Airwolf – Terminal Velocity
Chapter Five
"C'mon Rog …. Let your hair down a little, man. After all, you don't know when we might get another chance," Frank Campbell cajoled as they exited the last class of the day and started walking down the corridor toward the accommodation blocks, still buzzing over the announcement by Captain Bristow, US Navy, that they were to be granted an evening's rest and relaxation off the base.
All Dobbs really wanted to do was hit the shower, then chow down and get some sack time.
He was still functioning mostly on adrenaline, especially after recent events, but he had a horrible feeling that the other trainees were not about to let the 'old man' plead fatigue, if it was going to spoil their chance at a little R 'n R.
"Yeah, Rog. You must know the unwritten rule. Never pass over any chance at liberty," This from Chuck McCrea, as he turned back to address the two Army officers.
"Liberty?" Dobbs arched an eyebrow in enquiry now.
"Yeah. Liberty, shore leave," McCrea clarified. "Whatever the hell you Army guys call it. It's a night out, away from this place. Permission from 'on high' to relax and unwind a little."
"Chase a little skirt …."
"Rough up a few locals …."
"Somehow, I don't think that's quite what 'on high' had in mind," Dobbs drawled sardonically.
"Who cares …."
"Let's face it, if we don't get away from here, if only for a couple of hours, we're all gonna go loco!" This, from Malcolm Shaw, who was sauntering along beside Chuck McCrea, ever the voice of reason in the group, when he wasn't clowning around with McCrea that was.
"So, Rog?"
"Yeah, Rog? You up for it?"
Dobbs let out a deep sigh, a scowl pinching his usually handsome features, as he wished that they would all stop looking at him as though he were the town killjoy.
And quit calling him Rog!
Of course, he appreciated the gesture from their joint command.
Some much needed down time for them to regroup and take their minds off the oppressive atmosphere that hung, along with the smoke from the lab fire, in the air, for most of the day, especially in light of recent events, knowing that a little R 'n R would go a long way to settling everyone's nerves, but he could not shake the notion from his head that something might happen while they were all in town, and he would miss a vital opportunity, or overlook a significant clue.
Yet, if something else did happen while they were all off the base, it would allow him to instantly dismiss from his list of suspects, his five trainee colleagues.
Unless, of course, the traitor was not working alone.
Which was always a possibility.
"C'mon Major," Frank Campbell again cajoled. "You earned it."
"We promise not to get too rowdy …."
"Or keep you up past your beddie byes time …."
"Don't know about all of you, but right now, I'd kill for a steak dinner with all the works!" This drew an impatient glare from Dobbs. "Oh yeah, no meat, right, Rog. Hard to find fish out here, but maybe they will have some bean curd or something!" This remark drew sniggers which again made Dobbs glare.
When would they get tired of bugging him about what he did and did not eat!
Why the hell was it so funny anyway? He just didn't see the joke.
"We can have a quiet game of pool. Maybe watch a little TV, sink a couple of beers."
"Maybe even get the old man a glass of warm milk …."
"Or cocoa …."
"You don't need me," Dobbs began, resenting the implication that he was past it, that he didn't know how to have a good time, or he was too straight laced, and would spoil any fun the guys might get into.
"One for all …. And all for one," Chuck McCrea cut him off before he could protest further.
"Yeah, top brass seem to think that we need to do a little more bonding. Not quite gelled as a unit yet. Wonder where they got that idea?"
"You got other plans, Rog? Hey, maybe he hooked himself up with a lady? Plenty of 'em around, some of 'em not too fussy either! Most of 'em only joined the service because they love to see a man in a uniform!" McCrea piped up again now, fixing Dobbs with a speculative look that told the Major that the younger man was far more perceptive than he might have otherwise given him credit for.
He had been there when Dobbs had pulled Sara Sykes out of that smoke filled lab yesterday.
Had he noticed the way the two of them acted around each other, and put two and two together?
It would have been hard for anyone standing within a country mile to have missed the kiss they had shared, Dobbs told himself angrily, suddenly finding himself hoping that he wasn't about to blush.
"Not such a bad thing, in your case, McCrea, as the uniform is the only thing you got going for ya!"
"And now that you are a bone fide hero an all …." Shaw gushed and Dobbs raised his eyes heavenward in exasperation once more.
"What's the matter, Major? Too good to drink with us?" Gene Webber sneered, and Dobbs found himself disliking the man even more, if that was at all possible.
"Now, now, Gene, behave. Play nice, or we may all get thrown out of kindergarten."
"Yeah, leave the guy alone. Besides, he's right, we don't need him along, peeing on our parade. If his heart isn't in it, he'll only spoil it for the rest of us."
"Yeah, let him go to bed early …. With a good book."
"Who needs him anyway? Face like that, he'd frighten off all the ladies before they could come close ..." Again Gene Webber made his dislike of Dobbs known to anyone who would pay attention.
"Stow that crap, sailor," Lieutenant Commander Chuck McCrea jumped in again now, not wanting the obvious animosity between this particular Navy flier, toward his Army counterpart, to get out of hand, and saw it as his responsibility to pull his Navy colleague's head in.
"Well?" This, from the last member of the group, Major Guy Anders, USAF, who had remained silent as he watched the proceedings, his face an unreadable mask.
Of all the trainees, Anders had been the one that Dobbs had found hardest to get a handle on.
Even all these weeks on, and even after what the two of them had gone through together, he was still pretty much a closed book.
Roger Dobbs finally let out a soft sigh of resignation and shrugged his shoulders non commitally.
Maybe he was being just a little too suspicious.
After all, it wouldn't be very clever for their saboteur to try something else, so close to the fire in the lab.
And if it turned out that the traitor was one of his trainee colleagues, he would be able to observe if they met up with anyone off the base.
He might get lucky, and come up with a lead.
"Why not?" Dobbs finally acquiesced.
"Yeah!"
"Way to go Rog …."
"Need to wash the sand out of my mouth …."
"After yesterday man, I'd have thought you'd want to taste something other than smoke, and the usual lousy coffee around here."
"Me, I'm tired of the smell of aviation fuel and boiled cabbage," Major Malcolm Shaw, USAF, chuckled.
"Is that what that stink is? I thought it was your socks, man …."
"Funny …."
"Right, that's settled then!"
"If we go now, we may even get to see some of the local girls, before they turn into pumpkins!"
"Man, it's been so long since I saw a civilian girl, I don't care if she looks like a horse …."
This comment caused raucous laughter amongst the other pilots, but as he tagged along at the rear of the group, Roger Dobbs found himself fighting down a pang of disappointment and regret.
He had hoped to go to the mess hall, to see if he could catch sight of Sara Sykes.
After what had happened between them yesterday, he had kept his distance. Primarily, because he had not wanted to see regret and rejection in her lovely eyes.
Torn between his need to know that she had recovered from the shock of yesterday, and self preservation.
Dobbs had hoped to at least catch a glimpse of her before he had been allowed to leave the medical facility this morning, given the all clear after gulping down half the swimming pool and then inhaling all that smoke the previous afternoon, but he hadn't been able to spot her and was too self conscious to ask where she had been put.
So, he had no choice but to leave the medical facility hoping that he might get a glimpse of her during one of the meal breaks during the day, just to satisfy himself that she was alright, but she had not put in an appearance either at breakfast or for lunch, and he had begun to suspect that her very over protective colleagues in the medical wing had confined her there over night, making sure that she did not suffer any ill effects from smoke inhalation, and had then probably suggested that she take the rest of the day off, to rest.
Part of him had wanted to see her in the hospital last night, wanting to make sure for himself that she really was alright, but he had known that it would not seem proper.
A little too forward ….
Even if he had been the one to pull her out of harm's way.
He had had all day to analyse how he felt about Sara Sykes.
And had finally come to the conclusion that it had nothing to do with feeling responsible for her, after saving her life.
And more to do with that strange sensation he got in the pit of his stomach every time she gazed at him out of those exotic, ever changing violet blue eyes of hers.
He had kept himself busy all day, with classes and tests and the obligatory chats with the psychologists and psychiatrists, who were constantly checking to make sure that he and the rest of his colleagues weren't losing the plot ….
Even more important, after the incident in the lab yesterday.
Maybe this leave off the base, if only for a few hours, had been their idea, to relieve some of the tension, he thought to himself now, as he strode along the corridor behind the rest of the team.
A change of scenery, away from the claustrophobic environs of the base and the close confines in which they were all forced to live and work.
And at the same time, Dobbs told himself that it was maybe not such a bad thing that he had not had a chance to talk with Dr Sykes.
For he had the strangest feeling that he would have made a grade A1 fool of him self if he had tried.
If, he hadn't already, that was.
He still wasn't sure what exactly was going on there.
And, he told himself, he did not have the time to find out.
There were far more important things to concentrate his attention on than a certain smart, sexy, feisty lady doctor ….
"Hey, Cinderella, what do you think I should wear to the ball?" Malcolm Shaw teased Frank Campbell now, and the burst of raucous laughter brought Dobb's thoughts back to the here and now.
"What about that French Maid's uniform you have tucked away in the back of your locker?" Chuck McCrea dead panned.
"Dress uniform, guys," Eugene Webber informed, and this drew a loud, collective groan from the ensemble. "We may be off duty, but we're still in the service. That means looking and acting appropriately."
"Ah shucks, and I had this new pair of high heels I just wanted to test drive …."
"Ok guys, you have thirty minutes to get cleaned up and report up top. I'll go see what the top brass are doing to organise us some transport. If you're not there after five minutes, we will go without you," Webber grew serious now, hoping that Shaw and McCrea would take the hint.
"Should we synchronize our watches, Sir!" Malcolm Shaw teased and Chuck McCrea let out a loud guffaw, disabusing Webber of any notion that he might have had in his head that he could order either one of them around.
They were already in a party mood and didn't intend to allow anyone to spoil their fun.
"We'll be there," Frank Campbell confirmed now, steering an indignant Webber away from the clowns, McCrea and Shaw.
"All of us," he added for good measure, throwing Roger Dobbs a meaningful look, as they all headed off down the corridor toward the showers.
Twenty minutes later, Roger Dobbs reported to the main reception area of the Admin Block and rode the elevator up to the surface, after noticing the admiring glances that he got from the female Navy Lieutenant, looking smart and efficient in her Navy whites, manning the reception desk, in Mary Harmon's absence, her shift having finished at five o'clock on the dot.
He had made an effort with his appearance, even though his heart was not really in the outing this evening, knowing that he was expected to make a good impression for the sake of the Army, in his clean and pressed dress uniform, cap placed at a jaunty angle on his head and shoes shined to mirror perfection.
He did not have long to wait for the others to join him, and soon the group exited the Admin block and headed for the motor pool, where Captain Bristow had ordered an ancient, lumbering, open topped truck to be at their disposal, driven by a smartly dressed young Ensign, and accompanied by a Navy Shore Patrol officer, the Navy's equivalent of Military Police, his presence there to act as a deterrent and make sure that during their furlough to the small town of Pinamint, the servicemen, whilst having a good time, maintained peaceful relations with the locals and the tourists alike.
As the sun disappeared beyond the distant horizon, setting the desert vista afire, and painting the sky with the prettiest and most vibrant shades of gold and orange and pink and purple, the truck pulled away from the compound and rattled and bounced along the rough, uneven road.
Dobbs found himself being tossed around in the back of the open topped truck, seated beside Frank Campbell and Malcolm Shaw who, as they made the trip to the nearest watering hole, was singing a ribald song at the top of his voice and trying to encourage his colleagues to join him when he got to the chorus.
Throughout the journey, Dobbs found his mind wandering.
He loved the desert at night, and Lord knows he had seen enough of it that way these past few weeks, but with the rapidly darkening sky, clear and vast, looking like a piece of smooth black velvet smattered with fiery, sparkling diamonds, and the moon so big and bright it looked as if you could just reach out and touch it ….
He found himself thinking that he would have loved to share it ….
With Sara Sykes ….
Then, dragging his thoughts back to the matter at hand, covertly watched the others as they laughed and teased and tried to guess who would get lucky with one of the local girls first.
Trying to work out which, if any of them, might be the traitor.
Shaw and McCrea had seemed to hit if off from the beginning. The jokers in the pack, a better double act than Abbot and Costello, but, both had demonstrated a fierce loyalty and ambition and the ability to do what needed to be done when the need arose.
Anders ….
He still didn't know about him yet.
He was so closed.
Not unlike himself, Dobbs thought.
Shut off, introverted and not inclined to invite any kind of personal involvement with the others.
Not easy to like ….
Even harder to trust ….
The way that he had reacted under pressure had softened Dobbs attitude toward him, just a little.
Gene Webber, their self appointed leader, strong sense of right and wrong, and a devotion to duty that was admirable. A stickler for the rules, he had his own code of conduct that he lived by, and he prided himself in always conducting himself with the utmost dignity and decorum.
His instant dislike of him, Dobbs suspected, was due to the fact that Webber had felt threatened by an older man with more experience and time in the service, joining their ranks, and possibly trying to muscle in as top dog, citing seniority.
In plain English, he felt threatened, having grown accustomed to seeing himself as the group's unofficial leader.
When that had not happened, and Dobbs had happily settled in as just one of the guys, Webber had seemed to lose any respect for him, probably deciding that Dobbs was a light weight, bleeding heart do-gooder, who felt that is was more important to fit in with the other men than to make his mark in the leadership stakes.
Dobbs didn't care why Webber disliked him so.
The feeling was mutual.
He found nothing likeable or endearing about the man as a human being, but had a grudging respect for him as a pilot.
Even if he was a Navy pilot.
Still, their mutual dislike made it hard for Dobbs to decide whether Webber could be the traitor or not. Just because he was cold, callous and arrogant, it didn't naturally follow that he was a traitor and a murderer.
Just as the fact that he and Anders had been involved in that serious incident on the airfield, it didn't automatically follow that either man was now considered to be less likely to be a traitor.
If it hadn't been an accident, if someone had tampered with the aircraft, then it had been a damned good way of drawing suspicion away from him self.
A pretty crazy thing to do, especially if things had gone wrong, and they had both wound up dead.
Dobbs knew that he was completely innocent, but as for Anders …. Well, the jury was still out on that one.
And Dobbs knew that he had to keep his own personal feelings out of it. Even with the guys he had come to like, like Shaw and McCrea.
And Frank Campbell.
His bunk mate.
The Viking god, Thor.
Likeable, affable, intelligent and one helluva pilot too, he was perhaps the one man in the group that he had gotten close to in any way, but, Dobbs suspected, it had more to do with the uniform that they had in common than anything else.
They shared a room, and therefore had to co-exist peacefully in a small space, so they had both made an effort not to irritate or anger the other, respecting each other's space and privacy whenever possible.
As men, they were a mixed bunch, some easier to like and get along with than others, but as pilots and military service men, they were the best of the best.
If push came to shove, in a dogfight, Dobbs knew that he would trust any one of them with his life.
Just as they could all trust him to be there for them, should they need his assistance.
That was what made it so damned hard to believe that any one of them might be the traitor.
A cold blooded murder.
They were all, quite naturally, a little wound up about the recent events in the lab, and their nerves tightly strung as they endeavoured to keep up with the constant pressures of the project.
This latest incident had also been ruled an accident.
A power surge that had caused a short in a fuse box, blowing the box door open and sending sparks flying into a nearby pile of boxes containing alcohol soaked antiseptic wipes, and wads of cotton wool, which had resulted in the fire, but the trainees were not stupid, and were perfectly capable of linking these niggling little incidents together, just as he was, and coming to the conclusion that, at the very least, the project had some kind of jinx.
This outing into town tonight was probably just what they all needed.
A little normality in an otherwise crazy world.
As they finally arrived at their destination, Pinamint, Roger Dobbs wondered how anyone could go so far as to call the place a town. It was a cluster of buildings, spread out on either side of the highway, with one bar which was part of the local hotel, and not a whole lot else.
Still, he supposed, if you were thirsty enough, this place could look like the most exotic oasis, hidden away in the middle of the desert.
It was also so remote it was hardly likely that they would encounter any trouble.
The proprietor of the bar would undoubtedly think that his numbers had come up on the lottery with the arrival of six unexpected customers, all with money in their pockets and the kind of thirsts that only service in the armed forces could build.
"Mind your manners, ladies," the Navy Shore Patrol officer jibed as they bailed off the back of the truck and sauntered toward the bar.
"First round's on me," Chuck McCrea offered as they pushed open the door revealing the interior of the bar, which had the lights turned down low and the jukebox turned down even lower.
"First round? You mean only round, don't ya, Chuck?" Malcolm Shaw teased, nudging him in the ribs as they tumbled through the door.
"I'll give you a hand," Eugene Webber offered and both Navy men headed toward the small bar leaving Dobbs, Campbell, Anders and Shaw to look around the dimly lit room.
"Ah ha!" Malcolm Shaw exclaimed, spotting a battered old pool table in the back of the room and hurried over to start gathering together cues and balls, and was slowly followed by Anders.
"Let's find somewhere to sit," Dobbs suggested to Campbell, casting his eyes around to find an empty booth.
There were plenty to choose from.
There were one or two locals occupying the booths, and side tables, nursing mugs of beer with condensation running down the sides of the glasses and wicker baskets filled with beer nuts or Pretzels or fries.
However, as he scanned the room for the darkest and quietest booth to claim, wondering if this constituted a busy night in town, Roger Dobbs spotted two things that surprised the hell out of him.
The first was Sara Sykes, clad in casual jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt, her hair tied back in an intricately woven plait which hung down her back almost to her hips, sitting in one of the back booths, a glass of orange juice on the table before her ….
And she was not alone.
Her companion was a man of about forty, tall, heavy set and with dark hair slicked back off his face, and a nose which looked as though it had not been a stranger to a fist over the years, crooked and bent and had probably been broken several times.
They appeared to be deeply engrossed in each other, listening intently whenever one of them spoke, voices low so as not to be overheard, as they leaned in closer, and for a brief instant, Dobbs felt his anger flare.
Dammit!
He had been so worried about her all day.
And here she was, with some other guy!
And, after what had happened between them yesterday!
Then he was angry with himself, briefly.
He should have known that someone like Sara Sykes would not be alone.
And what had happened between them yesterday was fuelled by fear and relief and adrenalin.
She could have died, and he had saved her.
All of these things flashed through his mind in a matter of seconds, and then he quickly dismissed them, for there was something else that he needed to double check.
He scanned the room once more, and yes, there was one other patron of interest to him, sitting at the bar on a high stool, nursing a mug of beer and what looked like a bourbon chaser.
And Roger Dobbs recognised the man's back, grizzled grey hair and battered red silk baseball cap immediately.
Dominic Santini.
As Dobbs watched his two Navy colleagues trying to attract the attention of the bartender, Dominic Santini swivelled around on his stool and, for the briefest of moments, made eye contact with him.
Neither man showed any sign of acknowledgement to the other, and Santini returned his attention to his drinks, propping one elbow up on the bar counter and pushing at his nearly empty beer glass with a gnarled brown finger.
"What's a guy gotta do around here to get another drink?" Santini slurred drunkenly, and Dobbs raised an eyebrow in amusement.
Time to sit down and watch the show.
Dominic Santini, centre stage.
It was obvious Santini was here for a reason, and didn't have time to waste in tap dancing around to contrive a way to get him, Dobbs, alone.
So ….
Wait for it ….
Wait for it ….
"I said …. What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here!" Santini's voice rose a notch and he slammed his now empty beer glass down on to the counter top, shattering it into hundreds of tiny, diamond like pieces.
"Hey, take it easy Gramps," Frank Campbell, who had now taken up his place in the booth called out. "Guy only has one pair of hands."
"Who asked your opinion …. And don't call me Gramps …. Fought in two wars so you can have the privilege of calling me Gramps …. I don't think so …. Gimme another beer!"
Santini roared, and Dobbs watched as the other two patrons, in the rear booth now both turned their heads to watch with curiosity, and for the briefest instant, he made eye contact with Sara Sykes and was rewarded with a moment of satisfaction at the somewhat startled look in her eyes as she recognised him.
"Give the old man a beer, on us …. And maybe it'll keep him quiet," Chuck McCrea offered now as the bar tender watched, with obvious anxiety, the build up of tension in the older man further down the bar, probably able to see what was going to happen next.
"I can buy my own damned beer, Navy!" The last word was uttered almost as though it was an expletive and Roger Dobbs rolled his eyes heavenward.
Here it comes ….
"Shouldn't we do something?" Frank Campbell whispered to him out of the side of his mouth.
"Only if you want your head handed to you on a tray," Dobbs mumbled back.
"But …."
"You don't think the Navy can handle it?" He retorted sarcastically as he arched an eyebrow.
"Whatsamatter with ya, huh? My money not as good as the Navy's? I didn't fight in two wars to have to stand in line behind the damned Navy to get a glass of beer!" Santini bellowed, wobbling drunkenly on his barstool, courting disaster, or, so it seemed.
"Here Pops," Chuck McCrea slid a full mug of beer gently down the highly polished counter top, but instead of gently coming to a stop just within the old guy's reach, somehow it managed to find its way into Dominic Santini's lap.
"Mamma Mia!"
The old man roared, leaping off his bar stool to try to avoid the contents of the glass settling in his lap, but it was too late and his pants were soaked with ice cold beer in seconds.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It was an accident …." McCrea yelped as a red faced and extremely threatening looking Dominic Santini, threw his stool over out of his way as he stalked the short distance between them and without a pause, rolled up his big, meaty right fist and took a huge, wild swing at McCrea's jaw.
Missing ….
On purpose, Dobbs was sure, but Chuck McCrea didn't know that, as he ducked and dodged and tried to get out of the way as another wild swinging fist, this time a left hook, came in his direction.
"Hey man, look, it was an accident. I didn't mean for it to spill all over you. I thought it would be a nice gesture. Buy you a beer. Listen to your war stories," McCrea babbled, taking a defensive step backward.
"Don't patronise me, you little worm!" Santini was swinging wildly now, and getting more and more red in the face with each attempted punch.
Eugene Webber had made a discreet withdrawal and was standing just a little ways away, trying hard not to laugh out loud as his colleague kept trying to avoid getting hit, by accident, by a lucky punch from the old geezer.
"Major!" Frank Campbell insisted in his ear now and Dobbs let out a ragged sigh. "Don't you think we ought to do something? Before that SP officer comes in here to find out what the ruckus is all about, and decides to call the cops …."
"Be my guest …." Dobbs waved his hand and made to move out of the way for the younger man, then noticed Frank Campbell looking from the Major's silver oak leaves on his shoulders to his own Captain's insignia.
"Alright. Alright," Dobbs sighed impatiently, scanning the bar to see what kind of reaction the little scene was getting from the other patrons, noting the amusement on the faces of a couple of the younger guys who were sipping from mugs of beer at tables around the bar, silently routing for the older man, and biding their time to see if the other uniformed men would get drawn in to the ruckus.
Dobbs didn't think that there was much chance that it would get ugly, but, he also couldn't take the chance that someone might decide to get brave and wade in there to help.
"You round up the guys. I think we wore out our welcome already. Best beat a hasty retreat before the locals decide to invite themselves to the dance. I'll try to calm the old coot down and get him cleaned up …. And try to smooth things out with the bartender," Roger Dobbs sighed deeply once more, watching as Dominic Santini loomed large over the Navy officer, his usually placid features flushed and twisted into a venomous, murderous expression.
"Wait for me at the truck, and keep that SP busy, and, try not to look so damned guilty, Frank. We didn't actually do anything wrong," Dobbs reminded, wrestling with a smirk, as Campbell slid out of the booth and beckoned to the other two officers from the Air Force to collect Webber and get the hell out of Dodge.
Discretion, in this case, definitely being the better part of valour!
Dominic Santini really had the bit between his teeth now, indeed, he hadn't had this much fun since he and Hawke's father had been in Europe, single handedly kicking Hitler's ass across France and all the way right back to Germany ….
He lined up to take another punch, aware, as he knew that he was meant to be, of Stringfellow Hawke, wearing the uniform of a Major in the US Army, and looking very muscular and healthy, impressive and smart, and too much at home in it too, he noted, came up slowly and purposefully behind him, and carefully grabbed his arm and gently held it up behind his back, just as he was about to throw the punch, a real haymaker, which, he suspected, would have landed squarely on the young Navy fella's jaw.
"Easy Soldier," Dobbs spoke in a low, deep voice that had much more authority in it than if he had yelled at Santini.
The older man, sensing when Hawke released his grip on his arm, made a huge show of struggling and fighting the younger man off and turning on him to glare at him.
"'Hattenshun!" Dobbs bawled, stopping Santini mid stride. "Don't you know to salute an officer, Soldier!" He barked out now, effectively stopping the older man dead in his tracks.
"Sir!" Santini immediately threw back his shoulders and raised his hand in salute. "Major, Sir!"
"What rank were you?"
"Sergeant."
"Well, stand down, Sergeant. We don't want any trouble. We just came in for a quiet drink and didn't mean to step on anyone's toes," This the Major said loud enough for the bar tender to hear, as well as Sara Sykes and her companion in the rear booth, who were, it appeared trying to leave discreetly by a back door, Dobbs noted, as he glanced at McCrea and then flicked his eyes toward the front exit, indicating that the younger man should beat it.
"So, we will leave, nice and peaceable like, and just to show you there are no hard feelings, I'll stand you a round of drinks. One veteran to another. Agreed?" Dobbs offered calmly and in sincere tones, not wanting to further antagonise the older man.
"Since when were the Army and the Navy drinking buddies?" Santini glowered at the Army Major defiantly, although he held his rigid stance to attention in due deference to the other man's rank.
"It may have escaped your notice, but we do all work for the same paymaster. Have you never heard the old expression, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?" Major Dobbs lowered his voice, just a little now, and smiled conspiratorially at the old man, then raised his voice slightly once more as he continued.
"A little friendly rivalry over a football game is one thing, Sir, but the professional men and women serving in the armed forces of the United States of America can rise above those things, when duty calls."
Dobbs watched as Santini rolled his eyes heavenward and tried not to laugh out loud, and marvelled at his own ability to keep a straight face.
"So, will you accept my offer of good will, Sir? A round of drinks …. One combat veteran to another."
"You fought combat?"
"Sir. Yes, Sir," Dobbs confirmed quietly. "Three tours," he added for good measure.
"Ok," Santini agreed somewhat ruefully, noting out of the corner of his eye as the other young fella hastily took his leave.
"Good. But first, I think we should try and get you cleaned up. Man, Sergeant, you are one mean drunk, you know that?"
"Sir! Yes, Sir!" Santini roared with laughter, as though he had just been paid the greatest compliment anyone could have given him. "So where did you serve then, sonny?"
"Vietnam, Sir …."
He allowed the Major to take his arm once more and staggered drunkenly as Dobbs guided him out back toward the men's room.
Once inside, Santini went over to the row of sinks and turned the cold water on full blast while Stringfellow Hawke checked each of the stalls to make sure that they were completely alone.
When they were satisfied that it was safe to talk, both men grinned at each other and then burst into laughter as Santini strode over to Hawke and dragged him into a strong bear hug, clapping him jovially on the back, pummelling the breath out of his young friend, before putting him away from him and taking a step back so that he could take a good look at him.
"You enjoyed that," Hawke smiled, genuinely pleased to see his old friend, even if he was puzzled by his sudden appearance in the desert bar.
"Sure did. Kind of a pity you had to break it up," Santini pulled Hawke back into his arms once more and gave him a huge squeeze. "Good to see ya, kid."
"You too, Dom."
"So, this is where you've been hiding yourself?" Santini said as he drew away from Hawke once again, and this time Hawke recognised his tone of voice.
Disapproval.
Disappointment.
Anger.
"What's the matter? Couldn't pick up a phone and give your old friend a call, just to put him out of his misery?"
His expression was one of accusation and quiet despair, and Hawke knew what it must have cost his old friend, not knowing where he was, or what danger might have befallen him.
"No, wait, I forgot …. You were away, visiting Aunt Lillian."
"Dom," Hawke let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh and begged his old friend to understand him, with a penetrating look.
When the older man did not relent or relax his angry bearing, Hawke let out another deep sigh, this time, of resignation.
"You're here, I assume, because Archangel sent you?" He kept his voice low and neutral now, because, deep down inside, he knew that Dominic Santini had the right to be a little pissed with him.
He was rewarded with a half shrug from Santini.
"Therefore, I assume, he must have told you something of why I am here, and what I am trying to do."
Again a shrug rose from Santini's shoulders.
"And, he must have told you that it was his decision, not mine, to keep you and the Lady out of this."
"He did," Santini snorted. "And since when did he become your puppet master? Pulling all your strings?" Santini mocked now.
"Dom," Hawke threw him an appealing look. "He didn't give me any choice," he sighed deeply, when Santini refused to soften his stance.
"And I suppose he put a gun to your head to make you lie to me?"
"I didn't lie …."
"Aunt Lillian …." Santini reminded in a cold voice.
"Dom, I knew that you would understand. I knew that you would know that I was involved in something that I couldn't tell you about. I didn't lie …. Well, not exactly. I …. Ok, I, um, misled you. Just a little. I didn't mean to hurt you, or want you to think you were being shut out. But, I wasn't the one in control. I'm still not the one who is in control. Now, can we please move on?"
"I was worried sick about you all this time! Geez, I didn't know if you'd been thrown in jail, and Michael was as much help as ... As …." Santini blustered.
"I missed you too, Dom," Hawke interrupted, wrestling with a smile now, knowing that the hardest part was over and that Dominic Santini had gotten it off his chest and was now returning to character.
"Do you think I've enjoyed being back in this uniform again? Not knowing whom I can and can't trust? Without backup? Dammit, I was never more pleased to see anyone in my life than I was to see you sitting at that bar tonight," Hawke let out a deep, ragged sigh. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. Truly, I am, and I'm sorry if I have disappointed you too, but I really did not have any choice."
Dominic Santini watched the hurt and the conflict on his young friend's face, and knew that he was being straight with him.
Time to let him off the hook.
"So why are you all here, tonight?" Santini decided to change the subject. "I've been to every bar in the area, every night for more than a week, on the off chance, and then suddenly, tonight, bingo …."
"There was another incident on the base yesterday. A fire in one of the labs, nothing serious," Hawke brushed off Santini's concerned look now. "I wasn't there when it started, so don't ask …. And the top brass have ruled it as an accident. But, I guess they thought we could all do with a little R 'n R, away from the base," he explained and Santini nodded in understanding.
"So?" Santini glared at the younger man now.
"So?" Hawke frowned back.
"So tell me the rest of it," Santini snarled, and Hawke knew that he should have known better than to try to hide something from his dear old friend, even if it had been to spare him pain and heartache.
The older man could read him like a book.
And so a little awkwardly, Hawke found himself recounting the tale of his near miss in the jet fighter with Anders a couple of weeks back, sticking to the bare facts, trying to play down the seriousness of it, but Dominic Santini was no fool, and when he was done talking, Stringfellow Hawke could see the anxiety and concern etched into the older man's face as he remained silent.
"So?" Hawke prompted after a few moments of awkward silence and Santini frowned at him.
"So?"
"So, you being here, it must be important. Archangel wouldn't have asked you to come if it wasn't important."
"Correct," Santini's tone remained cool, but his rigid stance softened, just a little now, enough to indicate to Hawke that they were getting back to the way things usually were between them.
"And before you ask, yes, I did tear a strip off him too, for dragging you into this, alone, and for keeping me out of the loop."
Santini spoke softly now and this told Hawke more than all his raised voices and ranting Italian outbursts, just how hurt and worried his old friend had been about his dropping out of sight like that.
"I understand that a crazy old coot like me would find it kinda hard to pass muster in the Army these days, but I feel sure that he could have found some way for me to be close by …. For back up."
"And you told him so," Hawke smirked now, well able to picture Santini giving the Deputy Director of Special Projects at The Firm, a healthy piece of his mind, no doubt punctuated by several long and voluble bursts of Italian expletives.
"I certainly did," Santini mustered a grin now.
"So? Is that why you're here, Dom? To tell me that he's finally going to get someone in on the inside, to cover my six?"
"Sorry kid," Santini let out a deep sigh now. "Seems Uncle Sam has closed the door in his face. Been giving him the run-around for weeks now, fobbing him off with tales that they aren't assigning any new staff to the project, no matter what the reason. Too antsy about any more new faces showing up, in light of everything that's happened. He don't like it, but he's having to swallow it …. For now."
"So, I'm on my own," Hawke sighed deeply.
"You're on your own …." Santini scoffed and rolled his rheumy grey eyes heavenward. "Alone he says …. Kid ….When are you gonna learn, you ain't never on your own?" He fixed cool grey eyes on Hawke now. "You've got me. Always," he told the young man in a soft, solemn voice, those grey eyes sparkling with the love he felt for the young man, clearly visible for him to see. "And I don't have to take orders from anyone."
"Dom," Hawke protested weakly, for he was secretly glad to have the older man in his corner.
Taking some reassurance from having the old team back together again.
After a fashion.
Even though it did give him something else to worry over.
The old man's safety and welfare when he couldn't always be around him to protect him.
"Stow it, String …. Or should I call you, Roger?"
"Just don't call me Rog …. If you want to keep your teeth," Hawke chuckled, then grew serious quickly. "Dom …."
"Look, like it or not, I'm stayin'," Santini grew defiant once again, his back straightening rigidly once more. "We can work something out …. About contacting each other, and I'll be close at hand, if you should need the Lady. I'm staying, so get used to the idea, Soldier."
"Sir, yes Sir!"
This time Hawke's smile was wide and genuine, reaching his deep blue eyes and making them sparkle.
"Thanks Dom. So?"
"So what?"
"Archangel's message?" Hawke prompted once again, rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation. Sometimes, the old man was just the limit. "If you're not here to tell me about back up …."
"Oh yeah …. Well kiddo, it seems someone ran a background check on you, er, I mean, Roger Dobbs."
"Only to be expected."
Hawke sighed deeply now and watched as Dominic Santini sauntered over to the nearest sink and ran his hands under the fast flowing cold water, then grabbed a handful of paper towels and dampened them a little before swatting ineffectively at the beer stains on his pants, with them.
Archangel had told him as much, Hawke now recalled. That was why Marella had gone to such great lengths to build a solid background cover story that would be believable and would stand up to any and every kind of scrutiny.
"He thought you should know."
"Any idea who?"
"No."
"Terrific …."
"Yeah, and this is the guy you expect to bail you out of trouble," Santini sneered now, giving up with the wad of damp tissues as he was only making matters worse.
"He doesn't have any ideas at all?"
"Nope. Just that somebody ran your …. Er …. I mean Roger's name through official channels, and it got flagged up on their system too. You got any thoughts?" Hawke shrugged in response.
"Top brass, maybe. They all seem to have an inflated opinion of their importance out there. But, new guy, any CO would want to double check on the official line, especially if his service record didn't show up with him. He took his sweet time over it though, although, Jardine strikes me as a hardnosed kinda guy, and he would want to know what kind of officer he'd been sent, to make sure that he didn't let him or the Army down. As for Bristow and Williams, both might have been curious enough to see if they could dig up a little dirt. Something to hold over Jardine."
"Or the bad guy …. More likely," Santini pointed out. "You stepped on anyone's toes lately?"
"No more than usual. Although, there is one guy out there who ain't ever gonna be Roger Dobbs best buddy," Hawke quipped. "Lieutenant Commander Eugene Webber, US Navy. Not the sailor who squared up to you though, Sarg," Hawke grinned now. "The long and the short of it is, Dom, I've been doing as I was told. I've kept my head down and my eyes open."
"And?"
"And, I'm damned if I know."
"Webber?"
"No. My gut tells me he's about as stand up a guy as you can get. He just doesn't like the idea of someone else muscling in on his authority. Likes to think he's top dog."
"Aah. You want me to get Michael to do a little digging?"
"Guess it wouldn't hurt. In the meantime, I'll just have to be more observant and careful. Someone obviously got curious enough to check Roger out. Guess I'll know soon enough if they didn't like what they learned about him."
"Yeah, that's what bothers me, kid."
"I'll be ok, Dom," Hawke assured now.
"Anything you want me to pass on to Michael?"
"Yeah. The food sucks."
"Can't fish for trout in the desert, huh?" Santini chuckled at the sour look on Hawke's face now. "Anything else? Anyone you want checking out besides Webber?"
"No."
Hawke would dearly have loved to have asked for more background information on Sara Sykes, but then wondered if he really should tie up the Firm's resources on his own personal interest in her.
Yes, he supposed, he could have argued to Archangel that he had a legitimate reason for checking her out.
After all, she had been the most prominent victim of the latest incident.
But he didn't really believe that she had been the prime target, and he certainly didn't seriously think that she might be involved in the sabotage of the project.
She hadn't even been at Thunderbird when all of this had kicked off.
Still ….
He couldn't dismiss the idea out of hand completely.
Because …
Like it or not ….
No matter how much he might not want to have to believe it.
It was possible that she might have been an accomplice.
The saboteur might have decided that he needed someone else to draw the heat off of him, and had gotten her to cause another accident, very cleverly making sure that she was right there in the heart of it, and thus drawing suspicion off her too.
No-one believing that she would deliberately put herself in danger like that.
Just as no one would believe he or Anders would deliberately put themselves in danger in that fighter jet ….
But ….
Hawke just didn't buy it.
It didn't feel right.
Putting his own personal feelings for her aside.
It still didn't feel right.
His gut was telling him that she was as straight as an arrow.
That what you saw was what you got.
Sincere.
Honest.
Trustworthy.
He would stake his life on it.
And, if he was wrong?
Then it really might come down to that.
Staking his life on it.
No.
She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Michael ain't gonna like it. He had hoped that you might have something by now."
"I don't like it either, Dom …. And I'd hoped to be far far away from here by now myself," Hawke ground out, leaving the older man with no doubts that this was in any way a vacation for him.
"I can't help it if they all seem to be pretty stand up kinda guys now can I? But, I haven't been around them long enough to really know any one of them that well, and if I have to check out every damned man and woman on the base, I'll be there until hell freezes over. Do you have any idea just how many people there are out there, Dom?"
"Enough to keep you pretty busy for a little while. Not enough to keep you out of trouble, I'm guessing."
"That's what I'm here for, Dom. To look for trouble," Hawke reminded coolly.
"And you don't ever seem to have any problem finding it," Santini countered.
"Does Archangel have anything helpful, for me?"
"Nah. Just thought you should know that someone has taken an interest in you. Thought it would help you to stay focused …. Keep you on your toes."
"I've got plenty of things to stay focused on and keeping me on my toes, Dominic. So, you staying in town?"
"This town?" Santini smirked then. "You gotta be kidding me, right? I booked a room in a motel a little ways down the highway."
He dumped the wad of shredded, damp tissue in the trash and reached into his pants back pocket, extracting a scrap of paper and handed it out to Hawke.
"My office number," he grinned as he watched Hawke glance down at the number, then fold the piece of paper and slip it into the back pocket of his own pants.
"The Lady?"
"She's fine. Ready to go whenever you give the go ahead."
"Good. Well, we'd better get out of here. Don't want to give the guys something else to speculate about."
"Hey, I'm not that easy! Even if I was that kind of guy!" Santini let out a loud guffaw as he noted the look on Hawke's face.
"You know something, Dom …. You and I have gotta stop meeting like this," Hawke sighed deeply again.
"So, what else are the guys speculating about?" Santini arched an eyebrow in curiosity now.
"The usual stuff," Hawke replied vaguely.
"Ah ha! The pretty lady in the back booth," he grinned. "I saw you looking at her …. And the way she was looking back at you."
"Dom .…"
"So, who is she?"
"Just a lady doctor, from out there at the base," Hawke said in dismissive tones now.
"Does this lady doctor have a name?"
"Sara Sykes. Did you see the guy she was with?"
"Jealous, huh?"
"Dom …."
Now there was a warning in Hawke's voice and Santini had heard the tone before, and knew that it meant that he should back off.
"The guy?"
"About six five, heavy set, dark hair, face like a very bad boxer?"
"That's the one."
"Can't say I noticed him," Santini chuckled. "But, her? Well, kinda hard to miss that one," he whistled softly through the gap in his teeth, grinning broadly, then pulled himself together as he noted the murderous, impatient look on Stringfellow Hawke's face.
"Ok, they didn't look all lovey dovey, if that was what you are asking. They had a drink, a long serious looking kinda chat, but then you and the guys arrived and …. Well, I couldn't help noticing them trying to sneak out the back door," he regarded Hawke thoughtfully now, realising that there was something in the young man's eyes that he couldn't read. "Wanna talk about it?"
"The fire in the lab yesterday, I know I said it was nothing serious, but Sara was caught in it. Breathed in a lot of smoke."
"Don't tell me. You went charging in there and rescued her," Santini let out a deep sigh. Hawke made no answer, just shrugged his shoulders and again Santini sighed.
"You and that damned hero complex," he chastised but Hawke could see pride sparkling in his grey eyes now, along with the disapproval and concern that he was feeling.
"Dom, maybe you should ask Michael to check Dr Sykes out too. Discreetly. I can't figure why someone might want her hurt, or want her dead. But, I can't rule out the chance that the fire wasn't an accident, and someone meant to get her out of the picture."
"Ok."
"If she's a target Dom, I need to know. Might lead me to our bad guy. If he goes after her again …."
"Or if she's mixed up in this thing too, you might be able to use her to flush out the bad guy."
"Maybe," But the look on his face told Santini that he didn't believe that the good doctor was anything more than she appeared to be.
An innocent victim, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"I think she'll check out. But it won't hurt to make sure. And that is my only interest in her, Dom," Hawke added, noting the expression on his old friend's face now.
"Ok kid, I believe you," Santini grinned now. "She did look kinda cute …."
"I'm leaving now, Dom," Hawke growled before Santini went off on one of his jags. "And by the way, Sarg, I meant it when I said you were one mean drunk."
"Thanks!" Santini beamed. "Haven't had that much fun since me and your Dad …."
"Night, Dom. Keep in touch."
"Yeah, you too …. And watch your ass, kid."
"Oh, youbetchya!"
As he exited the men's room and casually sauntered over to the bar, where the bartender was carefully brushing up the tiny crystals of shattered beer glass that Dominic Santini had smashed on the countertop during his angry outburst, and the larger shards of glass littering the floor, from the mug that had smashed after depositing its contents all over the old man's lap, Roger Dobbs flicked his gaze casually around the now quiet bar, peace and order restored, and immediately noticed the absence of Sara Sykes and her companion.
No surprise there then.
"Hey, pal," he called out to the man who was now busy mopping up the spilled beer around the apron of the bar. "Set up a round for the old guy, for when he gets back," Dobbs waved a bill at the bartender, knowing that he had to make good on his offer to buy the old soldier a round of drinks, if only to make it look good in front of the locals. "And one for yourself," he added, then peeled off another couple of bills from the roll he had taken out of his back pocket. "And this is to pay for any damage …. And for your trouble."
The bar tender stopped mopping and straightening up a little, snatched the bills from between Dobbs fingers and then flicked his gaze toward the door to the street, and Roger Dobbs took this to be his cue to leave.
Do not pass go.
Do not collect two hundred dollars ….
"Goodnight," Dobbs mumbled and sighed deeply as he gave the bartender a brief salute and received another look that told him in no uncertain terms that he and his friends in uniform would not be welcomed back any time soon.
No problem.
The beer was probably warm anyway, Dobbs thought sourly to himself as he shoved open the door to the street and felt a waft of the now cooling desert breeze caress his cheek, as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and found Frank Campbell waiting for him.
"Everything ok back there, Major?"
"Sure," Dobbs assured, striding past the younger man and walking toward the truck, where the others were regarding him with varying degrees of curiosity or disappointment, the SP officer waiting to be filled in on the outcome of the incident in the bar. "The old coot just had one too many. It happens to the best of us, Frank."
"Major? Do we have a problem?" The Shore Patrolman asked in a businesslike tone of voice.
"No, Officer. Just an old geezer letting beer get the better of his temper and his tongue. It's ok now. I listened to him ranting on about back there in his day. He fought in Europe, in World War 2 and again in Korea …. Sometimes, officer, booze can be a great anaesthetic, and other times, it makes us forget our limitations, and we think we can take on the world again. He just wanted someone to show him a little respect, and to listen to his yarn."
"And the bartender?"
"I laid a few bills down to cover any damages, and for his trouble. Let's just say he didn't throw them back in my face, but, I don't think there will be a red carpet laid out for us here any time soon."
"Thank you, Major. Ok, ladies, lets move on out of here."
"Ah shucks, man, we can't go back to the base yet," someone complained. "The night is still young."
"And I'm still working on a thirst."
"Ok ladies, I guess we could try our luck down the highway a little …. And this time, play nice, huh?"
"We were on our best behaviour …."
"Sure you were, and I'm Sheena, Queen of the jungle. Now get in the truck ladies, and lets hustle."
"Sir, yes sir!"