From without, Airwolf in flight was a half-seen shadow, a hole in the sky.
A silent predator, she cut through the rarified air at twenty thousand
feet, even the bowshock of her passage blunted by her aerodynamic design.
Within, she was less silent; the resonance of her great engines could be
sensed even through the sealed cabin, the steady whup-whup of her rotors
and the more-felt-than-heard strumming of her turbines were powerful enough
to disturb conversation without the radios in the padded black helmets.
In the flight commander's seat, Mike Rivers nudged the stick, expertly sending the helicopter into the gentle glide pattern that would drop their altitude from twenty thousand feet to ten thousand in less than a minute, at the same time bleeding off speed and power to increase maneuverability in the thicker atmosphere. "Looks like we got away with the patch job we did on the windshield," he commented to the three other people cohabiting the cabin. "I had my doubts about that epoxy Jason came up with holding the plates in place above low speeds."
Jo, occupying the engineering station behind the pilot, called up the specialized diagnostics program on her board for the third time since they'd taken off, slender fingers playing across the keyboard in a rapid tattoo. "Computer shows continued equalized stress on all surfaces; no change in internal atmospheric composition. That epoxy is doing a good job. Thank heavens."
Mike leaned forward to tap the steel saucer covering one of the holes a large-caliber bullet had punched in Airwolf's windshield. "I'll be happier when we install the new armored glass. NASA designed or not, I don't feel comfortable sitting behind Super Glue at Mach 1."
The woman's voice was a little tinny through the radio but still managed to convey a cheerfulness in her teasing. "What happened to your trusting nature, Mike? Losing faith in technology?"
"Been watching too many commercials," the blond pilot volleyed, leveling off their glide. "I know how tricky a good P.R. man can be. Especially if you're the sucker type. Right, Saint John?"
Strapped into the pull-down jumpseat next to the engineering console, Saint John Hawke started out of the reverie he'd sunk into upon takeoff, and stared quizzically down his long nose at the back of his colleague's helmet. "Who are you calling gullible, Rivers? In case you've forgotten, I wasn't the one who ended up shelling out five hundred bucks for dance lessons just because some girl you met at the beach said she likes to tango."
"Annabelle was a wonderful dancer," Rivers returned, lifting his chin haughtily into the air. "Besides, how was I supposed to know she owned the studio?"
"And wasn't it Collette with the come-hither eyes that talked you into spending the weekend in Cancun, then broke it to you once you'd paid for the trip that it was one of those land-buying deals?" Hawke pursued relentlessly.
"Collette was worth the money," the other pilot sighed, blue eyes taking on a dreamy appearance.
"And didn't--?"
"Okay, okay, you made your point!" Mike cut him off with a raised hand immediately returned to the collective. His boyish face wore a chagrined expression, tiny lines around his eyes giving them a merry aspect. "I told you, you can never trust anyone with a good P.R. man."
"Or woman," Jo giggled, sharing an amused look with Saint John. Their friend's vulnerability to a pretty face was legendary.
"We're getting close," interrupted the heretofore silent fourth person in the co-pilot's seat. "Switch to stealth and whisper modes. I didn't see one, but I'm sure Horn has radar as part of his defense system."
Mike glanced at him, but little of the man's profile was visible except a swatch of white gauze against flushed skin, and one very blue, fever bright eye fixed on the ground below. His own expression hardened at the order, but he clamped his full lips together, then replied evenly, "Whisper and stealth modes engaged five minutes ago. As far as the ground is concerned, we're invisible."
"Radar absorption rate at ninety-seven percent," Jo recited, reading numbers off a gauge to her right. "You're right, String -- he has a powerful radar located somewhere off the grounds ... about one mile to the west, judging by the Doppler effect."
"We've had quite a bit of experience on surveillance jobs, String," Saint John mentioned mildly, able to see even less of his brother than could Mike. "How are you feeling?"
The younger Hawke didn't answer. A certain amount of pain had filtered back into his taut features as the morphine's narcotic effect bowed before the Benzedrine, the sweat of exertion beading his brow. He carefully kept his face averted from either Saint John or Mike, either of whom were in a position to abort the mission should they judge him unfit. He sat rigidly for nearly sixty seconds, then leaned forward alertly. He supported himself against the glass with one bandaged hand, using the other to point at the sprawling, two-story estate situated in the center of what appeared to be a walled garden, the greenery looking out of place in the midst of the barren landscape. "That's it. I recognize the gardens. Make a sweep from this altitude. Jo, begin thermal, magnetic, and visual scans, and cross-reference them on a topographical map. I also want a report on any energy emissions across the spectrum leading in from the drop-off point."
"Running scans," Jo returned crisply. "Results should be coming through on your monitor momentarily." She tapped Saint John on the arm, leaning to the side to allow him access to the computer enhanced image unfolding on the color screen, a duplicate of the scene appearing on the front monitor between Mike and String.
"There's a stream bed to the south; looks like it's deep enough to take Airwolf in almost to the wall," Mike remarked, glancing from the screen to his surroundings with quick moves of his head.
Jo touched tongue to her lips thoughtfully. "I agree. Radar detection is no problem but IR is picking up a low-level laser scan exactly twenty-one feet inside the wall. Just a single beam -- backup alarm, probably."
"We get to run twenty feet and crawl two," Saint John said with a nonchalant gesture. "No problem."
"Thermals are showing one armed guard walking the wall," Jo went on, "four more at equidistant stations outside and at approximately twenty feet off the ground. Either they've learned how to levitate, or they're standing on some type of platform."
"Tell the computer to correlate the lines of sight of these two sentries," Saint John said, using one finger to indicate the two men guarding the approach from the south. "I want to know if there are any blind spots in their visual range."
She nodded and tapped several commands on her keyboard, a conical projection replacing the topographical map. Two lines swept from the representations of the men, nearly but not quite intersecting farther afield. "Bingo! Once you leave the stream bed, you can head east then north again and they'll never know you were there."
"Show me a magnetic," String ordered, staring hard at the screen. She complied, and he nodded, swollen jaw tightening. "Just as I thought. The area immediately surrounding the wall is booby-trapped, fortunately with metallic mines or we wouldn't have even known they were there until too late."
Saint John, too, studied the new map through narrowed eyes. "You see the pattern, String? Standard paradigm. If we can locate one mine we can pick our way through the field following the safety pattern."
The younger man nodded curtly, shifting in his seat in a vain attempt at easing the growing discomfort of his stiffening body. "It's only a few yards deep. Shouldn't cost us any time."
Jo restored the topographical map, laying the magnetic scan over it. "Looks like the first mine you'll come to is exactly eighteen inches from that big rock and.... Why don't I just print this out for you," she suggested, again activating the keyboard. A thin slip of paper emerged from a slot by Saint John's hand; he tore it off, looked at it closely and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
"This should do it. Next part is up to you, Mike."
Rivers grinned, again steering Airwolf into a glide, this time traveling due south. Reaching a position several miles from the estate, he realigned on a northern heading, dropping the craft to ground level. It was a matter of seconds before the stream bed was located. Airwolf navigated the shallow canyon at a clip, Mike keeping the speed down to prevent the rotors from throwing up a dust cloud that might have given them away. A shallow rivulet no more than two feet wide was the only indication of water; the banks and surrounding land was arid, spotted here and there with dry, brownish vegetation.
"No longer picking up radar," Jo reported, large eyes locked on her screens. "Reaching closest vantage ... now."
On her mark, Mike throttled back, bringing the gunship to a halt. Without lowering the landing gear, he held position at a hover, no more than a foot above the slow running water. "This is as far as we go," he said, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Saint John, then a briefer one at String. "You hoof it the rest of the way."
The two Hawkes unsnapped their harnesses, then String pushed open the left side door, the pneumatic seal breaking with a hiss. He stepped to the ground but no further, pulling the Browning out of its leather holster and nestling it in his bandaged right hand; a quick patdown of the pockets of his silver flight suit confirmed the supplementary clips he'd stored there. Still in his seat, Saint John twisted his torso, reaching back into the rear storage compartment and selected a compact Ingram MAC-11 machine pistol from the mini-arsenal there, and extra box magazines, handing them out to his brother. He hesitated and brought out a polished Barnett crossbow, a deadly and silent commando weapon perfectly suited for the clandestine assault they were planning. A small quiver of bolts was slipped across his broad shoulders, a satchel shoved into Stringfellow's hands, then he too was out of the helicopter, joining String on the moist earth and accepting back the machine pistol.
"Remember," Mike called over the engines, "you have exactly eight minutes to get into position before I start blowing the front of the building to kingdom come. In eighteen minutes Epsilon Guard hits Larchmont airport and this estate simultaneously with everything they have."
"Got it!" Saint John saluted Mike, grinned at Jo, and resealed the door, then followed his already departed brother upstream. Although the banks were high enough to conceal even a tall man, the two maintained a cautious crouch, making very sure that their heads remained below the rim at all times. Their boots sloshed through inch deep mud for several hundred feet, scattering several lizards and not a few winged insects who'd sought out the only water source in the arid territory. Moving rapidly, they finally reached a bend that marked the point they were to leave the safety of the gully.
Saint John touched the younger man on the arm, pointing to the right. "From here we head east," he said in a low voice. "Ninety yards to the jagged shaped boulder, then north again. If we stay low we'll be under the line of sight of the spotters on those raised platforms."
String followed his brother up to level ground and wrapped one arm around his midsection as support, then assumed a rapid, crouched lope that easily kept up with the other man's longer stride. On either side, the rough land performed a crude wave pattern, miniature hills and galleys rising no more than a few feet from the desert floor to occlude the horizon from view. "Don't forget about the guy walking the wall," he said, breathing increasing slightly in tempo. He pointed to the north and the line of sienna-streaked boulders rising decoratively out of the baked earth. "We'll be in range of him as soon as we pass those rocks."
The elder man hefted the crossbow a little higher; the steel bolt glinted ominously in the sun and he hurriedly dropped it back to his side. "He won't have a chance to raise an alarm. Our only concern will be making it over the wall before one of those perimeter lookouts decides to check over his shoulder."
"You just make sure that guard falls inside the wall," the brown-haired pilot reminded him. "If he lands on a mine, we're through before we start."
Once again falling silent, the two soldiers covered the remaining ground to the rock boundary previously pointed out, flattening themselves against the near face. Stringfellow peeked around the side, ducking back immediately. "Single guard, no backup," he reported, attempting to take several shallow breaths without moving his ribs any more than he had to.
Saint John shooed him back, then braced himself and stepped boldly out of cover. The guard saw him at once and made the disastrous mistake of allowing himself to be surprised into immobility for the single fatal instant it took the Viet Nam vet to bring up the crossbow. There was a flash of sun on steel faster than the eye could follow, leaving the guard staring stupidly at the six-inch long tail of arrow projecting from his upper chest directly over the heart. Without uttering a sound, the man toppled backward into the hidden garden.
"Good shot." String slapped his savagely smiling brother on the arm and stepped past him to the very edge of the rock border. "Let's see that map of the minefield again." The two bent their heads over the black and white printout, then String nodded and scrutinized their surroundings, calculating distances through narrowed eyes. Satisfied with location, he produced a jackknife from his pocket and lowered himself clumsily, sliding the blade into the earth one foot ahead of his resting knees. He felt around carefully for a few seconds, then froze. "Got it," he reported, closing the knife and restoring it to his pocket. "First mine. Follow me."
Walking single file, the two men picked their way through the twenty foot ring banding the wall, treading carefully according to the map Jo had given them. Fifteen seconds later they had safely reached the base of the wall and were staring up at the top, eight feet from the ground. Saint John Hawke ran his fingers down the rough gray cement, a speculative expression on his planed features. "Horn was obviously relying on the electronic and human surveillance for security; this was probably built by the original owners only to keep animals out of the garden."
"Then it won't slow us down," his brother murmured, although with a touch of dismay at the tall, solid barrier they had to cross. He rubbed his ribs once, glanced at his wrapped hands, and sighed, visibly bracing himself for the new strains this would put on his wounds. He tensed, took one step backwards to get a small start ... then stopped when Saint John snagged his arm in a tight vise.
"Not that way," the older man advised, releasing him at once. He threaded his fingers together making a stirrup, then bent his knees, a position that would allow him to catapult the lighter man easily up onto the wall. He stopped the fiery and immediate objection with an impatient gesture. "We'll salve your damaged pride later," he said curtly. "And make sure there's no glass up there before you grab on."
String glared at him, but obediently accepted the assistance, and was soon lying belly flat eight feet above the ground. He scanned the interior briefly, then reached down and received the weapons and satchel. Saint John got a brief running start and clambered up next to him, then shimmied around to drop lightly off the other side; he landed cat-like in the soft green grass some yards from the sentry's body. String landed next to him less gracefully, having to muffle a choked cry when ribs and ankle both gave way.
"My kid brother, the masochistic stubborn mule," Saint John growled under his breath, taking the younger man by the arm and pulling him gently up. Louder, "You all right?"
String nodded, breath coming faster than before. He freed his arm with a yank and limped forward, only his lips moving as he counted silently to nineteen. "Laser alarm should be right about there," he said, drawing in the air an invisible line across their path. "Here's where we crawl."
This piece of ground too was soon traversed. The two allowed for a margin of several yards before standing and resuming their trek toward the house, moving stealthily from tree to hillock. Within minutes they were crouching behind a fragrant lilac bush in sight of their goal, a steel security door set into the rear of the building.
Saint John glanced at his watch. "Thirty seconds before Mike starts in with the fireworks." He dropped the crossbow carelessly behind the bush and unslung the machine pistol, injecting a shell. His brother made no reply, simply gripped the butt of his Browning automatic tighter, using his thumb to flick off the safety. They tensed....
It was Airwolf's distinctive scream they heard first. Like a black eagle she swooped out of the sun, chain guns chattering, missile rack exposed and ready to go. She riddled the front of the building then swiveled to strafe the cars lined neatly on the gravel drive; one gas tank after another went up, the explosions adding to the cacophony, the fires filling the air with dirty smoke. This was followed by loud shouts from the front of the estate and the sound of returned fire.
"That's our cue," Saint John announced, leaving the cloak of the bush and leading the way to the door. He plastered himself against one side of it, keen gray eyes scanning the terrain for signs of danger. String followed him at a rapid limp; trusting his brother to watch for guards, he dipped into the satchel he carried, extracting a lump of what appeared to be white putty. Proficient fingers shaped the powerful explosive into a flat charge that adhered without assistance to the door. He stuck a small thermometer shaped detonator into the approximate center of the charge and slapped his brother's arm.
"Four ..." he rapped, retreating several yards. "... three...." On "One," the plastique went up, emitting a sharp, "BANG!" and a nearly unnoticeable puff of smoke. However unprepossessing the detonation might be, the effect was everything that could be asked for. The solid steel door shuddered on its frame, warping inward and rupturing, hanging forlornly on what was once its hinges. A well-placed kick finished the job and allowed the invaders access to a short corridor that opened into a kitchen area.
"Which way, String?" Saint John Hawke asked, sweeping the deserted kitchen with the gun though not having to fire.
Using his brother's cover to reach the door, Stringfellow peeked around the jamb, Browning held stiffly forward in both hands. "Michael and I were kept in one of the basements. There's a whole system down there -- labs, medical facilities -- everything."
Saint John joined him at the door, covering the opposite direction. "Looks like stairs this way." He leaped out of the kitchen, making his way down the carpeted passage, String at his heels, attention focussed on their drag. They'd already reached the stairwell when two olive-uniformed men appeared around a bend at a dead run. The double-take the first did would have been ludicrous under other circumstances; his mouth was describing an "O" when Stringfellow shot him, catching him full in the center of the chest and dropping him in a sloppy heap. The second had already prescribed a neat circle back the way he'd come when the MAC-11 announced its presence with a flat crack. Caught by several grains of steel-jacketed lead, the lifeless body flew nearly ten feet before skidding to a stop on the carpet, the trooper's anonymous brown eyes fixed in stunned surprise on the ceiling.
Not waiting for further company, the two men made their way to the next level down; they stepped cautiously into the corridor then stopped. Saint John, tensed and alert, peered in each direction dubiously. "Which way?" he demanded in a low voice, keeping his gun leveled.
String wiped his flushed face on the sleeve of his flightsuit, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. He too glanced up and down the corridor, eyes visibly duller than they had been back at the Lair; the drugs he'd taken were obviously wearing off rapidly. "I don't know. I ... don't think they brought me down this way; Dom was nearer the front of the building."
The older man cast him a single worried glance, one hand coming up hesitantly as though to touch him, then lowering without completing the gesture. Instead, Saint John Hawke dipped into another of the myriad pockets in his uniform, this time pulling out a cigarette-pack sized radio. He raised it to his mouth, activating the on button with his thumb. "Airwolf, come in."
"Airwolf," Jo's light soprano returned promptly. "Go ahead, Saint John."
"We're inside on the first sub-level, but there seems to be a whole complex down here. My guess is it's as large as the mansion above and at least two stories deep. We're going to need help to locate the prisoners."
"Stand by, Saint John," Mike said, his strong baritone muffled by his helmet. "I'll make a high pass while Jo runs a scan for life form patterns." There was a pause during which the two Hawke's could hear the sounds of tapping computer keys through the open line. Finally Jo came back on.
"Sorry, boys, can't narrow it much for you. The scans are coming back a bit garbled; the area must be chock full of electrical equipment to send back this much interference. I am getting a lot of people moving around on the lower levels. Looks like most of them are heading for the surface -- extra guards, maybe?"
Saint John exchanged a troubled look with his brother, both acutely aware of how short their time was. "What about in this wing-- Stand by." He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps, both men diving into the nearest room, which was fortunately empty. The steps thundered past and up the stairs, and only then did Saint John again raise the radio. "What about in this wing?" he repeated. "Can you give us anything in the immediate area?"
There was another pause. "Solitary figure twenty feet down on your left; two, twelve feet beyond that; one more directly across. That should take you to the junction."
"Acknowledged. Out." Saint John restowed the radio while Stringfellow checked the hall; it was empty. He gestured and the two stepped back into the white tiled corridor cautiously, approaching their first target on cat's feet. They took up stances on either side of the heavy wooden door occupying the position Jo had indicated. A signal passed between them, then Saint John rested his weight on his right foot, kicking out savagely with his left. The door flew open, revealing a youthful female sitting at a computer terminal. At their precipitous entrance she leaped to her feet with a little scream, her chair tumbling over with a crash.
"Don't shoot me!" she gulped, wide green eyes locked on the barrels targeting the center of her well-endowed chest.
String strode across the room, snagging the collar of her sweater and yanking her closer until she was staring horrifiedly into his cold blue eyes from a distance of no more than six inches. "Where are the hostages?" he growled.
She gulped again, her mouth moving several seconds before she could make a sound. "I-I-I don't know!" At his menacing snarl, she used both hands to point to the neat skirt and now-wrinkled sweater she wore, managing to look even more frightened. "I really don't! I'm just a clerk! I transcribe Dr. Zarkov's notes! Please don't kill me!"
String studied her for another moment, then released her. She sighed with beginning relief, the sound transforming into a grunt when his fist landed precisely over the knot of nerves in her jaw, rendering her instantly unconscious. "Let's try the next one," he said, immediately losing interest. "Someone here has to know where Dom is."
Unfortunately, the next door was less productive than the first. The duo burst in to find two armed troopers busily activating a bank of monitors connected to what appeared to be some type of defensive system. Well trained, the enemy soldiers were leveling weapons even as the Hawke's opened up with their own; within seconds the air was filled with the smell of cordite, and two uniformed strangers lay dead on the floor.
"Strike two," Saint John rumbled. "Wanna go for three?"
They tried the third door Jo had listed, finding the room empty. String swept back into the corridor, forehead furrowed with thought. "They didn't use a normal door on the cell Michael and I were held in," the younger Hawke whispered. "It was a sliding panel with an electronic locking device. I remember passing a whole row of them when they took me to the lab."
"They might not have thought an old man and a little girl warranted the extra security," Saint John murmured back, right behind him. "Neither one would have appeared as much of a threat to a paramilitary organization like this one."
Stringfellow, bowing to the logic of this statement, tested the next unlocked room in the corridor, then stopped suddenly and turned back. "What little girl?" he demanded. His eyes widened then, taking on that far away aspect that had so far indicated returning memory. "Was her name Amy?"
"Amy. Yeah, I think that's what Mike said." Saint John too stopped briefly to glance back at the younger man, who had resumed the search. "Did you see her?"
String nodded, a shadow falling over his expression. "I think so. It was either while they were taking me to the lab or ..." He swallowed hard, face expressionless. "... or just before I saw Dom."
A muscle leaped in Saint John's jaw, eyes gleaming like the steel arrow now residing in a dead guard's heart. "We'll see him again, little brother," he swore, knuckles around the Ingram turning white.
"And we'll pay back the man that took him away from us in the first place," the younger man replied, and the look they shared was full of deadly promise. "That's the last room down here. Let's start working in the other direction. Nothing is going to stop us from finding Dom."
***
In the flight commander's seat, Mike Rivers nudged the stick, expertly sending the helicopter into the gentle glide pattern that would drop their altitude from twenty thousand feet to ten thousand in less than a minute, at the same time bleeding off speed and power to increase maneuverability in the thicker atmosphere. "Looks like we got away with the patch job we did on the windshield," he commented to the three other people cohabiting the cabin. "I had my doubts about that epoxy Jason came up with holding the plates in place above low speeds."
Jo, occupying the engineering station behind the pilot, called up the specialized diagnostics program on her board for the third time since they'd taken off, slender fingers playing across the keyboard in a rapid tattoo. "Computer shows continued equalized stress on all surfaces; no change in internal atmospheric composition. That epoxy is doing a good job. Thank heavens."
Mike leaned forward to tap the steel saucer covering one of the holes a large-caliber bullet had punched in Airwolf's windshield. "I'll be happier when we install the new armored glass. NASA designed or not, I don't feel comfortable sitting behind Super Glue at Mach 1."
The woman's voice was a little tinny through the radio but still managed to convey a cheerfulness in her teasing. "What happened to your trusting nature, Mike? Losing faith in technology?"
"Been watching too many commercials," the blond pilot volleyed, leveling off their glide. "I know how tricky a good P.R. man can be. Especially if you're the sucker type. Right, Saint John?"
Strapped into the pull-down jumpseat next to the engineering console, Saint John Hawke started out of the reverie he'd sunk into upon takeoff, and stared quizzically down his long nose at the back of his colleague's helmet. "Who are you calling gullible, Rivers? In case you've forgotten, I wasn't the one who ended up shelling out five hundred bucks for dance lessons just because some girl you met at the beach said she likes to tango."
"Annabelle was a wonderful dancer," Rivers returned, lifting his chin haughtily into the air. "Besides, how was I supposed to know she owned the studio?"
"And wasn't it Collette with the come-hither eyes that talked you into spending the weekend in Cancun, then broke it to you once you'd paid for the trip that it was one of those land-buying deals?" Hawke pursued relentlessly.
"Collette was worth the money," the other pilot sighed, blue eyes taking on a dreamy appearance.
"And didn't--?"
"Okay, okay, you made your point!" Mike cut him off with a raised hand immediately returned to the collective. His boyish face wore a chagrined expression, tiny lines around his eyes giving them a merry aspect. "I told you, you can never trust anyone with a good P.R. man."
"Or woman," Jo giggled, sharing an amused look with Saint John. Their friend's vulnerability to a pretty face was legendary.
"We're getting close," interrupted the heretofore silent fourth person in the co-pilot's seat. "Switch to stealth and whisper modes. I didn't see one, but I'm sure Horn has radar as part of his defense system."
Mike glanced at him, but little of the man's profile was visible except a swatch of white gauze against flushed skin, and one very blue, fever bright eye fixed on the ground below. His own expression hardened at the order, but he clamped his full lips together, then replied evenly, "Whisper and stealth modes engaged five minutes ago. As far as the ground is concerned, we're invisible."
"Radar absorption rate at ninety-seven percent," Jo recited, reading numbers off a gauge to her right. "You're right, String -- he has a powerful radar located somewhere off the grounds ... about one mile to the west, judging by the Doppler effect."
"We've had quite a bit of experience on surveillance jobs, String," Saint John mentioned mildly, able to see even less of his brother than could Mike. "How are you feeling?"
The younger Hawke didn't answer. A certain amount of pain had filtered back into his taut features as the morphine's narcotic effect bowed before the Benzedrine, the sweat of exertion beading his brow. He carefully kept his face averted from either Saint John or Mike, either of whom were in a position to abort the mission should they judge him unfit. He sat rigidly for nearly sixty seconds, then leaned forward alertly. He supported himself against the glass with one bandaged hand, using the other to point at the sprawling, two-story estate situated in the center of what appeared to be a walled garden, the greenery looking out of place in the midst of the barren landscape. "That's it. I recognize the gardens. Make a sweep from this altitude. Jo, begin thermal, magnetic, and visual scans, and cross-reference them on a topographical map. I also want a report on any energy emissions across the spectrum leading in from the drop-off point."
"Running scans," Jo returned crisply. "Results should be coming through on your monitor momentarily." She tapped Saint John on the arm, leaning to the side to allow him access to the computer enhanced image unfolding on the color screen, a duplicate of the scene appearing on the front monitor between Mike and String.
"There's a stream bed to the south; looks like it's deep enough to take Airwolf in almost to the wall," Mike remarked, glancing from the screen to his surroundings with quick moves of his head.
Jo touched tongue to her lips thoughtfully. "I agree. Radar detection is no problem but IR is picking up a low-level laser scan exactly twenty-one feet inside the wall. Just a single beam -- backup alarm, probably."
"We get to run twenty feet and crawl two," Saint John said with a nonchalant gesture. "No problem."
"Thermals are showing one armed guard walking the wall," Jo went on, "four more at equidistant stations outside and at approximately twenty feet off the ground. Either they've learned how to levitate, or they're standing on some type of platform."
"Tell the computer to correlate the lines of sight of these two sentries," Saint John said, using one finger to indicate the two men guarding the approach from the south. "I want to know if there are any blind spots in their visual range."
She nodded and tapped several commands on her keyboard, a conical projection replacing the topographical map. Two lines swept from the representations of the men, nearly but not quite intersecting farther afield. "Bingo! Once you leave the stream bed, you can head east then north again and they'll never know you were there."
"Show me a magnetic," String ordered, staring hard at the screen. She complied, and he nodded, swollen jaw tightening. "Just as I thought. The area immediately surrounding the wall is booby-trapped, fortunately with metallic mines or we wouldn't have even known they were there until too late."
Saint John, too, studied the new map through narrowed eyes. "You see the pattern, String? Standard paradigm. If we can locate one mine we can pick our way through the field following the safety pattern."
The younger man nodded curtly, shifting in his seat in a vain attempt at easing the growing discomfort of his stiffening body. "It's only a few yards deep. Shouldn't cost us any time."
Jo restored the topographical map, laying the magnetic scan over it. "Looks like the first mine you'll come to is exactly eighteen inches from that big rock and.... Why don't I just print this out for you," she suggested, again activating the keyboard. A thin slip of paper emerged from a slot by Saint John's hand; he tore it off, looked at it closely and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
"This should do it. Next part is up to you, Mike."
Rivers grinned, again steering Airwolf into a glide, this time traveling due south. Reaching a position several miles from the estate, he realigned on a northern heading, dropping the craft to ground level. It was a matter of seconds before the stream bed was located. Airwolf navigated the shallow canyon at a clip, Mike keeping the speed down to prevent the rotors from throwing up a dust cloud that might have given them away. A shallow rivulet no more than two feet wide was the only indication of water; the banks and surrounding land was arid, spotted here and there with dry, brownish vegetation.
"No longer picking up radar," Jo reported, large eyes locked on her screens. "Reaching closest vantage ... now."
On her mark, Mike throttled back, bringing the gunship to a halt. Without lowering the landing gear, he held position at a hover, no more than a foot above the slow running water. "This is as far as we go," he said, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Saint John, then a briefer one at String. "You hoof it the rest of the way."
The two Hawkes unsnapped their harnesses, then String pushed open the left side door, the pneumatic seal breaking with a hiss. He stepped to the ground but no further, pulling the Browning out of its leather holster and nestling it in his bandaged right hand; a quick patdown of the pockets of his silver flight suit confirmed the supplementary clips he'd stored there. Still in his seat, Saint John twisted his torso, reaching back into the rear storage compartment and selected a compact Ingram MAC-11 machine pistol from the mini-arsenal there, and extra box magazines, handing them out to his brother. He hesitated and brought out a polished Barnett crossbow, a deadly and silent commando weapon perfectly suited for the clandestine assault they were planning. A small quiver of bolts was slipped across his broad shoulders, a satchel shoved into Stringfellow's hands, then he too was out of the helicopter, joining String on the moist earth and accepting back the machine pistol.
"Remember," Mike called over the engines, "you have exactly eight minutes to get into position before I start blowing the front of the building to kingdom come. In eighteen minutes Epsilon Guard hits Larchmont airport and this estate simultaneously with everything they have."
"Got it!" Saint John saluted Mike, grinned at Jo, and resealed the door, then followed his already departed brother upstream. Although the banks were high enough to conceal even a tall man, the two maintained a cautious crouch, making very sure that their heads remained below the rim at all times. Their boots sloshed through inch deep mud for several hundred feet, scattering several lizards and not a few winged insects who'd sought out the only water source in the arid territory. Moving rapidly, they finally reached a bend that marked the point they were to leave the safety of the gully.
Saint John touched the younger man on the arm, pointing to the right. "From here we head east," he said in a low voice. "Ninety yards to the jagged shaped boulder, then north again. If we stay low we'll be under the line of sight of the spotters on those raised platforms."
String followed his brother up to level ground and wrapped one arm around his midsection as support, then assumed a rapid, crouched lope that easily kept up with the other man's longer stride. On either side, the rough land performed a crude wave pattern, miniature hills and galleys rising no more than a few feet from the desert floor to occlude the horizon from view. "Don't forget about the guy walking the wall," he said, breathing increasing slightly in tempo. He pointed to the north and the line of sienna-streaked boulders rising decoratively out of the baked earth. "We'll be in range of him as soon as we pass those rocks."
The elder man hefted the crossbow a little higher; the steel bolt glinted ominously in the sun and he hurriedly dropped it back to his side. "He won't have a chance to raise an alarm. Our only concern will be making it over the wall before one of those perimeter lookouts decides to check over his shoulder."
"You just make sure that guard falls inside the wall," the brown-haired pilot reminded him. "If he lands on a mine, we're through before we start."
Once again falling silent, the two soldiers covered the remaining ground to the rock boundary previously pointed out, flattening themselves against the near face. Stringfellow peeked around the side, ducking back immediately. "Single guard, no backup," he reported, attempting to take several shallow breaths without moving his ribs any more than he had to.
Saint John shooed him back, then braced himself and stepped boldly out of cover. The guard saw him at once and made the disastrous mistake of allowing himself to be surprised into immobility for the single fatal instant it took the Viet Nam vet to bring up the crossbow. There was a flash of sun on steel faster than the eye could follow, leaving the guard staring stupidly at the six-inch long tail of arrow projecting from his upper chest directly over the heart. Without uttering a sound, the man toppled backward into the hidden garden.
"Good shot." String slapped his savagely smiling brother on the arm and stepped past him to the very edge of the rock border. "Let's see that map of the minefield again." The two bent their heads over the black and white printout, then String nodded and scrutinized their surroundings, calculating distances through narrowed eyes. Satisfied with location, he produced a jackknife from his pocket and lowered himself clumsily, sliding the blade into the earth one foot ahead of his resting knees. He felt around carefully for a few seconds, then froze. "Got it," he reported, closing the knife and restoring it to his pocket. "First mine. Follow me."
Walking single file, the two men picked their way through the twenty foot ring banding the wall, treading carefully according to the map Jo had given them. Fifteen seconds later they had safely reached the base of the wall and were staring up at the top, eight feet from the ground. Saint John Hawke ran his fingers down the rough gray cement, a speculative expression on his planed features. "Horn was obviously relying on the electronic and human surveillance for security; this was probably built by the original owners only to keep animals out of the garden."
"Then it won't slow us down," his brother murmured, although with a touch of dismay at the tall, solid barrier they had to cross. He rubbed his ribs once, glanced at his wrapped hands, and sighed, visibly bracing himself for the new strains this would put on his wounds. He tensed, took one step backwards to get a small start ... then stopped when Saint John snagged his arm in a tight vise.
"Not that way," the older man advised, releasing him at once. He threaded his fingers together making a stirrup, then bent his knees, a position that would allow him to catapult the lighter man easily up onto the wall. He stopped the fiery and immediate objection with an impatient gesture. "We'll salve your damaged pride later," he said curtly. "And make sure there's no glass up there before you grab on."
String glared at him, but obediently accepted the assistance, and was soon lying belly flat eight feet above the ground. He scanned the interior briefly, then reached down and received the weapons and satchel. Saint John got a brief running start and clambered up next to him, then shimmied around to drop lightly off the other side; he landed cat-like in the soft green grass some yards from the sentry's body. String landed next to him less gracefully, having to muffle a choked cry when ribs and ankle both gave way.
"My kid brother, the masochistic stubborn mule," Saint John growled under his breath, taking the younger man by the arm and pulling him gently up. Louder, "You all right?"
String nodded, breath coming faster than before. He freed his arm with a yank and limped forward, only his lips moving as he counted silently to nineteen. "Laser alarm should be right about there," he said, drawing in the air an invisible line across their path. "Here's where we crawl."
This piece of ground too was soon traversed. The two allowed for a margin of several yards before standing and resuming their trek toward the house, moving stealthily from tree to hillock. Within minutes they were crouching behind a fragrant lilac bush in sight of their goal, a steel security door set into the rear of the building.
Saint John glanced at his watch. "Thirty seconds before Mike starts in with the fireworks." He dropped the crossbow carelessly behind the bush and unslung the machine pistol, injecting a shell. His brother made no reply, simply gripped the butt of his Browning automatic tighter, using his thumb to flick off the safety. They tensed....
It was Airwolf's distinctive scream they heard first. Like a black eagle she swooped out of the sun, chain guns chattering, missile rack exposed and ready to go. She riddled the front of the building then swiveled to strafe the cars lined neatly on the gravel drive; one gas tank after another went up, the explosions adding to the cacophony, the fires filling the air with dirty smoke. This was followed by loud shouts from the front of the estate and the sound of returned fire.
"That's our cue," Saint John announced, leaving the cloak of the bush and leading the way to the door. He plastered himself against one side of it, keen gray eyes scanning the terrain for signs of danger. String followed him at a rapid limp; trusting his brother to watch for guards, he dipped into the satchel he carried, extracting a lump of what appeared to be white putty. Proficient fingers shaped the powerful explosive into a flat charge that adhered without assistance to the door. He stuck a small thermometer shaped detonator into the approximate center of the charge and slapped his brother's arm.
"Four ..." he rapped, retreating several yards. "... three...." On "One," the plastique went up, emitting a sharp, "BANG!" and a nearly unnoticeable puff of smoke. However unprepossessing the detonation might be, the effect was everything that could be asked for. The solid steel door shuddered on its frame, warping inward and rupturing, hanging forlornly on what was once its hinges. A well-placed kick finished the job and allowed the invaders access to a short corridor that opened into a kitchen area.
"Which way, String?" Saint John Hawke asked, sweeping the deserted kitchen with the gun though not having to fire.
Using his brother's cover to reach the door, Stringfellow peeked around the jamb, Browning held stiffly forward in both hands. "Michael and I were kept in one of the basements. There's a whole system down there -- labs, medical facilities -- everything."
Saint John joined him at the door, covering the opposite direction. "Looks like stairs this way." He leaped out of the kitchen, making his way down the carpeted passage, String at his heels, attention focussed on their drag. They'd already reached the stairwell when two olive-uniformed men appeared around a bend at a dead run. The double-take the first did would have been ludicrous under other circumstances; his mouth was describing an "O" when Stringfellow shot him, catching him full in the center of the chest and dropping him in a sloppy heap. The second had already prescribed a neat circle back the way he'd come when the MAC-11 announced its presence with a flat crack. Caught by several grains of steel-jacketed lead, the lifeless body flew nearly ten feet before skidding to a stop on the carpet, the trooper's anonymous brown eyes fixed in stunned surprise on the ceiling.
Not waiting for further company, the two men made their way to the next level down; they stepped cautiously into the corridor then stopped. Saint John, tensed and alert, peered in each direction dubiously. "Which way?" he demanded in a low voice, keeping his gun leveled.
String wiped his flushed face on the sleeve of his flightsuit, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. He too glanced up and down the corridor, eyes visibly duller than they had been back at the Lair; the drugs he'd taken were obviously wearing off rapidly. "I don't know. I ... don't think they brought me down this way; Dom was nearer the front of the building."
The older man cast him a single worried glance, one hand coming up hesitantly as though to touch him, then lowering without completing the gesture. Instead, Saint John Hawke dipped into another of the myriad pockets in his uniform, this time pulling out a cigarette-pack sized radio. He raised it to his mouth, activating the on button with his thumb. "Airwolf, come in."
"Airwolf," Jo's light soprano returned promptly. "Go ahead, Saint John."
"We're inside on the first sub-level, but there seems to be a whole complex down here. My guess is it's as large as the mansion above and at least two stories deep. We're going to need help to locate the prisoners."
"Stand by, Saint John," Mike said, his strong baritone muffled by his helmet. "I'll make a high pass while Jo runs a scan for life form patterns." There was a pause during which the two Hawke's could hear the sounds of tapping computer keys through the open line. Finally Jo came back on.
"Sorry, boys, can't narrow it much for you. The scans are coming back a bit garbled; the area must be chock full of electrical equipment to send back this much interference. I am getting a lot of people moving around on the lower levels. Looks like most of them are heading for the surface -- extra guards, maybe?"
Saint John exchanged a troubled look with his brother, both acutely aware of how short their time was. "What about in this wing-- Stand by." He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps, both men diving into the nearest room, which was fortunately empty. The steps thundered past and up the stairs, and only then did Saint John again raise the radio. "What about in this wing?" he repeated. "Can you give us anything in the immediate area?"
There was another pause. "Solitary figure twenty feet down on your left; two, twelve feet beyond that; one more directly across. That should take you to the junction."
"Acknowledged. Out." Saint John restowed the radio while Stringfellow checked the hall; it was empty. He gestured and the two stepped back into the white tiled corridor cautiously, approaching their first target on cat's feet. They took up stances on either side of the heavy wooden door occupying the position Jo had indicated. A signal passed between them, then Saint John rested his weight on his right foot, kicking out savagely with his left. The door flew open, revealing a youthful female sitting at a computer terminal. At their precipitous entrance she leaped to her feet with a little scream, her chair tumbling over with a crash.
"Don't shoot me!" she gulped, wide green eyes locked on the barrels targeting the center of her well-endowed chest.
String strode across the room, snagging the collar of her sweater and yanking her closer until she was staring horrifiedly into his cold blue eyes from a distance of no more than six inches. "Where are the hostages?" he growled.
She gulped again, her mouth moving several seconds before she could make a sound. "I-I-I don't know!" At his menacing snarl, she used both hands to point to the neat skirt and now-wrinkled sweater she wore, managing to look even more frightened. "I really don't! I'm just a clerk! I transcribe Dr. Zarkov's notes! Please don't kill me!"
String studied her for another moment, then released her. She sighed with beginning relief, the sound transforming into a grunt when his fist landed precisely over the knot of nerves in her jaw, rendering her instantly unconscious. "Let's try the next one," he said, immediately losing interest. "Someone here has to know where Dom is."
Unfortunately, the next door was less productive than the first. The duo burst in to find two armed troopers busily activating a bank of monitors connected to what appeared to be some type of defensive system. Well trained, the enemy soldiers were leveling weapons even as the Hawke's opened up with their own; within seconds the air was filled with the smell of cordite, and two uniformed strangers lay dead on the floor.
"Strike two," Saint John rumbled. "Wanna go for three?"
They tried the third door Jo had listed, finding the room empty. String swept back into the corridor, forehead furrowed with thought. "They didn't use a normal door on the cell Michael and I were held in," the younger Hawke whispered. "It was a sliding panel with an electronic locking device. I remember passing a whole row of them when they took me to the lab."
"They might not have thought an old man and a little girl warranted the extra security," Saint John murmured back, right behind him. "Neither one would have appeared as much of a threat to a paramilitary organization like this one."
Stringfellow, bowing to the logic of this statement, tested the next unlocked room in the corridor, then stopped suddenly and turned back. "What little girl?" he demanded. His eyes widened then, taking on that far away aspect that had so far indicated returning memory. "Was her name Amy?"
"Amy. Yeah, I think that's what Mike said." Saint John too stopped briefly to glance back at the younger man, who had resumed the search. "Did you see her?"
String nodded, a shadow falling over his expression. "I think so. It was either while they were taking me to the lab or ..." He swallowed hard, face expressionless. "... or just before I saw Dom."
A muscle leaped in Saint John's jaw, eyes gleaming like the steel arrow now residing in a dead guard's heart. "We'll see him again, little brother," he swore, knuckles around the Ingram turning white.
"And we'll pay back the man that took him away from us in the first place," the younger man replied, and the look they shared was full of deadly promise. "That's the last room down here. Let's start working in the other direction. Nothing is going to stop us from finding Dom."
***