Had any of the party been out of doors they might have enjoyed the fabulous
view of the bright sun slanting steeply from the west. Sundown was only
minutes away, the rays already realizing the ruby glory that had inspired
poets down through the ages. There were no windows in the lab, however,
and no one bothered to tell Dr. Anastasia Zarkov the time, as if she would
have cared. She made the final notes on her pad and handed it to the ever
present Lydia, then remained where she was, contemplating the unmoving
Stringfellow Hawke. "I may have miscalculated," she muttered, pursing full
lips from which the lipstick had long ago been chewed off. "We will not
get results this way."
Horn, sprawled tiredly in a chair near the door, looked up at her words, then pushed himself erect and approached the gurney. He too stood staring at the unconscious man, a tight expression on his face. "You've failed?" he demanded in tones that had sent many an underling fleeing in terror. From Zarkov they elicited only a toss of the head.
"Of course I have not failed, John. From a scientific point of view, the only failure is an act from which one learns nothing."
Horn brushed that aside impatiently, his pale eyes icy. "I care nothing for the scientific point of view, Anastasia. I'm a business man. I'm only interested in the attainment of my objectives." He took Hawke's chin in one palm, turning it toward him the easier to study the young man's slack, bone white features. "He looks dead."
"Certainly not!" Fleeting alarm graced Zarkov's planed face. She lifted one of Hawke's eyelids, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist. "Not dead," she said at last, breathing a sigh of relief. "Shock. We can bring him out of that."
Horn stood unmoving. "To what end? You've been working on him for ..." He glanced at the platinum Rolex on his wrist. "... twelve hours now. And what do you have?"
Zarkov smiled. "I have a blank slate, John." Her smile faded under his stony gaze. "Granted, we will not get the same results as either of us did before. The boy is strong-willed, and this time he was prepared. However, the human mind can barrier only so much against invasion." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Fascinating how he managed to protect himself from the grief of Santini's death by convincing himself our 'version' was not the authentic one."
"I wonder whose idea that was," Horn snarled, casting a calculating look in the direction Archangel waited.
The Russian psychologist ran a hand through her mussed dark hair. "It does not matter. That could be usable."
"How?" Horn asked harshly. "Threatening him with an illusion he doesn't believe in isn't the reason I've sunk millions of dollars into this endeavor."
"Of course it isn't," Zarkov returned bluntly. "You have pursued this track to avenge yourself. From what I have seen, your vengeance has been adequately fulfilled."
That gave the industrialist pause, an involuntary smile twisting his thin lips. "You've been watching those old movies again, my dear. You're starting to talk like one." He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and turned away, walking a few paces before returning to the gurney. "Vengeance, as you say, was one of my goals; however, it was not the reason I've gone through so much trouble or taken such risks at this particular time."
Zarkov crossed her arms over her breasts. "You wanted Airwolf as well."
The former billionaire paced several steps in either direction, a scowl marring his handsome features. "It's all gone wrong on too many levels. It cost me a small fortune to find out that the Government had located Saint John Hawke in Cambodia and hired Blackjack Buchard to retrieve him. I bribed that fool even more to use the brother to acquire Airwolf for me instead of turning him over to the Americans."
Anastasia watched her assistant run a check on Hawke, who was still deeply unconscious; even a brief application of amyl nitrate under his nose did little but elicit a weak twitch. "It was a good plan at inception," she told Horn absently. "Psychologically, it was flawless."
The industrialist ran an angry hand across his face, glare directed in the woman's direction but not at her. "Field Marshal Helmuth once said that no plan survives contact with the enemy. He was correct, an intricate strategy being all the more susceptible to the whimsy of the Fates. That bomb I ordered planted at Santini Air was supposed to eliminate only Santini. His death would have increased Hawke's isolation, making him even more vulnerable and anxious to acquiesce to any arrangement I offered, including trading Airwolf for his brother."
"It might have worked had it been Stringfellow, with his greater emotional commitment, who went into Burma after Buchard, instead of that second team," Zarkov pointed out without accusation. "But being so badly injured, that was impossible."
Horn stopped pacing long enough to slam one hand flat against the wall, anger changing his stride to short, jerky steps. "The specialist I hired has paid for his mistake, and I was able to acquire Santini for later use. However, the setback necessitated this interminable delay and a complete restructuring of my plans."
"Didn't that O'Shaunessey woman know anything?" Zarkov asked, never taking her bright brown eyes from Hawke's slack features. "Or that mechanic, Everett Logan?"
Horn ground his teeth. "If only they had. None of my sources could turn up evidence that either were any more than part-time pilot-mechanics with the company. I had them watched, of course, as did the Firm, but neither have said or done anything suspicious since the explosion." He spun suddenly, taking the woman by both shoulders. "I need Airwolf. Need it, Anastasia, to attain my goals. Now that the boy's brother is back -- his genuine brother," he added, shooting her a wry grin, "there are others who can fly it against me." He released her to stare thoughtfully down at Hawke's face. "What was once a simple matter grows annoyingly complicated."
"Then we must simplify it again." Zarkov stroked Hawke's cheek, long fingers playing delicately across the bruises decorating his high cheekbones, smoothing the lines of pain in his forehead. "It will only be necessary to abandon this direct approach we have been using for one more subtle. Rather than fighting the old loyalties that protect him from us, I propose to use them by blending them into the delusions I am planting now."
Horn snorted disdainfully. He pointed to the mirrored glass wall; a face was projected there, square jawed and gray haired, one Stringfellow would have recognized from his deepest nightmares as the man he'd once believed was Saint John Hawke. "Now that his real brother is back, Hawke is never going to believe in that man again. Why are you still trying to convince him that this impostor is the genuine article?"
"Believe it or not, that could be the easiest part of the process. However, my main goal here is to reconstruct old contacts with his subconscious and intensify the confusion of reality. If I am careful, he won't be able to tell which 'brother' is the real one, which shall help us sever ties to his past." She tucked one dark strand behind her ear, her attitude that of a lecturer. "There are other fealties at work here; if orchestrated carefully, they can be realigned into something we can use." Zarkov looked up apologetically, meeting her employer's cold eyes. "I fear you won't have Stringfellow's personal loyalty for yourself anymore, and he won't knowingly fly missions for you. However, there is an excellent possibility that you will end up with Airwolf in your possession."
Horn chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I want Airwolf for myself, but would settle at this point for her destruction. My priority now is preventing Stringfellow, his brother or his brother's team from using it against my men when we attack the weapons installation in Greece in sixty hours."
The Russian psychologist nodded graciously. "That I can guarantee."
Horn leaned over the gurney, bracing himself by placing one stiffened arm on either side of Hawke's sweat-soaked head. He stared a long time into the younger man's battered features, mulling his options carefully. Finally, "Very well. That will suffice for the moment. What will you need?"
"Need?" Zarkov smiled that slow, lazy smile of hers, like a cat with a mouse already under paw. "I already have all I need. I have a mind open and vulnerable and just waiting to be transformed. Give me a little time and I shall fill it with many delicious things."
"Time is one thing we have very little of, Anastasia," Horn warned, again consulting his Rolex. "Very little indeed."
***
Last year
Dominic Santini took the woman's hand in his one last time, squeezing it gently. "I just wanted to thank you again, Meg. Without you, we would have never found Michael in time, and Stoner would have escaped with that avoidance system."
Megan Ravenswood returned his smile uncomfortably. "I'm glad I was able to help. It isn't often I'm in time to do more than locate a body after the fact."
Dom studied her carefully, noting yet again the turned down mouth that sobered her usually vivacious appearance. He tipped her chin up with his thumb; she was above average height, and this allowed him to look deeply into her troubled blue eyes. "What is it, Megan? I thought you'd be a lot happier now that everything was cleared up. Maybe that fishing trip--"
She jerked away, then touched his arm timidly in apology. "I'm sorry. It's just ... there's not going to be a fishing trip, Dom. Not for me."
Santini gaped at the vehemence of her refusal, all out of proportion to simply declining a vacation. He followed her involuntary glance to the lot, and the patiently waiting man visible in the open jeep parked there. Stringfellow Hawke was sprawled bonelessly in the passenger seat, head tilted back on the rest, face turned to the sky. His eyes were closed although even at the distance Dom could tell he wasn't asleep. There was an aura of suppressed tension in that slim body that Dom knew was a hold- over from the stimulation of the combat that afternoon. Neither one of them would sleep easily that night. "Is String the problem, honey? Listen, he didn't mean to come down so hard on you. The kid just gets upset and...."
She cut him off by pressing two fingers against his mouth, offering that soft smile he remembered and loved so well. "No, Dom. He hasn't offended me. Since this morning he's been a perfect gentleman." She waved a hand vaguely, looking even more embarrassed. "Do me a favor, Dom?"
"Anything," he returned, meaning it.
"Then do-don't bring him back here, okay?"
"Don't-- String?" Santini stared, stunned by both the request and the naked appeal in her voice. "Megan, what did he do?"
She laughed, a short bark he wouldn't have imagined her throaty alto to be capable of producing. There was no humor in the sound but neither was there the anger he half expected. "I mean it, Dom, he didn't do anything wrong. It-it's what he is." She tapped her breast. "In here."
Despite her gentleness, Dom reacted instinctively, snapping to the defense of his young friend without consideration or thought. "What he is inside," he retorted with more gruffness than he'd ever used with this woman before, "is a good man who's given a whole lot more for his country than anyone should ever have to." She dropped her eyes, her obvious distress defusing the automatic reaction more effectively than anything else could have. "He's a good kid, Megan," he continued on in a softer tone. "Why don't you like him?"
Her protest was low and sad. "I wish I didn't like him, Dom. That's the problem." He raised a quizzical brow, and she swallowed, running both hands through her frizzy blonde hair. "If I don't like someone, I still read them but not as strongly; when there's no affinity, I can build a mental wall, sometimes even shut them out altogether."
"But you can't shut String out and you want to," Santini interpreted, knowing he was correct when she shuddered again.
She nodded, a single tear tracking her already smeared makeup. "He hurts, Dom. All of the time. It colors every single thing he thinks about or does. Even when he smiles it's only to cover up that ache inside. The only time it even eased was when he was flying that black helicopter thing and people were shooting at us! Dom, he enjoyed that part!"
Dom felt his own gut constrict at this unwelcome if not unexpected insight into his foster son's soul. "He's a soldier," he explained gently, knowing it made no difference to Megan. "Just like me."
"Not just like you, Dom." The school teacher shook her head vehemently, begging his understanding. "Not just like you. You do what you have to do and let the rest go. He never lets go. It's there -- it's all there -- all of the ghosts, all of the time. And every time he's near me I have to feel every one of them!" She broke off suddenly, realizing that she was raising her voice above the murmur they'd been maintaining. "Just don't bring him back, okay?"
Dom allowed her to kiss his cheek, then made his way back to the jeep, keeping a troubled eye on his younger colleague as he neared it. Long association told him the precise moment String became aware of his presence; the younger pilot did not move but the aura of readiness increased perceptibly, then faded when the approacher was identified. By my footsteps, probably, Dom guessed, an unwilling smile tugging his lips. Kid has ears like a ... er ... hawk.
He slid into the driver's seat, turning to catch the single blue eye regarding him through barely cracked brown lashes. He nodded solemnly and concentrated on starting the engine. "Thought you were asleep."
Hawke closed his eyes again, smothering a yawn with one hand. "Tired but I can't drift off. When is Megan coming up?"
Dom threw the jeep into gear and pulled out into the street, using the traffic as an excuse to keep his face averted. "She isn't," he said casually. "Turns out she hates fish."
"She still mad at me?" Hawke asked, opening both eyes to stare at Dom's profile.
Dom laughed heartily, slapping his friend's knee. "Naw, kid, you didn't do anything wrong. Nothing wrong at all...."
***
Horn, sprawled tiredly in a chair near the door, looked up at her words, then pushed himself erect and approached the gurney. He too stood staring at the unconscious man, a tight expression on his face. "You've failed?" he demanded in tones that had sent many an underling fleeing in terror. From Zarkov they elicited only a toss of the head.
"Of course I have not failed, John. From a scientific point of view, the only failure is an act from which one learns nothing."
Horn brushed that aside impatiently, his pale eyes icy. "I care nothing for the scientific point of view, Anastasia. I'm a business man. I'm only interested in the attainment of my objectives." He took Hawke's chin in one palm, turning it toward him the easier to study the young man's slack, bone white features. "He looks dead."
"Certainly not!" Fleeting alarm graced Zarkov's planed face. She lifted one of Hawke's eyelids, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist. "Not dead," she said at last, breathing a sigh of relief. "Shock. We can bring him out of that."
Horn stood unmoving. "To what end? You've been working on him for ..." He glanced at the platinum Rolex on his wrist. "... twelve hours now. And what do you have?"
Zarkov smiled. "I have a blank slate, John." Her smile faded under his stony gaze. "Granted, we will not get the same results as either of us did before. The boy is strong-willed, and this time he was prepared. However, the human mind can barrier only so much against invasion." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Fascinating how he managed to protect himself from the grief of Santini's death by convincing himself our 'version' was not the authentic one."
"I wonder whose idea that was," Horn snarled, casting a calculating look in the direction Archangel waited.
The Russian psychologist ran a hand through her mussed dark hair. "It does not matter. That could be usable."
"How?" Horn asked harshly. "Threatening him with an illusion he doesn't believe in isn't the reason I've sunk millions of dollars into this endeavor."
"Of course it isn't," Zarkov returned bluntly. "You have pursued this track to avenge yourself. From what I have seen, your vengeance has been adequately fulfilled."
That gave the industrialist pause, an involuntary smile twisting his thin lips. "You've been watching those old movies again, my dear. You're starting to talk like one." He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and turned away, walking a few paces before returning to the gurney. "Vengeance, as you say, was one of my goals; however, it was not the reason I've gone through so much trouble or taken such risks at this particular time."
Zarkov crossed her arms over her breasts. "You wanted Airwolf as well."
The former billionaire paced several steps in either direction, a scowl marring his handsome features. "It's all gone wrong on too many levels. It cost me a small fortune to find out that the Government had located Saint John Hawke in Cambodia and hired Blackjack Buchard to retrieve him. I bribed that fool even more to use the brother to acquire Airwolf for me instead of turning him over to the Americans."
Anastasia watched her assistant run a check on Hawke, who was still deeply unconscious; even a brief application of amyl nitrate under his nose did little but elicit a weak twitch. "It was a good plan at inception," she told Horn absently. "Psychologically, it was flawless."
The industrialist ran an angry hand across his face, glare directed in the woman's direction but not at her. "Field Marshal Helmuth once said that no plan survives contact with the enemy. He was correct, an intricate strategy being all the more susceptible to the whimsy of the Fates. That bomb I ordered planted at Santini Air was supposed to eliminate only Santini. His death would have increased Hawke's isolation, making him even more vulnerable and anxious to acquiesce to any arrangement I offered, including trading Airwolf for his brother."
"It might have worked had it been Stringfellow, with his greater emotional commitment, who went into Burma after Buchard, instead of that second team," Zarkov pointed out without accusation. "But being so badly injured, that was impossible."
Horn stopped pacing long enough to slam one hand flat against the wall, anger changing his stride to short, jerky steps. "The specialist I hired has paid for his mistake, and I was able to acquire Santini for later use. However, the setback necessitated this interminable delay and a complete restructuring of my plans."
"Didn't that O'Shaunessey woman know anything?" Zarkov asked, never taking her bright brown eyes from Hawke's slack features. "Or that mechanic, Everett Logan?"
Horn ground his teeth. "If only they had. None of my sources could turn up evidence that either were any more than part-time pilot-mechanics with the company. I had them watched, of course, as did the Firm, but neither have said or done anything suspicious since the explosion." He spun suddenly, taking the woman by both shoulders. "I need Airwolf. Need it, Anastasia, to attain my goals. Now that the boy's brother is back -- his genuine brother," he added, shooting her a wry grin, "there are others who can fly it against me." He released her to stare thoughtfully down at Hawke's face. "What was once a simple matter grows annoyingly complicated."
"Then we must simplify it again." Zarkov stroked Hawke's cheek, long fingers playing delicately across the bruises decorating his high cheekbones, smoothing the lines of pain in his forehead. "It will only be necessary to abandon this direct approach we have been using for one more subtle. Rather than fighting the old loyalties that protect him from us, I propose to use them by blending them into the delusions I am planting now."
Horn snorted disdainfully. He pointed to the mirrored glass wall; a face was projected there, square jawed and gray haired, one Stringfellow would have recognized from his deepest nightmares as the man he'd once believed was Saint John Hawke. "Now that his real brother is back, Hawke is never going to believe in that man again. Why are you still trying to convince him that this impostor is the genuine article?"
"Believe it or not, that could be the easiest part of the process. However, my main goal here is to reconstruct old contacts with his subconscious and intensify the confusion of reality. If I am careful, he won't be able to tell which 'brother' is the real one, which shall help us sever ties to his past." She tucked one dark strand behind her ear, her attitude that of a lecturer. "There are other fealties at work here; if orchestrated carefully, they can be realigned into something we can use." Zarkov looked up apologetically, meeting her employer's cold eyes. "I fear you won't have Stringfellow's personal loyalty for yourself anymore, and he won't knowingly fly missions for you. However, there is an excellent possibility that you will end up with Airwolf in your possession."
Horn chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I want Airwolf for myself, but would settle at this point for her destruction. My priority now is preventing Stringfellow, his brother or his brother's team from using it against my men when we attack the weapons installation in Greece in sixty hours."
The Russian psychologist nodded graciously. "That I can guarantee."
Horn leaned over the gurney, bracing himself by placing one stiffened arm on either side of Hawke's sweat-soaked head. He stared a long time into the younger man's battered features, mulling his options carefully. Finally, "Very well. That will suffice for the moment. What will you need?"
"Need?" Zarkov smiled that slow, lazy smile of hers, like a cat with a mouse already under paw. "I already have all I need. I have a mind open and vulnerable and just waiting to be transformed. Give me a little time and I shall fill it with many delicious things."
"Time is one thing we have very little of, Anastasia," Horn warned, again consulting his Rolex. "Very little indeed."
***
Last year
Dominic Santini took the woman's hand in his one last time, squeezing it gently. "I just wanted to thank you again, Meg. Without you, we would have never found Michael in time, and Stoner would have escaped with that avoidance system."
Megan Ravenswood returned his smile uncomfortably. "I'm glad I was able to help. It isn't often I'm in time to do more than locate a body after the fact."
Dom studied her carefully, noting yet again the turned down mouth that sobered her usually vivacious appearance. He tipped her chin up with his thumb; she was above average height, and this allowed him to look deeply into her troubled blue eyes. "What is it, Megan? I thought you'd be a lot happier now that everything was cleared up. Maybe that fishing trip--"
She jerked away, then touched his arm timidly in apology. "I'm sorry. It's just ... there's not going to be a fishing trip, Dom. Not for me."
Santini gaped at the vehemence of her refusal, all out of proportion to simply declining a vacation. He followed her involuntary glance to the lot, and the patiently waiting man visible in the open jeep parked there. Stringfellow Hawke was sprawled bonelessly in the passenger seat, head tilted back on the rest, face turned to the sky. His eyes were closed although even at the distance Dom could tell he wasn't asleep. There was an aura of suppressed tension in that slim body that Dom knew was a hold- over from the stimulation of the combat that afternoon. Neither one of them would sleep easily that night. "Is String the problem, honey? Listen, he didn't mean to come down so hard on you. The kid just gets upset and...."
She cut him off by pressing two fingers against his mouth, offering that soft smile he remembered and loved so well. "No, Dom. He hasn't offended me. Since this morning he's been a perfect gentleman." She waved a hand vaguely, looking even more embarrassed. "Do me a favor, Dom?"
"Anything," he returned, meaning it.
"Then do-don't bring him back here, okay?"
"Don't-- String?" Santini stared, stunned by both the request and the naked appeal in her voice. "Megan, what did he do?"
She laughed, a short bark he wouldn't have imagined her throaty alto to be capable of producing. There was no humor in the sound but neither was there the anger he half expected. "I mean it, Dom, he didn't do anything wrong. It-it's what he is." She tapped her breast. "In here."
Despite her gentleness, Dom reacted instinctively, snapping to the defense of his young friend without consideration or thought. "What he is inside," he retorted with more gruffness than he'd ever used with this woman before, "is a good man who's given a whole lot more for his country than anyone should ever have to." She dropped her eyes, her obvious distress defusing the automatic reaction more effectively than anything else could have. "He's a good kid, Megan," he continued on in a softer tone. "Why don't you like him?"
Her protest was low and sad. "I wish I didn't like him, Dom. That's the problem." He raised a quizzical brow, and she swallowed, running both hands through her frizzy blonde hair. "If I don't like someone, I still read them but not as strongly; when there's no affinity, I can build a mental wall, sometimes even shut them out altogether."
"But you can't shut String out and you want to," Santini interpreted, knowing he was correct when she shuddered again.
She nodded, a single tear tracking her already smeared makeup. "He hurts, Dom. All of the time. It colors every single thing he thinks about or does. Even when he smiles it's only to cover up that ache inside. The only time it even eased was when he was flying that black helicopter thing and people were shooting at us! Dom, he enjoyed that part!"
Dom felt his own gut constrict at this unwelcome if not unexpected insight into his foster son's soul. "He's a soldier," he explained gently, knowing it made no difference to Megan. "Just like me."
"Not just like you, Dom." The school teacher shook her head vehemently, begging his understanding. "Not just like you. You do what you have to do and let the rest go. He never lets go. It's there -- it's all there -- all of the ghosts, all of the time. And every time he's near me I have to feel every one of them!" She broke off suddenly, realizing that she was raising her voice above the murmur they'd been maintaining. "Just don't bring him back, okay?"
Dom allowed her to kiss his cheek, then made his way back to the jeep, keeping a troubled eye on his younger colleague as he neared it. Long association told him the precise moment String became aware of his presence; the younger pilot did not move but the aura of readiness increased perceptibly, then faded when the approacher was identified. By my footsteps, probably, Dom guessed, an unwilling smile tugging his lips. Kid has ears like a ... er ... hawk.
He slid into the driver's seat, turning to catch the single blue eye regarding him through barely cracked brown lashes. He nodded solemnly and concentrated on starting the engine. "Thought you were asleep."
Hawke closed his eyes again, smothering a yawn with one hand. "Tired but I can't drift off. When is Megan coming up?"
Dom threw the jeep into gear and pulled out into the street, using the traffic as an excuse to keep his face averted. "She isn't," he said casually. "Turns out she hates fish."
"She still mad at me?" Hawke asked, opening both eyes to stare at Dom's profile.
Dom laughed heartily, slapping his friend's knee. "Naw, kid, you didn't do anything wrong. Nothing wrong at all...."
***