Saint John Hawke looked at his watch, not even bothering to suppress a huge
yawn. It was now past noontime and he'd been here at the Lair since the
afternoon before, closer to a twenty-four hour stretch than he was
comfortable admitting. Mike should be on his way back by now; he'd been at
the Lair until about seven that morning, then had had to return to Van Nuys
for parts, tools and a much needed nap, while Hawke had contented himself
with nodding off for a couple of hours in Airwolf's flight commander's
seat. Saint John would be glad to see Rivers; the younger pilot's
companionable chatter was a welcome diversion from the disturbing visions
that plagued him, every one of them centering around his missing brother.
After fifteen years as a prisoner of war, the older Hawke had no trouble
imagining what Stringfellow could be suffering at the hands of his captors,
and he was facing it all alone ... or might as well be.
Saint John wrinkled his long nose, distrust for the man code named Archangel a sour pill. He had to admit that, contrary to his earlier statement, String always had been a pretty good judge of character; actually, he was far less likely to accept anyone on faith than most people thanks to an overly suspicious nature developed the hard way on the battlefields of 'Nam. Obviously, that suspicion did not extend to Archangel, however much Saint John wished it would. His eyes narrowed at the memory of the closer than expected camaraderie displayed by the two after Michael's rescue from a Mexican castle last month. More than a simple working relationship, the word friendship might even apply as Mike Rivers had pointed out, and Saint John Hawke liked that not one bit. Jason Locke being the sole exception and him only recently so, the bronze haired pilot distrusted agents of all types, and, thanks to several missions sanctioned during a long-ended war, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III most of all. Twenty years doesn't change the fact that three of my closest friends and their teams died carrying out his orders in 'Nam ... including, if scuttlebutt is right, Michael's own brother. And now he wants mine? Suspicious nature or not, Saint John was certain that when it came to this man, his brother's judgement had to be faulty.
"Or is yours?" innate honesty made him ask himself aloud. He stared at the wiring diagram he'd been studying, seeing not blue paper but a seventeen- year-old boy just arrived in the high country and more elated at seeing his older brother than he was afraid of the guerilla smart Viet Cong. Saint John had been even less afraid; so long as String was with him and old buddy Mace Taggert, the boy would be safe -- the two older pilots taught him well and would gladly have given their lives to ensure that.
But they'd both been wrong about Mace Taggert, hadn't they.
The scene shifted on the screen of blue, and Saint John now stared at the face of a mature man -- harder perhaps, more world weary and world worn, but in his older brother's eyes little-changed from the boy-soldier of long ago. He and String had watched out for each other all their lives -- the younger man's fifteen year quest bore testimony to that undying fact. It bothered Saint John to think that his brother had been forced into a devil's deal with the platinum-haired, calculatingly cunning Archangel for his sake. Not that I wouldn't do the same thing if it would bring String home right now.
I'll bet Dom didn't trust him, either, added itself, bringing some germ of satisfaction. And it was Dom who really protected String's back while I was gone, not Michael. But with Dom gone, I'm the one who's supposed to be watching out for my brother, just like he always watches out for me. And you're doing a real good job at it, too, he told himself with some self- contempt.
Determinedly he tried to concentrate on the diagram, but despite himself his mind wandered back to the last evening he and String had spent together. Scorning the usual aerial transport to the cabin, Saint John had taken a short vacation from both Santini Air and the Company to ride his off-road motorcycle the torturous route up the mountain, otherwise accessible only by the sure-footed ponies the local Indians had once used on their rare visits to the summit. Once there, he and String had spent three days fishing the lake, exploring remembered trails and simply being together -- something they'd had little of since Saint John's return from Asia. String had spent the first six weeks after the rescue in the hospital recovering from the terrible injuries he'd suffered in the explosion that had claimed Dominic Santini's life. Saint John still felt an ache when he remembered realizing at long last his dream of coming home only to find one family member dead and the other nearly so. But String, at least, had recovered, and for that, Saint John would be eternally grateful. The hope of being reunited with his younger brother had been one of the stays that the ex-prisoner of war had clung to during his long internment -- the one that had kept him alive and sane. But the years apart had produced an awkwardness between them; they were only now starting to regain the easy rapport that had bonded them during their early years. Those three days had been set aside to address that lack.
Little of what they talked about was of consequence -- the gradual reweaving process would take time and this tentative communication was only a beginning. Still, toward the end they had been able to expose a small portion of their hearts. Saint John remembered the sadness in his brother's face -- the ghosts that haunted his eyes -- when he had finally broken down and spoken of a woman mentioned previously only in the throes of delirium. Gabrielle Ademure had managed to break through the defensive barriers String had built around his heart since Viet Nam, only to die horribly at the hands of Airwolf's mad creator, Charles Moffett, leaving Stringfellow isolated and grieving once again.
For his part Saint John had offered the memory of Maridel Van Thung, a woman the older brother had known while still a prisoner in Laos. They had worked the fields together by day, and by night had shared the human warmth Saint John had been denied too many years. She'd been a young woman despite the lined face and wasted body Laotian slavery had wrought on her, her passions undampened by the systematic abuses of their captors, her heart full of tenderness. They had been separated when Hawke was transferred nearer the border, never to see each other again. He sighed; after three years he wondered if Maridel were alive or dead. He hoped she'd found someone else to love wherever she was. She deserved that much, at least.
Once more Hawke returned to the task at hand, knowing that String's life might depend on whatever firepower he could come up with for the upcoming battle. Mike and he had accomplished much over the long night. The targeting sensors were shorted out by the shell that had penetrated Airwolf's heavy black plating; they'd had to trace back every wire individually from the point of impact, replacing many of the modules they were connected to. The Armaments Deployment and Firing pod lay in pieces, although they had at least managed to reconstruct the main components for easy reassembly. Another few hours should see an end to the project -- not counting the gaping holes still decorating the helicopter's skin and windshield. They would require new metal and glass plates to repair properly; until then the temporary patches were literally held on by glue -- space-age, maybe, but still glue. I'm willing to take a chance on them if it'll help String, Hawke thought stoutly.
He rubbed red eyes and reached for the specialized screwdriver the Pentagon had had to invent to install the Winrow joint in Airwolf's belly. Most of the tools were specialized, the instruments computer calibrated, the sensors and chips unique. The gestalt was the most deadly combat weapon in the world; unfortunately, it also made for repair hassles Saint John hadn't had to deal with back in 'Nam, not even when he was flying what his mechanics had called aerial deathtraps.
The low beeping sound brought Hawke's head up from the circuit diagram he'd been consulting. He placed it on the floor and uncurled his large frame from its cross-legged position under Airwolf's flank. He leaned against the black metal for a moment and knuckled his eyes with one grimy fist; they were underscored with purple shadows, symptoms of the long hours he'd put in on the damaged helicopter.
He heaved a deep sigh and traversed the rough-hewn cavern to the surprisingly modern computer array set in a circle on the west side, taking a moment to glance up to where he could see the sky. It was bright blue and cloudless, the sun just peeping down the stone chimney as it did for a short while near the noon hour.
The beeping came again as Hawke reached the first bank of equipment. He unhooked a microphone from its catch and flicked a button, bringing it to his lips. "Talk to me," he said without introduction. Anyone deliberately calling him on this special scrambled frequency already knew who he was.
Jason Locke's controlled baritone came through the expensive speakers loud and clear. "Got news for you, Saint John."
Hawke straightened hopefully. "About String?"
"Yeah." There was a grimness to the other's voice that tightened every muscle in the pilot's body. "I've got two cases breaking wide open, and your brother is smack dab in the middle of both of them. We think he's being held by an old enemy of his, an industrialist named John Bradford Horn."
Saint John scratched the light blond beard shadowing his long, narrow jaw, thoughtful lines appearing in his forehead. "I don't know the name. You said String's been up against him before?"
"Twice." There was a murmur off-mike, then Locke's voice came back as clear as ever. "What we're dealing with is a very rich fugitive with access to the best technology in the world and a thirst for more. He's the one behind the weapons raids Archangel was investigating -- the one Bishop Morris was involved in."
"Then this is all about money?" Hawke asked incredulously, wiping his hands on the tan overall covering his jeans and flannel shirt.
One could almost hear Locke's shrug through the mike. "Money means safety if applied properly, and Horn can use some of that -- he's still under a Federal indictment on a score of charges ranging from bribery to homicide. He fled the country and has been hiding out under assumed names for the last five years."
Hawke absorbed this all silently, his expression closed though worry gleamed behind his gray eyes. "So what has this got to do with String?"
The black agent paused, took a deep breath. "A weapon like Airwolf could have bought him a haven -- a small Caribbean nation, for example. Naturally, your brother was somewhat disinclined to give her up."
"Naturally," Hawke echoed with a hint of a smile.
"Horn suffered a considerable power loss during his first encounter with your brother, and has been scrambling to rebuild his empire ever since."
Hawke's mouth drew into a thin line. "And what did String suffer?" There was a hesitation at the other end of the mike, as though the black agent was gathering himself. "Jason," Saint John repeated patiently, "what did String suffer?"
Reluctantly, "Quite a bit. Hawke was lured to Horn's base, drugged -- probably tortured -- and brainwashed into obedience. According to his file...." He stopped and cleared his throat, scraping Hawke's nerves raw with the delay.
"What?" the pilot prodded impatiently, curling his left hand into a fist. There was a tapping noise through the mike -- a computer keyboard, Jason checking his sources.
"Information coming up now," Locke replied a moment later. "According to his file, he most certainly suffered a great deal of psychological and emotional trauma in the experience, and what few samples of the drug we were able to retrieve from Horn's base of ops tested as an inorganic, probably remaining in his tissues for a long time after exposure."
"What do you mean, 'probably'?" the pilot demanded. "Didn't a doctor examine him?"
"Treatment was refused, according to his file." Amusement entered in his strong voice. "Doctor's remarks are basically unprintable, but they include some choice epithets on the subject of foolhardy stubbornness."
An unwilling smile teased Hawke's thin lips as well, then was gone, blasted into nonexistence on a wave of fury. "Do you think Horn will try that trick again?"
"Who knows. You just be careful up there. Torture and drugs can break anyone, including your brother. He may very well disclose Airwolf's location -- or worse, he may come for her himself."
"He won't hurt me," Hawke returned with dutiful conviction.
"Maybe, maybe not," the black agent returned cynically, "but Stringfellow wasn't captured alone, and what he won't accomplish, Archangel might. Don't forget, you're dealing with two very dangerous men, and one of them is not related to you."
"I'll be careful." Saint John sank wearily into the chair by the console and rubbed his eyes again. They were starting to sting, anger tightening his rugged face. "You have a location on either this Horn or Bishop yet?"
"Yes, thanks to Officers O'Shaunessey and Gutierrez. I'm putting together an assault team now, to go in and free the prisoners. How near ready is Airwolf to join it?"
Hawke glanced at the parts still scattered across the hard-packed dirt floor, and bit his lip. "Two hours without help. Is Mike still with you?"
"He and Jo are already on their way. ETA to the Lair is another thirty minutes. They can brief you more fully when they arrive."
Saint John nodded, resigned to another delay but relieved that the end was at least in sight. "Good. Then we're going to go get my brother."
Jason uttered a firm acknowledgement and signed off, and, with the new vitality of forthcoming action, Saint John returned to his repair work on Airwolf, determined that the great gunship would be ready for the rescue attempt. As a concession to Locke's warning, he buckled on a serviceable Browning High Power automatic in a sturdy leather holster, its weight evoking flashes of a long-ago reality superimposed over this present one. For seconds at a time Saint John no longer inhabited this cool, arid chamber on a desert plateau; rather, it was the oppressive heat and humidity of the Delta region he felt even more than the dryer climes of the north, the stench of rotting vegetation and blood filling his combat- heightened senses. His body remembered well the tension of imminent peril that had burdened every waking or sleeping hour, and the fatigue he felt now was intensified many fold under that echo.
It was with difficulty that Saint John Hawke fought his way out of the past, using his worry for his captured brother as a tow line back to the present. Is this how you felt when I was MIA, String? he wondered as the cavern reappeared and the Asian jungle faded into the eternal background it inhabited. As though your insides were turned inside out? How did you live with this for nearly half your life? I'd trade being a prisoner for this role any day.
Forcibly he turned his attention back to the task at hand, striving with all his might to banish visions of his brother's peril until he could do something about it. It was difficult -- memories of pain and anticipated death lived on in the ex-P.O.W. despite the three months he had been back in the United States. Back home, he told himself with relish, the sheer joy of freedom dislodging the worry for a single instant. But with a single flaw: to Saint John, home meant family, and family was String.
Even as he worked, his combat trained senses continued to scan his surroundings, a subliminal radar stretched to the full for any signs of unexpected company. He concentrated briefly, sharp ears registering the eerie banshee wail of the wind in the tunnels, allowing the ambience of the earth to flow around and through him, seeking a disturbance in the background aura he was so used to. He heard a rustle from the top of the stone chimney and lifted his head toward the visible sky; a dark shape detached itself from the wall and soared heavenward in its eternal hunt for food. Beyond that, the aerie was peaceful and serene.
Thirty minutes later he picked up his head, attention shifting from the circuit boards to the entrance, every muscle tensed and on alert. Although there had been no sound to warn him, he knew without knowing that he was no longer alone. He rose silently, positioning himself by the only tunnel access to the chamber, flattened himself against the wall and held his breath; it was a long understanding that if he knew the enemy was near, then conversely, they probably sensed his presence as well. Who surprised whom was often only a matter of timing in war.
Long minutes passed while the intruder presumably sized up the scene, then Saint John's patience was rewarded by the appearance of a golden-brown head through the entryway. He coiled ... and sprang! catching the man around the chest, the power in his leap plus not-inconsiderable weight bringing them both crashing to the ground.
Saint John, landing by design on top, recovered first. He reared up onto his knees, straddling the intruder, one fist cocked and ready to strike -- to release all the pent up anger and frustration of these interminable three days in one single, devastating blow. Muscles bunched ... but the punch never landed, for at that moment he recognized the young man staring up at him from the ground through vague blue eyes. "String!" Saint John exclaimed, a broad smile breaking out. "Man, am I glad to see you!" His brother seemed to be having a little trouble breathing -- no surprise with one hundred and ninety pounds still sitting on his chest. Saint John rolled off and stood, bringing the other smoothly up with him by a firm grip on both arms. "C'mon, let me help you. You had us pretty worried!"
He tightened his hold supportively when the younger man swayed, and Saint John felt the red fury rise again when he got his first clear look at the ashen, marked face. "Someone's been using you for a punching bag?" he asked in a tight voice, visualizing his own fist returning the pleasure to whomever had had the audacity to touch his kid brother. He used his thumb to tip the other's head up and to the side, gray eyes narrowing when he spied the long bruise on String's temple, still crusted with blood. "Bet you're sporting a nasty concussion, there. Head hurt?"
Whatever response Saint John Hawke might have been expecting, it most certainly wasn't the haymaker that started low and traveled in an arc to terminate on the point of his chin. He flew backwards, slamming into the cavern wall, then sliding to the dirt floor. He shook his head, trying to eliminate the multi-colored stars that obscured parts of his vision, dazedly watching while the younger man limped towards him. String wrapped one arm around his own midsection and knelt at Saint John's side, using the rough wall as support. He snatched the automatic from the holster and dragged himself erect, backing out of range before the older pilot had a chance to react. "Don't move," he growled, leveling the weapon.
Saint John froze, not liking what he saw in those dulled blue eyes. He studied the other closely, seeking some hint of recognition, finding only confusion and hostility instead. Jason had mentioned drugs and brainwashing as a possibility; looked like he'd called this one. Very cautiously the tall blond raised one hand, rubbing his sore jaw ruefully; he didn't think it was broken despite the way it felt. "Nice sucker punch," he mumbled, trying to keep his tone even while using his tongue to probe for loose teeth. "I was certainly a sucker to let you land it." He stopped, a flash of scarlet on white bandages catching his attention. "Your hand is bleeding," he added very quietly.
"G-get up," String ordered in a low growl, punctuating the order with a waggle of the gun.
Saint John obeyed slowly, making no sudden moves. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked, coming to his feet. "It's me -- Saint John."
String blinked, his youthful face transforming into a mask. "Liar," he snarled, backing away a step, and Saint John did not miss the quaver in his voice or the new pain in his unfocused eyes ... nor the low click of a hammer being cocked.
"This doesn't have anything to do with the time I broke your skateboard when you were seven, does it?" the elder Hawke asked, trying a light approach, striving to make contact. "I bought you a new one. Remember the Red Ryder? You said it was even better than the old--"
"Shut up." The words were flat and cold and vicious. String stared at him -- through him. "They told me you'd try that," he went on, an agony of emotion in his voice. "Try to trick me again."
Keep him talking, try to find out what they did to him. Try to get through... preferably before he shoots me. "Who told you?" Saint John probed, hands held carefully at his sides.
The question seemed to confuse the younger man but, like the warrior he was, he dismissed it in favor of more immediate concerns. "What are you doing in here? How did you find this place?"
"Just doing a few repairs." Saint John jerked his thumb at the deadly black helicopter on the lighted pad; from where they were, the disassembled ADF pod and open access hatch into Airwolf's innards could clearly be seen. "That's my job, remember? I've been taking care of Airwolf for the last three months while you were up on Grandad's mountain."
The gun aimed at Saint John's chest shook, and String, a consummate professional in the art of war, brought up his other hand to steady it, another look of confusion crossing his face. "Three months?" he echoed blankly, and Saint John nearly smiled, coming to a sudden realization. They knew they couldn't make him betray me, he thought smugly, so they tried to blot me out. They don't know me -- I don't blot easily. Not with my own brother.
"Sure, three months," he answered, still in that easy, non-threatening voice he'd used for years to persuade his stubborn younger brother to do things his way. "You remember, don't you? That was when Colonel Buchard was holding me as a prisoner until Jo, Jason and Mike used Airwolf to get me out of Burma. I came to you in the hospital after--"
"After Dom died." The younger Hawke blinked again, his dulled eyes glistening with tears. "But I saw Dom die...?" He trailed off, the gun dipping several inches, and Saint John took a chance by stepping closer, arms spread.
"String...."
The gun centered again, String's face hardening. He looked on the verge of collapse, but Saint John was familiar with the power inherent in his brother's slim build, knew from of old how long the boy could continue on adrenalin and grit alone. "I don't know what's going on or who you are, but the Lair's been compromised. I have to get Airwolf out of here. There's on-only one safe place...."
Saint John's stomach balked as though someone had poured lead down his throat. String had to be stopped; if he escaped with Airwolf, they might never see him again; more, neither Epsilon Guard not Zebra Squad would survive an attack on Horn's estate if the deadly gunship was used against them. Saint John had to do something now, even if it meant attacking String physically -- something that would be harder than it looked despite the younger man's unsteady stance. Of course, intruded the unpleasant thought, if String shot him down, neither one of them would enjoy the experience. "How could this place be compromised by your own brother?" the older Hawke insinuated, continuing to push by taking another risky step. "I thought you always trusted me."
Deliberation was obviously a chore for the younger man, his emotions so visibly raw as to interfere with his rational capacity. "You're a liar," he snarled, retreating a step. "My brother is ... he's a p-prisoner...."
"Was a prisoner," Saint John interrupted, the even tones leaving his voice in favor of urgency. "Come on, String, think about it. Remember the hospital -- how I came to you there -- took you to Marty Bergman's clinic where you could get some treatment." He spread his hands appealingly. "You spent about six weeks there -- I stayed with you as much as I could without giving away your location -- told everybody I was in the mountains meditating so they wouldn't ask questions."
"After the explosion," the younger man murmured abstractedly, touching his temple lightly. "Jetranger...."
"Why don't you sit down, String," Saint John suggested, swallowing his distaste to adapt the persuasive tones he'd heard Archangel use. "Sit down or fall down." There was no satisfaction when Michael's tack didn't work, so Saint John tried a new one. "We spent some time together up in the cabin last week. I told you about Maridel. You told me about Gabrielle."
"Gabrielle," the brown haired pilot echoed in a choked voice, really looking at him for the first time. "Saint John, I...." He took a doubtful step forward, and Saint John felt the leaden weights fall away -- his brother was going to be all right! Stringfellow parted his lips to speak, then stopped, head cocked in a listening attitude. Saint John felt it again, too -- the sure knowledge that someone was near. A moment later the sound of helicopter blades became audible simultaneous with a cheep from the transceiver station behind Airwolf. String's face hardened, the disbelieving glance he gave Saint John tightening the older man's heart. "Over there," the younger pilot said, gesturing to the wall with his gun. "If you make a sound, I'll kill you."
Saint John sighed and obeyed. Bad timing, Mike, he groaned silently. I was getting through -- I know I was. He cursed the interruption, hoping that he could reestablish contact with his injured brother again before it was too late.
*
Saint John wrinkled his long nose, distrust for the man code named Archangel a sour pill. He had to admit that, contrary to his earlier statement, String always had been a pretty good judge of character; actually, he was far less likely to accept anyone on faith than most people thanks to an overly suspicious nature developed the hard way on the battlefields of 'Nam. Obviously, that suspicion did not extend to Archangel, however much Saint John wished it would. His eyes narrowed at the memory of the closer than expected camaraderie displayed by the two after Michael's rescue from a Mexican castle last month. More than a simple working relationship, the word friendship might even apply as Mike Rivers had pointed out, and Saint John Hawke liked that not one bit. Jason Locke being the sole exception and him only recently so, the bronze haired pilot distrusted agents of all types, and, thanks to several missions sanctioned during a long-ended war, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III most of all. Twenty years doesn't change the fact that three of my closest friends and their teams died carrying out his orders in 'Nam ... including, if scuttlebutt is right, Michael's own brother. And now he wants mine? Suspicious nature or not, Saint John was certain that when it came to this man, his brother's judgement had to be faulty.
"Or is yours?" innate honesty made him ask himself aloud. He stared at the wiring diagram he'd been studying, seeing not blue paper but a seventeen- year-old boy just arrived in the high country and more elated at seeing his older brother than he was afraid of the guerilla smart Viet Cong. Saint John had been even less afraid; so long as String was with him and old buddy Mace Taggert, the boy would be safe -- the two older pilots taught him well and would gladly have given their lives to ensure that.
But they'd both been wrong about Mace Taggert, hadn't they.
The scene shifted on the screen of blue, and Saint John now stared at the face of a mature man -- harder perhaps, more world weary and world worn, but in his older brother's eyes little-changed from the boy-soldier of long ago. He and String had watched out for each other all their lives -- the younger man's fifteen year quest bore testimony to that undying fact. It bothered Saint John to think that his brother had been forced into a devil's deal with the platinum-haired, calculatingly cunning Archangel for his sake. Not that I wouldn't do the same thing if it would bring String home right now.
I'll bet Dom didn't trust him, either, added itself, bringing some germ of satisfaction. And it was Dom who really protected String's back while I was gone, not Michael. But with Dom gone, I'm the one who's supposed to be watching out for my brother, just like he always watches out for me. And you're doing a real good job at it, too, he told himself with some self- contempt.
Determinedly he tried to concentrate on the diagram, but despite himself his mind wandered back to the last evening he and String had spent together. Scorning the usual aerial transport to the cabin, Saint John had taken a short vacation from both Santini Air and the Company to ride his off-road motorcycle the torturous route up the mountain, otherwise accessible only by the sure-footed ponies the local Indians had once used on their rare visits to the summit. Once there, he and String had spent three days fishing the lake, exploring remembered trails and simply being together -- something they'd had little of since Saint John's return from Asia. String had spent the first six weeks after the rescue in the hospital recovering from the terrible injuries he'd suffered in the explosion that had claimed Dominic Santini's life. Saint John still felt an ache when he remembered realizing at long last his dream of coming home only to find one family member dead and the other nearly so. But String, at least, had recovered, and for that, Saint John would be eternally grateful. The hope of being reunited with his younger brother had been one of the stays that the ex-prisoner of war had clung to during his long internment -- the one that had kept him alive and sane. But the years apart had produced an awkwardness between them; they were only now starting to regain the easy rapport that had bonded them during their early years. Those three days had been set aside to address that lack.
Little of what they talked about was of consequence -- the gradual reweaving process would take time and this tentative communication was only a beginning. Still, toward the end they had been able to expose a small portion of their hearts. Saint John remembered the sadness in his brother's face -- the ghosts that haunted his eyes -- when he had finally broken down and spoken of a woman mentioned previously only in the throes of delirium. Gabrielle Ademure had managed to break through the defensive barriers String had built around his heart since Viet Nam, only to die horribly at the hands of Airwolf's mad creator, Charles Moffett, leaving Stringfellow isolated and grieving once again.
For his part Saint John had offered the memory of Maridel Van Thung, a woman the older brother had known while still a prisoner in Laos. They had worked the fields together by day, and by night had shared the human warmth Saint John had been denied too many years. She'd been a young woman despite the lined face and wasted body Laotian slavery had wrought on her, her passions undampened by the systematic abuses of their captors, her heart full of tenderness. They had been separated when Hawke was transferred nearer the border, never to see each other again. He sighed; after three years he wondered if Maridel were alive or dead. He hoped she'd found someone else to love wherever she was. She deserved that much, at least.
Once more Hawke returned to the task at hand, knowing that String's life might depend on whatever firepower he could come up with for the upcoming battle. Mike and he had accomplished much over the long night. The targeting sensors were shorted out by the shell that had penetrated Airwolf's heavy black plating; they'd had to trace back every wire individually from the point of impact, replacing many of the modules they were connected to. The Armaments Deployment and Firing pod lay in pieces, although they had at least managed to reconstruct the main components for easy reassembly. Another few hours should see an end to the project -- not counting the gaping holes still decorating the helicopter's skin and windshield. They would require new metal and glass plates to repair properly; until then the temporary patches were literally held on by glue -- space-age, maybe, but still glue. I'm willing to take a chance on them if it'll help String, Hawke thought stoutly.
He rubbed red eyes and reached for the specialized screwdriver the Pentagon had had to invent to install the Winrow joint in Airwolf's belly. Most of the tools were specialized, the instruments computer calibrated, the sensors and chips unique. The gestalt was the most deadly combat weapon in the world; unfortunately, it also made for repair hassles Saint John hadn't had to deal with back in 'Nam, not even when he was flying what his mechanics had called aerial deathtraps.
The low beeping sound brought Hawke's head up from the circuit diagram he'd been consulting. He placed it on the floor and uncurled his large frame from its cross-legged position under Airwolf's flank. He leaned against the black metal for a moment and knuckled his eyes with one grimy fist; they were underscored with purple shadows, symptoms of the long hours he'd put in on the damaged helicopter.
He heaved a deep sigh and traversed the rough-hewn cavern to the surprisingly modern computer array set in a circle on the west side, taking a moment to glance up to where he could see the sky. It was bright blue and cloudless, the sun just peeping down the stone chimney as it did for a short while near the noon hour.
The beeping came again as Hawke reached the first bank of equipment. He unhooked a microphone from its catch and flicked a button, bringing it to his lips. "Talk to me," he said without introduction. Anyone deliberately calling him on this special scrambled frequency already knew who he was.
Jason Locke's controlled baritone came through the expensive speakers loud and clear. "Got news for you, Saint John."
Hawke straightened hopefully. "About String?"
"Yeah." There was a grimness to the other's voice that tightened every muscle in the pilot's body. "I've got two cases breaking wide open, and your brother is smack dab in the middle of both of them. We think he's being held by an old enemy of his, an industrialist named John Bradford Horn."
Saint John scratched the light blond beard shadowing his long, narrow jaw, thoughtful lines appearing in his forehead. "I don't know the name. You said String's been up against him before?"
"Twice." There was a murmur off-mike, then Locke's voice came back as clear as ever. "What we're dealing with is a very rich fugitive with access to the best technology in the world and a thirst for more. He's the one behind the weapons raids Archangel was investigating -- the one Bishop Morris was involved in."
"Then this is all about money?" Hawke asked incredulously, wiping his hands on the tan overall covering his jeans and flannel shirt.
One could almost hear Locke's shrug through the mike. "Money means safety if applied properly, and Horn can use some of that -- he's still under a Federal indictment on a score of charges ranging from bribery to homicide. He fled the country and has been hiding out under assumed names for the last five years."
Hawke absorbed this all silently, his expression closed though worry gleamed behind his gray eyes. "So what has this got to do with String?"
The black agent paused, took a deep breath. "A weapon like Airwolf could have bought him a haven -- a small Caribbean nation, for example. Naturally, your brother was somewhat disinclined to give her up."
"Naturally," Hawke echoed with a hint of a smile.
"Horn suffered a considerable power loss during his first encounter with your brother, and has been scrambling to rebuild his empire ever since."
Hawke's mouth drew into a thin line. "And what did String suffer?" There was a hesitation at the other end of the mike, as though the black agent was gathering himself. "Jason," Saint John repeated patiently, "what did String suffer?"
Reluctantly, "Quite a bit. Hawke was lured to Horn's base, drugged -- probably tortured -- and brainwashed into obedience. According to his file...." He stopped and cleared his throat, scraping Hawke's nerves raw with the delay.
"What?" the pilot prodded impatiently, curling his left hand into a fist. There was a tapping noise through the mike -- a computer keyboard, Jason checking his sources.
"Information coming up now," Locke replied a moment later. "According to his file, he most certainly suffered a great deal of psychological and emotional trauma in the experience, and what few samples of the drug we were able to retrieve from Horn's base of ops tested as an inorganic, probably remaining in his tissues for a long time after exposure."
"What do you mean, 'probably'?" the pilot demanded. "Didn't a doctor examine him?"
"Treatment was refused, according to his file." Amusement entered in his strong voice. "Doctor's remarks are basically unprintable, but they include some choice epithets on the subject of foolhardy stubbornness."
An unwilling smile teased Hawke's thin lips as well, then was gone, blasted into nonexistence on a wave of fury. "Do you think Horn will try that trick again?"
"Who knows. You just be careful up there. Torture and drugs can break anyone, including your brother. He may very well disclose Airwolf's location -- or worse, he may come for her himself."
"He won't hurt me," Hawke returned with dutiful conviction.
"Maybe, maybe not," the black agent returned cynically, "but Stringfellow wasn't captured alone, and what he won't accomplish, Archangel might. Don't forget, you're dealing with two very dangerous men, and one of them is not related to you."
"I'll be careful." Saint John sank wearily into the chair by the console and rubbed his eyes again. They were starting to sting, anger tightening his rugged face. "You have a location on either this Horn or Bishop yet?"
"Yes, thanks to Officers O'Shaunessey and Gutierrez. I'm putting together an assault team now, to go in and free the prisoners. How near ready is Airwolf to join it?"
Hawke glanced at the parts still scattered across the hard-packed dirt floor, and bit his lip. "Two hours without help. Is Mike still with you?"
"He and Jo are already on their way. ETA to the Lair is another thirty minutes. They can brief you more fully when they arrive."
Saint John nodded, resigned to another delay but relieved that the end was at least in sight. "Good. Then we're going to go get my brother."
Jason uttered a firm acknowledgement and signed off, and, with the new vitality of forthcoming action, Saint John returned to his repair work on Airwolf, determined that the great gunship would be ready for the rescue attempt. As a concession to Locke's warning, he buckled on a serviceable Browning High Power automatic in a sturdy leather holster, its weight evoking flashes of a long-ago reality superimposed over this present one. For seconds at a time Saint John no longer inhabited this cool, arid chamber on a desert plateau; rather, it was the oppressive heat and humidity of the Delta region he felt even more than the dryer climes of the north, the stench of rotting vegetation and blood filling his combat- heightened senses. His body remembered well the tension of imminent peril that had burdened every waking or sleeping hour, and the fatigue he felt now was intensified many fold under that echo.
It was with difficulty that Saint John Hawke fought his way out of the past, using his worry for his captured brother as a tow line back to the present. Is this how you felt when I was MIA, String? he wondered as the cavern reappeared and the Asian jungle faded into the eternal background it inhabited. As though your insides were turned inside out? How did you live with this for nearly half your life? I'd trade being a prisoner for this role any day.
Forcibly he turned his attention back to the task at hand, striving with all his might to banish visions of his brother's peril until he could do something about it. It was difficult -- memories of pain and anticipated death lived on in the ex-P.O.W. despite the three months he had been back in the United States. Back home, he told himself with relish, the sheer joy of freedom dislodging the worry for a single instant. But with a single flaw: to Saint John, home meant family, and family was String.
Even as he worked, his combat trained senses continued to scan his surroundings, a subliminal radar stretched to the full for any signs of unexpected company. He concentrated briefly, sharp ears registering the eerie banshee wail of the wind in the tunnels, allowing the ambience of the earth to flow around and through him, seeking a disturbance in the background aura he was so used to. He heard a rustle from the top of the stone chimney and lifted his head toward the visible sky; a dark shape detached itself from the wall and soared heavenward in its eternal hunt for food. Beyond that, the aerie was peaceful and serene.
Thirty minutes later he picked up his head, attention shifting from the circuit boards to the entrance, every muscle tensed and on alert. Although there had been no sound to warn him, he knew without knowing that he was no longer alone. He rose silently, positioning himself by the only tunnel access to the chamber, flattened himself against the wall and held his breath; it was a long understanding that if he knew the enemy was near, then conversely, they probably sensed his presence as well. Who surprised whom was often only a matter of timing in war.
Long minutes passed while the intruder presumably sized up the scene, then Saint John's patience was rewarded by the appearance of a golden-brown head through the entryway. He coiled ... and sprang! catching the man around the chest, the power in his leap plus not-inconsiderable weight bringing them both crashing to the ground.
Saint John, landing by design on top, recovered first. He reared up onto his knees, straddling the intruder, one fist cocked and ready to strike -- to release all the pent up anger and frustration of these interminable three days in one single, devastating blow. Muscles bunched ... but the punch never landed, for at that moment he recognized the young man staring up at him from the ground through vague blue eyes. "String!" Saint John exclaimed, a broad smile breaking out. "Man, am I glad to see you!" His brother seemed to be having a little trouble breathing -- no surprise with one hundred and ninety pounds still sitting on his chest. Saint John rolled off and stood, bringing the other smoothly up with him by a firm grip on both arms. "C'mon, let me help you. You had us pretty worried!"
He tightened his hold supportively when the younger man swayed, and Saint John felt the red fury rise again when he got his first clear look at the ashen, marked face. "Someone's been using you for a punching bag?" he asked in a tight voice, visualizing his own fist returning the pleasure to whomever had had the audacity to touch his kid brother. He used his thumb to tip the other's head up and to the side, gray eyes narrowing when he spied the long bruise on String's temple, still crusted with blood. "Bet you're sporting a nasty concussion, there. Head hurt?"
Whatever response Saint John Hawke might have been expecting, it most certainly wasn't the haymaker that started low and traveled in an arc to terminate on the point of his chin. He flew backwards, slamming into the cavern wall, then sliding to the dirt floor. He shook his head, trying to eliminate the multi-colored stars that obscured parts of his vision, dazedly watching while the younger man limped towards him. String wrapped one arm around his own midsection and knelt at Saint John's side, using the rough wall as support. He snatched the automatic from the holster and dragged himself erect, backing out of range before the older pilot had a chance to react. "Don't move," he growled, leveling the weapon.
Saint John froze, not liking what he saw in those dulled blue eyes. He studied the other closely, seeking some hint of recognition, finding only confusion and hostility instead. Jason had mentioned drugs and brainwashing as a possibility; looked like he'd called this one. Very cautiously the tall blond raised one hand, rubbing his sore jaw ruefully; he didn't think it was broken despite the way it felt. "Nice sucker punch," he mumbled, trying to keep his tone even while using his tongue to probe for loose teeth. "I was certainly a sucker to let you land it." He stopped, a flash of scarlet on white bandages catching his attention. "Your hand is bleeding," he added very quietly.
"G-get up," String ordered in a low growl, punctuating the order with a waggle of the gun.
Saint John obeyed slowly, making no sudden moves. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked, coming to his feet. "It's me -- Saint John."
String blinked, his youthful face transforming into a mask. "Liar," he snarled, backing away a step, and Saint John did not miss the quaver in his voice or the new pain in his unfocused eyes ... nor the low click of a hammer being cocked.
"This doesn't have anything to do with the time I broke your skateboard when you were seven, does it?" the elder Hawke asked, trying a light approach, striving to make contact. "I bought you a new one. Remember the Red Ryder? You said it was even better than the old--"
"Shut up." The words were flat and cold and vicious. String stared at him -- through him. "They told me you'd try that," he went on, an agony of emotion in his voice. "Try to trick me again."
Keep him talking, try to find out what they did to him. Try to get through... preferably before he shoots me. "Who told you?" Saint John probed, hands held carefully at his sides.
The question seemed to confuse the younger man but, like the warrior he was, he dismissed it in favor of more immediate concerns. "What are you doing in here? How did you find this place?"
"Just doing a few repairs." Saint John jerked his thumb at the deadly black helicopter on the lighted pad; from where they were, the disassembled ADF pod and open access hatch into Airwolf's innards could clearly be seen. "That's my job, remember? I've been taking care of Airwolf for the last three months while you were up on Grandad's mountain."
The gun aimed at Saint John's chest shook, and String, a consummate professional in the art of war, brought up his other hand to steady it, another look of confusion crossing his face. "Three months?" he echoed blankly, and Saint John nearly smiled, coming to a sudden realization. They knew they couldn't make him betray me, he thought smugly, so they tried to blot me out. They don't know me -- I don't blot easily. Not with my own brother.
"Sure, three months," he answered, still in that easy, non-threatening voice he'd used for years to persuade his stubborn younger brother to do things his way. "You remember, don't you? That was when Colonel Buchard was holding me as a prisoner until Jo, Jason and Mike used Airwolf to get me out of Burma. I came to you in the hospital after--"
"After Dom died." The younger Hawke blinked again, his dulled eyes glistening with tears. "But I saw Dom die...?" He trailed off, the gun dipping several inches, and Saint John took a chance by stepping closer, arms spread.
"String...."
The gun centered again, String's face hardening. He looked on the verge of collapse, but Saint John was familiar with the power inherent in his brother's slim build, knew from of old how long the boy could continue on adrenalin and grit alone. "I don't know what's going on or who you are, but the Lair's been compromised. I have to get Airwolf out of here. There's on-only one safe place...."
Saint John's stomach balked as though someone had poured lead down his throat. String had to be stopped; if he escaped with Airwolf, they might never see him again; more, neither Epsilon Guard not Zebra Squad would survive an attack on Horn's estate if the deadly gunship was used against them. Saint John had to do something now, even if it meant attacking String physically -- something that would be harder than it looked despite the younger man's unsteady stance. Of course, intruded the unpleasant thought, if String shot him down, neither one of them would enjoy the experience. "How could this place be compromised by your own brother?" the older Hawke insinuated, continuing to push by taking another risky step. "I thought you always trusted me."
Deliberation was obviously a chore for the younger man, his emotions so visibly raw as to interfere with his rational capacity. "You're a liar," he snarled, retreating a step. "My brother is ... he's a p-prisoner...."
"Was a prisoner," Saint John interrupted, the even tones leaving his voice in favor of urgency. "Come on, String, think about it. Remember the hospital -- how I came to you there -- took you to Marty Bergman's clinic where you could get some treatment." He spread his hands appealingly. "You spent about six weeks there -- I stayed with you as much as I could without giving away your location -- told everybody I was in the mountains meditating so they wouldn't ask questions."
"After the explosion," the younger man murmured abstractedly, touching his temple lightly. "Jetranger...."
"Why don't you sit down, String," Saint John suggested, swallowing his distaste to adapt the persuasive tones he'd heard Archangel use. "Sit down or fall down." There was no satisfaction when Michael's tack didn't work, so Saint John tried a new one. "We spent some time together up in the cabin last week. I told you about Maridel. You told me about Gabrielle."
"Gabrielle," the brown haired pilot echoed in a choked voice, really looking at him for the first time. "Saint John, I...." He took a doubtful step forward, and Saint John felt the leaden weights fall away -- his brother was going to be all right! Stringfellow parted his lips to speak, then stopped, head cocked in a listening attitude. Saint John felt it again, too -- the sure knowledge that someone was near. A moment later the sound of helicopter blades became audible simultaneous with a cheep from the transceiver station behind Airwolf. String's face hardened, the disbelieving glance he gave Saint John tightening the older man's heart. "Over there," the younger pilot said, gesturing to the wall with his gun. "If you make a sound, I'll kill you."
Saint John sighed and obeyed. Bad timing, Mike, he groaned silently. I was getting through -- I know I was. He cursed the interruption, hoping that he could reestablish contact with his injured brother again before it was too late.
*