Disclaimer - Airwolf, Hawke, Caitlin, and all its characters belong to Bellisarius and Universal, though I sure wish they were mine. Seb, Nicky and Amelia belong to Rachel500. Thank you for letting me borrow them. I admit I am borrowing the show,and characters. They retain all ownership and rights, etc. No infringement of copyright is intended.
Progeny -
Twelve years. Seemed hard to believe it'd been that long , or that short, Roper thought pouring himself a drink. "All gone in a day," he muttered. "What a waste."
Slinging the glass down, he thought back over the day. A day that had gone from bad to worse. First, he'd gotten run off the road by some crazy, and then had to get his brand new Grand Prix towed out of the ditch. Dismally, he doubted she'd ever be the same again.
From there he'd been late to work. That hadn't set too well with his CO. He'd barely made it back from the briefing room when the base chaplain had met him with news of his parents death in a single engine plane crash.
Now that was rich, he thought bitterly. Experienced jet fighter pilot dies in single engine puddle jumper crash.
Pacing, he walked the apartment feeling trapped in it. Restlessly he checked the fridge, the pantry, the mail pile - unable to settle. Finally, he paused at the mail.
Agitated he flipped through the mail. Bill, bill, junk, bill, junk. Wait a minute, he thought flipping back one envelope. "I don't remember seeing that earlier. Curious, he sliced the envelope open with a knife off the table.
A letter fluttered out, typed on a single sheet of lavender paper. Picking it up, Roper skimmed the type before going back and re-reading it in shock.
Dropping bonelessly to the kitchen chair, one hand buried in his short brown hair he skimmed it in a stupor once more.
"Not an accident," he whispered, "not an accident." He skimmed on, not thinking much of the warnings Nhi Huong had left him.
"Something I have to know?" he questioned, "now what?" Quickly, blue eyes flitted over the words, hurt and shock masking anger. "What does she mean, Sam wasn't my father? That's stupid. Of course, he was."
Reading on, the news was like a gut punch. Nhi Huong apologized for not telling him sooner, but now he needed to know. The man he was named after, the man who'd come to Russia and saved him all those years ago was in all reality his father - not Sam. Sam who'd raised him, cared for him, loved him.
Sucking in a breath, he read on - the words blurring. As far as Sam had known, he'd been his son. He hadn't known, neither had Stringfellow Hark. How could that be? he wondered. The words slid across the page before his eyes, but he got the gist. She and String had been separated in 'Nam before he'd been born, and she'd ended up marrying Sam. To tell him would've been the betrayal of a good man.
The point, Nhi Huong, stressed was, if she and Sam were dead, then he needed to know he was in danger too. The only man who could help him, the only person to be trusted was Stringfellow Hawke. Find String and watch his back.
Nervelessly, Stringfellow Roper let the letter slide from his fingers to the table below.
So what did happen in Russia anyway? he thought. Surely his imagination had embellished his memories. He remembered an awesome black helicopter that had screamed like a jet through the air, a dark angel with a howl like a wolf. "Okay, that's just weird," he told himself. "I know helicopters don't howl like wolves."
Reaching over, he slugged back the rest of his drink and headed for bed. Oblivion seemed the best thing to hope for at this point.
Sunlight was streaming through the window when Stringfellow Roper awoke. "Ugh-hh," he moaned, a hand going to his head. In quick succession, the events of the previous day joined the throbbing agony in his head.
Moaning, he rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. "Never again," he muttered, "Never again." The floor heaving uncertainly under his feet, he stumbled for the shower and to hunt for a hawke.
Two weeks later, the search yielded results. How one man could be so hard to find, he didn't know. At least he'd learned he didn't want a career as a private eye, he thought humorlessly.
If Hawke hadn't gone back to work for Santini Air he doubted he'd have ever found him. Evidently, his brother had taken over after an explosion had killed Dominic Santini, the owner and onetime guardian of the two brothers.
Rumor had it, Hawke had been injured in the explosion that had killed Santini. That he had almost died himself. At any rate, he'd largely disappeared from radar for the next couple years. It was only after his brother's daughter had drowned and his wife had left that String had returned.
Looking at the map, Roper turned left heading south towards Van Nuys. Traffic streamed along the highway heading south. Spotting the exit he swung the car into the lane.
In minutes, the sign marking Van Nuys Airport came up. Surprised at the size of the place he pulled in to the first hanger and asked for Santini Air. Gesturing, the mechanic pointed him far down the field. "Look for the stars and stripes and the trouble," he'd grunted.
Thanking him, Roper climbed back in the Grand Prix and drove down to the far end of the field. "Well, at least he was right about the stars and stripes," he commented. "Hope he was wrong about the other."
Swinging out of the car, he strode towards the hanger. Inside a man in tan coveralls lay on a rollaway working under a helicopter. Glancing around, and seeing nobody else, he headed towards him.
"Hey!" he called out.
Sliding to the side, Everett looked up at him. "Something I can do for you?" he asked, wiping his hands on a red grease rag.
"Hope so," Roper replied. "Can you tell me if Stringfellow Hawke is around?"
"Sorry," Everett replied. "You just missed him. But he should be back shortly. Can one of the rest of us help you?"
Outside, he heard a jeep pull up. "Well, I appreciate it, but I kinda needed to talk to him."
Footsteps echoed on the concrete floor behind them.
Looking up, Roper spotted an older version of the man he remembered from a decade ago walk in, his arms full of boxes and lunch.
"Hey, Everett," he called, not looking up, "how 'bout a hand?"
The mechanic paused. "Yeah, coming!" he yelled back. "Sorry, just a minute," he apologized, leaving Roper and running to give Hawke a hand.
"Got the parts you needed for the Stearman," Hawke said, his voice carrying as he started to put stuff out on the desk.
Shrugging, Roper walked over towards where the two men were talking. Hawke gestured as he spoke with the mechanic.
At that moment, Saint John walked out of the office paperwork in his hands. "Hey, String!" he yelled irritably, looking up from the papers in his hands.
Simultaneously, two heads swiveled in his direction. "Yeah?" Hawke yelled back. "What d'ya need?"
Dumbfounded, Saint John stared at the trio, the papers he held fluttering to the ground from suddenly nerveless fingers. Identical pairs of delphinine blue eyes, topped by light brown fringe gazed back. Caught in a weird time warp, saint John continued to gape at the brother he knew and expected, and the man-child he'd known from twenty years ago.
"What?" asked String when Saint John didn't respond. At his continued silence, String glanced up at him quirking an eyebrow inquisitively.
Saint John mutely gestured at him. Bemused, his brother frowned at him and then glanced up at the two men standing next to him. Meeting the younger man's eyes for the first time, Hawke set the helicopter part he held down on the desk with a loud thump. Startled blue eyes widened in surprise, before an impassive mask slammed down across his fine-boned features.
"And you are?" he asked, taking a step back and eyes narrowing.
Aware of the stir he was creating, and suddenly feeling more than a little uncomfortable, Stringfellow Roper gave a slight shrug. "Maybe you've got some place a little more private we could talk?"
Taking in Everett's blatent curiosity and Saint John's gaping surprise, Hawke relented. Maybe that would be a good idea after all, he thought dryly.
Raising an eyebrow and gesturing towards the small office Saint John had just vacated, Hawke indicated he should proceed him in. Casting an uneasy glance his way, Roper did.
Closing the door behind him, Hawke walked round to the desk. Propping himself against it, arms crossed, he faced the younger man. "So," he drawled, "You were saying…"
Seated and suddenly finding himself on the defensive the younger man hesitated. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea after all, he thought with a sigh, glancing up at the waiting Hawke.
Coming to a hasty decision, he reached for his pocket prompting a defensive stance and an uneasy alertness from Hawke. Oblivious, Roper rifled through his jeans pocket to withdraw the crumpled letter. Watching him draw it out with narrowed eyes, Hawke subsided uneasily.
"Perhaps this will explain it better than I can," he said handing the letter over.
Reaching out for it with strong, square-tipped fingers, Hawke shot a questioning glance his way before taking it. Silently he skimmed over it, his gaze flashing up to meet the younger man's before dropping back to the letter he held in his hands, a faint scowl creasing his forehead as he read - this time much more slowly.
Finishing it finally, he passed it back as the silence stretched between them. "Nhi Huong was your mother?" Hawke asked rubbing your chin.
"Yeah," the younger man replied, laconically easing back in the chair.
"You're really Ho Minh?" Hawke asked raising his eyebrows.
"Well," Stringfellow Roper replied with a wry grin, "yes and no. It hasn't been Ho Minh for about eleven years. It's been Stringfellow."
"Damn," Hawke said with a sudden rare grin. "I told her Stringfellow was no name for a kid."
"Well, evidently she disagreed," Roper replied. "She never forgot what you did in Omryklot and neither have I."
"Yeah," Hawke nodded almost imperceptively before looking away. He paused before continuing with a sigh, "So, you're sure she and Sam are really dead?"
"Yeah," the younger man said softly, all traces of earlier humor vanishing.
"How?" Hawke ground out.
"Plane crash. Everyday, routine puddle jump from Laguna to Van Nuys."
"Van Nuys?" Hawke questioned raising his head in surprise. "Why?"
"Don't know." the other replied, "I though perhaps you might know." Angry blue eyes pinned him.
Hawke shook his head.
Roper shrugged, shifted restlessly in the chair. He looked away.
"Perfect weather, flat terrain, plenty of room for an emergency landing. Dad would've never stuffed it into the ground like that."
"Mechanical failure?" Hawke questioned quietly.
Roper heaved a sigh. "No sign that I can tell. FAA isn't saying anything."
"You've been out to the crash sight?" Hawke asked in surprise.
"I know a few people," Roper replied.
Hawke raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.
"I fly fighter jets, Stringfellow. I'm not an idiot. I know how it works."
"Didn't say you didn't." Silently Hawke stared out the office window for a long moment. After a minute he shrugged uncomfortably, knowing it had to be said. "He could've made a mistake. It happens…"
"Hell, no!" the younger man exploded vehemently. "Hawke, he flew fighter jets for a living. He had been since before I was born - you don't do that and then just "accidently" fly a by-plane straight into the ground! Besides, that doesn't explain the letter."
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Hawke conceded the point. "No, it doesn't explain the letter."
"It also doesn't explain my apartment getting trashed, or me getting run off the road," he ranted oblivious to the interruption.
"What do you mean, getting run off the road?!" Hawke demanded rising to his feet heatedly, his eyes dangerous.
"After their 'accident' I started to check into things," Roper replied. "I went out with friends for drinks one night and came back to find my place trashed, drawers dumped, laptop gone, furniture slashed. The cops figured kids looking for money for drugs. Heck, after all they took the stereo, the lap top, my palm pilot."
"And the getting run off the road?" he asked.
Roper paced the small office like a caged animal. "I probably would've agreed with them, except I got run off the road on my way to the base a couple days earlier. I was there. Those guys weren't playing, and it was no accident. Nhi Huong's letter showed up that evening." Raking a hand through his hair in frustration, he dropped back into the low chair. "That's why I'm here now."
Pacing himself now, Hawke reined in the sudden flare of anger that raged through his veins. "So, what exactly were Sam and Nhi Huong involved in?" he demanded.
"Nothing," Roper avowed. "Well, at least nothing I knew about," he amended.
"Well, obviously it was something," Hawke ground out. "Enough to get them killed, and you too, maybe if you aren't careful."
"Alright," the younger pilot conceded irritably. "You've made your point. So, any ideas on what I should do?"
Rubbing his chin, Hawke mulled it over. "Tell you what," he said at last. "Let me check into it some, I've still got some contacts in the intelligence community. Maybe I can find something out."
Meeting his eyes, Stringfellow Roper nodded, his jaw tight. "Okay."
"In the meantime, you keep a low profile. Don't do anything about checking into it," Hawke commanded.
"Hey, you've got another thing coming if you think I'm going to just sit on my hands!" Roper exploded. "I'll be…"
"Enough!" Hawke yelled, his own temper flaring. "I said I'd look into it. I can't check it out, and babysit you at the same time. You're going to have to make a choice. Do you want me to look into it or not?!"
Resentment blazing in his eyes, the younger man tightened his jaw.
"Well?" Hawke demanded. "What's it going to be?"
"Check it out," he replied angrily. "But I'm not going to just sit around forever," he promised.
Hawke looked at him, the gaze frank and appraising. "I don't expect you to," he said, his voice quiet and deadly.
Roper subsided sensing he was on dangerous ground.
Hawke paced the small room like he needed the space to think. "So, you said you were military," he mused.
"No," the younger man said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Hawke glanced up, hands in his back jeans pockets. "You fly fighter jets, you were heading to the base. What else can you be?" he asked. "The government is real touchy about loaning their toys out. Believe me I should know. What are you - airforce?"
Surprise lightened his blue eyes. This guy was more astute than he would've guessed. "How'd you guess?"
"If you're flying jets, you're either navy or airforce. Sam was airforce, so it's the likelier choice." Hawke tossed back.
Grudging admiration tugged at him, and for the first time in weeks Roper felt a glimmer of hope. "Yeah, you're right."
Hawke nodded, his mind already back on the problem at hand. "Okay, we need to see about getting you temporary quarters on base, keep close there, don't go off on your own…"
"Hey, you act like I'm twelve," he snarled in irritation. "I don't need a babysitter."
"Yeah, Sam probably thought the same thing," Hawke bit back, "and look where it got him."
Subsiding, the younger man winced. "Fine. You've made your point - I'll do it your way. He shifted, sliding forward in the chair. "How do I get a hold of you, if something comes up?"
Reaching over on the cluttered desk, Hawke scrawled the number of the satellite phone on the back of a Santini Air business card. "If I'm not here, this is your best bet. Cell phone won't work up in the mountains near the cabin where I live."
Eyeing it, Roper placed the card in his pocket. Picking up the pad next to Hawke's hand on the desk, he scribbled his own cell phone number. "Call me when you find out something."
At that, he turned and headed for the door, having had more than enough for one morning. Wearily, his shoulders slumped as he hunched into his jacket to go.