Chapter Two (T - mild language)
Into the Lion's Den
As soon as Rachelle had badged through security to enter Company Headquarters, she had been flagged. Within seconds, a very annoyed guard had collected her service weapon and had handed her laptop and briefcase over to another thug of the law and order kind who had subjected the computer and case to tests that made post 9-11 airport security look like the girl scouts. While her belongings were being pawed through, she had endured a full body scan. It wasn't until she had been escorted to the bank of elevators leading to the sublevels of The Company elite that she had received the summons from Newman that the council was ready to hear her preliminary report. Apparently, Oversight Committee readiness had led to the expectation of her presence as soon as she arrived on the premises.
In the muted lumbering of the bulletproof, double reinforced steel elevator, Rachelle breathed deeply as she leaned back against the handrail and took respite in the brief ride to the security committee's conference room. A preliminary report was all she could give. The Oversight Committee had given her less than 48 hours to integrate the investigation into a coherent and mostly unbiased review. As an added bonus, they had requested, which she knew to read as required, that she pose a viable solution to the situation, now classified as over the critical stage by some bureau chief's estimation.
She was prepared, more than prepared actually. The only problem was that her findings were at best inconclusive. Of course, conclusive results wouldn't have matter either. The almighty budget review process had already made a decision. This was purely a very elaborate dog and pony show, the appearance of the democratic process in an oligarchically controlled government agency. She was simply the mechanism to justify it.
On her initial acceptance of the assignment, acceptance being synonymous with acquiescing to the powers that be on penalty of dismissal, she had asked Newman about the justification of taking on a project that was a foregone conclusion. When she had been given the specifics on the investigation targets, she had taken back the question and had demanded full disclosure.
There were protocols for internal investigations of operatives with whom one was associated. To ask an agent to investigate a family member breached those procedures on so many levels, it still made her head spin when she thought about it. She wasn't ignorant to the fact that her personnel profile highlighted her strengths and weaknesses, a fact that had certainly been exploited by the committee to garner her cooperation. While she exemplified many of the Hawke positive tendencies, she had also inherited some of the less stellar traits. It had been a foregone conclusion that she would accept the assignment even without the Oversight Committee Chair's insistence that she be given first right of refusal.
The soft tone of the elevator reaching the floor to the committee conference rooms shook her from her reverie. Sweeping a hand to push her hair behind her shoulders and gripping her briefcase in determination, Rachelle stepped into the hallway that led to the conference room. The wall lights broadcasted a false sunny façade making her feel as if she were in an upper level office and not several stories below ground. Blinking back a sudden feeling of claustrophobia, she shoved the door to the conference room aside and entered the small room.
The room was set up similarly to that of a typical governmental council meeting. Prominently at the front of the room, a large wooden desk curved the radius of a half-circle. Facing into the room, seven chairs were set around the crescent. Each sitting position held a flat screen computer monitor, recording microphone, and box with a top housing three small lights reminiscent to that of a horizontal traffic light. In front of the large wooden seating platform prominently displaying the Department of Defense, the parent agency currently in command of The Company, a much smaller table was stationed. This would be her desk, specifically situated through the subtle art of intimidation to give her an elevation disadvantage and to make a minority of her opinions and findings.
For all of the paranoid hoopla she had undergone through the welcome wagon at the front gate, the air of immediacy did not extend to the committee conference room. Other than herself, there were no other people present in the room. Fully aware of the hurry up and wait mentality of this committee, Rachelle detoured to a small refrigerator set near to the committee member's platform and pulled out a chilled water bottle. If she were going to go up against hell, she might as well be comfortable. Thinking about the situation again, she reached into the mini fridge and withdrew a second bottle. Might as well be prepared for a long wait too, she thought to herself and began to arrange the small desk with the paraphernalia that she would need to present her case.
After rearranging the desk three times, Rachelle pushed back further into the padded chair attempting to find a comfortable position to wait out the committee members. As luck would have it she had just found said position when the doors to a back chamber behind the large cabinet platform opened, and five of the seven members comprising the Oversight Committee entered.
Although not required, Rachelle felt compelled to rise to her feet and to stand at attention until the five took their respective chairs. Once they were seated, she took her seat as well. The committee chair slid her reading glasses over her eyes and glanced at a sheet of paper that she had been handed by a non-member, presumably an aide.
While the woman skimmed the paper, Rachelle scrutinized the remaining members. Name placards were being placed in front of each member to identify him to her. Not that the information would help since all of the information displayed held the aliases of the members rather than any true identifying information. Rachelle stifled a snort of irritation as she read each name. The Company hubris was still very much alive. Apparently, the members comprising the Oversight Committee were also under the assumption that using the name of mythological gods gave them such power.
As befitting her identity, the chairwoman, Hera, presumably second only to Zeus and probably answering directly to him, put down her piece of paper and glanced at Rachelle. "Ms. Hawke, the committee has been briefed. Will you please present the entirety of your report?"
Rachelle opened the program on her computer and stood from her seat.
--
In St. John Hawke's kitchen, Joanna Santini finished stirring a large pot over the range. She had just added another handful of spices and white wine to the freshly diced tomatoes, onions, and garlic and set the heat to simmer when a hand reached over her shoulder to the large spoon resting on the side of the pot. Without warning, Jo slapped the hand away.
"Don't you dare," she scolded lightly as she turned to face a caught St. John.
"Hey, I won the bet, the least that you can do is let me sample the pot," St. John replied mildly as he rubbed his hand.
"Just because you won the softball playoff doesn't give you the ownership of the entire league." Jo reached for her glass of wine and regarded him. "Besides, my uncle would have had my head if you tasted his special sauce without the proper amount time for the flavors to blend."
"How about just a little peak then?"
Jo crossed her arms blocking him from the cook top completely and shook her head. "Okay, then I'll just have to settle for this." St. John leaned in close to her, his lips mere inches from hers, and inhaled sharply. "Mmm, smells great," he murmured, and tweaking her half ponytail, he stepped back with a look of triumph on his face.
Masking her irritation, Jo pushed him toward the refrigerator. "Go get something cold, and cheer up Mike," she ordered, indicating the slumped figure at the kitchen table. Taking another quick sip from her glass, she turned back to the sauce. The marinara really didn't need any attention, but she felt the need to compose herself. Their relationship, if that is what she chose to call it, was a perpetual two steps forward one step back and ambiguous during the best of times. Things had heated up when St. John thought she had died in a helicopter crash, and then with the introduction of Rachelle into his life, it had inexplicably cooled back to a platonic companionship. She wasn't sure where she stood, but she continued to play it safe and quiet. A clarification might take away everything, and she wasn't ready to risk that. Still their playful banter often left her confused and smarting from possibilities lost.
Fishing two cold bottles of beer from the refrigerator, St. John slid one to his fair-haired companion and sat down across from him. "Hey, Mikey, why so glum?"
Mike lifted his head from his hands and reached for the brew. Twisting the lid from the bottle, he took several hard swallows almost draining the beverage before looking at St. John. "Have you seen Jason?" he asked in a somber voice.
St. John glanced at Jo who had turned around at the uncharacteristic sounding grimness in Mike's voice before responding to him. "I've been in the hangar all day working on the Jet Ranger maintenance and then logged a few more hours on the newly built GlasAir. Why, did I miss a meeting?"
"No," Mike sighed and finished the bottle in front of him. Placing the bottle in the recycling bin, something Rachelle had insisted they start when she moved in, he went to the refrigerator and pulled another bottle. He inclined his head in offer to both St. John and Jo. St. John shook his head and indicated his still mostly full bottle in front of him, and Jo simply held her glass of wine up in refusal. Mike retook his seat flipping the chair around to straddle it and rested his arms on the chair back. "He told me about a Company inquiry," Mike continued picking up the thread of conversation. "He wasn't supposed to, but well, you know Jason."
St. John made a noncommittal grunt but refrained from commenting and distracting an obviously upset Mike. Jo, on the other hand, prompted him, "An inquiry into what?"
Mike ran the fingers of his unoccupied hand through his sandy locks before answering her. "Stavograd."
Jo almost choked on her wine at the mention of the small country that had suffered an almost meltdown in their power plant's reactor core. "That was what, almost two years ago?"
Mike nodded his head in the affirmative and took another long series of swallows from his bottle finishing the liquid.
St. John's eyes narrowed as he watched as his friend polished off two beers in a little less than five minutes and repeated his steps of placing the finished bottle in the appropriate receptacle and taking another beer out of the fridge only to return to his vacated seat. "I think you might want to slow down on those, buddy." St. John said taking the third beer from Mike and placing it further out of reach. "Stavograd isn't the only thing bothering you, is it?"
"No," Mike agreed, glaring at St. John's hand wrapped around his bottle. "They are also looking into Scotland."
Jo's barely audible gasp was the only sound in the room. Mike had almost lost his life when the Cypress Party had taken control of several US and Soviet nuclear missiles in an attempt to force the two countries to disarm. But there had already been several inquiries regarding this very dark spot in the Airwolf team's activities at a much closer time to the event in question. "Why?" she asked, finally finding her voice to ask the very question that was on all of their minds.
Mike shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as an answer. He had no idea why The Company would be looking to those two separate events that happened several years ago, but the last time they had held the formal inquest into Scotland he had gone through hell. He wasn't sure if he could take reliving those particular events all over again especially given the other piece of news. "That isn't the best part," Mike continued. "Guess who is leading the investigation."
"Locke?" St. John ventured.
"Nope. Your little sister," Mike announced and snagged his bottle from the now slack grip of his friend.
A slight rap on the kitchen door followed by the entrance of a pretty, redhead caught the group by surprise. Ashleigh Francisco stepped into the kitchen and smiled at the occupants that looked up at her like a group of deer caught in headlights. "Hi. What smells so good?"
Jo recovered first and turned her attention back to the now bubbling pot of marinara sauce. "Dinner," she answered stirring the sauce and turning the temperature further down. "I'm making shrimp marinara with my uncle Dom's secret recipe. You're welcome to join."
Ashleigh looked at the group realizing that she had probably just interrupted something important and tried to back track quickly. "Uh, no thanks, rain check though, definitely. Is String here yet?"
"He's just getting cleaned up," St. John volunteered. "I'll go get him." Making tracks quickly, he left the kitchen.
"Okay, then," Ashleigh said softly, watching St. John's retreating form and mused how often she saw that that particular profile from a Hawke sibling whenever she entered a room. Pulling out a chair from the table, Ashleigh sat across from an unusually serious Mike. "What's up?"
"The sky," Mike replied flatly and headed to the refrigerator. "Want one for your wait?" he asked, pulling out another couple of bottles. Even when Ashleigh replied in the negative, he brought two bottles to the table and plopped them down in front of his seat.
"You lose the bet too?" Ashleigh suggested, watching him pop both caps and taking a swig from each one.
"Something like that," Mike agreed and slipped back into silence.
"So, Jo," Ashleigh tried again. She was beginning to feel very uncomfortable in the little kitchenette. "I take it dinner was part of the bet. Was dessert too?"
Jo smiled and made her way to the refrigerator. She slid several containers to the right of a lower shelf and withdrew a large covered plate. "Yep," she answered removing the cover to reveal a cake with swirls of brown and cream.
"Is that your tiramisu?" Ashleigh asked in awe, looking at the delectable pastry.
Jo's smile was answer enough.
"Now, I really wish we were staying," Ashleigh muttered.
"Where are you going anyway?"
"I'm up for my fixed wing renewal. String offered to go up with me. Unfortunately, this is the only time either one of us could coordinate schedules."
As if on cue, Stringfellow Hawke entered the kitchen. "You ready?" he asked.
Ashleigh smiled at him and stood from her chair. "You look nice," she commented, looking over his slacks and button down shirt.
"The air field is a ways out, and at this time in the afternoon, we're sure to hit traffic on the way back. Thought we'd grab a bite rather than sit in rush hour."
"You're not flying out of Van Nuys?" Mike asked oblivious to the sharp glare Jo cast at him from the range.
"Burbank," Ashleigh answered quickly, seeing the subtle stiffening of String's posture. "My folks rent space there, and I'll be using their Twin Star for my recertification anyway." Glancing at the watch around her wrist, Ashleigh looked back at String. "You're right about the traffic; there was a wreck on the 405. We'd better take an alternate if we're going to make our scheduled flight time."
Without anymore prompting, String slid his leather bomber jacket from its resting place on one of the kitchen chairs and flung it over his shoulder as he made his way out of the house.
"Enjoy dinner," Ashleigh waved in departure. "I'll be looking for the leftovers of that tiramisu later," she winked and closed the door behind her.
Walking to the car, she opened the driver side only to see String already behind the wheel. "Am I going to ride on your lap?" String tilted his head, and saying nothing, he remained in the driver's seat.
"All right, all right," she grumbled, shutting the door and walked over the other side of the car to slide into the passenger seat of her own car. "You're awfully moody tonight, even for you. It is my car after all. The least you could do is ask." Ashleigh continued to bridge the one-sided conversation while rummaging through her purse. "Where the heck are my keys?"
A clanking of metal on metal caused Ashleigh to look up. String held the object of her search in his right hand. Quietly, Ashleigh pulled the shoulder restraint against her body and clicked it into the latch. "If you're going to drive, then drive," she glowered at him and settled stiffly against the leather of her seat.
Knowing he had successfully contributed to a quieter ride, String quirked a half smirk at Ashleigh and pulled the car out of the drive toward Burbank.
--
Rachelle stopped mid-sentence and slapped her hands in frustration against the table in front of her. "With all due respect, Hera, what the hell am I doing here?"
Rachelle's choice of words caused the chairwoman to look up at her sharply. "Ms. Hawke," she began but was interrupted before she could go any further.
"Don't," Rachelle hissed, running an irritated hand through her hair as she began pacing quickly back and forth behind her little station. "I've been up here working my tail off, and your committee has fallen into a void of disinterest. You've all been intently browsing, e-mailing, and instant messaging, and I've been up here for hours rattling along.
"You've missed lunch by a window of two hours in case that has escaped your notice as well, and I've yet to hear a single comment or challenge to my report. I know that I am thorough, but this is ridiculous. Can we just forego the rest of this and hear the decision that you have already made long before a single piece of information crossed my desk?"
"That is enough, Ms. Hawke," Hera stated coldly. "Your irrational jump to conclusions with regards to this matter is not only ludicrous but also highly unprofessional."
"Is it?" Rachelle challenged, dropping her thick sheaf of papers on the desk with an audible thump. "The events that you asked me to look into are old. They've been investigated and cleared, yet The Company continually insists that there is a larger cover-up. News flash, there isn't. Sanctions have already been imposed, additional conditions and bureaucratic red tape, yet the Airwolf Team has not only accomplished success on each and every mission since, without regard to personal losses, but they have also accommodated the interference. So, what is the point of this?"
"Are you quite done?" Hera thundered causing the entire committee to jump. This was the first sign of interest and attention they had given to the proceedings.
While the other members in the room gave their full attention to Hera, Rachelle steamrolled on as if the high-ranking officer had issued a blessing of continuance rather than a reprimand. "With the changing political climate, it doesn't take a seasoned analyst to realize that The Company profile and mission is being reevaluated. Obviously, the most logical course of action is placing all if not a majority of the current operations under the Department of Homeland Security. Am I right?"
Without waiting for an answer, Rachelle slid around the desk to walk around the small crescent enclosure. "So, an internal war persists as to where does Airwolf fit in? DHS would make an obvious choice for Airwolf's antiterrorist design and counter tactics, but the Department of Defense needs her for Black Ops missions afar.
"This isn't about Airwolf at all; is it? It is about who has final authority regarding missions assigned to the team. And, given the current state of affairs, the DOD doesn't have the best track record: allowing her creator to steal her and take her to Libya, using a vet to retrieve her only to keep her with demands of disclosure of MIA documents, eventual retrieval by Company agents who then parrot the original deal brokered by the then Firm and Hawke, engaging in operations of missions off the screen rather than specified by Company intel..."
"Agent Karrison," growled Hera as she stood from her chair. "Take your seat."
The use of Rachelle's past surname shook her from her diatribe, and by sheer motor memory, she found herself sitting as the committee chair had so ordered. Mouth took over brain again, Rachelle realized suddenly as her self-control slammed back into the forefront. She had been so incensed by the council's obvious dismissal of Airwolf in favor of politics that her temper had taken over.
"While I appreciate your loyalty to your team and siblings, I find your remarks completely off target. You were called here to evaluate past operations where the outcomes were less than prime."
"Loyalty?" Rachelle snorted.
"You are obviously too close to the matter…"
"To be what, objective? You knew that when you insisted that I take this position in this investigation, and while it is true that they are blood relations, that doesn't supercede my work ethic or my oath to my country." Rachelle argued at the implications the chair had stirred with her comments.
"That might be true, but as a test…"
"Test," Rachelle interrupted once more unable to hold her tongue, "A test of my ability to compartmentalize my life? A way to see how thorough I can be even in matters as personal as this?"
Hera was about to answer when the aid, who had slipped her the paper at the beginning of the meeting entered from the back door with additional summons. Nodding her head in acceptance of the disturbance, Hera glanced at the paper and folded it in half.
"You want a test, Ms. Hawke?" Hera resumed. "Tell us about Maxwell Pierreponte."