First Meetings

Who WAS that?

Fall, 1976

Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, the Firm agent codenamed Archangel but currently in the guise of an international drug dealer, walked down the trail between the helicopter landing zone and the stockade surrounding the Laotian growing operation for a large heroin supplier. He should have felt secure; this was his last visit to each of the 5 farms this grower maintained, and after this final reconnaissance, the man was going down in simultaneous joint DEA/Firm raids on all 5 of his growing operations scattered throughout the Golden Triangle in Southeast Asia. Instead, there was a persistent itch in his head that somebody was watching him. Somebody other than his fellow agent, playing his bodyguard Hoskins. Somebody out in the jungle, and he had a hunch that it was not one of the grower's guards. Somebody who wasn't making any noise, but Archangel still knew there was someone there, pacing them, on their left.

"Hoskins," he said quietly, "are you getting…"

"Yeah. There's somebody out there."

No time for any more talk; they were approaching the gate of the stockade surrounding the operation, a high solid wall of bamboo fencing. Time to establish their bona fides with the guards. During that process, it took all of Archangel's considerable acting talents and control to not react as he saw a slim figure in full camouflage slip out of the jungle just outside the wall, around the edge of the barrier, and melt back into the jungle inside without so much as a glance at the guards or himself. What the hell?

He could do no more than exchange a glance with Hoskins without alerting the grower's security that something was going on. That glance confirmed that Hoskins had seen the man as well. He's not after us, Archangel thought. He had plenty of time to take us out before we got to the compound. Whoever he is, he's here on his own business. I just hope it's not going to conflict with mine. It wouldn't be the first time a rival grower had sent someone to sabotage an operation.

He and Hoskins both kept a sharp lookout throughout the several hours they spent inside the compound, but saw nothing further of the man, nor any indication that the intruder had been caught. And we would have, because they would have assumed he was with us. At least we've made it past that hurdle.

It was when they returned to the landing zone that the slim figure slid out of the jungle again, just long enough to be seen, calling softly in a deep voice, "Archangel," before disappearing back into the vegetation. Archangel and Hoskins looked at each other. This man knew him on sight, might be an ally – or this might be a trap. But Archangel still didn't think so. If the man intended them harm, he'd had many opportunities to do that already, and he hadn't.

Archangel strolled towards the man, who reappeared within the edge of the jungle. "How do you know my name?" he asked the camouflaged man quietly. Other than the moderate height and slim build, the expertly applied camo paint on the man's face hid all but high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and an impression of surprising youth. The face was set in an impassive mask.

"Did some work with the Firm in 'Nam. Never spoke directly to you, but I remember you."

Archangel nodded. "You're Special Forces." It wasn't a question.

"Was Special Forces," the unknown man corrected. "I'm here on my own time." And for an instant there was a flash of deep pain and loss in those bright blue eyes before it disappeared again.

"What do you have for me?" Archangel asked. He broke cover to get my attention, so whatever he's here for, he needs me to know something about it.

The slim body relaxed, just slightly. "There are Americans in there. In the slave labor. Probably POWs who weren't returned or MIAs." Again the flash of pain across the eyes.

Damn. That's going to require changes in how the raids are handled; if there are Americans here, there might be others at the four other compounds. And I'd bet anything this man is looking for someone specific, or maybe more than one.

"You're certain?" Archangel asked.

"Saw at least 2, maybe a third. Couldn't get good sightlines for some of them."

The fact that he'd been good enough to get even that much without getting caught was damned impressive. "What are your intentions regarding them?" Archangel queried.

"Don't want to mess up your op," the man said, "but unless you're moving to shut this down soon, I'm bringing in a team to get them out." Firm statement; he would do it, and damn Archangel's op, even though he knew it would screw up the larger process.

Must be a merc, Archangel thought, but an honorable one. "It's probably best if you don't," he said cautiously. "This grower has 4 other operations scattered throughout the Golden Triangle, and if he's got Americans here, he might have more at the other sites."

"Damn," the other man swore. "No way I can manage multiple sites at once, and if one goes down, he'll hide the rest. You're planning simultaneous?"

Archangel nodded. This guy is GOOD. I'd love to have him on my team. At least he's on my side. "Yes, he confirmed. "And soon."

"Then I have to leave it with you," the man stated with some disappointment. "Gotta bring back as many as we can." Again the flash of pain, as he met Archangel's eyes one more time before melting back in to the undergrowth silently.

Archangel walked back to the chopper, glad that Hoskins had stayed back. He took a few minutes to think while Hoskins finished their pre-flight. Once they were in flight, Hoskins turned to him.

"Who was that? And what did he want?"

"I have no idea who he is," Archangel admitted, "other than former Special Forces during the war who did some work for the Firm. Must have been close to the end of the war, he looks awfully young to have been here before that. As for what he was here for, he's searching for missing POWs and MIAs."

"And he found some," Hoskins stated.

"At least 2, he said. Possibly more. And that means there might be more at the other operations. I suspect he's looking for someone in particular, but he doesn't want to leave anybody here; he said that if we weren't moving soon, he'd bring in his own team to get the ones here out."

"I hope you were able to convince him not to do that," Hoskins said, concerned. "If he does…"

"I didn't need to convince him," Archangel replied. "He understood the implications when I told him that the grower has other sites. He'll stay out of it."

After the operations were completed, Archangel found himself thinking of the unknown man. They'd pulled 13 Americans, all POWs or MIAs, out of the 5 compounds. It was a minuscule number compared to the thousands still missing, but at least some of them were now safely home. He hoped that whoever the young man had been searching for was among them.

A Name to a Face

Spring 1977

Archangel was striding through Capitol Hill in the company of Senator Martin, on his way to a Congressional meeting regarding the drug issues in the Golden Triangle, when he heard a voice that sounded familiar.

"Look, I just need to go in to talk to them about making sure they check for POWs and MIAs in the slave labor camps when they're doing these recons and raids. Then I'll get right out." Looking over, he saw a young man in full Army dress uniform speaking with a guard outside the area of the meeting rooms.

"I'm sorry, Captain Hawke," the security guard said firmly. "This meeting is not open to the public. Congressmen and invited guests only. I can't let you in."

Archangel saw the man's fists clench, but he turned away from the guard and walked to the side of the hallway, where he stood, shoulders slumped.

"Do you know who that is?" he asked Senator Martin.

"Sure do!" the Southern Senator said. "That young gadfly's here all the time, usually hanging around anything related to the Department of Defense. Got a bee in his bonnet about us going back into Southeast Asia to find the missing men there. He's obsessed. His brother went MIA in 1969 and was never found. "

Bingo. That has to be the man we met in Laos. "Perhaps," Archangel suggested, "I should speak to him and offer to carry his concerns into the meeting. Considering the recent location of some of those men in this exact situation, he does have a point. Would you do the introductions?"

"Not sure why you want to meet him. He's a surly young fellow at the best of times, and gets downright unpleasant pretty quickly. At least we won't need to deal with him for a while soon; NASA's picking him up as a test pilot for the shuttle landings."

Archangel's eyebrows rose. "Really? He must be a very good pilot, then."

"The best," Martin admitted unwillingly. "Best chopper pilot we had in 'Nam. The things he can do with a helicopter don't even make sense sometimes. Just as good with fixed wing, as well."

That perked up Archangel's ears, considering a certain project his division of the Firm had in the works. They wouldn't need a pilot for a while yet, but he'd keep this young man in mind. If Senator Martin ever got around to introducing him.

"Well, if I'm to make the meeting on time, it might be best if you were to introduce me to him now. Then I'll catch up with you in the meeting." Archangel prodded.

Relief showed in the Senator's eyes. Clearly he'd had unpleasant dealings with the young man before.

The soldier had turned to walk down the hall. Senator Martin hailed him. "Captain Hawke!" The young soldier turned back quickly, a slight quirk of one eyebrow his only reaction at seeing Archangel.

"Yes, Senator Martin?" Polite, but cold.

"We overheard you speaking to the guard, and this gentleman has offered to speak to the committee about your concerns. Archangel, this is Captain Stringfellow Hawke. Captain Hawke, Archangel." The senator quickly took his leave.

"Intelligence, huh?" It wasn't a compliment. But at the same time, Archangel thought he saw some gratitude in the young man's eyes. Stringfellow? Very unusual name. A man who overall would be hard to miss; the face clear of camo paint was handsome and as boyish as he'd thought, and the same piercing blue eyes looked back at him.

Archangel nodded. "Yes," then more quietly, "As you already know."

Captain Hawke nodded. "Thank you," he said. "For getting those men out."

"I was pleased to do so. I, too, am not happy with the current policy towards finding our missing men. Was one of them the person you were looking for?"

A flash of anger in the blue eyes, but not at him. "No," Captain Hawke answered. "My brother wasn't one of them."

"I'm sorry," Archangel replied sincerely. Did he choose to mention his brother or did he hear us talking? He must have very good ears if he did. "The Senator said your brother went MIA in 1969. How soon after that did you join up and go over to 'Nam?"

"I was already there," Captain Hawke said. "I'd been in country about 6 months."

Surprised, Archangel took another harder look at the young man in front of him, hastily revising his estimate of the man's age. He'd thought the man looked young for the 22 or 23 years old he had estimated; but that meant the impossibly boyish face belonged to someone in his late 20's.

"You're older than I thought," he said slowly.

"I hear that a lot." No smile, no glimpse of humor. The impassive mask remained in place.

"I will need to go into the committee soon. I had already planned to bring up the situation that we discovered last fall, and urge consideration of the possibility of other men being held under the same conditions in future operations."

Archangel received a slight head nod in return. He could see why Senator Martin considered the young man surly, but, he reflected, Stringfellow Hawke had a very good reason not to be good-natured. "Would you be willing to give me your brother's name?" Not that he couldn't find it easily enough himself, but it wouldn't hurt to start building up some credit for when Captain Hawke finished his time at NASA. "I can keep an eye out for any mention of him."

Again the same flare of gratitude, mixed with a slight, very slight hope. "Sinjin Hawke."

Archangel repeated the name carefully. "Sinjin?"

Slightest hint of a smirk. "It's spelled Saint John. I'm not the only one in the family with an unusual name."

I Need a Pilot

January 1979

Archangel reviewed his knowledge of the man he was waiting for, the man he was going to try to recruit as an operative.

Stringfellow Hawke. A man, he'd learned, as singular as his name, but surprisingly like his missing brother St. John. Orphaned at 12, St. John had been 15; both boys blown clear of the explosion that had killed their parents. Earned both fixed wing and rotary-wing pilot's licenses on his 15th birthday; St. John had been just under 16 when he'd earned his. St. John had volunteered to go to war at 19. Stringfellow had followed him at 17, after finishing high school a year early. His induction picture made him look no more than 14. Both qualified, with high commendations for their skill, as helicopter pilots.

Then the second tragedy in Stringfellow's young life. His girlfriend had been killed in a car crash just before the boy was to leave for Vietnam, barely 18. Stringfellow had walked away from the crash with no more than scratches. Within weeks of his arrival in Vietnam, a waiver had been granted allowing Stringfellow to join the same unit as his brother, mostly because his first unit simply could not find another pilot who could keep up with the young flyer.

The next 5 months were a succession of commendations for both men for feats of aviation that were…improbable, at best, and wouldn't have been believed in a work of fiction. But these were official reports. As a result, both men were allowed considerably more leeway than most pilots, and they used it, changing out who had been assigned to fly evac and who cover as needed depending on the situation, taking on risky ground missions in addition to their flying and completing them flawlessly. There was even a report that the two of them had safely co-piloted a helicopter flight of wounded men, Stringfellow only able to work the hand controls due to an injured foot, St. John only the foot controls due to injured arms. Oh, there were injuries, to both, but they recovered fast and returned to combat even faster. Nothing seemed to stop them, or to dim their spirits.

Until the third tragedy. Both men had been shot down in the same action, managing to reach the ground uninjured. Stringfellow had hopped a rescue flight, promising his brother that he would grab another helicopter and come back for him. And he had, but other men escaping the rapidly-worsening situation had crowded the helicopter to capacity before St. John could reach it. Stringfellow had been forced to leave his brother behind, and St. John had never been seen by any US or allied forces after that, never on any lists of POWs, never found. Even now, 9 ½ years later, he was still listed as MIA. And Stringfellow had become grim, unsmiling, and driven.

Stringfellow had finished that tour of duty, signed up for another, and made Special Forces, joining a group searching for POW camps. He'd gotten captured himself during that tour, spending 2 months in a POW camp and coming out injured and ill. It had taken the better part of 6 months for him to recover completely – at which point he'd insisted on finishing the time for that second tour and signing up for a third, rejoining the same Special Forces unit. He'd been shot down again just before the fall of Saigon and nearly killed, but had survived once again – and if he was hale and hearty enough to be able to complete astronaut training, as he had, then even those serious injuries hadn't slowed him down much.

After taking nearly a year to recover from his injuries, he'd gone to college and earned a degree in Aeronautical Engineering, as well as working as a stunt pilot and mechanic for his former guardian. In between, he'd retreated to a mountain cabin and rarely engaged with the outside world except for school and work. Occasionally, he'd disappear completely off the radar for a few weeks. One of those disappearances coincided with his meeting with Archangel in Laos. Archangel could only assume that the other absences were also missions to locate more of the missing. Certainly some men had been returned somewhat mysteriously in that time period. Archangel and the DEA had found others – none of them St. John Hawke. There were still thousands missing in addition to St. John.

And now Archangel had use for a highly-skilled pilot who wasn't afraid of danger and had the guts to work without back-up. And Stringfellow Hawke had come to mind. He'd sent a letter on stationary belonging to the Institute for Applied Technology – the name outside the Firm's offices called Knightsbridge. He eventually was notified that a phone call had been received indicating that the young man would attend a meeting, and a date and time chosen.

And now his assistant was showing the young man into his office. He took a moment to look Stringfellow Hawke over. Still handsome and slim, still appearing considerably younger than his nearly 29 years, he showed no sign of the previous injuries he'd suffered. He did, however, appear grimmer, more tightly controlled, and more aloof. Clearly the years with no word of his brother's fate were taking their toll on him.

Hawke waited until the assistant had closed the door. "Should've figured it was you," he muttered darkly. "Couldn't find any information about the place that letterhead came from."

"So why did you come?" Archangel tossed back.

"Curious," was the grunted answer.

Oh, this is going to be a joy, Archangel thought. He wasn't talkative before. "As it happens," he said, "I have use for a skilled pilot who is willing to work undercover, without back-up, and who isn't obviously currently military."

"And you want me."

"If you're willing, yes. The job requires a particular skill set that I believe you have, as well as an ability to think out of the box, rely only on yourself, and be ruthless as needed. The fact that you look younger than you are will be an asset. I understand from your military records that you were often underestimated because of it, to the detriment of your enemies." Archangel received a shrug in reply. "I choose mostly female agents for the same reason – the more beautiful they are, the more likely my targets are to underestimate them. But no woman would have the needed skill set to do this job."

"What's the job?" The granite face remained expressionless.

"I need to infiltrate the business of an illegal arms dealer, who happens to be in the market for a pilot who can demonstrate what he wants to sell. A wide variety of combat and reconnaissance planes and helicopters from a variety of nations." Archangel noticed a small spark appear in the blue eyes watching him warily. Got his interest. Good.

"When?"

"You'll need some training as well as full physical and psychological work-ups first." Archangel saw Hawke begin to tense, as if planning to get up and leave. "Those are for your benefit, Stringfellow." He saw the grimace.

"Call me Hawke."

"As you wish, Hawke." The name suited him. "Knowing your physical and mental limits will help us to target your training and come up with any work-arounds needed, if any, for any limitations. In this business, limitations aren't necessarily disadvantages; they simply require more ingenuity."

"I'm fine."

"Physically, yes. NASA wouldn't have taken you if you weren't. Why did you leave the shuttle program, anyway?"

Hawke looked like he wanted to yawn. "No fun flying that thing," he shrugged. "It's a fat glider for the most part. I'd rather fly stunts for Dom."

Three whole sentences. That might be a record. I never thought I'd meet a man who left NASA because it was boring.

"Dominic Santini is your former guardian, correct? Is he going to be concerned or left without a pilot if you drop out of sight for a while? We're looking at a time frame of 6 months to a year or even two, most likely."

"He'll be worried. But I'll think of something to tell him. He has a couple of pilots he uses when I'm not…available." Hawke looked like that much said at once was a strain.

"Not available because you're still looking for your brother, I assume. You are not going to be able to disappear to do that while you're working on this operation. However, I have been and will continue to do what I can to help find him." Archangel warned and promised.

"Which is?"

"I've had agents speak to every returned POW we can find who's willing to talk – both recent returns and anyone within the time frame after St. John went missing. Unfortunately, I've found little to nothing conclusive – a few men who remember 'a guy with a funny name like that', or someone who fits his description. Occasionally both. I've found more who remember you than I've found even those vague hints of your brother."

Hawke looked down briefly, the first hint of any emotion Archangel had seen in him. Then he looked up again. "I'll take your job," he agreed. "As long as you keep looking."

"I will," Archangel promised. There was no difficulty in slipping in a few questions about a specific person while canvasing the ranks of former military for information on people who might have been involved in the black market for drugs or weapons during the war, and that tactic had given him a number of leads for his operations with the DEA.

Now I just hope he can pass the physical and especially the psychological. For there was no doubt in Archangel's mind that Stringfellow Hawke was badly scarred psychologically, at least as badly as his body must be.

The Real Reason I Recruited You

March 1981

This time, Archangel was meeting with Stringfellow Hawke at his mountain cabin. The two had grown, if not friendly, at least able to work comfortably together. Neither trusted easily, but Archangel knew he could trust the young man to complete his missions with cold efficiency, if not exactly the way Archangel had envisioned. And Hawke knew that he could trust Archangel to have his back.

They were meeting here because Hawke had, once again, been injured in his service and signed himself out of the hospital long before the doctors felt he was ready to leave. It was an annoying habit of the young man's; he seemed to have developed an abiding hatred of hospitals after having spent too much time in them. Archangel knew, at least, that Dominic Santini would be keeping a close watch on his injured friend; he'd not met the man yet, but Hawke had grumbled about his foster father's mother hen tendencies often enough.

Archangel had made his first trip here to debrief his agent; Hawke had left the hospital so quickly this time that he hadn't even been able to get that scheduled. Archangel had appreciated the peace and beauty of the place, the artwork displayed within, and the stunning Stradivarius cello that was his agent's prize possession and, he'd determined, his best source of solace. He'd admittedly been startled when, needing a break from the debriefing, Hawke had pulled the cello from its place, settled it between his knees, closed his eyes, and begun to play, effortlessly and beautifully, a haunting piece of music that Archangel didn't immediately recognize. He did recognize the visible decrease in Hawke's tension levels as the music continued.

This time he didn't expect any tension. He had what he was sure would gain more enthusiasm from Hawke than he had yet seen. A pilot of this man's caliber wouldn't be able to resist this challenge.

Hawke opened the door for him, a quick glance his only welcome. "What do you have for me, Michael?"

Archangel stroked his mustache. "The real reason I recruited you several years ago," he said, smiling. "I did need a skilled pilot then, as you know." Hawke nodded. It had taken all of his instinctive flight knowledge to complete that assignment, working with aircraft he wasn't familiar with, with equipment labeled in languages he couldn't read. "Now I need an extraordinary one, to test pilot something that's never been done before." His only reply was one raised eyebrow. Oh, come now, Archangel thought. You've got to be more interested than that.

He started in on his introductory spiel on this new aircraft, trying to build up the curiosity. Instead, Hawke seemed to be getting bored again. Damn that poker face of yours. I KNOW you're going to love this. Finally, with a sigh, he gave up on the verbal introduction and handed Hawke a picture of the new aircraft.

Instant energy. Hawke sat upright, studying the conceptual drawing of the black and white helicopter closely. "What is this?" he finally asked, raising his gaze to Michael's. Now THERE was the sparkle of interest Archangel had been waiting for.

"Airwolf," he said simply. "A combat helicopter capable of supersonic flight." To his surprise, the sparkle disappeared, and disappointment showed in its place.

"You fly helicopters, Michael," came the exasperated growl. "You KNOW you can't get one supersonic; it would tear the rotors off."

"Not," Michael played his ace, "if you can disengage the rotors and use turbos to get the speed."

A brief instant of surprise, then a considering glance. "Composite rotor craft. Maybe…and you want me as the test pilot." Perfect confidence there.

"I do," Michael agreed. Though Moffett will not be happy, he thought. There is no sense in making the designer the test pilot; if we lose the pilot, we lose the aircraft, but he's been adamant about being the test pilot, too. I won't allow it. "However, you will need to go through the interview and testing process. The Committee isn't just going to let me appoint you to the position." That was an understatement; Hawke was too much of a maverick, too willing to do things his own way, for the Committee to be happy with him, although they did grudgingly admit that he always got the job done.

Hawke snorted derisively, his own low opinion of the Committee plain. "I'm in," he said, his eyes finally showing the light of genuine interest in something. Got you, Archangel thought. Now I just have to hope that the thing works and doesn't kill you.

Moffett

June 1981

Hawke had blown the competition for the test pilot position out of the water, as Archangel had known he would. The pilot's initial scores on his first simulator run were considerably higher than anyone else's, even though the other pilot candidates, including Moffett himself, had been training in the simulator for several weeks before Hawke had healed enough to try it for the first time. He'd come out of the simulator more animated that Archangel had ever seen him. And now it was time to introduce the lead test pilot to the designer. Archangel was expecting cold; Moffett was angry about not being assigned as lead test pilot, and Hawke was always cold when meeting new people.

He hadn't expected instant and total animosity. Moffett had taken one look at the young man introduced as the lead test pilot for the project and, glaring at Archangel, stalked right back out of the room. Hawke had turned away, looking out Archangel's office window at the desert landscape surrounding Red Star.

Archangel walked over to the window to stand beside Hawke. "What is it?" he asked gently. He'd seen Hawke do this before, learned that it meant a hit on the man's powerful intuition, and experience had shown that Hawke's intuition was never wrong. It was one of the reasons why Hawke was still alive.

The pilot turned worried eyes on Archangel. "You shouldn't be trusting that man," he said carefully. "There is something very, very wrong with him."

I know, Archangel thought. He's a perverted sadist, but I've got him under guard and he's not going to hurt anybody here. "Without him, we don't have Airwolf," he said, shrugging.

"Michael, you're not understanding me," Hawke insisted, eyes now haunted with all the deaths he'd seen, all the losses he'd endured. "You keep him here, and something bad is going to happen. Something terrible."