the tall, chestnut haired woman's spotless white attire and grinned cheekily. "I kin guess who she works for! Think ah might'a met you once, didn't I?"
Billingsley nodded. "Marella introduced us. A pleasure, Miss O'Shaunessey."
"All mine, Miss Billingsley." Caitlin tugged her associate, a dark haired, olive skinned man, nearer. "Like y'all to meet my partner, Ramon Gutierrez. Ramon, the names you didn't hear belong to Saint John Hawke and Jo Santini."
Gutierrez was two inches taller than Caitlin, bringing him roughly on level with Mike Rivers, but stocky, wide shoulders and massive arms betraying many hours spent lifting weights. Intelligent dark eyes examined the group briefly, even as full lips under a straggly mustache parted in a friendly smile. "Meet 'cha," he responded in a pleasant, lightly accented baritone.
"What brings you here, Cait?" Jo asked. "If you're looking for String, he's not around right now."
"I stopped by to see him couple'a weeks ago up at the cabin. Gave him royal heck for not calling me sooner." Caitlin puffed her cheeks out, the very picture of exasperation. "Still can't believe he survived that helicopter explosion and didn't even let me know about it! 'Course, you kind'a learn to expect stuff like that out'a him." Green eyes flashed dangerously. "Not let him get away with it, understand, but expect it."
"I see you know my brother pretty well," Saint John chuckled, tucking his t- shirt more securely into his jeans.
She tossed her head pertly. "Lot better'n most, I guess."
"So what does bring the California Highway Patrol to Santini Air?" Jason interrupted the pleasantries, continuing a furtive scrutiny of the quiet Latino policeman. "Nothing to do with our helicopters, I assume." His question's hidden meaning was obvious: Nothing to do with Airwolf?
It was Gutierrez who answered. He pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Mr. Saint John Hawke, do you own a red GM pickup, license number HAWKE-1?"
Saint John stiffened, every muscle tensing into watchful readiness. "I do."
"The vanity plates were my idea," Mike added to Pamela as an aside. "I figured a little style never hurt anyone."
Ramon spared him a bare glance. "No argument there, Sir, but I do think you should know that the Jimmy was found abandoned in the parking lot of some strip joint called Ling-Ling's this morning. We're not sure how long it's been there; since they're open twenty-four hours a day, the owner didn't call us until some would-be thief set off the alarm. Bar being that far outside've town, our airborne unit was called in."
Caitlin fingered her sunglasses before hooking them in the neck of her buttoned shirt. "While we were answering that call we found another car that didn't belong to anyone in the bar. A white Lincoln." This she addressed to Pamela and Jason, who had visibly pricked up their ears. "Plates traced back to the Feds. I was gonna phone your organization after we talked to Saint John, here."
"Caitlin seems to think it could belong to some kind of a Government official," Gutierrez interjected, dark eyes scanning each member for reaction. "She insisted we stop off here before reporting it to Central. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tumble that Cait knows who that car belongs to."
Jason Locke and Pamela Billingsley exchanged a knowing look, then Locke addressed the CHiPs officer, choosing his words with great care. "Officer O'Shaunessey's assumption is correct. The car belongs to Michael Coldsmith- Briggs III. He's a top official with the Department of National Security."
"Operating out of that complex on the outskirts of L.A.?" Gutierrez asked with surprise. "I heard of you guys. Central's SWAT team worked with your men on some operation on the waterfront last year. Some terrorists took over a boat."
"I remember that one well," Caitlin mumbled under her breath.
Ramon cocked an inquiring brow at his partner. "You worked for them, too, Cait?"
The redhead hesitated then shook her head. "I worked with them for a while. Nothing official." She turned back to the waiting group. "I'm assuming Hawke and Michael were on a case?"
"Information only," Saint John stated obstinately, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets in a habitual pose. "Michael was looking for background on a former colleague of ours."
She digested this a moment, seeming to take in as much from his expression as the words. "If that's true, why did they want to hook up in some old dive like Ling-Ling's? Can't imagine it being Hawke ... I mean String's idea; he hates places like that."
"Michael wasn't fond of them, either." That was Pamela, her aristocratic face tight, fingers twining together at her waist. "It was a clever trap by someone who obviously knew Michael wouldn't bring a woman to a place like Ling-Ling's. Whatever else, Michael was always a gentleman and rather protective in that way."
"And since he hadn't assigned any of his top male agents to this particular case," Jason added, thoughtfully stroking his mustache, "they could count on him showing up alone."
"Alone except for my brother." Saint John took a breath, his face reflecting a deep worry beyond the precise control he usually exerted over his emotions. "There's a lot of people who'll be glad to get their hands on String now that word's gotten out he's still alive."
"You think maybe we're dealing with foreign agents, then?" Gutierrez asked, swarthy face alight with interest. "For what reason? Information?"
"More than that." Saint John swallowed hard, his shoulders hunching ever so slightly with the tension he was internalizing. "If they have String they can only be after one thing." In deference to Gutierrez' presence he declined to say what that one thing was, not that it was even necessary. Jo laid a hand on his arm.
"We'll get him back, Saint John," she said encouragingly.
Pamela's hazel eyes echoed the sentiment. "Both of them."
Hawke thanked them with an absent smile, his own gray eyes glinting like polished steel. "Yes. We will." There was no doubt in his tone -- nothing but a deadly conviction more certain than any oath.
Nodding his agreement, Jason regarded the Latin CHiPs pilot seriously. "Officer Gutierrez, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to maintain strict security on this matter. That means reporting only that you located the owner of the Jimmy without repeating anything you learned here to your superiors. This is now a Federal matter."
"That's against reg--" Ramon began. He broke off when Caitlin jabbed him with her elbow.
"We understand," she said firmly. "It's all right, Ramon. These guys are on the level and the two abductees are friends of mine." She smiled at Jason. "Don't worry, Ramon and I have worked together almost three months now. I'll vouch for him."
Ramon glanced at her gratefully. "And if Caitlin says you guys are okay, I'll go along." He hooked his thumbs in his belt and twisted slightly until he could address Saint John directly. "Caitlin talks a lot about your brother, Mr. Hawke. He sounds like a fine man. I hope you'll keep us in mind for back-up if you need it."
Saint John managed a returning smile. "Count on it."
The two police officers took their leave then, promising to run checks on the club and patrons they questioned in case there were any connections, improbable though that may be. "I can even have a buddy of mine in forensics go over the area unofficially," Caitlin promised with a wink. "Jack owes me a favor. And I'll be calling in anyway every couple of hours. Don't forget, I care what happens to Hawke and Michael, too."
The team waited until the helicopter had taken off before gathering in a loose huddle by the hangar's front door. "Could the abductions have anything to do with the investigation on Bishop Morris or Muhallah?" Mike asked, fingering the buttons on his shirt pensively.
Jason shrugged. "We're following up on it. No connection yet except for the time frame."
"What about that man, Morris?" Jo asked, leaning her back against the building. "Isn't there anything new on him?"
"As a matter of fact, there is." Locke left off stroking his mustache to tug at it. "We red flagged his description and probable origin at all customs checkpoints. A routine passport check gave us a positive identification -- Pamela picked up the dispatch personally this morning on her way out the door, so there's no possibility of a leak. The Company will be making 'friendly' contact this afternoon."
"It might be our one shot," Mike said soberly. "Hope you assigned someone good to the job."
Pamela patted her chestnut hair and assumed a seductive pose, hand on hip. "As a matter of fact," she crooned silkily, "he did. The very best the Firm has to offer."
***