The storm blew in from the east, swirling muddying currents around her ankles. Shoving a dripping strand out of her face, with a grimy hand, 'Melia stomped a petite foot sending mud splattering everywhere. Her lower lip trembled as she fought back tears. "I'm not going!" she yelled defiantly.
It earned her a sharp slap, one that landed her on her backside in the mud, wetness seeping into her jeans.
"Get up, brat!" he snarled. "Or you'll get a lot worse than that."
She didn't much like this man, with the beady eyes and cold, cruel mouth.
She knew him too.
He was the man who'd tried to kill her aunt Jo.
Pacing, Michael limped the length of his office. "You want me to do what?" he roared. "Hawke, you're talking about wanting to land the military's top secret reconnaissance plane on a carrier with roughly 5,000 people on it! Not to mention, Airwolf? Has it occurred to you, that maybe, just maybe somebody might notice that?"
The laconic voice that cut across the satellite feed wasn't amused. "And has it occurred to you, Michael," Hawke retorted, "unless you find me a landing strip somewhere close in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, you're going to be down not one top secret aircraft, but two?"
Leaning against Archangel's cherry desk, arms crossed Marella arched one well-coiffed eyebrow, trying not to grin. Hawke had him there.
Pausing, Archangel sighed, already kneading his brow with his free hand. "Fine, Hawke. I'll see what I can do."
"Better make it soon, Michael," the pilot clipped, punching out.
Archangel wheeled, leaning heavily on his cane. "Marella, get me…"
"Langley, sir?" The smirk on her lips was hard to miss. "They're on line one." She picked up a file as she started to stroll out of the room.
A single blue eye narrowed suspiciously. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought she knew what Hawke was up to even before he'd talked to him. "Thanks,…I think." Hesitating his hand hovered over the phone.
"Of course, sir." There was no denying the amusement in her voice this time as she sauntered out in a swish of cream-colored silk.
"And stop calling me sir!" he growled watching her go.
Her melodic laughter trailed down the hall behind her.
Thudding, the skids of the Santini Air jet ranger hit the wood planks of the dock with a dull thump. Scrambling out and swinging down, red-hair whipping in the wind Cait ran for the cabin steps and the dark-haired woman standing there.
"Did you find him? Where is he?" she demanded, frantically searching the shadows behind her.
Tuyen shook her head sympathetically, reaching for her arm. "No, Caitlin."
There was something in her tone that brought Cait up short, even as frustration tumbled through her. "What?" she demanded, blue-green eyes narrowing.
The dark eyes that met hers were worried, but there was more than that in their depths. Fear - it was fear. Fear, Caitlin realized with dread certainty, fear far greater than there should be for a runaway child. "What?" she demanded hoarsely. "What's happened?"
"Someone's been here, Cait. I think they took the kids. They're both gone."
"Carrier up ahead," the words cut across String's senses, so numb, he shook his head as if in a daze.
"How far?"
"Thirty minutes out." Pierson's voice returned, clearly monitoring engineering.
Muscle clenching in his jaw, Hawke tried not to dwell on what that might mean. "Any word from Archangel?" he asked tersely.
"Nope."
Wearily, Hawke winced, closing his eyes momentarily. If Michael hadn't gotten a hold of Langley and the Enterprise by now, the likelihood was they'd be scrambling jets for target practice any moment now.
"Great," he muttered. "Get me the skipper and patch me through."
Even as he spoke, the onboard communication alarm shrilled. Ignoring Pierson's stuttered response, Hawke punched up the channel.
"Eagle 1, Eagle 1 this is the USS carrier Enterprise. Do you copy?"
Praying this wasn't his last warning before they shot him down, Hawke hit the send button. "USS Enterprise this is Eagle 1, I copy."
The skipper's voice rumbled across the airwaves, gruff. "Hawke, what the Hades are you up to that I have the Joint Chiefs of Staff on the wire?"
Archangel had gotten through. Thank God.
"Wish I could say, sir," came String's reply. Was it his imagination, or was the starboard engine faltering again?
A rapid glance over his right shoulder assured him it was not. Grimacing, he pulled back on the yoke.
"You still there, Hawke?" the captain's voice bit out impatiently.
"Yes, sir," String replied, snatching his attention back to the radio and the man who held all their lives in his hands.
"Well, to what do I owe this pleasure?" the captain snapped.
"I need to see about landing a T-3 reconnaissance plane and a helicopter on your deck."
"You what?" the man demanded. "You can't land a T-3 on a carrier!"
"No other options, sir," String bit out, hearing the engine cut out again. Crap.
"How 'bout ditching it?" the USS Enterprise's captain retorted.
"Not really an option," Hawke rejoined. Nose heavy, the plane dropped like a rock, as his hand slammed the instrument panel and the re-start switch. He fought the urge to curse as the muscles in his arms corded and he wrestled a plane as aerodynamic as a falling boulder back into the air. Coughing, the engine caught again.
Irritated, the Captain sighed. "How far out are you?"
Glancing down at the cracked instrument panel, he endeavored to run a quick calculation in his head. "Twenty-three minutes more or less." He hoped - assuming the plane stayed in the air, as did the Lady.
"Come again?" the skipper asked in disbelief, eyeing his own radar.
"Twenty-three minutes, sir."
A frustrated hand rubbed a knotted brow. "I don't even know if what you're asking is possible, Hawke…I'd have to move all the planes on the deck."
"Yes, sir," String agreed quietly, waiting…
The man sighed. "Let me see what I can do."
The rain whipped down, sharp and stinging on her bare arms, as Cait stared down at the muddy booted footprint in disbelief. How? How on earth had someone found the cabin? It wasn't like you could just waltz in here…it took a helicopter or horseback.
Better yet, why? The art was still here…there wasn't any real money, Airwolf maybe? Worried, the red-head's brow furrowed as a slender finger traced the dark outline.
"Cait?" Tuyen's voice cut across jumbled thoughts. "There's more."
"Yeah?" she replied absently, blue-green eyes still studying the mark, trying to make sense of it.
"I think you'd better read this," the Vietnamese woman insisted, her face strained as she handed her a crumpled, stained envelope.
"What?" Caitlin demanded, reaching for it noting the look on her face; her own blanching as she read the note inside.
Anxious dark, brown eyes scanned Hawke's wife's lighter ones. "What…does it mean?" she whispered.
Cait's voice was hoarse when she answered. "Jo's accident was no accident. Somebody from Hawke's past wants revenge and now he's planning to use Nicky and Amelia to get it."
Concerned, Saint John looked over his shoulder at engineering. Pierson was doing a competent job, even if he looked more than a little worried. He'd have been glad to have him on any team he'd headed up. No wonder Mike had picked him.
Beside him, Samuels shifted.
Him, he wasn't so sure about…
Muttering, husky and barely intelligible snatched his attention back to the co-pilot's seat. Rivers, his eyes closed and skin a chalky grey, murmured something under his breath… he couldn't quite catch it.
Geesh…he looked bad, Sinj thought. Like death warmed…
Not going there, Hawke. Shoving the thought aside, his hand tightened on the stick. "Mike," he called. "Mike! You still with me?"
Blue eyes the color of stormy skies flashed open. Hazed with pain, they didn't focus immediately.
The retort when it came was patently Mike though. "You're 1,200 feet up Saint John, in a helicopter. Where the hell else do you think I'd be?"
Grinning, Sinj gave a rough laugh. "Good point, Rivers. You've got me there."
Grimacing, Mike shifted trying unsuccessfully to bite back a ragged breath.
Sinj's hazel eyes narrowed on his friend.
"Any sign of the carrier?"
"No," Saint John replied soberly, eyeing the instruments.
Wincing, River's jaw clenched. Swallowing hard, he fought for words. Not only was he not going to make it, but the odds were decent he might cost the lives of four good men in doing so - two of them, his best friends.
"I'm sorry, Sinj," he muttered.
"For what?" the older pilot demanded, throwing him a startled glance. "Mike?"
Dark blue eyes fluttered shut, his words slurring together. "Tell Sarah…"
"Rivers?!" Saint John demanded roughly, sudden fear clenching his gut. "Tell her what?"
There was no answer though, as Mike slid back under into blessed darkness.