It would take Michael fifteen minutes to track down the absent duo to the
screened-in porch attached to the living room. It was dim out there,
although two figures were still plainly visible by the light of the strung
Chinese lanterns and the three-quarters moon. Dominic Santini sat on the
cushioned lounge chair facing the lawn, his mutilated leg stretched out
straight before him, weight unevenly distributed against his stiffened
arms. Stringfellow Hawke sat so close by his side, their shoulders brushed
with each movement; his posture was slightly huddled, his energy still
depleted by the ordeal he'd undergone.
"All I'm trying to tell you, Dom," Hawke was saying in a tired voice, clasping both hands in his lap, "is that I'm sorry I left you behind. I should have never written you off without proof. I didn't even try...."
Santini leaned forward, lifting one hand to his companion's neck, and snagged the collar of Hawke's black sweater, too heavy for the season but chosen to hide the heavy bruising covering much of the young man's body. Dom's annoyed oath was loud enough to startle Hawke into silence, cutting off the stumbling apology abruptly. "Look, kid, for the twentieth and last time, it wasn't your fault! Horn planned it all too well -- well enough to even fool Jo, and she was right there making the decisions!"
"I should have checked," came the stubborn insistence. "For three months you were a prisoner because I didn't even have the decency to find out for sure if you were still alive."
Santini tightened his grip, using it to give the younger man a rough shake. "I'm supposed to expect you to go rooting through coffins now? No, thanks. That time when we were looking for Saint John's remains on that Army base was enough." He shuddered, not breaking the physical contact. "Funny, isn't it? If Horn hadn't kept me in that fancy coffin a'his, I would have died for sure. Doc Sullivan said that as badly as I was burned, the Yaka-something-or-other was the only thing that could have saved me."
"But you wouldn't've been burned at all if I--" Dominic tightened his fingers around Hawke's neck again and Stringfellow faltered, shooting him a glance. "--if Horn hadn't ordered the hit made."
White teeth flashed approval at the amendment. "Good boy. One thing you'd never do is desert your friends ... or this old man. Place the blame where it belongs, kid -- on someone who's dead enough to have paid for his crimes."
"He died too easy," Hawke muttered, blue eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light. "Too fast."
"String." The name was a reproof and a regret. The World War II pilot stared sadly at his young friend, then lifted his right hand and wiggled the melted stubs that had once been fingers. "I wish I could say I didn't feel the same way. I wanted to see him pay, too.... No, I wanted to make him pay myself." He grimaced, the scar tissue on his face puckering. "Horn cost me my hand and foot -- nearly my life. That's not something a man dumps with the morning's garbage." He paused then straightened determinedly, slamming that mutilated hand down onto his thigh. "But I haven't reached the end of my usefulness yet and I'm not gonna let myself dwell on it ... no more'n I can help, anyway. That's your problem, kid, you keep all this locked inside where it eats at you every day."
"If I hadn't let Saint John go," the younger man reminded his friend gently, "he wouldn't have had to spend fifteen years in an Asian prison camp."
Dominic dismissed that with a curt wave although his brown eyes pierced the sapphire ones with the need to be understood. "Saint John is back, String. The Firm found him and that's thanks to your stubbornness making them keep searching." His lined face softened as it had for the past two days every time he either thought of or caught sight of his older ward. He smiled, shaking his head with pleased disbelief. "As often as I say it or see him, it still won't sink in that Saint John is back! I-I give him up for dead fifteen years ago, and he pops up like a grinning jack-in-the-box on some madman's estate in the middle of nowhere!"
Stringfellow Hawke chewed his lip, his eyes dropping as though he were about to confess a heinous crime ... or a vulnerability. "First Saint John comes back," he murmured in a low voice, studying the white bandages on his hands, "then you. It's ... I never thought I'd feel ... like this again."
"You mean happy?" Dominic supplied in an wry voice. He allowed his arm to slide lower, from Hawke's neck to around his shoulders, pulling him close into the one-armed bear hug even an independent and stubborn seventeen year old soldier-to-be had not been able to reject. "You got what you were after, kid -- everything you fought fifteen and more years for. Your brother's back, I'm back, and you still have a shot at flying the Lady on top of it all. Why are you afraid to enjoy it?"
Hawke returned the hug, sliding his right arm around the older man's thin chest, the fears he fought daily filling his averted face. "Don't you see, Dom? It's all too good. Everything is."
There was a silence then Santini chuckled softly and without derision. "Never met a guy who wouldn't accept good news because it was good! Leave it to you."
The answering laugh didn't come. "It means it's going to be taken away, Dom. It always did before. Always."
The two held the hug for another moment then broke apart reluctantly, Santini having to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "Maybe some day, String," he replied huskily, "but not this one. I figure we got us a couple'a good tomorrows left before you have to start worrying about that, eh? Besides, worrying doesn't get you nothing except an ulcer and a bald head." He snickered and ruffled Hawke's brown-gold hair. "You wanna go two for two?"
"I don't have an ulcer and I'm not going bald," the younger man retorted, finger combing his disordered locks back into place. "If my dad didn't go bald, I'm sure not gonna."
Santini chuckled again and ducked his head, pointing at the patches of scalp showing through his own sparse hair. "See this? My poppa had a full head 'til the day he passed. This is what worryin' over some smart alec kid gets ya."
The reward for this self-deprecating humor was all Santini could have hoped for. Stringfellow Hawke's eyes opened wide at the joke, his lips curling into a grin that shaved years from his appearance and made him resemble some mischievous teenager. "Worry about yourself, chopper jockey!" he retorted with glee. "I--" He stopped and cocked his head toward the doorway. "Is that you, Michael?"
Michael Briggs stepped silently from the thick blue carpet out onto the porch, the walking stick clicking against the lounge chair when he got near. "I see captivity hasn't damaged that extraordinary hearing of yours, Hawke," he greeted them genially. He stopped, standing stock still to stare at the young pilot open-mouthed. "Now that's something I never thought I'd live long enough to see."
"See what?" Hawke demanded, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the gloomily lit lawn.
One blue eye twinkled roguishly from behind the thick glasses. "You smiling. I thought I was in the wrong home for a moment." Santini guffawed, Hawke lifting one shoulder in an embarrassed little shrug. Briggs took one last step and sank down onto the edge of the second chair on the porch, turning it to face the two pilots. "Seriously, Hawke, I think you should do it more often. The James Dean look never suited you somehow."
"But I don't look like James Dean," Hawke began doubtfully, only to be shushed by Dominic's amiable swat.
"I'll explain it to ya later," the older pilot promised with a wink. "Right now I want to hear about that Committee meeting this afternoon. What are they going to do with Newman?"
Briefly, Archangel repeated what he'd told Saint John Hawke a few minutes earlier. "Even I couldn't quite find it in me to send him to prison, and it would have broken Amy's heart."
Dominic nodded once. "She's a good kid, that Amy. Three months in a cell and she handles an armed escape like a real trooper. Too bad about her taste."
String's amused gaze flicked from one man to the other. The hard glint was gone from his eyes now, gladness making them glow incandescent in the uncertain light. "Her taste?" he prodded, supporting his still sore ribs with one arm.
Dom jerked a thumb at Michael, who had sensed what was coming and was studying the nearest lantern on the lawn. "It seems Mr. Clean here is big with the pre-adolescent set. Amy Newman decided white bread beats rye any day."
"It's my way with the ladies," Archangel retorted, buffing his nails on his spotless lapel. "A little charm goes a long way. Perhaps someday you'll decide to try it for yourself."
"Hoo-ha," the older man returned deadpan. "At least dating Toni won't get me arrested."
Stringfellow continued to watch them, their amiable and unceasing arguing provoking a short laugh. "After listening to you two for a while, I'm surprised Horn didn't surrender a long time before we got there."
Michael scratched his sandy head, and the expression he turned on Stringfellow Hawke was very serious. "Speaking of which.... Hawke, I ... I want to tell you how much I abhorred leading you to believe Dominic was an impostor. I realize you were in a vulnerable position and...."
Hawke dropped his eyes to the floor, looking up again only when Santini swatted him on the arm. "Go on," the older man urged him sharply.
The younger Hawke drew a deep breath. "You saved Dom's life when I couldn't. That's all that matters now, Michael."
"Is it?" The agent raised one blond brow, leaning forward to cross his hands across his walking stick in a favorite posture. "We may work together again, Hawke. I need to know if any of this is going to make a difference the next time I ask you to take my word on something."
An uncomfortable silence fell while the two studied each other, blue eye meeting blue, seeking the remains of the damaged trust they'd once shared. Finally, Hawke smiled. "What makes you think I ever took your word on anything before?" It was his tone far more than the flippant words that said everything was all right between them again.
It was enough. Briggs relaxed, the tense sobriety dropping away. "I suppose that's nothing I'm not used to from him."
'Him,' a.k.a., Dominic Santini, harr-de-harred grumpily. "Dubious humor aside, what I really want to know is, what's gonna happen to the Lady? String can't keep her anymore, and the missions Saint John spent the last two days telling me about were all coordinated by that Newman guy. Do the generals get Airwolf after all?"
"That's basically what we want to know," Saint John Hawke interjected from the doorway. He stepped out onto the wide porch, responding irresistibly to his brother's welcoming smile with a grin of his own. He moved to a position behind Dominic, to be followed out by Jason Locke, Jo Santini, Caitlin O'Shaunessey and Mike Rivers, the latter of whom bore a tray laden with several glasses and a chilled bottle.
"We decided to have a little private celebration before the party broke up," Jo explained, taking the tray from Mike and offering glasses around. "It was Jason's idea."
The black man spread both hands modestly. "I figured we deserved it. Breaking up Horn's operation and putting a crimp in Muhallah's plans is a good day's work."
"We may actually have something else to celebrate," Michael said, accepting a glass and balancing it on his knee. "I had a long talk with Zeus just before I left Knightsbridge. We've come to the mutual conclusion that announcing to the White House that the Firm has regained control of Airwolf might boost our prestige somewhat in the eyes of our sister organizations, but will accomplish little beyond that."
"Ahhh, the public relations game stinks," Dominic said disgustedly, taking his own glass from Jo and passing another to Stringfellow.
Michael tipped his head in acknowledgement. "For once, you, Zeus and I are all in agreement. The military will snap at the chance to appropriate Airwolf from the Firm's control -- we'll probably never even see her again much less get to use her."
"If she's ever officially back in Company hands," Mike Rivers translated. He braced the bottle under his arm and worked the cork loose with his thumb; it made a loud 'POP' and shot across the room, caroming off the ceiling and missing Archangel by an inch. "At least my aim's getting better," he grinned unrepentantly.
With a long-suffering sigh, Briggs went on, "Zeus agrees that the Firm's better interests will be served by maintaining the status quo. So far as anyone but Zeus, a few other Committee members, and this team is concerned, Airwolf is still in the hands of the 'band of renegades' Mr. Locke has been dealing with for the past three months."
"'Band of renegades,'" Mike murmured, pouring champagne for Jo then working his way around the circle. "I think I like it. Sounds a bit ... oh, piratical, don't you think?"
"I don't exactly feel like Errol Flynn at the moment," Jason retorted, stroking his mustache. "What's this going to do to my career?"
"I doubt we're going to get a retirement pension out of this, either," Jo muttered to Caitlin as an aside.
The redhead suffered her own glass to be filled, sniffing the fine wine appreciatively. "Don't look at me," she drawled. "The California Highway Patrol has a real good pension plan. And medical benefits, too. Lawd knows we need 'em."
Michael cleared his throat loudly for attention. "Be that as it may, with Apollo 'retired' and his department closed down, I've re-assumed the responsibility of liaison for this team with the rest of the Committee. Mr. Locke, as of tomorrow morning when your transfer goes into effect, you officially become Head of Field Operations for my section."
Locke stared slack jawed. "Me?" he squeaked, voice a full octave above his usual resonant baritone. The congratulations were many and sincere from the others, and Jason accepted them all with a dazed little smile. "I ... don't know what to say."
"Just say you'll take the job," Saint John said from his position behind Dominic's shoulder. "Promotions don't come often in your business."
"We'll maintain the cover with Santini Air," Michael added to Dominic, who was scowling ferociously as he thought the matter over. "That means we'll be pumping a little money in to expand your company, of course, to cover the extra employees."
That provoked an immediate and negative response. Dominic Santini drew himself up straight, mouth drawn into a tight, stubborn line. "No one is buying into my business," he snapped. "Santini Air's been mine and mine alone for the past thirty-five years, and that ain't gonna change."
"I was only trying to help," Michael protested, raising one hand placatingly.
Only partially mollified, Dom shook his head. "Don't need it anyway. Jo gave me a run down on the books this morning. She's done a pretty good job keeping the company going while I was gone."
The blonde woman dimpled at the compliment. "I had a good teacher, Uncle Dom."
"She's going to keep on doing the administration and accounting," Santini went on to the agent, "an' I've got a contact that'll bring us in a few movie contracts in the next month or so. When they start to roll, and with the charters and lessons we pull every week, I'll have enough work to keep String, Saint John, and even Rivers over there busy. Especially since it doesn't look like I'm going to be doing much flying for a while," he added with a sad glance at his empty pantsleg.
Finished pouring, Mike took a spot with his back to the screen, between Michael and Stringfellow Hawke. "This, my friends, is the good stuff. Perrier Joie straight from the Champagne valley in France."
There were appropriate ooohs and ahhhhs at the announcement. String and Michael got to their feet, Saint John dropping a hand onto Dominic's shoulder, even as Locke raised his glass high. "I propose a toast," the black man said. "To the New Airwolf team!"
"TO THE NEW AIRWOLF TEAM!" The refrain was enthusiastic and unanimous. Everyone took a sip, turning to Stringfellow Hawke when he took a single step forward.
"If this is going to work," he began seriously, "there's just one thing I want to make clear." He waited, allowing the tense silence to grow for several seconds before spinning on Mike Rivers. "If you," he began, poking the other man in the chest, "ever call me 'Baby Brother' again, even a Haversham screen isn't going to stop me from punching you right in the nose."
"Don't mention noses," Michael muttered, touching his own swollen appendage ruefully.
Taken aback and actually embarrassed, Rivers gawked for several seconds, a slow flush working its way up his neck. Then the burgeoning twinkle in Hawke's eye ignited one in his own. He adopted a cocky hand-on-hip pose. "Can I call you Junior?" he asked, meeting Saint John's I-told-you-so look with mock innocence.
"How about Sir?" Stringfellow volleyed firmly.
It was Jo who started to giggle, then Caitlin and Dominic. Before long the whole room was laughing hard enough to bring tears to their eyes. "How about we wait and see what works?" Mike suggested when he could speak again, and the future implied in that statement was enough for them all.
***
finis
***
"All I'm trying to tell you, Dom," Hawke was saying in a tired voice, clasping both hands in his lap, "is that I'm sorry I left you behind. I should have never written you off without proof. I didn't even try...."
Santini leaned forward, lifting one hand to his companion's neck, and snagged the collar of Hawke's black sweater, too heavy for the season but chosen to hide the heavy bruising covering much of the young man's body. Dom's annoyed oath was loud enough to startle Hawke into silence, cutting off the stumbling apology abruptly. "Look, kid, for the twentieth and last time, it wasn't your fault! Horn planned it all too well -- well enough to even fool Jo, and she was right there making the decisions!"
"I should have checked," came the stubborn insistence. "For three months you were a prisoner because I didn't even have the decency to find out for sure if you were still alive."
Santini tightened his grip, using it to give the younger man a rough shake. "I'm supposed to expect you to go rooting through coffins now? No, thanks. That time when we were looking for Saint John's remains on that Army base was enough." He shuddered, not breaking the physical contact. "Funny, isn't it? If Horn hadn't kept me in that fancy coffin a'his, I would have died for sure. Doc Sullivan said that as badly as I was burned, the Yaka-something-or-other was the only thing that could have saved me."
"But you wouldn't've been burned at all if I--" Dominic tightened his fingers around Hawke's neck again and Stringfellow faltered, shooting him a glance. "--if Horn hadn't ordered the hit made."
White teeth flashed approval at the amendment. "Good boy. One thing you'd never do is desert your friends ... or this old man. Place the blame where it belongs, kid -- on someone who's dead enough to have paid for his crimes."
"He died too easy," Hawke muttered, blue eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light. "Too fast."
"String." The name was a reproof and a regret. The World War II pilot stared sadly at his young friend, then lifted his right hand and wiggled the melted stubs that had once been fingers. "I wish I could say I didn't feel the same way. I wanted to see him pay, too.... No, I wanted to make him pay myself." He grimaced, the scar tissue on his face puckering. "Horn cost me my hand and foot -- nearly my life. That's not something a man dumps with the morning's garbage." He paused then straightened determinedly, slamming that mutilated hand down onto his thigh. "But I haven't reached the end of my usefulness yet and I'm not gonna let myself dwell on it ... no more'n I can help, anyway. That's your problem, kid, you keep all this locked inside where it eats at you every day."
"If I hadn't let Saint John go," the younger man reminded his friend gently, "he wouldn't have had to spend fifteen years in an Asian prison camp."
Dominic dismissed that with a curt wave although his brown eyes pierced the sapphire ones with the need to be understood. "Saint John is back, String. The Firm found him and that's thanks to your stubbornness making them keep searching." His lined face softened as it had for the past two days every time he either thought of or caught sight of his older ward. He smiled, shaking his head with pleased disbelief. "As often as I say it or see him, it still won't sink in that Saint John is back! I-I give him up for dead fifteen years ago, and he pops up like a grinning jack-in-the-box on some madman's estate in the middle of nowhere!"
Stringfellow Hawke chewed his lip, his eyes dropping as though he were about to confess a heinous crime ... or a vulnerability. "First Saint John comes back," he murmured in a low voice, studying the white bandages on his hands, "then you. It's ... I never thought I'd feel ... like this again."
"You mean happy?" Dominic supplied in an wry voice. He allowed his arm to slide lower, from Hawke's neck to around his shoulders, pulling him close into the one-armed bear hug even an independent and stubborn seventeen year old soldier-to-be had not been able to reject. "You got what you were after, kid -- everything you fought fifteen and more years for. Your brother's back, I'm back, and you still have a shot at flying the Lady on top of it all. Why are you afraid to enjoy it?"
Hawke returned the hug, sliding his right arm around the older man's thin chest, the fears he fought daily filling his averted face. "Don't you see, Dom? It's all too good. Everything is."
There was a silence then Santini chuckled softly and without derision. "Never met a guy who wouldn't accept good news because it was good! Leave it to you."
The answering laugh didn't come. "It means it's going to be taken away, Dom. It always did before. Always."
The two held the hug for another moment then broke apart reluctantly, Santini having to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "Maybe some day, String," he replied huskily, "but not this one. I figure we got us a couple'a good tomorrows left before you have to start worrying about that, eh? Besides, worrying doesn't get you nothing except an ulcer and a bald head." He snickered and ruffled Hawke's brown-gold hair. "You wanna go two for two?"
"I don't have an ulcer and I'm not going bald," the younger man retorted, finger combing his disordered locks back into place. "If my dad didn't go bald, I'm sure not gonna."
Santini chuckled again and ducked his head, pointing at the patches of scalp showing through his own sparse hair. "See this? My poppa had a full head 'til the day he passed. This is what worryin' over some smart alec kid gets ya."
The reward for this self-deprecating humor was all Santini could have hoped for. Stringfellow Hawke's eyes opened wide at the joke, his lips curling into a grin that shaved years from his appearance and made him resemble some mischievous teenager. "Worry about yourself, chopper jockey!" he retorted with glee. "I--" He stopped and cocked his head toward the doorway. "Is that you, Michael?"
Michael Briggs stepped silently from the thick blue carpet out onto the porch, the walking stick clicking against the lounge chair when he got near. "I see captivity hasn't damaged that extraordinary hearing of yours, Hawke," he greeted them genially. He stopped, standing stock still to stare at the young pilot open-mouthed. "Now that's something I never thought I'd live long enough to see."
"See what?" Hawke demanded, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the gloomily lit lawn.
One blue eye twinkled roguishly from behind the thick glasses. "You smiling. I thought I was in the wrong home for a moment." Santini guffawed, Hawke lifting one shoulder in an embarrassed little shrug. Briggs took one last step and sank down onto the edge of the second chair on the porch, turning it to face the two pilots. "Seriously, Hawke, I think you should do it more often. The James Dean look never suited you somehow."
"But I don't look like James Dean," Hawke began doubtfully, only to be shushed by Dominic's amiable swat.
"I'll explain it to ya later," the older pilot promised with a wink. "Right now I want to hear about that Committee meeting this afternoon. What are they going to do with Newman?"
Briefly, Archangel repeated what he'd told Saint John Hawke a few minutes earlier. "Even I couldn't quite find it in me to send him to prison, and it would have broken Amy's heart."
Dominic nodded once. "She's a good kid, that Amy. Three months in a cell and she handles an armed escape like a real trooper. Too bad about her taste."
String's amused gaze flicked from one man to the other. The hard glint was gone from his eyes now, gladness making them glow incandescent in the uncertain light. "Her taste?" he prodded, supporting his still sore ribs with one arm.
Dom jerked a thumb at Michael, who had sensed what was coming and was studying the nearest lantern on the lawn. "It seems Mr. Clean here is big with the pre-adolescent set. Amy Newman decided white bread beats rye any day."
"It's my way with the ladies," Archangel retorted, buffing his nails on his spotless lapel. "A little charm goes a long way. Perhaps someday you'll decide to try it for yourself."
"Hoo-ha," the older man returned deadpan. "At least dating Toni won't get me arrested."
Stringfellow continued to watch them, their amiable and unceasing arguing provoking a short laugh. "After listening to you two for a while, I'm surprised Horn didn't surrender a long time before we got there."
Michael scratched his sandy head, and the expression he turned on Stringfellow Hawke was very serious. "Speaking of which.... Hawke, I ... I want to tell you how much I abhorred leading you to believe Dominic was an impostor. I realize you were in a vulnerable position and...."
Hawke dropped his eyes to the floor, looking up again only when Santini swatted him on the arm. "Go on," the older man urged him sharply.
The younger Hawke drew a deep breath. "You saved Dom's life when I couldn't. That's all that matters now, Michael."
"Is it?" The agent raised one blond brow, leaning forward to cross his hands across his walking stick in a favorite posture. "We may work together again, Hawke. I need to know if any of this is going to make a difference the next time I ask you to take my word on something."
An uncomfortable silence fell while the two studied each other, blue eye meeting blue, seeking the remains of the damaged trust they'd once shared. Finally, Hawke smiled. "What makes you think I ever took your word on anything before?" It was his tone far more than the flippant words that said everything was all right between them again.
It was enough. Briggs relaxed, the tense sobriety dropping away. "I suppose that's nothing I'm not used to from him."
'Him,' a.k.a., Dominic Santini, harr-de-harred grumpily. "Dubious humor aside, what I really want to know is, what's gonna happen to the Lady? String can't keep her anymore, and the missions Saint John spent the last two days telling me about were all coordinated by that Newman guy. Do the generals get Airwolf after all?"
"That's basically what we want to know," Saint John Hawke interjected from the doorway. He stepped out onto the wide porch, responding irresistibly to his brother's welcoming smile with a grin of his own. He moved to a position behind Dominic, to be followed out by Jason Locke, Jo Santini, Caitlin O'Shaunessey and Mike Rivers, the latter of whom bore a tray laden with several glasses and a chilled bottle.
"We decided to have a little private celebration before the party broke up," Jo explained, taking the tray from Mike and offering glasses around. "It was Jason's idea."
The black man spread both hands modestly. "I figured we deserved it. Breaking up Horn's operation and putting a crimp in Muhallah's plans is a good day's work."
"We may actually have something else to celebrate," Michael said, accepting a glass and balancing it on his knee. "I had a long talk with Zeus just before I left Knightsbridge. We've come to the mutual conclusion that announcing to the White House that the Firm has regained control of Airwolf might boost our prestige somewhat in the eyes of our sister organizations, but will accomplish little beyond that."
"Ahhh, the public relations game stinks," Dominic said disgustedly, taking his own glass from Jo and passing another to Stringfellow.
Michael tipped his head in acknowledgement. "For once, you, Zeus and I are all in agreement. The military will snap at the chance to appropriate Airwolf from the Firm's control -- we'll probably never even see her again much less get to use her."
"If she's ever officially back in Company hands," Mike Rivers translated. He braced the bottle under his arm and worked the cork loose with his thumb; it made a loud 'POP' and shot across the room, caroming off the ceiling and missing Archangel by an inch. "At least my aim's getting better," he grinned unrepentantly.
With a long-suffering sigh, Briggs went on, "Zeus agrees that the Firm's better interests will be served by maintaining the status quo. So far as anyone but Zeus, a few other Committee members, and this team is concerned, Airwolf is still in the hands of the 'band of renegades' Mr. Locke has been dealing with for the past three months."
"'Band of renegades,'" Mike murmured, pouring champagne for Jo then working his way around the circle. "I think I like it. Sounds a bit ... oh, piratical, don't you think?"
"I don't exactly feel like Errol Flynn at the moment," Jason retorted, stroking his mustache. "What's this going to do to my career?"
"I doubt we're going to get a retirement pension out of this, either," Jo muttered to Caitlin as an aside.
The redhead suffered her own glass to be filled, sniffing the fine wine appreciatively. "Don't look at me," she drawled. "The California Highway Patrol has a real good pension plan. And medical benefits, too. Lawd knows we need 'em."
Michael cleared his throat loudly for attention. "Be that as it may, with Apollo 'retired' and his department closed down, I've re-assumed the responsibility of liaison for this team with the rest of the Committee. Mr. Locke, as of tomorrow morning when your transfer goes into effect, you officially become Head of Field Operations for my section."
Locke stared slack jawed. "Me?" he squeaked, voice a full octave above his usual resonant baritone. The congratulations were many and sincere from the others, and Jason accepted them all with a dazed little smile. "I ... don't know what to say."
"Just say you'll take the job," Saint John said from his position behind Dominic's shoulder. "Promotions don't come often in your business."
"We'll maintain the cover with Santini Air," Michael added to Dominic, who was scowling ferociously as he thought the matter over. "That means we'll be pumping a little money in to expand your company, of course, to cover the extra employees."
That provoked an immediate and negative response. Dominic Santini drew himself up straight, mouth drawn into a tight, stubborn line. "No one is buying into my business," he snapped. "Santini Air's been mine and mine alone for the past thirty-five years, and that ain't gonna change."
"I was only trying to help," Michael protested, raising one hand placatingly.
Only partially mollified, Dom shook his head. "Don't need it anyway. Jo gave me a run down on the books this morning. She's done a pretty good job keeping the company going while I was gone."
The blonde woman dimpled at the compliment. "I had a good teacher, Uncle Dom."
"She's going to keep on doing the administration and accounting," Santini went on to the agent, "an' I've got a contact that'll bring us in a few movie contracts in the next month or so. When they start to roll, and with the charters and lessons we pull every week, I'll have enough work to keep String, Saint John, and even Rivers over there busy. Especially since it doesn't look like I'm going to be doing much flying for a while," he added with a sad glance at his empty pantsleg.
Finished pouring, Mike took a spot with his back to the screen, between Michael and Stringfellow Hawke. "This, my friends, is the good stuff. Perrier Joie straight from the Champagne valley in France."
There were appropriate ooohs and ahhhhs at the announcement. String and Michael got to their feet, Saint John dropping a hand onto Dominic's shoulder, even as Locke raised his glass high. "I propose a toast," the black man said. "To the New Airwolf team!"
"TO THE NEW AIRWOLF TEAM!" The refrain was enthusiastic and unanimous. Everyone took a sip, turning to Stringfellow Hawke when he took a single step forward.
"If this is going to work," he began seriously, "there's just one thing I want to make clear." He waited, allowing the tense silence to grow for several seconds before spinning on Mike Rivers. "If you," he began, poking the other man in the chest, "ever call me 'Baby Brother' again, even a Haversham screen isn't going to stop me from punching you right in the nose."
"Don't mention noses," Michael muttered, touching his own swollen appendage ruefully.
Taken aback and actually embarrassed, Rivers gawked for several seconds, a slow flush working its way up his neck. Then the burgeoning twinkle in Hawke's eye ignited one in his own. He adopted a cocky hand-on-hip pose. "Can I call you Junior?" he asked, meeting Saint John's I-told-you-so look with mock innocence.
"How about Sir?" Stringfellow volleyed firmly.
It was Jo who started to giggle, then Caitlin and Dominic. Before long the whole room was laughing hard enough to bring tears to their eyes. "How about we wait and see what works?" Mike suggested when he could speak again, and the future implied in that statement was enough for them all.
***
finis
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