Inside the sanctuary known as the Lair, a state of shadow dominated for a
period of twenty-two hours out of each day. It was only for a short period
on either side of noon that the sun stood high enough to send a brilliant
shaft down the great stone chimney to shed illumination upon the world
inside the mountain. By accident or design this single shaft always
spotlighted the ebon predator that waited patiently within. Not that it
ever did much good -- absorbent black armor drank in the gold, muting the
effect and giving the impression of twilight even where there was none.
The sun persevered, however, and waged its short-lived battle with the
thirsty metal until the last ray had passed beyond the rim, leaving Airwolf
ill-seen, once again a creature of the dark.
From somewhere a wind had picked up, more than the gentle zephyr that forever blew through the tunnels and caverns, carrying with it the eternal chill that reigned at this altitude. This chill had been foreseen, however, as had the encroaching shade, battled by the devices man had created to sustain life against nature's opposition. Lamps replaced the sun, kerosene heaters kept out the cold, and within this artificial womb against the elements three people -- two men and a woman -- worked on the damaged beast that was Airwolf. They talked little save to coordinate their efforts, each well versed in their task and united by the common bonds of a team well forged. Three people worked while a fourth lay cocooned near the main computer terminal, sleeping uneasily under the inducements of drugs, pain and grief. He tossed his head, twitching weakly under the woollen blanket, youthful face twisting in the throes of nightmare ... or memory?
"Dom?' he whispered, the low voice naught but a muted shriek. "Saint John?"
A large hand descended on the sleeper's shoulder, pressing it lightly. "Shhhh. I'm here, String. Take it easy."
A startled gasp escaped Stringfellow's lips. Sapphire eyes snapped open, seeking the silver-gray ones regarding him calmly from above. "Saint John? Is that--?"
"Right here." Saint John Hawke settled the circuit board he was examining on the mat next to his foot, and leaned farther into the other's line of sight. "Y'all right?"
Stringfellow blinked up at him, his bruised face and the squint as he tried to focus already giving lie to any possible affirmative answer. "I'm ... not sure," he croaked through a dry throat. "How do I look?"
Saint John tipped his head, examining his brother candidly without letting go the shoulder he still gripped. "You've been perkier," he returned, one side of his mouth lifting in a thin smile. "And prettier. Which hurts worse, the ribs, the burns or that concussion?"
Lines of concentration crossed the younger man's forehead as he considered the question seriously. He lifted his left hand, freeing it from the blanket with an effort, and turning it palm up to stare at the pristine white bandages swathing it around the middle. "Nothing hurts," he said wonderingly, next touching the now-cleaned up bruise on his temple. "Or else I just don't care. Everything is all ... far away." He waved vaguely, apparently finding one of the overhead floodlights fascinating. "How much of that stuff did Rivers give me?"
"You mean the morphine?" Saint John's gray eyes flicked to the discarded tin box on the injured man's far side. "Not enough to keep you unconscious for long, obviously. I think most of that is just because you're so worn. The anesthetic effect should last a while longer, at least." He continued his scrutiny while his brother forced his attention away from the light and blinked himself awake, nodding slowly at the returned intelligence in those shadowed blue eyes. "You're looking a bit better," he amended his earlier statement. He used his left hand to brush back String's mussed brown hair, then pressed it flat on the other's forehead. "Nasty fever, but I see you haven't forgotten how to get the most out of the least rest."
Stringfellow shook off the other's hand and levered himself up onto his elbow, settling his bleary gaze on the older pilot, who was seated in a comfortable cross-legged position to the right of the sleeping bag. "You draw babysitting detail?" he asked grumpily.
Saint John picked up the circuit board, using a magnifying glass to study it for imperfection. "First, it's as easy for me to work in a comfortable position as it is to sit all cramped up under Airwolf. Second ..." He shrugged casually, holding the magnifying glass closer to the board and not raising his head. "... I've had a few nightmares in my day. Sometimes it's nice to have someone nearby when you wake up from one."
Disarmed by the reasonable tone -- something Saint John had always been able to do -- Stringfellow dropped his eyes to the old brown wool blanket. "That's what Dom used to say whenever he wanted me to stay over."
"To chase away his nightmares?" Saint John returned, looking up again. "Or yours?" The younger pilot didn't answer, and Saint John rested the glass on his knee. "Funny thing about dreams, sometimes it's hard to tell when they leave off and reality starts without a push in the right direction." He stretched, grimaced and jabbed at the small of his back. "I ever tell you about a guy named Lee Monahan?"
"No."
Finished with his back, Saint John next stretched his long arms over his head, having to stifle a yawn with one fist. "In Laos the prisoners were more like a little community than the scattered every-man-for-himself confusion we were stuck with under Charlie. Remember how that was?"
String shrugged, still staring at the blanket. "They only had me for two months. I don't remember much of it."
"You're better off." That was muttered but not low enough to escape the other's phenomenal hearing. String looked up questioningly, and Saint John met that gaze with a vague one of his own. "I was the one that found you when we raided the holding camp; I'm glad you don't remember much of it." He swallowed, attention moored irresistibly back to the past. "We all had nightmares in Laos. For most of us, settling into a steady routine seemed to be the trigger for our subconscious to work out the trash we'd gone through in Viet Nam. Those of us who had survived that long were starting to come out of that haze we'd been drifting in since we were captured. It was one of the first times we were able to look around and really see that there were other people with us. Before that, it was like flying on autopilot. Your mind sat back and watched your body do what it was told."
His sharp eyes remained unfocussed, set on scenes, people, events, that had taken place a virtual lifetime ago. "That was when the dreams came, not much before then -- in Viet Nam every minute was a nightmare. But at least in Laos we could help each other through them. It was nice to have someone around when they got too rough."
Grimacing only slightly, String pulled himself into a sitting position, his eyes roughly on level with his brother's. "This Lee Monahan helped you?" he asked in a voice roughened by regret and sympathy.
Saint John nodded abstractedly. "Every night for months. Couldn't return the favor much. Lee had his nightmares while he was still awake." He shook his head wonderingly. "He'd be going along right as rain, then start yelling that Charlie was behind a tree. Only thing that protected him at first was that the Meo tribe we were working for were a little superstitious about mental problems. They thought he was under some kind of curse and didn't bother him. When we were transferred closer to the border, the new supervisors shot him the second day in."
He broke off abruptly, once again seeking the other's face, need driving him to the only touchstone he'd been able to maintain through the barbarity that had been his every day existence. The harsh lines softened around his mouth with the support he found there, a tenderness entering his eyes for his hard-bitten, battle-tempered brother that appeared for few other people. "I couldn't do anything for Lee and I'm not much of one for babysitting someone as stubborn as you are, but I don't mind being around to point out the end of the sleeping nightmares and the beginning of the ones that grab you after you're awake."
String leaned forward and braced himself against his knees, using one bandaged hand to rub his eyes. "Considering the last few days, I'd say that's a smart precaution. I seem to be having a little trouble telling the difference these days."
He dropped his arm, staring dreamily at his brother for a long time. Saint John withstood the scrutiny for several minutes, then cocked one brow. "What?"
Seemingly not hearing the interrogative, String absently fingered his ribs through the dirty white sweater and winced, the narcotic-muted pain still strong enough to restore him to awareness with a start. He blinked under his brother's quizzical gaze, then hurriedly averted his face. "Sorry," he muttered with vague embarrassment. "Talking about dreams made me realize ... I mean, if you are another impostor, how am I going to know?"
"You didn't have any idea before?" Saint John asked curiously, referring to Mike Rivers' recitation of Zarkov's earlier attempt at procuring Airwolf. "Did the other guy look that much like me?" A calculated effort lightened his tone, and he lifted his chin. "He couldn't have been nearly as handsome. Or as brave. Or smart. Or...."
Ignoring the attempt at humor, String shook his head slightly, then gulped and held his stomach when the action added a faint green tinge to his flushed cheeks. "He wasn't even close," he confessed, resetting his wandering attention on the dirt floor. "He was about ten years older and all worn, like he'd been in prison. I think he was like I was afraid you'd be after fifteen years with the V.C." He swallowed hard, glancing quickly up into those penetrating gray eyes then away, ashamed. "He was real good at it, too -- treated me like - like you would have. Between his acting and her drugs, I ... I really believed that another man was you. I believed it."
"I'm sure they were real convincing," the elder Hawke muttered with more than a touch of anger although it was not directed at the exhausted man at his side. "Airwolf seems to attract 'em like cockroaches."
"Yeah." The younger pilot touched his temple again, shutting his eyes briefly. "Maybe I should have known, but I was so happy to have you back I didn't even question them. Then when they asked for the Lady...."
"Yes?" the other prodded after a moment.
Quietly, "I gave her to them."
Saint John studied him thoughtfully, still cradling the forgotten circuit board in one large hand. "What else could you have done?" he asked in a reasonable tone. "Your deal with the Company was to turn Airwolf over to them once I was found, wasn't it? So what's wrong with keeping your end of the bargain?"
"I was a fool," the younger man whispered bitterly. "A gullible--"
"What does it matter." Saint John interrupted the self-castigation promptly. "You beat her in the end."
Then Stringfellow Hawke did look up, dull blue eyes full as they ever were of weary guilt. "We got Airwolf back thanks to Dom, not me. I never beat her -- it was her game all the way." Shame returned and grew stronger, mixed with the guilt. "When they told you about Zarkov ... did they mention the brainwashing was permanent?"
The elder man tensed and went very still, only his lips moving. "What do you mean, permanent?"
The blue eyes made to shift away, but the sheer presence in Saint John Hawke's gaze prevented this, forcing the continued contact. Finally, String sighed and licked his lips. "After Zarkov was through, I couldn't remember what you looked like anymore. I'd try to think of you and I'd see him -- his face. Even when I looked at your photograph on the mantle, I'd see him too."
Understanding returned the lines to Saint John Hawke's strong-planed features, and with it a sadness that matched the younger man's. "It-it was a lousy photograph, anyway," he said, striving for a lighter note and failing miserably. "It was so grainy, the angle made me look more like Dad than me."
"You look a lot like Dad," String returned absently, narcotics taking him down the side track with frightening ease. "You always did, even without the beard. I liked that picture ... at least, for as long as I could see it."
Then the gray eyes did flicker away, a deep loss pooled in their depths. "That's what you meant when you said they'd managed to take me away too."
String nodded and clumsily straightened, one arm around his midsection to support his ribs. "Right up until you walked into the hospital room, I saw him. Always. Every time I thought of you, every time I remembered you. After fifteen years, they took you away from me inside ..." He touched his chest over his heart. "... where I thought you were safe."
The circuit board found its way to the mat next to the magnifying glass, leaving Saint John's hand free to reach out and touch his brother's arm. "Did Dom know?" he asked gently.
Stringfellow shrugged. "I didn't tell'm but Dom always seemed to know a whole lot more than I thought he did. For a long time after that I couldn't turn around except there he was. I wanted to be alone but he wouldn't stay away."
"Dom always did know best," the tall blond said with a quiet chuckle. "I always said he'd've made someone a great Italian mother."
"Or father," the younger man returned fondly. The budding smile was aborted before it could do more than twitch his lips. "Archangel said I was wrong about it being Dom too," he whispered, pulling on the white wool of his sweater in a nervous gesture that was very unlike him.
"Archangel would," the other grumbled, this time keeping his voice low enough that his brother's sharp ears could not hear.
"The one thing I could count on was myself -- my own senses. And now I can't trust them, either." His round jaw jutted defiantly, at odds with the dread in his eyes. "What if you are some wasted old man who walks with a cane, or dead, instead of--"
"Whoa!" Saint John raised a hand, cutting him off. He pulled himself erect, stiffening with mock indignation. "Take a good look at me, brother." He waited until the blurry blue eyes had more or less focussed on him, then tapped his own chest. "If there is the slightest bit of doubt that I'm the same guy who used to wail the daylights out of you when we were kids, I'll be glad to offer you a little proof!"
The proposal was accepted seriously, blue eyes boring into gray as though there seeking the reassurance so badly needed. "He was a lot like I would have pictured you after so long."
Saint John glowered, finding some faint amusement in the situation that translated into a sparkle in his eyes. "Are you telling me I'm too good looking to be your own brother?"
The absurdity communicated to the younger man, twisting one side of his mouth up. "I never thought of it that way."
"Think about it," the other advised, slapping the front of his coveralls heartily. "After all, I always was the heartbreaker in the family."
"So you've told me."
Despite the chuckle there was still a lingering question in his eyes that Saint John addressed seriously, willing to absorb the pain of memory for his brother's sake. "Most of the men who went into the camps did end up disease-ridden, walking skeletons," he began somberly, voice roughening. "The term with Charlie was the hardest because of the war; things were survivable in Laos -- not by much, but you could make it if the villagers liked you ... or if the overseers did. And I spent a solid year with the Cambodians toward the end; Khmer Rouge were butchers but they kept their merchandise in running order." His gaze, focussed inward, reflected every second of those fifteen years of slavery, his slightly nasal voice sourly ironic. "Being the personal pilot of the local warlord did bring a few advantages with the exalted position. I may have had to fly with a gun stuck in my ribs, but I got fed every day and deloused once a month whether I needed it or not."
"Saint John."
The softly uttered name snapped Saint John Hawke out of the past like an over-stressed rubber band. He met the present by taking a deep breath, expanding his broad chest to the full, and expelling it through his nose. He glanced down at the bandaged hand on his arm, the contact bleeding off the tension in his large-boned body. "I'm sorry. It does still hit me when I'm not careful. All of a sudden I'm in the highlands, or back in the rice paddies with Lee and Maridel." The apology was offered in the same tone his younger brother's had been. "I've only been back three months. After fifteen years I'm used to being there, but not here." He waved generally at their surroundings, the gesture taking in far more than the stone chamber carved out of the mountain. "There's too much to get used to. Styles, technology ... even the people are different. I feel like I'm stuck in a 1960's time warp. And I'm still eating fast food like it's going out of style. I've lived on burritos and pizza all week."
"I tried to find you." String's raspy voice was pitched low, full of a guilty pain far beyond the physical, revealing the raw wounds that even his brother's return had not healed, and that they both carried. "I swear I tried to find you."
Saint John covered the bandaged hand with his own, a muscle leaping in his clenched jaw. "You didn't just try, little brother, you succeeded! I'm back and now we have a chance at getting Dom back too!"
The younger man shook his head, swallowing over a dry throat. "Don't expect too much. It only sets you up to be slapped back down."
"You're a pessimist, brother," Saint John chided mildly.
String regarded him wonderingly, dilated pupils making his eyes look huge. "After what you went through over there, why aren't you? You had more reason to be."
There was a clang from the direction of the helicopter, then a low oath. Neither man gave any indication of having heard; their eyes were locked, their world at this moment consisting only of each other. Into this restricted sphere Saint John's simple reply carried all the impact of a pronouncement. He enunciated each word clearly, making sure they would penetrate a narcotics clouded mind to the heart, from his own. "If I'd've been a pessimist, I wouldn't have made it through the first year." He very carefully squeezed the hand he held, too gently to cause more pain to the badly burned palms, the intensity of his expression revealing his knowledge of how important this was that his brother understand. "One thing I never lost was hope -- I never stopped believing that I'd be going home some day. That kept me going a long time after the others gave up and ... let go of life."
"I knew you'd never give up," String returned just as resolutely, though his voice was beginning to slur again. "Not you."
Saint John shook his head firmly. "I couldn't. I think that's what happened to Lee just before he got shot. He stopped trying -- stopped caring -- and just let the dreams take over." Fondness filled those so- sharp gray eyes. "Lee didn't have a bullheaded kid brother looking for him -- didn't have any reason to hold on. I did." He leaned back, tilting his head again. "Of course, everything I went through isn't going to mean a thing if I don't still have that kid brother around, or if he doesn't believe in me anymore."
"I'm not sure I ever did believe in you," the younger man returned with humor, dizzily shutting his eyes.
Saint John laughed out loud. "Now you sound like Mike." Although the other couldn't see, he thumbed over his shoulder to the boyish, blond pilot who squatted under Airwolf's flank, scowling up into the missile compartment. Even as Saint John gestured, Mike Rivers slammed the access port and stood to slip an arm around the well-rounded figure of Jo Santini. She swatted him away good-naturedly, and Saint John laughed again. "We could have used Mike in 'Nam. With that never-say-die attitude, we could've taken Hanoi six months after Tet. I'll bet he and Marty Vidor would've gotten along great, don't you?"
His genuine amusement faded at the unexpected reaction to this innocuous statement. The younger Hawke groaned softly and rested his face in his hand. "Marty...."
Saint John touched his arm when he wobbled again, a worried frown replacing any trace of amusement. "Are you sure you're all right? You're looking awfully shaky."
String blinked again, frowning hard as he scanned the Lair. "I'm fine. ... Is there any coffee?"
"Ask and you shall receive." That was Jo, who had approached unnoticed from the direction of the nearly assembled gunship. She bore a paper cup, the aroma of coffee filling the immediate vicinity. "I brought a thermos with me. Figured we'd need a little boost before we were through. Are you hungry?"
String wrinkled his nose, looking nauseated at the concept of food although he accepted the cup gratefully. "How near are you to done with Airwolf?"
She patted his shoulder, a warm smile touching her pink lips. "Mike and I started the final phase while you two were over here gossiping. That's the most I've ever seen either one of you talk, especially you, String. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," the pilot returned shortly.
She sighed and placed her palm exactly where Saint John had earlier. "You're not fine, you're burning up. You need to see a doctor about those hands, too. And--"
"Jo." String cut her off, pulling away from her attempted ministrations with a curt motion. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."
She stopped, hurt and anger bringing a slow flush to her china skin. "Fine. You're fine. And frankly I hope you're feeling as fine as you look. It would serve you right. If that module is ready, Saint John...?"
The elder Hawke picked up the circuit board he'd been working on and climbed slowly to his feet, again stretching his back. "This one checks out. Once we install it we can close her up."
"Good. I'll show you where it goes." Jo tossed her head at the younger of her adopted cousins and followed the bronze-haired pilot to their teammate, who was wielding a screwdriver against the now fully extended ADF pod.
"'Bout time, Saint John!" Rivers greeted them heartily, manhandling the armored panel that usually covered the deployment pod into position. "Lend a hand. Jo, take this screwdriver...."
Stringfellow Hawke watched them disjointedly, still unsteady from the effects of the drugs, trauma and exhaustion. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them quickly as he listed to one side, nearly falling over for his trouble. It was then he spied the first aid kit, haphazardly discarded by his side. It was awkward undoing the catch with his bandaged hands, but he managed it, extracting a little packet, and returning the box to its spot. He tore the packet open with his teeth and dropped two of small tablets into his coffee, waiting sixty seconds for them to dissolve, then drinking the now bitter brew down. Moving clumsily, he crabbed backward until he could lean against the nearest console while he waited for the stimulant to take effect.
It was ten minutes later that the three workers slammed shut the access panel in Airwolf's belly and made their way back across the inner chamber. "One chore done," Mike Rivers was saying, plying a towel to his greasy hands. "I just wish we had time to test the deployment system before we have to rely on combat mode."
Jo tossed back a strand of long blonde hair, now stringy with sweat. "The computer diagnostic I ran shows every system functional. There's no reason we should have any trouble."
Mike struck a pose, nose in the air, hand pressed against his heart. "A good pilot prefers hands-on information, thank you very much."
"Your hands-on still has grease on," Jo pointed out, taping the oily spot on his black shirt."
He glanced down, looking disgusted. "Don't suppose you do laundry?"
She smiled sweetly. "Sorry. I send mine out."
Saint John stopped to look back at the helicopter, light brows drawn together in a scowl. "I wish we had a chance to replace that windshield. Epsilon Guard has been en route for the rendezvous for the last forty-five minutes; if we don't use the secondary turbos, we're going to be late, but I don't know if I trust that epoxy to hold the temporary plates."
Jo sighed. "We'll just have to take the chance. The plan calls for us to be first in. I'll let Jason know if we fall behind the timetable."
By then they had reached the injured man, who raised his head at their approach. Although fever still burned in his cheeks, there was new awareness in his eyes; they glittered brightly -- too brightly? -- with cognizance of his surroundings and fresh determination. "My goodness!" Jo exclaimed, smiling at the sight. "You look great! All that from an hour's sleep and one cup of coffee?"
String's lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile had it been less brief. Supporting his rib cage with one arm, he swung his legs under and pushed himself to his knees. Saint John placed an arm under his shoulders and brought him the rest of the way up. "Idiot," he growled exasperatedly, waiting until the younger man had braced himself against the computer console before releasing him. "What are you, suicidal all of a sudden?"
Jo glanced at him puzzledly. "What are you talking about, Saint John?"
As String stood, the forgotten packet had fallen out of his lap. Mike, seeing it hit, picked it up with a frown. "How much of the Benzedrine did you take?" he asked, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "Not more than one tab?"
Jo's jaw dropped with understanding. "String, you took drugs?" she charged disapprovingly. "I didn't think uppers were your style. And on top of a concussion...!"
He ignored her with the easy contempt of one who is used to going his own way no matter what anyone thinks. "Is it time to go?" he asked his brother, who was studying him critically.
Saint John nodded. "We're ready. You be careful," he advised brusquely. "The Bennies and the morphine will keep you going for a while, but your judgment is going to lean toward the reckless, and when they quit, you're going to come down hard and fast."
"Not your concern," the younger man stated flatly, testing out a deeper breath than he'd been able to take so far. "I'll deal with it." That breath caught in his throat when the older man took his arm in a crushing grip and gave him a shake.
"It is my concern," Saint John snapped angrily back. "If you crash in the middle of a firefight, you'll take me down with you. You remember the lessons we both learned in-country."
They stared at each other stonily for a long moment, two unyielding predators girded for battle. Then String nodded once, and Saint John released him, his expression plainly worried but accepting of his brother's word. They both turned to look at Mike Rivers when the blond pilot cleared his throat loudly.
"Which brings us to another little point," he began, his tones light, his expression obstinate. "I don't recall us discussing the matter of who is going inside. I know you're determined, Saint John, but you certainly don't think you're the best choice to go in with him?" He directed the second biting statement at Stringfellow Hawke, who glared.
"Do you think you can stop me from finding Dom?" The words were a low growl full of menace, the younger Hawke's stance weight forward, ready for instant battle.
Rivers' reply was aborted in his mouth when Saint John touched him on the arm. "String is coming with me," the nominal team leader stated flatly. "You'll be needed in Airwolf. We're going to need a solid diversion going in, and if Horn has air support, Airwolf is going to need to be combat ready." So is her pilot, hung silently, causing Mike to hesitate.
"I ... don't like it," he said slowly, gaze flicking to Stringfellow, the implication being that Saint John would have no backup inside the mansion. "But if that's the way you want it...?"
The elder Hawke smiled. "Don't worry, Mike, String and I worked as a team for a long time. We know the ropes and we both have a personal stake in the game."
Stringfellow said nothing, but his blue eyes both acknowledged his brother's statement and reiterated the challenge -- any attempt to stop him would not be met without violent resistance.
Five more minutes saw all four clad in flight suits and ready to go. Jo, still miffed at the earlier rebuff, watched irritatedly while String laced his boots while moving his upper body as little as possible. "I still think you should wait for us here," she said with a huff. "You're not going to last long if you keep moving around."
String, his spirits rising exponentially with the amount of drug entering his bloodstream and the nearness of battle, smiled, jerking his thumb at the waiting Rivers. "Isn't that his line?" he asked blithely.
Mike snorted and lightly tapped Saint John's long jaw. "Not me. I figure, anybody who slugs like that is someone I want with me, not tagging along where he can't do any good." When Saint John growled something uncomplimentary, he grinned and turned back to the waiting Stringfellow. "What can you tell us about Horn's setup? How well defended is it?"
The younger Hawke frowned, eyes narrowed in concentration. "We couldn't see too much going in, but I got the impression the estate is well-armed and fortified. I only saw about a half-dozen men, but there were some patrolling the perimeter, and I heard a lot of people moving around one wing of the house -- probably a barracks arrangement. Our big problem is going to be getting through to Dom and Michael before they can kill them."
Rivers' raised both hands in a nonchalant gesture. "There is no problem that can't be resolved with the proper application of superior fire power."
"As long as we're firing at the right people," Saint John agreed, slapping his friend on the back.
Santini leaned against the helicopter, biting her lip hard. "I don't like it, guys. You two are going to have to wade through a whole army without backup. Once you're inside, Mike and I won't be able to help you -- we'll have our hands full flying Airwolf."
"Epsilon Guard will be coming in only a few minutes after we make our first run," Mike pointed out, zipping his own flight suit up to the neck. "They're going in on a full scale search-and-destroy with two choppers, Zebra Squad hitting Larchmont Field in a simultaneous assault. My advice is to leave the troops to them -- you concentrate on being as inconspicuous as possible."
"While trying to stay on your feet." This last Jo snapped tartly at Stringfellow, whose breathing was increasing in tempo even as his eyes burned brighter than the fever could account for. She climbed behind the engineering console and busied herself with another computer test, worry evident over her simmering resentment.
Saint John, more practical natured and possessing the objectivity of too much previous experience, accepted his brother's pharmaceutical assistance as fait accompli and let it slide with his single warning. "We'll be going in hit and run," he decided, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the armor plate. "Like that commando raid we staged north of Kohnieh, remember?"
String nodded. "With the rest of the squad furnishing a diversionary frontal attack. Should work." He strapped a leather holster around his lean waist, then looked around. "Where's my gun?"
Mike Rivers, at Saint John's side, hesitated then drew from his waistband the Browning he'd confiscated earlier. He tendered it butt first. "Take this one. There's extra ammo clips in a box under Airwolf's back seat."
Hawke accepted the weapon without comment, nestling it in his bandaged right hand, making sure he could slip his finger through the trigger guard. He stared from the gun to the man, his narrow-eyed gaze more expressive than he generally allowed to show.
Mike, interpreting the confused gratitude accurately, grinned. "Just be careful which way you point it this time," he admonished amiably. He reached into the open cockpit, patting the flight helmet sitting on the copilot's seat. "Remember, today the good guys are going to be the ones in the black hats."
***
From somewhere a wind had picked up, more than the gentle zephyr that forever blew through the tunnels and caverns, carrying with it the eternal chill that reigned at this altitude. This chill had been foreseen, however, as had the encroaching shade, battled by the devices man had created to sustain life against nature's opposition. Lamps replaced the sun, kerosene heaters kept out the cold, and within this artificial womb against the elements three people -- two men and a woman -- worked on the damaged beast that was Airwolf. They talked little save to coordinate their efforts, each well versed in their task and united by the common bonds of a team well forged. Three people worked while a fourth lay cocooned near the main computer terminal, sleeping uneasily under the inducements of drugs, pain and grief. He tossed his head, twitching weakly under the woollen blanket, youthful face twisting in the throes of nightmare ... or memory?
"Dom?' he whispered, the low voice naught but a muted shriek. "Saint John?"
A large hand descended on the sleeper's shoulder, pressing it lightly. "Shhhh. I'm here, String. Take it easy."
A startled gasp escaped Stringfellow's lips. Sapphire eyes snapped open, seeking the silver-gray ones regarding him calmly from above. "Saint John? Is that--?"
"Right here." Saint John Hawke settled the circuit board he was examining on the mat next to his foot, and leaned farther into the other's line of sight. "Y'all right?"
Stringfellow blinked up at him, his bruised face and the squint as he tried to focus already giving lie to any possible affirmative answer. "I'm ... not sure," he croaked through a dry throat. "How do I look?"
Saint John tipped his head, examining his brother candidly without letting go the shoulder he still gripped. "You've been perkier," he returned, one side of his mouth lifting in a thin smile. "And prettier. Which hurts worse, the ribs, the burns or that concussion?"
Lines of concentration crossed the younger man's forehead as he considered the question seriously. He lifted his left hand, freeing it from the blanket with an effort, and turning it palm up to stare at the pristine white bandages swathing it around the middle. "Nothing hurts," he said wonderingly, next touching the now-cleaned up bruise on his temple. "Or else I just don't care. Everything is all ... far away." He waved vaguely, apparently finding one of the overhead floodlights fascinating. "How much of that stuff did Rivers give me?"
"You mean the morphine?" Saint John's gray eyes flicked to the discarded tin box on the injured man's far side. "Not enough to keep you unconscious for long, obviously. I think most of that is just because you're so worn. The anesthetic effect should last a while longer, at least." He continued his scrutiny while his brother forced his attention away from the light and blinked himself awake, nodding slowly at the returned intelligence in those shadowed blue eyes. "You're looking a bit better," he amended his earlier statement. He used his left hand to brush back String's mussed brown hair, then pressed it flat on the other's forehead. "Nasty fever, but I see you haven't forgotten how to get the most out of the least rest."
Stringfellow shook off the other's hand and levered himself up onto his elbow, settling his bleary gaze on the older pilot, who was seated in a comfortable cross-legged position to the right of the sleeping bag. "You draw babysitting detail?" he asked grumpily.
Saint John picked up the circuit board, using a magnifying glass to study it for imperfection. "First, it's as easy for me to work in a comfortable position as it is to sit all cramped up under Airwolf. Second ..." He shrugged casually, holding the magnifying glass closer to the board and not raising his head. "... I've had a few nightmares in my day. Sometimes it's nice to have someone nearby when you wake up from one."
Disarmed by the reasonable tone -- something Saint John had always been able to do -- Stringfellow dropped his eyes to the old brown wool blanket. "That's what Dom used to say whenever he wanted me to stay over."
"To chase away his nightmares?" Saint John returned, looking up again. "Or yours?" The younger pilot didn't answer, and Saint John rested the glass on his knee. "Funny thing about dreams, sometimes it's hard to tell when they leave off and reality starts without a push in the right direction." He stretched, grimaced and jabbed at the small of his back. "I ever tell you about a guy named Lee Monahan?"
"No."
Finished with his back, Saint John next stretched his long arms over his head, having to stifle a yawn with one fist. "In Laos the prisoners were more like a little community than the scattered every-man-for-himself confusion we were stuck with under Charlie. Remember how that was?"
String shrugged, still staring at the blanket. "They only had me for two months. I don't remember much of it."
"You're better off." That was muttered but not low enough to escape the other's phenomenal hearing. String looked up questioningly, and Saint John met that gaze with a vague one of his own. "I was the one that found you when we raided the holding camp; I'm glad you don't remember much of it." He swallowed, attention moored irresistibly back to the past. "We all had nightmares in Laos. For most of us, settling into a steady routine seemed to be the trigger for our subconscious to work out the trash we'd gone through in Viet Nam. Those of us who had survived that long were starting to come out of that haze we'd been drifting in since we were captured. It was one of the first times we were able to look around and really see that there were other people with us. Before that, it was like flying on autopilot. Your mind sat back and watched your body do what it was told."
His sharp eyes remained unfocussed, set on scenes, people, events, that had taken place a virtual lifetime ago. "That was when the dreams came, not much before then -- in Viet Nam every minute was a nightmare. But at least in Laos we could help each other through them. It was nice to have someone around when they got too rough."
Grimacing only slightly, String pulled himself into a sitting position, his eyes roughly on level with his brother's. "This Lee Monahan helped you?" he asked in a voice roughened by regret and sympathy.
Saint John nodded abstractedly. "Every night for months. Couldn't return the favor much. Lee had his nightmares while he was still awake." He shook his head wonderingly. "He'd be going along right as rain, then start yelling that Charlie was behind a tree. Only thing that protected him at first was that the Meo tribe we were working for were a little superstitious about mental problems. They thought he was under some kind of curse and didn't bother him. When we were transferred closer to the border, the new supervisors shot him the second day in."
He broke off abruptly, once again seeking the other's face, need driving him to the only touchstone he'd been able to maintain through the barbarity that had been his every day existence. The harsh lines softened around his mouth with the support he found there, a tenderness entering his eyes for his hard-bitten, battle-tempered brother that appeared for few other people. "I couldn't do anything for Lee and I'm not much of one for babysitting someone as stubborn as you are, but I don't mind being around to point out the end of the sleeping nightmares and the beginning of the ones that grab you after you're awake."
String leaned forward and braced himself against his knees, using one bandaged hand to rub his eyes. "Considering the last few days, I'd say that's a smart precaution. I seem to be having a little trouble telling the difference these days."
He dropped his arm, staring dreamily at his brother for a long time. Saint John withstood the scrutiny for several minutes, then cocked one brow. "What?"
Seemingly not hearing the interrogative, String absently fingered his ribs through the dirty white sweater and winced, the narcotic-muted pain still strong enough to restore him to awareness with a start. He blinked under his brother's quizzical gaze, then hurriedly averted his face. "Sorry," he muttered with vague embarrassment. "Talking about dreams made me realize ... I mean, if you are another impostor, how am I going to know?"
"You didn't have any idea before?" Saint John asked curiously, referring to Mike Rivers' recitation of Zarkov's earlier attempt at procuring Airwolf. "Did the other guy look that much like me?" A calculated effort lightened his tone, and he lifted his chin. "He couldn't have been nearly as handsome. Or as brave. Or smart. Or...."
Ignoring the attempt at humor, String shook his head slightly, then gulped and held his stomach when the action added a faint green tinge to his flushed cheeks. "He wasn't even close," he confessed, resetting his wandering attention on the dirt floor. "He was about ten years older and all worn, like he'd been in prison. I think he was like I was afraid you'd be after fifteen years with the V.C." He swallowed hard, glancing quickly up into those penetrating gray eyes then away, ashamed. "He was real good at it, too -- treated me like - like you would have. Between his acting and her drugs, I ... I really believed that another man was you. I believed it."
"I'm sure they were real convincing," the elder Hawke muttered with more than a touch of anger although it was not directed at the exhausted man at his side. "Airwolf seems to attract 'em like cockroaches."
"Yeah." The younger pilot touched his temple again, shutting his eyes briefly. "Maybe I should have known, but I was so happy to have you back I didn't even question them. Then when they asked for the Lady...."
"Yes?" the other prodded after a moment.
Quietly, "I gave her to them."
Saint John studied him thoughtfully, still cradling the forgotten circuit board in one large hand. "What else could you have done?" he asked in a reasonable tone. "Your deal with the Company was to turn Airwolf over to them once I was found, wasn't it? So what's wrong with keeping your end of the bargain?"
"I was a fool," the younger man whispered bitterly. "A gullible--"
"What does it matter." Saint John interrupted the self-castigation promptly. "You beat her in the end."
Then Stringfellow Hawke did look up, dull blue eyes full as they ever were of weary guilt. "We got Airwolf back thanks to Dom, not me. I never beat her -- it was her game all the way." Shame returned and grew stronger, mixed with the guilt. "When they told you about Zarkov ... did they mention the brainwashing was permanent?"
The elder man tensed and went very still, only his lips moving. "What do you mean, permanent?"
The blue eyes made to shift away, but the sheer presence in Saint John Hawke's gaze prevented this, forcing the continued contact. Finally, String sighed and licked his lips. "After Zarkov was through, I couldn't remember what you looked like anymore. I'd try to think of you and I'd see him -- his face. Even when I looked at your photograph on the mantle, I'd see him too."
Understanding returned the lines to Saint John Hawke's strong-planed features, and with it a sadness that matched the younger man's. "It-it was a lousy photograph, anyway," he said, striving for a lighter note and failing miserably. "It was so grainy, the angle made me look more like Dad than me."
"You look a lot like Dad," String returned absently, narcotics taking him down the side track with frightening ease. "You always did, even without the beard. I liked that picture ... at least, for as long as I could see it."
Then the gray eyes did flicker away, a deep loss pooled in their depths. "That's what you meant when you said they'd managed to take me away too."
String nodded and clumsily straightened, one arm around his midsection to support his ribs. "Right up until you walked into the hospital room, I saw him. Always. Every time I thought of you, every time I remembered you. After fifteen years, they took you away from me inside ..." He touched his chest over his heart. "... where I thought you were safe."
The circuit board found its way to the mat next to the magnifying glass, leaving Saint John's hand free to reach out and touch his brother's arm. "Did Dom know?" he asked gently.
Stringfellow shrugged. "I didn't tell'm but Dom always seemed to know a whole lot more than I thought he did. For a long time after that I couldn't turn around except there he was. I wanted to be alone but he wouldn't stay away."
"Dom always did know best," the tall blond said with a quiet chuckle. "I always said he'd've made someone a great Italian mother."
"Or father," the younger man returned fondly. The budding smile was aborted before it could do more than twitch his lips. "Archangel said I was wrong about it being Dom too," he whispered, pulling on the white wool of his sweater in a nervous gesture that was very unlike him.
"Archangel would," the other grumbled, this time keeping his voice low enough that his brother's sharp ears could not hear.
"The one thing I could count on was myself -- my own senses. And now I can't trust them, either." His round jaw jutted defiantly, at odds with the dread in his eyes. "What if you are some wasted old man who walks with a cane, or dead, instead of--"
"Whoa!" Saint John raised a hand, cutting him off. He pulled himself erect, stiffening with mock indignation. "Take a good look at me, brother." He waited until the blurry blue eyes had more or less focussed on him, then tapped his own chest. "If there is the slightest bit of doubt that I'm the same guy who used to wail the daylights out of you when we were kids, I'll be glad to offer you a little proof!"
The proposal was accepted seriously, blue eyes boring into gray as though there seeking the reassurance so badly needed. "He was a lot like I would have pictured you after so long."
Saint John glowered, finding some faint amusement in the situation that translated into a sparkle in his eyes. "Are you telling me I'm too good looking to be your own brother?"
The absurdity communicated to the younger man, twisting one side of his mouth up. "I never thought of it that way."
"Think about it," the other advised, slapping the front of his coveralls heartily. "After all, I always was the heartbreaker in the family."
"So you've told me."
Despite the chuckle there was still a lingering question in his eyes that Saint John addressed seriously, willing to absorb the pain of memory for his brother's sake. "Most of the men who went into the camps did end up disease-ridden, walking skeletons," he began somberly, voice roughening. "The term with Charlie was the hardest because of the war; things were survivable in Laos -- not by much, but you could make it if the villagers liked you ... or if the overseers did. And I spent a solid year with the Cambodians toward the end; Khmer Rouge were butchers but they kept their merchandise in running order." His gaze, focussed inward, reflected every second of those fifteen years of slavery, his slightly nasal voice sourly ironic. "Being the personal pilot of the local warlord did bring a few advantages with the exalted position. I may have had to fly with a gun stuck in my ribs, but I got fed every day and deloused once a month whether I needed it or not."
"Saint John."
The softly uttered name snapped Saint John Hawke out of the past like an over-stressed rubber band. He met the present by taking a deep breath, expanding his broad chest to the full, and expelling it through his nose. He glanced down at the bandaged hand on his arm, the contact bleeding off the tension in his large-boned body. "I'm sorry. It does still hit me when I'm not careful. All of a sudden I'm in the highlands, or back in the rice paddies with Lee and Maridel." The apology was offered in the same tone his younger brother's had been. "I've only been back three months. After fifteen years I'm used to being there, but not here." He waved generally at their surroundings, the gesture taking in far more than the stone chamber carved out of the mountain. "There's too much to get used to. Styles, technology ... even the people are different. I feel like I'm stuck in a 1960's time warp. And I'm still eating fast food like it's going out of style. I've lived on burritos and pizza all week."
"I tried to find you." String's raspy voice was pitched low, full of a guilty pain far beyond the physical, revealing the raw wounds that even his brother's return had not healed, and that they both carried. "I swear I tried to find you."
Saint John covered the bandaged hand with his own, a muscle leaping in his clenched jaw. "You didn't just try, little brother, you succeeded! I'm back and now we have a chance at getting Dom back too!"
The younger man shook his head, swallowing over a dry throat. "Don't expect too much. It only sets you up to be slapped back down."
"You're a pessimist, brother," Saint John chided mildly.
String regarded him wonderingly, dilated pupils making his eyes look huge. "After what you went through over there, why aren't you? You had more reason to be."
There was a clang from the direction of the helicopter, then a low oath. Neither man gave any indication of having heard; their eyes were locked, their world at this moment consisting only of each other. Into this restricted sphere Saint John's simple reply carried all the impact of a pronouncement. He enunciated each word clearly, making sure they would penetrate a narcotics clouded mind to the heart, from his own. "If I'd've been a pessimist, I wouldn't have made it through the first year." He very carefully squeezed the hand he held, too gently to cause more pain to the badly burned palms, the intensity of his expression revealing his knowledge of how important this was that his brother understand. "One thing I never lost was hope -- I never stopped believing that I'd be going home some day. That kept me going a long time after the others gave up and ... let go of life."
"I knew you'd never give up," String returned just as resolutely, though his voice was beginning to slur again. "Not you."
Saint John shook his head firmly. "I couldn't. I think that's what happened to Lee just before he got shot. He stopped trying -- stopped caring -- and just let the dreams take over." Fondness filled those so- sharp gray eyes. "Lee didn't have a bullheaded kid brother looking for him -- didn't have any reason to hold on. I did." He leaned back, tilting his head again. "Of course, everything I went through isn't going to mean a thing if I don't still have that kid brother around, or if he doesn't believe in me anymore."
"I'm not sure I ever did believe in you," the younger man returned with humor, dizzily shutting his eyes.
Saint John laughed out loud. "Now you sound like Mike." Although the other couldn't see, he thumbed over his shoulder to the boyish, blond pilot who squatted under Airwolf's flank, scowling up into the missile compartment. Even as Saint John gestured, Mike Rivers slammed the access port and stood to slip an arm around the well-rounded figure of Jo Santini. She swatted him away good-naturedly, and Saint John laughed again. "We could have used Mike in 'Nam. With that never-say-die attitude, we could've taken Hanoi six months after Tet. I'll bet he and Marty Vidor would've gotten along great, don't you?"
His genuine amusement faded at the unexpected reaction to this innocuous statement. The younger Hawke groaned softly and rested his face in his hand. "Marty...."
Saint John touched his arm when he wobbled again, a worried frown replacing any trace of amusement. "Are you sure you're all right? You're looking awfully shaky."
String blinked again, frowning hard as he scanned the Lair. "I'm fine. ... Is there any coffee?"
"Ask and you shall receive." That was Jo, who had approached unnoticed from the direction of the nearly assembled gunship. She bore a paper cup, the aroma of coffee filling the immediate vicinity. "I brought a thermos with me. Figured we'd need a little boost before we were through. Are you hungry?"
String wrinkled his nose, looking nauseated at the concept of food although he accepted the cup gratefully. "How near are you to done with Airwolf?"
She patted his shoulder, a warm smile touching her pink lips. "Mike and I started the final phase while you two were over here gossiping. That's the most I've ever seen either one of you talk, especially you, String. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," the pilot returned shortly.
She sighed and placed her palm exactly where Saint John had earlier. "You're not fine, you're burning up. You need to see a doctor about those hands, too. And--"
"Jo." String cut her off, pulling away from her attempted ministrations with a curt motion. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."
She stopped, hurt and anger bringing a slow flush to her china skin. "Fine. You're fine. And frankly I hope you're feeling as fine as you look. It would serve you right. If that module is ready, Saint John...?"
The elder Hawke picked up the circuit board he'd been working on and climbed slowly to his feet, again stretching his back. "This one checks out. Once we install it we can close her up."
"Good. I'll show you where it goes." Jo tossed her head at the younger of her adopted cousins and followed the bronze-haired pilot to their teammate, who was wielding a screwdriver against the now fully extended ADF pod.
"'Bout time, Saint John!" Rivers greeted them heartily, manhandling the armored panel that usually covered the deployment pod into position. "Lend a hand. Jo, take this screwdriver...."
Stringfellow Hawke watched them disjointedly, still unsteady from the effects of the drugs, trauma and exhaustion. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them quickly as he listed to one side, nearly falling over for his trouble. It was then he spied the first aid kit, haphazardly discarded by his side. It was awkward undoing the catch with his bandaged hands, but he managed it, extracting a little packet, and returning the box to its spot. He tore the packet open with his teeth and dropped two of small tablets into his coffee, waiting sixty seconds for them to dissolve, then drinking the now bitter brew down. Moving clumsily, he crabbed backward until he could lean against the nearest console while he waited for the stimulant to take effect.
It was ten minutes later that the three workers slammed shut the access panel in Airwolf's belly and made their way back across the inner chamber. "One chore done," Mike Rivers was saying, plying a towel to his greasy hands. "I just wish we had time to test the deployment system before we have to rely on combat mode."
Jo tossed back a strand of long blonde hair, now stringy with sweat. "The computer diagnostic I ran shows every system functional. There's no reason we should have any trouble."
Mike struck a pose, nose in the air, hand pressed against his heart. "A good pilot prefers hands-on information, thank you very much."
"Your hands-on still has grease on," Jo pointed out, taping the oily spot on his black shirt."
He glanced down, looking disgusted. "Don't suppose you do laundry?"
She smiled sweetly. "Sorry. I send mine out."
Saint John stopped to look back at the helicopter, light brows drawn together in a scowl. "I wish we had a chance to replace that windshield. Epsilon Guard has been en route for the rendezvous for the last forty-five minutes; if we don't use the secondary turbos, we're going to be late, but I don't know if I trust that epoxy to hold the temporary plates."
Jo sighed. "We'll just have to take the chance. The plan calls for us to be first in. I'll let Jason know if we fall behind the timetable."
By then they had reached the injured man, who raised his head at their approach. Although fever still burned in his cheeks, there was new awareness in his eyes; they glittered brightly -- too brightly? -- with cognizance of his surroundings and fresh determination. "My goodness!" Jo exclaimed, smiling at the sight. "You look great! All that from an hour's sleep and one cup of coffee?"
String's lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile had it been less brief. Supporting his rib cage with one arm, he swung his legs under and pushed himself to his knees. Saint John placed an arm under his shoulders and brought him the rest of the way up. "Idiot," he growled exasperatedly, waiting until the younger man had braced himself against the computer console before releasing him. "What are you, suicidal all of a sudden?"
Jo glanced at him puzzledly. "What are you talking about, Saint John?"
As String stood, the forgotten packet had fallen out of his lap. Mike, seeing it hit, picked it up with a frown. "How much of the Benzedrine did you take?" he asked, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "Not more than one tab?"
Jo's jaw dropped with understanding. "String, you took drugs?" she charged disapprovingly. "I didn't think uppers were your style. And on top of a concussion...!"
He ignored her with the easy contempt of one who is used to going his own way no matter what anyone thinks. "Is it time to go?" he asked his brother, who was studying him critically.
Saint John nodded. "We're ready. You be careful," he advised brusquely. "The Bennies and the morphine will keep you going for a while, but your judgment is going to lean toward the reckless, and when they quit, you're going to come down hard and fast."
"Not your concern," the younger man stated flatly, testing out a deeper breath than he'd been able to take so far. "I'll deal with it." That breath caught in his throat when the older man took his arm in a crushing grip and gave him a shake.
"It is my concern," Saint John snapped angrily back. "If you crash in the middle of a firefight, you'll take me down with you. You remember the lessons we both learned in-country."
They stared at each other stonily for a long moment, two unyielding predators girded for battle. Then String nodded once, and Saint John released him, his expression plainly worried but accepting of his brother's word. They both turned to look at Mike Rivers when the blond pilot cleared his throat loudly.
"Which brings us to another little point," he began, his tones light, his expression obstinate. "I don't recall us discussing the matter of who is going inside. I know you're determined, Saint John, but you certainly don't think you're the best choice to go in with him?" He directed the second biting statement at Stringfellow Hawke, who glared.
"Do you think you can stop me from finding Dom?" The words were a low growl full of menace, the younger Hawke's stance weight forward, ready for instant battle.
Rivers' reply was aborted in his mouth when Saint John touched him on the arm. "String is coming with me," the nominal team leader stated flatly. "You'll be needed in Airwolf. We're going to need a solid diversion going in, and if Horn has air support, Airwolf is going to need to be combat ready." So is her pilot, hung silently, causing Mike to hesitate.
"I ... don't like it," he said slowly, gaze flicking to Stringfellow, the implication being that Saint John would have no backup inside the mansion. "But if that's the way you want it...?"
The elder Hawke smiled. "Don't worry, Mike, String and I worked as a team for a long time. We know the ropes and we both have a personal stake in the game."
Stringfellow said nothing, but his blue eyes both acknowledged his brother's statement and reiterated the challenge -- any attempt to stop him would not be met without violent resistance.
Five more minutes saw all four clad in flight suits and ready to go. Jo, still miffed at the earlier rebuff, watched irritatedly while String laced his boots while moving his upper body as little as possible. "I still think you should wait for us here," she said with a huff. "You're not going to last long if you keep moving around."
String, his spirits rising exponentially with the amount of drug entering his bloodstream and the nearness of battle, smiled, jerking his thumb at the waiting Rivers. "Isn't that his line?" he asked blithely.
Mike snorted and lightly tapped Saint John's long jaw. "Not me. I figure, anybody who slugs like that is someone I want with me, not tagging along where he can't do any good." When Saint John growled something uncomplimentary, he grinned and turned back to the waiting Stringfellow. "What can you tell us about Horn's setup? How well defended is it?"
The younger Hawke frowned, eyes narrowed in concentration. "We couldn't see too much going in, but I got the impression the estate is well-armed and fortified. I only saw about a half-dozen men, but there were some patrolling the perimeter, and I heard a lot of people moving around one wing of the house -- probably a barracks arrangement. Our big problem is going to be getting through to Dom and Michael before they can kill them."
Rivers' raised both hands in a nonchalant gesture. "There is no problem that can't be resolved with the proper application of superior fire power."
"As long as we're firing at the right people," Saint John agreed, slapping his friend on the back.
Santini leaned against the helicopter, biting her lip hard. "I don't like it, guys. You two are going to have to wade through a whole army without backup. Once you're inside, Mike and I won't be able to help you -- we'll have our hands full flying Airwolf."
"Epsilon Guard will be coming in only a few minutes after we make our first run," Mike pointed out, zipping his own flight suit up to the neck. "They're going in on a full scale search-and-destroy with two choppers, Zebra Squad hitting Larchmont Field in a simultaneous assault. My advice is to leave the troops to them -- you concentrate on being as inconspicuous as possible."
"While trying to stay on your feet." This last Jo snapped tartly at Stringfellow, whose breathing was increasing in tempo even as his eyes burned brighter than the fever could account for. She climbed behind the engineering console and busied herself with another computer test, worry evident over her simmering resentment.
Saint John, more practical natured and possessing the objectivity of too much previous experience, accepted his brother's pharmaceutical assistance as fait accompli and let it slide with his single warning. "We'll be going in hit and run," he decided, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the armor plate. "Like that commando raid we staged north of Kohnieh, remember?"
String nodded. "With the rest of the squad furnishing a diversionary frontal attack. Should work." He strapped a leather holster around his lean waist, then looked around. "Where's my gun?"
Mike Rivers, at Saint John's side, hesitated then drew from his waistband the Browning he'd confiscated earlier. He tendered it butt first. "Take this one. There's extra ammo clips in a box under Airwolf's back seat."
Hawke accepted the weapon without comment, nestling it in his bandaged right hand, making sure he could slip his finger through the trigger guard. He stared from the gun to the man, his narrow-eyed gaze more expressive than he generally allowed to show.
Mike, interpreting the confused gratitude accurately, grinned. "Just be careful which way you point it this time," he admonished amiably. He reached into the open cockpit, patting the flight helmet sitting on the copilot's seat. "Remember, today the good guys are going to be the ones in the black hats."
***