Hawke fought the stick, Airwolf's wounded howl wrenching his ears. Sweat slicked his hands, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The claxion scream of the alarms scraped against his nerves, even as the ground rushed up to greet him. She was going down. There was no denying it, she was going down.
He crested the hill, fighting to keep her nose up. She went nose first, and those long sweeping rotors of hers hit first thing and he was dead. He knew it beyond a shadow of belief, the unwelcome memory of watching a helicopter in 'Nam going down rotors first and the momentum snapping them, slamming them into the cockpit and decapitating the crew coming back in grim detail. No, he definitely didn't want to go like that.
Hauling back on the collective, he wrenched her forward, engines screaming. Her underbelly scraped the jagged rocks below. He could feel the gouge of the rough rocks as they clawed against it, threatening to rip the stick from his hands.
And then, they were over, and taking more missile fire.
"What the…?" Snatching the stick over, two-handed, Hawke barely managed to avoid the missile that screamed towards him.
It slammed into the hillside, chewing rock and spewing it everywhere. The percussion from the blast wrenched Airwolf sideways, nearly clawing her from his death grip on the controls.
He hit the buttons to fire the ADF pod, praying he wasn't signing his own death warrant in doing so. He had no idea how much damage he'd done when he'd scraped her over that mountain, didn't even know if the missiles would deploy. If they didn't, he was dead splattered in a million pieces, if he didn't fire and a surface-to-air missile caught him, he was dead too.
Oh blast, he was pretty much dead, no matter what he did.
He hit the button for a Maverick, and it streamed away - missing, slamming into the ground short of the target. What he lacked in finesse, String made up for in sheer firepower, emptying the entire missile complement into the hillside below, Shrike included; taking out the mobile missile launcher and pretty much everything else on the hillside as well.
Knowing he was going down, he fought to maneuver the Lady past a jutting rock outcropping, clearing it by inches. "Nose up, get your nose up," he muttered. Tail first, she bumped once, twice, the momentum slinging her forward, rattling his teeth.
The bone-jarring slam of her wrenching forward, hitting hard on her struts snapped his head forward, thwacking it into the console in front of him, and him into blissful darkness; as her rotors ripped into the rock ahead of him and sheared with a demonic shriek. Thankfully, Hawke never heard it.
Silently grim, the group made their way down the steep stone steps to where Van der Berg's Sikorsky S-70 sat. Armed to the teeth, she glistened dully in the late afternoon sun.
Limping, Michael covered their rear as Seb took the front. Taking the helicopter was remarkably easy, ironically enough. A couple shots from above on the wall, easily dispensed of by a return shot of Michael's. He barely registered the man falling.
And then, they were climbing aboard; Michael first, Roper handing Marella off to him. Seb went around taking the pilot's position, kicking the rotors into action. Roper clambered in beside him.
"Ready?" Seb asked, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. They couldn't get out of this place fast enough to suit him.
"Yeah," Michael muttered.
Pulling back on the collective, he lifted the Sikorsky into the air struggling momentarily with the unfamiliar helicopter and then they were airborne. Shifting his weight on the rudder pedals, he pointed the helicopter towards home - also unfortunately in the direction of the crash. He swallowed hard. He didn't know about the others, but he wasn't ready to face the sight yet, didn't know if he would ever be.
And then, the controls shifted subtly in his hands. Startled, he turned meeting Roper's somber gaze.
"I'll do it, Seb," he murmured.
Seb nodded, guiltily relieved not to have to face the sight. He let go of the controls, and slumped back in the seat wearily.
Angling the blades down, Roper nosed her forward, sweeping her effortlessly along. He was no keener than Seb to see what remained of Hawke's Lady, but he couldn't go home without doing so. Drawing a ragged breath, he pushed the cyclic forward, edging the helicopter over the crest of the hill.
Stunned, he gulped, taking in the yawing black pit. Surely one helicopter couldn't create that kinda devastation, he thought. Not even Airwolf. Flames licked the brush, curling wickedly under the Sikorsky's downdraft. The ground surrounding the gaping pit was blackened, tarry. Debris scattered across the ground. Painfully, he was reminded of a scene he'd once seen from Dante's Inferno. Hellish didn't even begin to depict what he saw below.
Whatever had taken place had apparently taken out the last of the surface-to-air missile launchers. He could tell that much from the debris, and not much more - there wasn't enough left.
Behind him, he heard rather than saw Marella struggle to the engineer's console, the surveillance equipment almost as sophisticated as Airwolf's. Running scans," she murmured huskily, her own voice uncharacteristically choked.
Michael gripped his shoulder, as he peered across the console, a solid and surprisingly comforting support and presence.
Looking at the destruction below, he couldn't see how anything, let alone anyone could survive that explosion.
"Nothing," Marella finally whispered, the pain in her voice coming clearly across the headset. Beside him, Seb moaned softly. "The weapon debris is definitely Airwolf's. I have to imagine the radiation is from the Shrike missile. Good chance there wasn't much left to find of the helicopter when the missiles detonated."
Roper grimaced, feeling Michael's hand tighten reflexively on his shoulder. She was nothing if not blunt.
"Want me to land her?" Roper choked out.
Michael cast a glance at Marella seated at engineering. She shook her head, no. There'd be nothing left to find, he realized wearily. If Airwolf hadn't survived the crash with her armor-plating and composite hull, then the chance of finding human remains, even Hawke's, was almost non-existent.
"No," he muttered, every nuance of his body and voice exhibiting fatigue and exhaustion. "It's time to go home."
Numbly, Roper nodded, raising the Sikorsky's nose and heading for Red Star.
The flight back to Red Star was grim, almost silent. The Sikorsky wasn't Airwolf and it showed in the unrelenting ache seated in Roper's shoulders and arms. He wasn't going to complain though, he figured Seb had enough on his mind looking at him, his head leaned wearily against the window. He knew the trip was a long way from over, even once they got back to red Star.
Marella had been silent the past couple of hours. A quiet conference with Michael through the headset confirmed she was asleep. He was glad somebody was. He didn't think he'd be getting any rest any time soon.
The earlier welcome distraction of piloting the unfamiliar Sikorsky had faded in the subsequent miles, leaving him with an aching body and far too much time to think. Michael hadn't sounded too hot himself when he'd talked to him either. Tiredly, he wondered if whatever Van der Berg had given him was still making its presence known. He hoped it wasn't going to become a problem before they made it to Red Star. Somehow, he had a feeling Michael would be about as accommodating as Hawke when it came to being checked out this time.
The thought of Hawke pressed in heavily against him. It seemed so strange to think he was gone. Bitterly he realized he'd lost a father, only to gain and lose another before he'd had a chance to really know him.
Once again, he was in essence alone. With Hawke gone, everything shifted once more. He still had no real place, nowhere he fit.
He sighed. Some things never really changed.
Roper touched the Sikorsky helicopter down at Red Star in the early hours of the morning. Casting a weary glance at Rivers and Jade standing there on the tarmac waiting, he sighed even as he reached up for his helmet.
Seb cursed, hauling off his own helmet, throwing it angrily into the cockpit floor as he scrambled out.
Roper frowned, the blue eyes narrowing as he watched the other's hurt and frustrated retreat. It had been decided to wait to tell the others about Hawke and Airwolf 'til they got back, seeming somehow wrong to share the news before Saint John and Cait were informed. It looked like the time had arrived though, whether the others were there or not.
Reaching across the seat, Michael's hand gripped his shoulder offering silent sympathy.
And then the medical team was there, hustling Marella out, Michael in her wake.
Clambering out of the helicopter, Roper swung down, dropping heavily to the concrete. Hunching his shoulders against the biting wind, he drew in a deep breath before turning towards the hanger.
Seb was heading for the far side of the hanger, at a near run.
Rivers and Jade waited, worried, questions in their eyes.
Sucking in a harsh breath, Roper started towards them.
Mike frowned, his blue eyes flashing to the Sikorsky behind him and back.
He could tell the exact instant realization hit, the grimace of pain crashing across River's boyish face. Beside him, Jade's hand came up covering the shocked 'oh' of her mouth, her gaze flying from him to Seb striding furiously off.
And then, she was running, long black hair sliding free from its clips as she ran for Seb, like the hounds of hell were behind her.
Roper could hear her calling for Seb, where he stood. And then Jade was there, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close.
Rivers met him halfway, the sparkling blue eyes sober. "Hawke?" he whispered, his voice gruff.
Roper nodded.
"How?" he rasped, suddenly looking every one of his years.
"Haversham screen."
Rivers cursed, looking away at the lightening horizon. Somehow he'd known as soon as he'd heard Roper's call for clearance on the Sikorsky, but he'd hoped…
"The Lady, too huh?" he let out an audible breath, still not meeting Hawke's son's gaze. He couldn't. Eyes still on the horizon line, he swallowed. "Well," he rasped. "I guess it fits. She was always his anyhow."
Lauren was waiting on Michael by the time he'd made it to his office, Marella being seen to by the Firm clinic's doctors.
His movements tired, jerky, Michael snatched the whiskey decanter off the sideboard to pour himself a generous shot into the glass.
Frowning, Lauren raised an eyebrow in disapproval. "You sure that's a good idea, sir?" she asked.
Decanter halfway to the glass Archangel froze, the single-eyed glare he shot her, deadly.
"…uh, I mean before you've been checked out by medical," she backpedaled hastily.
"I have been checked out by medical," he snarled. "They have no idea what the long term effects are of the drugs Van der Berg used are. So far as I can tell, I'm fine," he said splashing amber-colored whiskey into the glass, slugging half of it down in a single gulp. "More than I can say for Hawke and Airwolf," he growled, slamming the glass down on the counter.
"Sir?"
"Get Samantha on the line," he ordered grimly. "I need a pilot. Now!"
"Yes, sir," the petite blonde murmured, realizing maybe now wasn't the time to argue. She backed towards the door.
Silently, Michael lifted the glass to his lips a second time, taking a sip. He paused, hauling in a harsh breath. "Close the door on you way out, Lauren."
"Yes, sir," she acquiesced, shooting him a worried glance as she did so.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Michael set the crystal glass back down with a thump. His hand was shaking as he did so. She was right, he mulled angrily, watching the fine tremors in his fingers. It was untelling what Van der Berg had given him.
Abruptly, he snatched the glass up, hurling it at the paneled wall. "Damn it, Hawke!" he snarled. "What am I supposed to tell Caitlin and Saint John?" Crashing, the glass shattered, slinging shards against the wall. It gave him little satisfaction.
The white jet ranger flared, gently settling to the ground in front of the Santini Air hanger.
Hearing the distinctive whomp-whomp of chopper blades outside, Saint John pushed stiffly to his feet. Jo was gone on a charter, not due back for another half hour so he'd have to handle it.
Not that he minded; it was good to be anywhere except the hospital, and Jo had been more than great about helping out at the hanger with String gone. And they were talking, he mused. A little awkwardly sometimes, but they were both making an effort. Kylie had been right. It was going to take some time, but at least it seemed possible again.
The sound of a second chopper joining the first teased his ears. Curiosity getting the better of him, Saint John strode out of the cramped office into the hanger, a welcoming smile on his face.
Sikorsky S-70, he thought raising an eyebrow. Nice bird. Not exactly something you saw everyday, he mused.
Settling to the ground beside the gleaming white jet ranger, the helicopter landed. Rotors still whirling, Seb and Rivers dropped out of the cockpit followed by Jade, only to go around to the side where the jet ranger sat.
Saint John straightened, the smile sliding off his face as his eyes narrowed. There was only one reason he could think of for the entire group to be here.
"Damn," he muttered, a sinking feeling in his gut as he watched Michael help an obviously injured Marella out of the jet ranger. There was no sign of String.