Unaware of the drama taking place nearby, Mike Rivers maneuvered SA's
little Bell helicopter dexterously across the mesa, choosing near ground
level for his approach. He wove around granite rocks the size of
skyscrapers, the remains of some geologic cataclysm dating back to the time
the continent was yet in its infancy. A touch on both stick and collective
lowered them gently next to one of these majestic spires, and only from
this angle could be seen the gaping maw of a cavern nature had carved
millennia before. An expert blast of the rotors eased the Bell forward
slowly until the overhang shielded it from satellite surveillance; it was
only then he cut the power completely, dropping the helicopter down onto
her skids.
Mike unbuckled his harness, head unconsciously cocked toward the low whup- whup of the decelerating blades. He loved that sound -- it represented flight and freedom and power of the skies, three elements that had driven him into the Air Force so many years before. Even now his black cotton shirt and stylishly loose pants felt less familiar against his skin than did a uniform. Or, better yet, a flight suit.
"We have arrived," he told the pretty blonde in the passenger's seat to his left. "Lingerie, negligees and women's apparel, all out."
The blonde curled her lip, falling into the pattern of friendly banter that constituted so much of their rapport. "Negligees instead of boxer shorts?" she gibed, hanging her headset neatly on the radio volume knob, then climbing out to join him by the chopper's nose. "Why, Mike, the things we don't know about our friends."
"I look jutht dar-ling in pink," Rivers lisped back, striking a hand-on-hip pose. His eyes sparkled mischievously, the imp ever living just behind his light blue eyes. "I know -- my girlfriend told me so."
"Which one?" she sneered amiably back, deftly adjusting her green jumpsuit until it hung properly on her lush curves. "Kathleen? Debbie? Alicia?"
"If you caaaaan't be with the one you love...." Mike caroled in a pleasant if off-key baritone. Jo clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle, and Mike grinned. Jo was a fun companion; she had a great laugh and was easy on the eyes to boot -- not to mention having one dynamite body that jumpsuit wasn't hiding. Her only flaw was being semi-resistant to his boyish charms. Guess nobody's perfect, he thought wryly. Oh, well. They might not be a couple, but he liked Jo, and being friends with the vivacious blonde was almost as good!
He'd realized some time ago that Jo's interests did not lie with him. She dated occasionally, but between the two, she was more apt to gravitate towards Saint John Hawke than Mike. Only natural, he supposed, since they'd grown up together. But Hawke's reactions to the woman were more brother than lover, a holdover, perhaps, from the vacations they'd all spent together with Dominic Santini, and the old pilot's welding of them into the large, close-knit Italian family he and Jo had been born a part of. Mike wondered what they had all been like back then, before Viet Nam had sapped the lighthearted merriment that only now and again peeked through Saint John's somber mien, and hung a cloak of melancholy across Stringfellow so heavy as to depress Mike every time he was near.
Generous and emotionally expansive, Rivers considered his associations an open chain, unbound and easy to join. Friends of friends -- or even brothers -- were always welcome to become part of the US that was Mike Rivers' world. Thus, he was unprepared for the closed circle that comprised the Hawke brothers' relationship, generated by old needs and intensified by fifteen years distance. When they were together, the exclusiveness of that mutual support often shut Mike and even Jo out of the equation, and Mike found himself resenting the fact. Most of it was from Stringfellow, true, but not lacking in Saint John, who neither discussed nor shared his brother in any way. Not that Saint John had ever shunned Rivers, for they were best friends and nearly inseparable companions. But where baby brother was concerned, there was only a blank wall presented to the world, and Mike was on the wrong side of that wall.
Saint John's protecting him, Mike had realized from the outset. Baby brother is afraid of getting hurt, and Saint John's going to make sure it doesn't happen. Guess I can't fault him for that even if it hurts that I'm considered one of those threats. It wasn't until much later that Mike discerned that it was not him personally that Stringfellow Hawke looked upon as a threat but the prospective friendships themselves, for it was through his emotions that he could be made vulnerable. Mike knew the wall both brothers sustained would crumble if Stringfellow were to allow himself to be integrated into the group -- they could easily replace that exclusive possessiveness with open camaraderie. Stringfellow, however, showed no inclination to join them, nor any weakening in the stony barriers he maintained. Mike considered that a shame -- he had a sneaking suspicion that behind that wary exterior might lie a pretty good friend to have.
Saint John certainly thought so. Even now his one thought was getting his brother back, and Mike knew he wouldn't care what price had to be paid to accomplish that, whether the cost be to himself, Mike or anyone else. Saint John would sacrifice us all if he had to, he grumbled silently, more team oriented than his fellows. Stringfellow ... What a name! ... isn't even one of US. Jo, Jason, Saint John and I are the new Airwolf crew and it's your unit that's supposed to come first.
Frankness forced Rivers to admit that he couldn't really blame the older Hawke for his single-mindedness in rescuing String. Family was, after all, a primary concern for Mike as well. What if it was my sister June out there? he asked himself to put things back in perspective. Or my mom? I'd be bent out of shape, too. Besides, Saint John is part of the unit, and if Baby Brother is important to Saint John, I'm willing to do what it takes to get him out of whatever mess he got himself in to. Besides, I do feel sorry for the guy ... sort of.
Family.... It was perhaps that sense of family that prevented Jo's semi- interest in Saint John from being returned. Saint John kept to himself and despite Mike's helpful prodding showed little romantic notions, due no doubt to the lingering and still very recent wounds of Southeast Asia. It's only been three months, after all. Rivers hoped the man would loosen up a bit more once enough time had passed for those wounds to begin to heal. Bet Jo will have the inside track then, he thought without jealousy; much as he would have enjoyed a chance with the pretty blonde, Mike didn't begrudge Saint John the attraction. The tall, bronze haired pilot was Mike's best friend, and after fifteen years under inhumane conditions, Mike supposed Hawke deserved whatever break he could get.
Even now Saint John talked rarely about Viet Nam and never about the years he'd spent as a prisoner -- almost as if they'd never happened at all. There had only been that once, when Mike was bunking with Hawke while house hunting. He'd woken disoriented on a strange daybed in briefly unfamiliar surroundings, to hear a low muttering coming from the next room. Mike had padded in cautiously to find his friend thrashing on the bed, face glistening with sweat by the light of the window.
"Saint John?" The man's bare shoulder had been tense when Mike touched it. Hawke had sat bolt upright, gray eyes wide and staring, the name, "String!" emerging as a gasp. Mike patted him soothingly. "Hey! Easy, pal, it's only me. You were having a nightmare."
It had taken a moment for Hawke to focus on him, and Mike had recoiled at the distress in the exposed expression. Then a shudder had wracked the larger man, the tension going out of him in a rush. "Mike. String is okay?"
The last was more question than statement, as though Saint John needed the reassurance. "Right as rain, pal-o-mine!" he'd returned cheerfully. "Your baby brother is sitting up on his mountain playing Grizzly Adams, happy as a clam just like always."
Saint John had palmed his eyes, a deep, sad sigh escaping his parted lips. "Not so happy. He still blames himself for leaving me. Leaving me in fifteen years of...."
He didn't finish the sentence -- he didn't have to. Although a combat soldier himself, Mike hadn't been in Viet Nam and could only imagine what the two brothers had experienced -- especially Saint John as a prisoner of war. What could it have been like to spend so much of your life as a virtual slave, chained and abused and worked until exhaustion sapped away even the will to live? Or searching endlessly for the brother who might well be long dead? "I can't pretend to know exactly what you went through over there," he'd begun in an encouraging voice, "but it's over. You're home, your brother is safe, and you two can move on with your lives."
He hadn't understood the wistful look in the older man's eyes. "Can we?" Hawke had murmured under his breath. "I wonder...."
All these thoughts flashed across Mike's mind in the few moments it took for him and Jo to traverse the outer cavern and tunnel leading to the central 'Lair' that doubled as both heliport and base of ops. They emerged into the large, cathedral like chamber, as always stopping to stare at the black death machine that was Airwolf. The sun was nearly directly overhead, light falling in a single shaft down the chimney like a spotlight, only partially reflected from the polished armor plate in a muted radiance. Set like this, Airwolf resembled nothing so much as a living being -- beautiful, sleek, lethal -- a creature of the night poised to strike.
At his side, Jo too was momentarily transfixed by the vision, then something cheeped from the flashing computer terminals on the far side of the landing pad, and the spell was broken. "Probably Jason wondering where we are," she said pertly. "He's as bad as an old woman sometimes."
It was the sheer unexpectedness that betrayed them, Mike realized later. He'd been careless in letting his attention range first to his musings, then Airwolf, finally Jo's words. But the presence he'd sensed in the Lair was familiar and not unwelcome, and the slight warning jangle of his inner alarms had been dismissed as unjustified. Otherwise, he might have been more prepared than he was for the man who emerged from the shadows to his right and leveled the Browning automatic dead center on his chest.
"Don't move," Stringfellow Hawke ordered, the deadly menace in his voice encouraging Mike to obey without question. Jo, less experienced in such matters, smiled hesitantly and took another step.
"String? Are you--?" She choked off, large eyes growing even bigger when the Browning swung in her direction. "What are you--?"
"I said, don't move," the brown-haired pilot growled, limping to the side to better cover them both. "You." He jerked his head, and Saint John approached from the left of the tunnel, both hands held wide, a developing bruise darkening the point of his chin. "Get over there with them."
"Sure, String," the taller man replied easily. He took his place at Jo's other side, staring into his brother's face as though searching for something. "No need to hurt anyone; we're all friends here. Aren't we, kid?"
Mike wasn't so sure about that. The younger Hawke had backed away, the action bringing him more fully into the circle of artificial lights strung around the work area to augment the feeble sunlight. From what Mike could now see, the kidnappers had been anything but gentle with Stringfellow Hawke. The high cheekbones and gently rounded jaw bore several bruises, there were traces of blood at the temple and on the dirty bandages on his hands. The stiff way he stood bespoke other injuries beneath the jeans and mud-and scarlet spattered white sweater, possibly serious, and it was obvious the pilot was near collapse. Mike hoped that latter would happen soon -- he didn't fancy beating an already injured man ... nor contending with the large-bored weapon held in that none-too-steady grip.
Dismissing a direct assault for the nonce, Rivers tried a smile instead, striving for distraction and hoping the confusion he sensed in the other would be enough to give his team the edge it needed to prevent disaster. "Hey, buddy," he began in a friendly tone. "We're sure glad to see you! Saint John has been pretty worried."
Dull blue eyes stared at the trio without recognition, but Mike knew he'd struck home when a flash of bewilderment crossed the bruised face before the stony facade closed back in. "Saint John isn't here," the younger Hawke spat, grief sparking his eyes for a moment. "Never was. I realize that now."
Saint John had obviously been following the same line in trying to get through. He took a step to the right, forcing String to turn his head to look at him. "But I am here," he said indulgently. "Right in front of you. Don't you recognize your own brother, kid? I haven't changed that much in fifteen years, have I?"
"Barely at all," Mike responded, moving to the left and only halting at the menacing growl from their captor. "You know, Saint John ..." He emphasized the name. "... your own brother acts like he wants to hurt you."
"String would never hurt me," the elder Hawke stated, continuing to stare hard into his brother's face, striving to make eye contact. "Would you, String?"
Mike, as experienced in hand-to-hand combat as either the other two ex- soldiers, moved further to the left until he and Saint John were flanking the injured man on both sides, leaving Jo in the middle to divide his attention three ways. Not a soldier but with a woman's perception, Jo read their intentions and rocked her weight from one foot to the other, drawing his notice to herself. "I'm insulted you don't know me, String," she said with a nervous laugh. "Your own cousin? I used to visit you every year when we were kids. Remember when Saint John was a senior and figured he was too old to hang around with us? You and I spent that whole summer together at Uncle Dom's."
"Dom." The name was a strangled sob, an even deeper spasm of grief mingled with outright hatred in String's eyes. Wrong thing to bring up, Jo, Mike thought with a twinge of alarm. They obviously convinced him this Saint John is an impostor. I'm not sure what else they did to him but dollars to donuts it had something to do with Santini.
He had no time to pursue the notion further, however, for at that moment Saint John uttered a loud "Whoop!" and dropped to the ground. As String automatically retargeted the crouching man, Mike used the opportunity to launch his own attack. He sprang across the scant yards that separated them, shifting his balance and letting fly with a jumping side kick that caught his target square in the stomach. String fell back with a bitten off cry of pain, the gun clattering to the stony floor. Mike, too knowledgeable to trust one blow to do the job, didn't hesitate; he followed up with a solid left to the already bruised jaw, bouncing the other off the rough wall and to the ground.
Saint John had started forward himself upon Mike's initial charge, intending to join the fray, but it had not been necessary. Now he wavered, protective instincts kicking into play at the sight of the apparently helpless man who was his brother. "String?" he quavered, bending over the huddled form. "Are you--?"
But the fight was not yet over. Stringfellow's sneakered foot shot out in a devastating kick, connecting with Saint John's midsection and doubling him over, then that pulverizing right again landed on the elder Hawke's chin with enough force to hurl him back into Mike, and send Jo scrambling out of the way. While the three were extricating themselves from the tangle in which they found themselves, the younger Hawke scrambled on hands and knees, scooping up the fallen gun before anyone could prevent him. He aimed from a kneeling position, one arm wrapped around his ribs, his breath coming in short pants.
"Stop!" he wheezed, bringing the trio to a halt. The young man was hunched with pain, but there was no misreading the professional way he handled the gun. He would kill them if pushed too far.
"Well, this is another fine mess you got me into, Stanley," Rivers quipped, shooting Saint John a mock reproachful look. "Next time you want to play big brother, could you do it after we're sure the guy is disarmed?"
"I second that," Jo snapped, brushing shoulder length blonde hair out of her face.
Saint John rubbed a second livid red spot on his chin, the sheepish expression looking out of context on so large framed a man. "Sorry," he mumbled without opening his mouth. "He was hurt and...."
"And we're about to be." Mike nevertheless donned a smile to address Stringfellow, who had forced himself back to his feet and was now watching them irresolutely. Almost like he's starting to recognize us, Mike thought with a glimmer of hope. Maybe the brainwashing and drugs don't stand up long after being slapped in the chops with reality. "You better watch that gun," he essayed, brushing sandy soil off his dark trousers. "It's got a hair trigger, and your hands don't look any too steady. You don't want to accidentally shoot your own brother, do you?"
"Or cousin!" Jo put in nervously.
"But especially your brother!" the older Hawke emphasized with a brief, mischievous twinkle in Santini's direction.
Rivers knew they were on to something when the dull blue eyes turned full on Saint John for the first time. "They told me you were an impostor," their captor explained in a low, hesitant voice. "Like before."
"What happened before?" Saint John asked calmly, his concern so apparent that Mike wondered how Stringfellow Hawke could not see it. "How did they hurt you before?"
"Th-they made me think that he was y-- ... my brother." Mike noticed the slip and could tell Saint John had as well. String had almost acknowledged this man as the real thing.
"Jason told us about that," Jo interjected, earning a puzzled look from Saint John; they hadn't had a chance to fill him in about Zarkov. "But this isn't an impostor. I'm not an impostor. We're your family, String."
Mike thought they had him when the gun trembled again; then the young man shook his head wearily and with some degree of desperation. "I can't risk it. If I'm wrong ... if I let you take Airwolf I'll never get Saint John back. Never."
"The Company!" Mike exclaimed, seizing on any compromise he could make to prevent the other pilot from turning Airwolf over to the enemy. "Contact Locke at Knightsbridge. He can set up a safe haven for the both of you!"
The look he received for the suggestion was derisive in the extreme. "You know I can't trust them. I can't even trust Michael where the Lady is concerned." He circled slowly until he had a clear view of the waiting gunship. He risked a single glance at the scattered parts and equipment littering the area, experienced eyes picking out the disassembled ADF pod at once. "What did you do to her?" he demanded angrily, knuckles tightening around the weapon.
Saint John took a step to the side, blocking the way, and spread both hands appealingly. "Don't do it. If Horn gets his hands on Airwolf, a lot of people will die. Besides ..." His face tightened, seeming to age ten years, gray eyes regarding the swaying man sadly. "... if you go now, I'm going to lose you, little brother, and I'm not willing to risk that. Not again. I am the real Saint John Hawke. You have to believe that."
"Why should I?" the younger Hawke asked, and there was enough indecision in those words to make them all stop.
"Because I outrank you?" Major Saint John Hawke tried, the humor sounding flat to them all.
They stared at each other helplessly for a long time, Jo glancing impotently from one man to the next. Mike's brow wrinkled for a moment, then his face cleared. He puckered his lips, whistling the theme from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, and waiting patiently until all eyes were on him. "This really is easy enough," he began cheerfully, addressing Stringfellow Hawke and hoping mightily that he would think so, too. "You fellows grew up together -- that means you must know oodles of juicy tidbits that aren't in anybody's files. Right?" He waited for an acknowledgement that never came and plunged on again, "Why don't you ask Saint John something that no one but you two know. If he answers right, you'll have proof positive that he's the genuine article." Mike grinned, adding irresistibly, "Then you won't have to shoot any of us, right?"
"Right!" Saint John agreed heartily before his brother had a chance to object. "Think of something, String -- something only I would know." He crossed his arms across his chest, waiting expectantly, his whole attitude giving the other man no choice but to comply.
Doubt touched his brother's fine boned features, indecision keeping him rooted in place. He peeked hungrily at Airwolf, the desire to take the helicopter and flee so strong it was readable to everyone there. Then he rubbed at the light shading on his cheek that was the result of two days without shaving, and raised his head defiantly. "Who was Josh?" he challenged, attitude stating plainly that he didn't anticipate an answer.
Josh? Mike thought hard but couldn't place the reference from any of his, Saint John's and Jo's chats, nor any report he had ever read. He glanced at Jo, but the woman shrugged, as mystified as he was.
Saint John, however, looked positively smug. His thin lips twitched in a smile, wide-planed face losing some of the lines that had etched it since his brother's disappearance. "Joshua Hawke was our older brother. He died when he was five and I was four -- six months before you were born. Dad and Dom buried him in a grove about a mile from the cabin."
If it was possible, Stringfellow Hawke's already ashen skin grew even paler. He blinked, the gun dipping several inches. "No one alive knows about Josh. Dom never mentioned him to anyone -- I know he didn't. Mom and Dad didn't talk about him, either; the only time ... the only t-time I ever asked, Mom got so upset that I never did it again." He lifted his other hand, palm up. "I only know about Josh because y-you told me ... a long time ago."
Saint John laughed deep in his throat. "Jo's dad, Tony Santini was the only one I ever met who remembered him. He was talking about a time I went fishing with my big brother. He meant Josh."
"I thought he had you two mixed up," Jo said thoughtfully from the side. "I assumed it was you who went along, String."
Saint John shook his head. "String wasn't even born yet. It was Josh who went fishing with me at the cabin; it was the year he died." His smile faded. "He and I did everything together. He was my best friend ... until you came along, String."
That did it. The gun forgotten at his side, Stringfellow stared at his brother, looking dazed and sick and hopeful all at once. Mike took a cautious step forward, plucking the gun from the other pilot's nerveless fingers. He deftly uncocked the hammer and flicked the safety on with his thumb. "Guess big brothers come in handy sometimes," he quipped, stowing the weapon in the waistband of his pants. "I should know -- I'm one myself and I'm pretty handy if I do say so."
Mike unbuckled his harness, head unconsciously cocked toward the low whup- whup of the decelerating blades. He loved that sound -- it represented flight and freedom and power of the skies, three elements that had driven him into the Air Force so many years before. Even now his black cotton shirt and stylishly loose pants felt less familiar against his skin than did a uniform. Or, better yet, a flight suit.
"We have arrived," he told the pretty blonde in the passenger's seat to his left. "Lingerie, negligees and women's apparel, all out."
The blonde curled her lip, falling into the pattern of friendly banter that constituted so much of their rapport. "Negligees instead of boxer shorts?" she gibed, hanging her headset neatly on the radio volume knob, then climbing out to join him by the chopper's nose. "Why, Mike, the things we don't know about our friends."
"I look jutht dar-ling in pink," Rivers lisped back, striking a hand-on-hip pose. His eyes sparkled mischievously, the imp ever living just behind his light blue eyes. "I know -- my girlfriend told me so."
"Which one?" she sneered amiably back, deftly adjusting her green jumpsuit until it hung properly on her lush curves. "Kathleen? Debbie? Alicia?"
"If you caaaaan't be with the one you love...." Mike caroled in a pleasant if off-key baritone. Jo clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle, and Mike grinned. Jo was a fun companion; she had a great laugh and was easy on the eyes to boot -- not to mention having one dynamite body that jumpsuit wasn't hiding. Her only flaw was being semi-resistant to his boyish charms. Guess nobody's perfect, he thought wryly. Oh, well. They might not be a couple, but he liked Jo, and being friends with the vivacious blonde was almost as good!
He'd realized some time ago that Jo's interests did not lie with him. She dated occasionally, but between the two, she was more apt to gravitate towards Saint John Hawke than Mike. Only natural, he supposed, since they'd grown up together. But Hawke's reactions to the woman were more brother than lover, a holdover, perhaps, from the vacations they'd all spent together with Dominic Santini, and the old pilot's welding of them into the large, close-knit Italian family he and Jo had been born a part of. Mike wondered what they had all been like back then, before Viet Nam had sapped the lighthearted merriment that only now and again peeked through Saint John's somber mien, and hung a cloak of melancholy across Stringfellow so heavy as to depress Mike every time he was near.
Generous and emotionally expansive, Rivers considered his associations an open chain, unbound and easy to join. Friends of friends -- or even brothers -- were always welcome to become part of the US that was Mike Rivers' world. Thus, he was unprepared for the closed circle that comprised the Hawke brothers' relationship, generated by old needs and intensified by fifteen years distance. When they were together, the exclusiveness of that mutual support often shut Mike and even Jo out of the equation, and Mike found himself resenting the fact. Most of it was from Stringfellow, true, but not lacking in Saint John, who neither discussed nor shared his brother in any way. Not that Saint John had ever shunned Rivers, for they were best friends and nearly inseparable companions. But where baby brother was concerned, there was only a blank wall presented to the world, and Mike was on the wrong side of that wall.
Saint John's protecting him, Mike had realized from the outset. Baby brother is afraid of getting hurt, and Saint John's going to make sure it doesn't happen. Guess I can't fault him for that even if it hurts that I'm considered one of those threats. It wasn't until much later that Mike discerned that it was not him personally that Stringfellow Hawke looked upon as a threat but the prospective friendships themselves, for it was through his emotions that he could be made vulnerable. Mike knew the wall both brothers sustained would crumble if Stringfellow were to allow himself to be integrated into the group -- they could easily replace that exclusive possessiveness with open camaraderie. Stringfellow, however, showed no inclination to join them, nor any weakening in the stony barriers he maintained. Mike considered that a shame -- he had a sneaking suspicion that behind that wary exterior might lie a pretty good friend to have.
Saint John certainly thought so. Even now his one thought was getting his brother back, and Mike knew he wouldn't care what price had to be paid to accomplish that, whether the cost be to himself, Mike or anyone else. Saint John would sacrifice us all if he had to, he grumbled silently, more team oriented than his fellows. Stringfellow ... What a name! ... isn't even one of US. Jo, Jason, Saint John and I are the new Airwolf crew and it's your unit that's supposed to come first.
Frankness forced Rivers to admit that he couldn't really blame the older Hawke for his single-mindedness in rescuing String. Family was, after all, a primary concern for Mike as well. What if it was my sister June out there? he asked himself to put things back in perspective. Or my mom? I'd be bent out of shape, too. Besides, Saint John is part of the unit, and if Baby Brother is important to Saint John, I'm willing to do what it takes to get him out of whatever mess he got himself in to. Besides, I do feel sorry for the guy ... sort of.
Family.... It was perhaps that sense of family that prevented Jo's semi- interest in Saint John from being returned. Saint John kept to himself and despite Mike's helpful prodding showed little romantic notions, due no doubt to the lingering and still very recent wounds of Southeast Asia. It's only been three months, after all. Rivers hoped the man would loosen up a bit more once enough time had passed for those wounds to begin to heal. Bet Jo will have the inside track then, he thought without jealousy; much as he would have enjoyed a chance with the pretty blonde, Mike didn't begrudge Saint John the attraction. The tall, bronze haired pilot was Mike's best friend, and after fifteen years under inhumane conditions, Mike supposed Hawke deserved whatever break he could get.
Even now Saint John talked rarely about Viet Nam and never about the years he'd spent as a prisoner -- almost as if they'd never happened at all. There had only been that once, when Mike was bunking with Hawke while house hunting. He'd woken disoriented on a strange daybed in briefly unfamiliar surroundings, to hear a low muttering coming from the next room. Mike had padded in cautiously to find his friend thrashing on the bed, face glistening with sweat by the light of the window.
"Saint John?" The man's bare shoulder had been tense when Mike touched it. Hawke had sat bolt upright, gray eyes wide and staring, the name, "String!" emerging as a gasp. Mike patted him soothingly. "Hey! Easy, pal, it's only me. You were having a nightmare."
It had taken a moment for Hawke to focus on him, and Mike had recoiled at the distress in the exposed expression. Then a shudder had wracked the larger man, the tension going out of him in a rush. "Mike. String is okay?"
The last was more question than statement, as though Saint John needed the reassurance. "Right as rain, pal-o-mine!" he'd returned cheerfully. "Your baby brother is sitting up on his mountain playing Grizzly Adams, happy as a clam just like always."
Saint John had palmed his eyes, a deep, sad sigh escaping his parted lips. "Not so happy. He still blames himself for leaving me. Leaving me in fifteen years of...."
He didn't finish the sentence -- he didn't have to. Although a combat soldier himself, Mike hadn't been in Viet Nam and could only imagine what the two brothers had experienced -- especially Saint John as a prisoner of war. What could it have been like to spend so much of your life as a virtual slave, chained and abused and worked until exhaustion sapped away even the will to live? Or searching endlessly for the brother who might well be long dead? "I can't pretend to know exactly what you went through over there," he'd begun in an encouraging voice, "but it's over. You're home, your brother is safe, and you two can move on with your lives."
He hadn't understood the wistful look in the older man's eyes. "Can we?" Hawke had murmured under his breath. "I wonder...."
All these thoughts flashed across Mike's mind in the few moments it took for him and Jo to traverse the outer cavern and tunnel leading to the central 'Lair' that doubled as both heliport and base of ops. They emerged into the large, cathedral like chamber, as always stopping to stare at the black death machine that was Airwolf. The sun was nearly directly overhead, light falling in a single shaft down the chimney like a spotlight, only partially reflected from the polished armor plate in a muted radiance. Set like this, Airwolf resembled nothing so much as a living being -- beautiful, sleek, lethal -- a creature of the night poised to strike.
At his side, Jo too was momentarily transfixed by the vision, then something cheeped from the flashing computer terminals on the far side of the landing pad, and the spell was broken. "Probably Jason wondering where we are," she said pertly. "He's as bad as an old woman sometimes."
It was the sheer unexpectedness that betrayed them, Mike realized later. He'd been careless in letting his attention range first to his musings, then Airwolf, finally Jo's words. But the presence he'd sensed in the Lair was familiar and not unwelcome, and the slight warning jangle of his inner alarms had been dismissed as unjustified. Otherwise, he might have been more prepared than he was for the man who emerged from the shadows to his right and leveled the Browning automatic dead center on his chest.
"Don't move," Stringfellow Hawke ordered, the deadly menace in his voice encouraging Mike to obey without question. Jo, less experienced in such matters, smiled hesitantly and took another step.
"String? Are you--?" She choked off, large eyes growing even bigger when the Browning swung in her direction. "What are you--?"
"I said, don't move," the brown-haired pilot growled, limping to the side to better cover them both. "You." He jerked his head, and Saint John approached from the left of the tunnel, both hands held wide, a developing bruise darkening the point of his chin. "Get over there with them."
"Sure, String," the taller man replied easily. He took his place at Jo's other side, staring into his brother's face as though searching for something. "No need to hurt anyone; we're all friends here. Aren't we, kid?"
Mike wasn't so sure about that. The younger Hawke had backed away, the action bringing him more fully into the circle of artificial lights strung around the work area to augment the feeble sunlight. From what Mike could now see, the kidnappers had been anything but gentle with Stringfellow Hawke. The high cheekbones and gently rounded jaw bore several bruises, there were traces of blood at the temple and on the dirty bandages on his hands. The stiff way he stood bespoke other injuries beneath the jeans and mud-and scarlet spattered white sweater, possibly serious, and it was obvious the pilot was near collapse. Mike hoped that latter would happen soon -- he didn't fancy beating an already injured man ... nor contending with the large-bored weapon held in that none-too-steady grip.
Dismissing a direct assault for the nonce, Rivers tried a smile instead, striving for distraction and hoping the confusion he sensed in the other would be enough to give his team the edge it needed to prevent disaster. "Hey, buddy," he began in a friendly tone. "We're sure glad to see you! Saint John has been pretty worried."
Dull blue eyes stared at the trio without recognition, but Mike knew he'd struck home when a flash of bewilderment crossed the bruised face before the stony facade closed back in. "Saint John isn't here," the younger Hawke spat, grief sparking his eyes for a moment. "Never was. I realize that now."
Saint John had obviously been following the same line in trying to get through. He took a step to the right, forcing String to turn his head to look at him. "But I am here," he said indulgently. "Right in front of you. Don't you recognize your own brother, kid? I haven't changed that much in fifteen years, have I?"
"Barely at all," Mike responded, moving to the left and only halting at the menacing growl from their captor. "You know, Saint John ..." He emphasized the name. "... your own brother acts like he wants to hurt you."
"String would never hurt me," the elder Hawke stated, continuing to stare hard into his brother's face, striving to make eye contact. "Would you, String?"
Mike, as experienced in hand-to-hand combat as either the other two ex- soldiers, moved further to the left until he and Saint John were flanking the injured man on both sides, leaving Jo in the middle to divide his attention three ways. Not a soldier but with a woman's perception, Jo read their intentions and rocked her weight from one foot to the other, drawing his notice to herself. "I'm insulted you don't know me, String," she said with a nervous laugh. "Your own cousin? I used to visit you every year when we were kids. Remember when Saint John was a senior and figured he was too old to hang around with us? You and I spent that whole summer together at Uncle Dom's."
"Dom." The name was a strangled sob, an even deeper spasm of grief mingled with outright hatred in String's eyes. Wrong thing to bring up, Jo, Mike thought with a twinge of alarm. They obviously convinced him this Saint John is an impostor. I'm not sure what else they did to him but dollars to donuts it had something to do with Santini.
He had no time to pursue the notion further, however, for at that moment Saint John uttered a loud "Whoop!" and dropped to the ground. As String automatically retargeted the crouching man, Mike used the opportunity to launch his own attack. He sprang across the scant yards that separated them, shifting his balance and letting fly with a jumping side kick that caught his target square in the stomach. String fell back with a bitten off cry of pain, the gun clattering to the stony floor. Mike, too knowledgeable to trust one blow to do the job, didn't hesitate; he followed up with a solid left to the already bruised jaw, bouncing the other off the rough wall and to the ground.
Saint John had started forward himself upon Mike's initial charge, intending to join the fray, but it had not been necessary. Now he wavered, protective instincts kicking into play at the sight of the apparently helpless man who was his brother. "String?" he quavered, bending over the huddled form. "Are you--?"
But the fight was not yet over. Stringfellow's sneakered foot shot out in a devastating kick, connecting with Saint John's midsection and doubling him over, then that pulverizing right again landed on the elder Hawke's chin with enough force to hurl him back into Mike, and send Jo scrambling out of the way. While the three were extricating themselves from the tangle in which they found themselves, the younger Hawke scrambled on hands and knees, scooping up the fallen gun before anyone could prevent him. He aimed from a kneeling position, one arm wrapped around his ribs, his breath coming in short pants.
"Stop!" he wheezed, bringing the trio to a halt. The young man was hunched with pain, but there was no misreading the professional way he handled the gun. He would kill them if pushed too far.
"Well, this is another fine mess you got me into, Stanley," Rivers quipped, shooting Saint John a mock reproachful look. "Next time you want to play big brother, could you do it after we're sure the guy is disarmed?"
"I second that," Jo snapped, brushing shoulder length blonde hair out of her face.
Saint John rubbed a second livid red spot on his chin, the sheepish expression looking out of context on so large framed a man. "Sorry," he mumbled without opening his mouth. "He was hurt and...."
"And we're about to be." Mike nevertheless donned a smile to address Stringfellow, who had forced himself back to his feet and was now watching them irresolutely. Almost like he's starting to recognize us, Mike thought with a glimmer of hope. Maybe the brainwashing and drugs don't stand up long after being slapped in the chops with reality. "You better watch that gun," he essayed, brushing sandy soil off his dark trousers. "It's got a hair trigger, and your hands don't look any too steady. You don't want to accidentally shoot your own brother, do you?"
"Or cousin!" Jo put in nervously.
"But especially your brother!" the older Hawke emphasized with a brief, mischievous twinkle in Santini's direction.
Rivers knew they were on to something when the dull blue eyes turned full on Saint John for the first time. "They told me you were an impostor," their captor explained in a low, hesitant voice. "Like before."
"What happened before?" Saint John asked calmly, his concern so apparent that Mike wondered how Stringfellow Hawke could not see it. "How did they hurt you before?"
"Th-they made me think that he was y-- ... my brother." Mike noticed the slip and could tell Saint John had as well. String had almost acknowledged this man as the real thing.
"Jason told us about that," Jo interjected, earning a puzzled look from Saint John; they hadn't had a chance to fill him in about Zarkov. "But this isn't an impostor. I'm not an impostor. We're your family, String."
Mike thought they had him when the gun trembled again; then the young man shook his head wearily and with some degree of desperation. "I can't risk it. If I'm wrong ... if I let you take Airwolf I'll never get Saint John back. Never."
"The Company!" Mike exclaimed, seizing on any compromise he could make to prevent the other pilot from turning Airwolf over to the enemy. "Contact Locke at Knightsbridge. He can set up a safe haven for the both of you!"
The look he received for the suggestion was derisive in the extreme. "You know I can't trust them. I can't even trust Michael where the Lady is concerned." He circled slowly until he had a clear view of the waiting gunship. He risked a single glance at the scattered parts and equipment littering the area, experienced eyes picking out the disassembled ADF pod at once. "What did you do to her?" he demanded angrily, knuckles tightening around the weapon.
Saint John took a step to the side, blocking the way, and spread both hands appealingly. "Don't do it. If Horn gets his hands on Airwolf, a lot of people will die. Besides ..." His face tightened, seeming to age ten years, gray eyes regarding the swaying man sadly. "... if you go now, I'm going to lose you, little brother, and I'm not willing to risk that. Not again. I am the real Saint John Hawke. You have to believe that."
"Why should I?" the younger Hawke asked, and there was enough indecision in those words to make them all stop.
"Because I outrank you?" Major Saint John Hawke tried, the humor sounding flat to them all.
They stared at each other helplessly for a long time, Jo glancing impotently from one man to the next. Mike's brow wrinkled for a moment, then his face cleared. He puckered his lips, whistling the theme from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, and waiting patiently until all eyes were on him. "This really is easy enough," he began cheerfully, addressing Stringfellow Hawke and hoping mightily that he would think so, too. "You fellows grew up together -- that means you must know oodles of juicy tidbits that aren't in anybody's files. Right?" He waited for an acknowledgement that never came and plunged on again, "Why don't you ask Saint John something that no one but you two know. If he answers right, you'll have proof positive that he's the genuine article." Mike grinned, adding irresistibly, "Then you won't have to shoot any of us, right?"
"Right!" Saint John agreed heartily before his brother had a chance to object. "Think of something, String -- something only I would know." He crossed his arms across his chest, waiting expectantly, his whole attitude giving the other man no choice but to comply.
Doubt touched his brother's fine boned features, indecision keeping him rooted in place. He peeked hungrily at Airwolf, the desire to take the helicopter and flee so strong it was readable to everyone there. Then he rubbed at the light shading on his cheek that was the result of two days without shaving, and raised his head defiantly. "Who was Josh?" he challenged, attitude stating plainly that he didn't anticipate an answer.
Josh? Mike thought hard but couldn't place the reference from any of his, Saint John's and Jo's chats, nor any report he had ever read. He glanced at Jo, but the woman shrugged, as mystified as he was.
Saint John, however, looked positively smug. His thin lips twitched in a smile, wide-planed face losing some of the lines that had etched it since his brother's disappearance. "Joshua Hawke was our older brother. He died when he was five and I was four -- six months before you were born. Dad and Dom buried him in a grove about a mile from the cabin."
If it was possible, Stringfellow Hawke's already ashen skin grew even paler. He blinked, the gun dipping several inches. "No one alive knows about Josh. Dom never mentioned him to anyone -- I know he didn't. Mom and Dad didn't talk about him, either; the only time ... the only t-time I ever asked, Mom got so upset that I never did it again." He lifted his other hand, palm up. "I only know about Josh because y-you told me ... a long time ago."
Saint John laughed deep in his throat. "Jo's dad, Tony Santini was the only one I ever met who remembered him. He was talking about a time I went fishing with my big brother. He meant Josh."
"I thought he had you two mixed up," Jo said thoughtfully from the side. "I assumed it was you who went along, String."
Saint John shook his head. "String wasn't even born yet. It was Josh who went fishing with me at the cabin; it was the year he died." His smile faded. "He and I did everything together. He was my best friend ... until you came along, String."
That did it. The gun forgotten at his side, Stringfellow stared at his brother, looking dazed and sick and hopeful all at once. Mike took a cautious step forward, plucking the gun from the other pilot's nerveless fingers. He deftly uncocked the hammer and flicked the safety on with his thumb. "Guess big brothers come in handy sometimes," he quipped, stowing the weapon in the waistband of his pants. "I should know -- I'm one myself and I'm pretty handy if I do say so."