Born in Washington, D.C., of comfortable, middle-class parents, Jason
Clarence Locke began working for the Department of National Security
(affectionately known to its East Coast staff as "The Company") in the mid-
1960's when he was twenty-three years old and a first Lieutenant in Viet
Nam, still full of the ideals of truth and country. He'd finished the war
with honors, then stayed on in the Golden Triangle region with a DNS
special drug investigations team functioning in loose association with the
DEA. Five years undercover, accumulating evidence against several of the
local drug lords -- many of them ex-American soldiers -- garnered him
enough recognition to win a berth in the Company's lower management
echelons. From there he'd worked himself up the ladder, proving himself a
consistently effective, by-the-book agent with dozens of successful
operations to his credit.
It was that combination of war experience and hard-nosed approach that had prompted his section leader, Donald Newman, to appoint him intermediary between the Government and Stringfellow Hawke, when Archangel had been abruptly transferred to Hong Kong. His mission: to assume Archangel's unenviable task of continuing to persuade the renegade pilot to use Airwolf on DNS missions. This way, as was carefully explained to him with fully four members of the Central Committee in attendance, they could avoid having to surrender the prototype helicopter to fellow agencies -- the CIA came immediately to mind -- while still having access to it whenever major firepower was needed. True, they wouldn't be able to duplicate Airwolf without eliciting suspicion in certain circles, but a delay of a few years was something the Company was prepared to accept to avoid losing control of the gunship altogether. Oh, and would he mind not mentioning this to the rest of the Committee? Wheels within wheels.
What Locke's organization hadn't told him was how to manage his assignment. Stringfellow Hawke's psychological profile had painted an explicit picture of the man Locke would have to deal with: a withdrawn and uncompromising loner utterly obsessed with the search for his brother and bearing no lasting love for the bureaucracy that had, in his estimation, failed them both. Not a promising start to a negotiation, Jason had conceded upon reading it.
Michael Briggs, it was rumored around the watercoolers, had influenced through charm rather than intimidation, and had never failed to get what he wanted even over the vehement protests of Hawke's closest friend, Dominic Santini. Michael had even been able to invoke the obligations of friendship from the taciturn young man when necessary, and, when all else had failed, there had always been the search for Saint John, something Hawke would not have jeopardized even to save his own life much less salve his pride.
But cajoling was not part of Locke's management style, and he'd gone into that first meeting prepared to enforce his authority as Airwolf's new controller by showing Stringfellow Hawke exactly who was boss, even physically if necessary ... and it had very nearly come to that! But Jason had acted with far more restraint when, quite to his surprise, he'd found unexpected nuances behind the bland black-and-white facsimile in the file. While hostile, Hawke was not the spiteful traitor to the United States that Locke had anticipated having to browbeat into submission; he was instead a sad, driven man who only wanted to have the last of his family back. Was that what Archangel had seen as well? Jason wandered that ground often, and understood Michael Coldsmith-Briggs just a little better for the question. He'd even been prepared to alter his management style just a little if that was what it would take to keep the peace, and had thrown himself into the search for Saint John Hawke with a single minded determination of his own. Of course, his association with Hawke had been brief. An assassin's bomb had changed the framework of Jason's job considerably but not irretrievably.
After the loss of both Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini, and working carefully within the parameters set out for him by Newman and the Committee, Locke had started his assignment with a fresh slate. He'd begun by putting together a specialized team with aerial combat experience, and enough intelligence background to be used on undercover missions when need of the powerful gunship seemed certain. It had been serendipitous that Mike Rivers and Jo Santini had involved themselves from the beginning and proved willing to continue on even after Saint John's rescue from Burma. The new group had worked well together, their pseudo-autonomy affording Locke a large degree of latitude in the outworking of his assignments, and giving him the firepower to extend his secondary field teams to the full.
Not that there weren't problems. Working with two such forceful personalities as Army Reservist Major Saint John Hawke and Air Force Major Mike Rivers guaranteed that conflict was inevitable. Both headstrong types, they were not uncontrollable. Rivers was, after all, a graduate of the Air Force Academy and used to following orders, if not blindly. His impulsive, flippant attitude was offset by the cool sensibilities of a combat pilot, his fearless, aggressive nature making him a warrior to be reckoned with.
Saint John Hawke's old Army file had portrayed him as the epitome of the good soldier -- solid, dependable, efficient and deadly. Fifteen years under inhumane conditions had not altered that. Generally stoic and centered, the man was not, however, emotionless; deep waters ran behind that impassive front, that few were privileged to see. Saint John tended to keep his own counsel and follow his own path for all he was nominally team leader to Jason's liaison, the contrast to Mike's impetuosity affording the group a much needed balance. Even Jo, with no intelligence training or experience, had shown herself bold and resourceful. All in all, the Company psychologists had congratulated Locke on putting together what might well be the perfect team, adding several managerial kudos to his already glowing file.
Of course, the return of Saint John's volatile younger brother, Stringfellow, bade fair to change all that! There had been many warnings from those self-same psychologists about how the unpredictable young man could effect the dynamics of the team. Independence was not considered a virtue according to Company standards nor, truth be told, by Jason's. Not that Jason was sorry to see the kid alive; a pilot of that calibre and with that much courage was hard to find, and the younger Hawke had proven himself invaluable on that mission into Mexico last month. He could even be convinced to cooperate if you approached him just right, as Michael did ... or if you had Saint John run interference.
And, it must be admitted, Jason had come to consider Saint John, if not Stringfellow, a friend, and was glad on their behalf to see them reunited after a decade and a half apart. He'd seen the affection between them, had heard of the harmony they exhibited in combat. Instinct told Locke that given enough time to work out the unavoidable personality clashes, this could only serve to unite the team more closely rather than tear it apart, no matter how self-reliant the members. Yep. One way or the other, things were going to work out, and Jason Locke had assessed himself relatively happy with his lot. That is, if you didn't count the developing stomach ulcer.
Until today.
Today, Jason Locke was not happy -- he was annoyed. He'd been official liaison for the Airwolf team for several months now -- head of his own field unit for seven years -- and after nearly two decades in the spy game was reconciled to having to fight to establish his authority with underlings and superiors alike. Reconciled, maybe, but that didn't mean he liked it. And he liked it even less when a case he had a personal stake in was terminated abruptly by anyone below Committee level without explanation. Puzzled as well as annoyed, Jason Locke sought out his superior that very afternoon.
"Apollo!" he rapped, deliberately using the man's code name rather than the polite, "Donald," as per usual.
The tall, gangly man looked up at Jason's precipitous entrance, casting his young secretary, who had followed Locke in, an accusative look.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Newman," she sputtered, glaring at Locke from the side. "He was past me before I could stop him."
Newman skimmed her tiny figure, his smile mentally comparing it with Jason's six-foot, one-and-a-half inch, muscled frame. "It's all right, Dolly," he assured the distressed woman in a courtly southern drawl. "I'll handle things."
Dolly huffed once and left.
Jason waited until the door had closed behind the secretary before addressing Donald Newman. "I want to know why my requests for information on the Morris affair were cancelled via your override codes!"
"And I want to know," Newman shot back, craggy face growing stern, "why you're investigating the Morris affair at all! That is not your unit's responsibility."
Jason clenched one fist for an instant, forcibly keeping his temper from boiling over. "My responsibility as head of the Airwolf team extends to anything that would affect the performance of my unit. I would say the disappearance of Michael Coldsmith-Briggs and Stringfellow Hawke qualifies on that count, wouldn't you?"
That sobered Newman, although the man did not back down. "I'm fully aware that Archangel is missing -- the whole Department is on full alert trying to button up any holes his defection is going to cause...."
"Defection?!" So inconceivable was the concept that Locke was startled out of his own anger into a brief gawk. "Michael wouldn't defect!"
Newman stared down solemnly at his drab brown suit for a long moment, refusing to face him. "You don't know that," he said carefully. "None of us do."
Jason thought back, remembering the dealings he'd had with the white- suited, charismatic blond who was the Company's (the Firm's, as Michael called it) Deputy Director of Operations. The man was charming and brilliant and crafty -- and utterly loyal. Jason firmly shook his head. "No, sir. Michael did not defect. Kidnapped or worse, but Archangel would never defect."
Newman's head jerked back up, his expression indecipherable. "How can you be so sure?" the man asked tonelessly, watching Locke through veiled eyes.
Long experience had blessed Jason Locke with sensitive internal alarms that warned him immediately when something was about to go very wrong. Whatever was behind Newman's question caused every one of those alarms to go off at once. To buy time to sort them out, Jason threw himself into the nearest leather armchair, and raised a brow. "If he was going to defect," he said caustically, offering no information, "I would hardly expect him to take Stringfellow Hawke along."
Newman thought about it for no more than a second before releasing his breath in a sigh. "No, of course not. Hawke might be difficult...."
"Might be?" Jason echoed with mild irony. "Let's face it, that boy's a pain in the butt." He flashed on the few encounters they'd had so far, the narrow-eyed suspicious gaze the younger Hawke had turned on him, the resistance encountered at every turn. A royal pain in the butt. Then he remembered the open love the man had shown when he'd looked at his brother, the integrity in those blue eyes and the strength of will that might even surpass the indomitable Saint John's, and Locke knew the answer already. "No. Neither one of those two defected."
"Maybe." Apollo's reply was noncommittal, his tone far less so.
Never one to mince words, Jason sat forward, resting his palms flat on the polished desk, "What are you implying?"
His supervisor made a throwaway gesture that fell far short of nonchalance. "Michael has made it no secret that he's been unhappy with the way the Company has handled his career lately. He called in markers from the entire Committee to get that transfer to Hong Kong nullified, and has been restored to his stateside position over even Senatorial protest. As a matter of fact, he's even pushing to regain his position as head of Project Airwolf."
Surprise on surprise! "I never realized. Perhaps that's why he was kidnapped."
That possibility evoked more indignation than interest in the older agent. "Don't you understand?" he growled. "The man is most certainly going to be taking your place. At the very least you'll be replaced by someone from his section, maybe even Stringfellow Hawke."
"Who is also missing," Jason pointed out. He was puzzled by the belligerent attitude although he was well aware of the friction between the various Committee members and their seconds, particularly with Archangel, who always managed to come out on top. Still, compared to the man's kidnapping and possible fate, this was no time to consider petty political squabbles ... or was it? "Is that why you aborted my information search?" he asked resentfully. "To protect our investment in Airwolf?"
Newman cleared his throat but was too much an old hand at the spy game to show any more reaction than that. "Of course not. However, I do prefer that you restrict yourself to missions generated within your section. Archangel's disappearance will be handled by his people."
"They're already involved. Pamela Billingsley has been assigned to the case. She's one of Michael's Angels."
"Angels." Newman made a face. "Such an ostentatious man. How he ever climbed to the rank of Deputy Director is quite beyond me."
It certainly is, Jason thought nastily although prudently keeping his opinion to himself. He shifted his gaze to the window and the manicured lawns surrounding the massive stone building, watching interestedly as a gardener sprayed weed killer while occasionally taking the time to sneeze into a dirty handkerchief. Hope that's hay fever and not poison. Aloud, "The theory we ... they are exploring is that Michael's disappearance is somehow linked to the case he's working on right now."
"Which is?"
Jason's warning bells went off again. He considered lying then thought better of it. Apollo had security clearances up the wazzoo -- and it wasn't as though he couldn't just pick up the phone and find out directly from Zeus. Besides, Newman's administrative bent of mind might -- just might -- be able to lend some new insights on the problem. "You know about that Muslim extremist group, Muhallah's, attacks on NATO installations. Pamela is connecting with one of their men this afternoon. She'll get him to lead us right to whoever is on top of this."
"Does this man have a name?" Newman asked, brown eyes intent.
"Bishop Morris. Morris was an old Army pal of the Hawkes."
Newman considered this, his hands clamped in his lap, his head bowed. "I see. It seems they have the investigation under control. Obviously, they don't need you involved. That particular type of intelligence work is Archangel's province, anyway."
Jason shook his head. "I disagree. Michael is connected to Airwolf, and anything affecting Airwolf becomes my area of expertise."
That elicited a spark in Apollo's muddy eyes -- one of anger. "You can disagree all you want to, Mr. Locke, but Michael's disappearance is a matter for the Committee. Let them handle things while you tend to your own circle of responsibility. In other words, Jason, you are off Archangel's investigation as of immediately."
Fury knotted the muscles in Jason's gut but there was something in the other man's eyes that held his tongue. Without a word he stood and left, slamming the door hard behind him.
Unbeknownst to Locke, Donald Newman stared hard at the closed door for several seconds until Jason's furious footfalls disappeared through the office and down the hall. He considered another moment then picked up the phone and dialed a number he'd carefully memorized. "This is Newman," he said when it had been picked up on the other end. "We have a problem...."
***
It was that combination of war experience and hard-nosed approach that had prompted his section leader, Donald Newman, to appoint him intermediary between the Government and Stringfellow Hawke, when Archangel had been abruptly transferred to Hong Kong. His mission: to assume Archangel's unenviable task of continuing to persuade the renegade pilot to use Airwolf on DNS missions. This way, as was carefully explained to him with fully four members of the Central Committee in attendance, they could avoid having to surrender the prototype helicopter to fellow agencies -- the CIA came immediately to mind -- while still having access to it whenever major firepower was needed. True, they wouldn't be able to duplicate Airwolf without eliciting suspicion in certain circles, but a delay of a few years was something the Company was prepared to accept to avoid losing control of the gunship altogether. Oh, and would he mind not mentioning this to the rest of the Committee? Wheels within wheels.
What Locke's organization hadn't told him was how to manage his assignment. Stringfellow Hawke's psychological profile had painted an explicit picture of the man Locke would have to deal with: a withdrawn and uncompromising loner utterly obsessed with the search for his brother and bearing no lasting love for the bureaucracy that had, in his estimation, failed them both. Not a promising start to a negotiation, Jason had conceded upon reading it.
Michael Briggs, it was rumored around the watercoolers, had influenced through charm rather than intimidation, and had never failed to get what he wanted even over the vehement protests of Hawke's closest friend, Dominic Santini. Michael had even been able to invoke the obligations of friendship from the taciturn young man when necessary, and, when all else had failed, there had always been the search for Saint John, something Hawke would not have jeopardized even to save his own life much less salve his pride.
But cajoling was not part of Locke's management style, and he'd gone into that first meeting prepared to enforce his authority as Airwolf's new controller by showing Stringfellow Hawke exactly who was boss, even physically if necessary ... and it had very nearly come to that! But Jason had acted with far more restraint when, quite to his surprise, he'd found unexpected nuances behind the bland black-and-white facsimile in the file. While hostile, Hawke was not the spiteful traitor to the United States that Locke had anticipated having to browbeat into submission; he was instead a sad, driven man who only wanted to have the last of his family back. Was that what Archangel had seen as well? Jason wandered that ground often, and understood Michael Coldsmith-Briggs just a little better for the question. He'd even been prepared to alter his management style just a little if that was what it would take to keep the peace, and had thrown himself into the search for Saint John Hawke with a single minded determination of his own. Of course, his association with Hawke had been brief. An assassin's bomb had changed the framework of Jason's job considerably but not irretrievably.
After the loss of both Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini, and working carefully within the parameters set out for him by Newman and the Committee, Locke had started his assignment with a fresh slate. He'd begun by putting together a specialized team with aerial combat experience, and enough intelligence background to be used on undercover missions when need of the powerful gunship seemed certain. It had been serendipitous that Mike Rivers and Jo Santini had involved themselves from the beginning and proved willing to continue on even after Saint John's rescue from Burma. The new group had worked well together, their pseudo-autonomy affording Locke a large degree of latitude in the outworking of his assignments, and giving him the firepower to extend his secondary field teams to the full.
Not that there weren't problems. Working with two such forceful personalities as Army Reservist Major Saint John Hawke and Air Force Major Mike Rivers guaranteed that conflict was inevitable. Both headstrong types, they were not uncontrollable. Rivers was, after all, a graduate of the Air Force Academy and used to following orders, if not blindly. His impulsive, flippant attitude was offset by the cool sensibilities of a combat pilot, his fearless, aggressive nature making him a warrior to be reckoned with.
Saint John Hawke's old Army file had portrayed him as the epitome of the good soldier -- solid, dependable, efficient and deadly. Fifteen years under inhumane conditions had not altered that. Generally stoic and centered, the man was not, however, emotionless; deep waters ran behind that impassive front, that few were privileged to see. Saint John tended to keep his own counsel and follow his own path for all he was nominally team leader to Jason's liaison, the contrast to Mike's impetuosity affording the group a much needed balance. Even Jo, with no intelligence training or experience, had shown herself bold and resourceful. All in all, the Company psychologists had congratulated Locke on putting together what might well be the perfect team, adding several managerial kudos to his already glowing file.
Of course, the return of Saint John's volatile younger brother, Stringfellow, bade fair to change all that! There had been many warnings from those self-same psychologists about how the unpredictable young man could effect the dynamics of the team. Independence was not considered a virtue according to Company standards nor, truth be told, by Jason's. Not that Jason was sorry to see the kid alive; a pilot of that calibre and with that much courage was hard to find, and the younger Hawke had proven himself invaluable on that mission into Mexico last month. He could even be convinced to cooperate if you approached him just right, as Michael did ... or if you had Saint John run interference.
And, it must be admitted, Jason had come to consider Saint John, if not Stringfellow, a friend, and was glad on their behalf to see them reunited after a decade and a half apart. He'd seen the affection between them, had heard of the harmony they exhibited in combat. Instinct told Locke that given enough time to work out the unavoidable personality clashes, this could only serve to unite the team more closely rather than tear it apart, no matter how self-reliant the members. Yep. One way or the other, things were going to work out, and Jason Locke had assessed himself relatively happy with his lot. That is, if you didn't count the developing stomach ulcer.
Until today.
Today, Jason Locke was not happy -- he was annoyed. He'd been official liaison for the Airwolf team for several months now -- head of his own field unit for seven years -- and after nearly two decades in the spy game was reconciled to having to fight to establish his authority with underlings and superiors alike. Reconciled, maybe, but that didn't mean he liked it. And he liked it even less when a case he had a personal stake in was terminated abruptly by anyone below Committee level without explanation. Puzzled as well as annoyed, Jason Locke sought out his superior that very afternoon.
"Apollo!" he rapped, deliberately using the man's code name rather than the polite, "Donald," as per usual.
The tall, gangly man looked up at Jason's precipitous entrance, casting his young secretary, who had followed Locke in, an accusative look.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Newman," she sputtered, glaring at Locke from the side. "He was past me before I could stop him."
Newman skimmed her tiny figure, his smile mentally comparing it with Jason's six-foot, one-and-a-half inch, muscled frame. "It's all right, Dolly," he assured the distressed woman in a courtly southern drawl. "I'll handle things."
Dolly huffed once and left.
Jason waited until the door had closed behind the secretary before addressing Donald Newman. "I want to know why my requests for information on the Morris affair were cancelled via your override codes!"
"And I want to know," Newman shot back, craggy face growing stern, "why you're investigating the Morris affair at all! That is not your unit's responsibility."
Jason clenched one fist for an instant, forcibly keeping his temper from boiling over. "My responsibility as head of the Airwolf team extends to anything that would affect the performance of my unit. I would say the disappearance of Michael Coldsmith-Briggs and Stringfellow Hawke qualifies on that count, wouldn't you?"
That sobered Newman, although the man did not back down. "I'm fully aware that Archangel is missing -- the whole Department is on full alert trying to button up any holes his defection is going to cause...."
"Defection?!" So inconceivable was the concept that Locke was startled out of his own anger into a brief gawk. "Michael wouldn't defect!"
Newman stared down solemnly at his drab brown suit for a long moment, refusing to face him. "You don't know that," he said carefully. "None of us do."
Jason thought back, remembering the dealings he'd had with the white- suited, charismatic blond who was the Company's (the Firm's, as Michael called it) Deputy Director of Operations. The man was charming and brilliant and crafty -- and utterly loyal. Jason firmly shook his head. "No, sir. Michael did not defect. Kidnapped or worse, but Archangel would never defect."
Newman's head jerked back up, his expression indecipherable. "How can you be so sure?" the man asked tonelessly, watching Locke through veiled eyes.
Long experience had blessed Jason Locke with sensitive internal alarms that warned him immediately when something was about to go very wrong. Whatever was behind Newman's question caused every one of those alarms to go off at once. To buy time to sort them out, Jason threw himself into the nearest leather armchair, and raised a brow. "If he was going to defect," he said caustically, offering no information, "I would hardly expect him to take Stringfellow Hawke along."
Newman thought about it for no more than a second before releasing his breath in a sigh. "No, of course not. Hawke might be difficult...."
"Might be?" Jason echoed with mild irony. "Let's face it, that boy's a pain in the butt." He flashed on the few encounters they'd had so far, the narrow-eyed suspicious gaze the younger Hawke had turned on him, the resistance encountered at every turn. A royal pain in the butt. Then he remembered the open love the man had shown when he'd looked at his brother, the integrity in those blue eyes and the strength of will that might even surpass the indomitable Saint John's, and Locke knew the answer already. "No. Neither one of those two defected."
"Maybe." Apollo's reply was noncommittal, his tone far less so.
Never one to mince words, Jason sat forward, resting his palms flat on the polished desk, "What are you implying?"
His supervisor made a throwaway gesture that fell far short of nonchalance. "Michael has made it no secret that he's been unhappy with the way the Company has handled his career lately. He called in markers from the entire Committee to get that transfer to Hong Kong nullified, and has been restored to his stateside position over even Senatorial protest. As a matter of fact, he's even pushing to regain his position as head of Project Airwolf."
Surprise on surprise! "I never realized. Perhaps that's why he was kidnapped."
That possibility evoked more indignation than interest in the older agent. "Don't you understand?" he growled. "The man is most certainly going to be taking your place. At the very least you'll be replaced by someone from his section, maybe even Stringfellow Hawke."
"Who is also missing," Jason pointed out. He was puzzled by the belligerent attitude although he was well aware of the friction between the various Committee members and their seconds, particularly with Archangel, who always managed to come out on top. Still, compared to the man's kidnapping and possible fate, this was no time to consider petty political squabbles ... or was it? "Is that why you aborted my information search?" he asked resentfully. "To protect our investment in Airwolf?"
Newman cleared his throat but was too much an old hand at the spy game to show any more reaction than that. "Of course not. However, I do prefer that you restrict yourself to missions generated within your section. Archangel's disappearance will be handled by his people."
"They're already involved. Pamela Billingsley has been assigned to the case. She's one of Michael's Angels."
"Angels." Newman made a face. "Such an ostentatious man. How he ever climbed to the rank of Deputy Director is quite beyond me."
It certainly is, Jason thought nastily although prudently keeping his opinion to himself. He shifted his gaze to the window and the manicured lawns surrounding the massive stone building, watching interestedly as a gardener sprayed weed killer while occasionally taking the time to sneeze into a dirty handkerchief. Hope that's hay fever and not poison. Aloud, "The theory we ... they are exploring is that Michael's disappearance is somehow linked to the case he's working on right now."
"Which is?"
Jason's warning bells went off again. He considered lying then thought better of it. Apollo had security clearances up the wazzoo -- and it wasn't as though he couldn't just pick up the phone and find out directly from Zeus. Besides, Newman's administrative bent of mind might -- just might -- be able to lend some new insights on the problem. "You know about that Muslim extremist group, Muhallah's, attacks on NATO installations. Pamela is connecting with one of their men this afternoon. She'll get him to lead us right to whoever is on top of this."
"Does this man have a name?" Newman asked, brown eyes intent.
"Bishop Morris. Morris was an old Army pal of the Hawkes."
Newman considered this, his hands clamped in his lap, his head bowed. "I see. It seems they have the investigation under control. Obviously, they don't need you involved. That particular type of intelligence work is Archangel's province, anyway."
Jason shook his head. "I disagree. Michael is connected to Airwolf, and anything affecting Airwolf becomes my area of expertise."
That elicited a spark in Apollo's muddy eyes -- one of anger. "You can disagree all you want to, Mr. Locke, but Michael's disappearance is a matter for the Committee. Let them handle things while you tend to your own circle of responsibility. In other words, Jason, you are off Archangel's investigation as of immediately."
Fury knotted the muscles in Jason's gut but there was something in the other man's eyes that held his tongue. Without a word he stood and left, slamming the door hard behind him.
Unbeknownst to Locke, Donald Newman stared hard at the closed door for several seconds until Jason's furious footfalls disappeared through the office and down the hall. He considered another moment then picked up the phone and dialed a number he'd carefully memorized. "This is Newman," he said when it had been picked up on the other end. "We have a problem...."
***