Impatiently, Hawke paced across the light colored carpet of Michael's office at Red Star, where he'd moved to after taking over the Airwolf project. "What do you mean, make sure it's not a trick, Michael?" he bit out angrily, his voice harsh.
"I'm just saying, Hawke, perhaps you should give me time to check out his story and make sure it's on the level," the spy returned placatingly as he smoothed his mustache with one hand.
Glaring, Hawke turned. "On the level?!" he exploded. "Michael, it's like looking in a mirror - granted maybe twenty years ago, but you can't miss the resemblance. You should have seen Saint John's face when he saw him! I had the devil's own time getting out past Saint John and not explaining that one!"
Looking at the younger man standing there, tie askew and gesturing wildly, Archangel had to admit something obviously had him riled up. It was never a good sign when he found Hawke waiting on him first thing when he came into the office in the morning.
"Alright, alright," he said at last, knowing from previous experience, once Hawke got his mind set on something, there was no reasoning with him. Pushing to his feet, rosewood cane in hand, Michael skirted the desk. Limping, he made his way across the room to the computer display on the far side of the room.
"I did as you asked and ran a check on Nhi Huong and her husband, Sam," he commented tapping the keyboard, pulling up files on both of them. "At first glance, everything looks normal. Sam Roper was working as a flight instructor for the military. Had been forever."
"And Nhi Huong?" Hawke asked raising an eyebrow.
"Well, it would appear she transferred into the private sector about two years ago. She went to work for a company called Chem-Tech."
"Chem-Tech?" Hawke exclaimed in surprise.
"Ah, I see you've heard of them," Michael returned eyeing him intently.
"Yeah," Hawke said, his disquiet evident on his face. "They contract out to the government on weapons research. Last I heard, they were developing technology to increase accuracy in artillery and close-in weapon systems. Something about using a plasma cartridge to ignite and control the ammunitions propellant."
Marella raised her dark eyebrows in surprise.
"You never cease to amaze me," Michael replied glancing between her and the pilot.
Hawke quirked a wry grin at him. "Thanks, I think. So," he said turning and resuming his pacing, "they create the electrothermal-chemical guns of the future. What's this got to do with Nhi Huong?"
"Well," Michael said straightening and leaning against the console. "There are rumors in the intelligence community they had a breakthrough in the FLARE technology in the past year."
"Rumors?" Hawke seized on his comment. "What kind of rumors?"
"They've achieved feasibility."
At that comment, Hawke froze eyes widening. "That'll make ever weapon system out there obsolete, Michael."
"True," Michael said nodding grimly. "The only problem is, the scientist who made the breakthrough is missing."
"Damn," Hawke breathed, blue eyes flashing.
"My sentiments exactly," Michael replied, stepping away from the console and leaning heavily on his cane. "Though I might have used something a little stronger."
"So, where does Nhi Huong tie into this?" Hawke asked running a frustrated hand through his hair.
"Dr. Sharoni, the missing scientist was her boss. She typed his notes and ran his office for him".
"So, she might have seen something or come across something she wasn't supposed to," String mused.
"It's entirely possible," Archangel replied. "The boy's right. The circumstances of the accident don't add up."
"And the boy?" Hawke asked going preternaturally still. "How does he figure in, Michael?"
"Hard to say," Michael replied. "It may be as simple as somebody thinks Nhi Huong might have told him something. Nonetheless I think you ought to stay out of it and let us handle it."
"You have got to be kidding…" Hawke drawled in disbelief. "He comes to me asking for my help, and now you want me to walk away from my own flesh and blood? Not bloody likely!"
"We can offer him protection, Hawke." Archangel rejoined, drawing on all his years of experience negotiating and deal-making. In some ways, the spy thought humorlessly, dealing with Hawke was much the same. At any rate, it was every bit as potentially explosive.
"Hmp-hh," Hawke grunted.
"Come on, Hawke," Michael tried again. "You're hardly a dispassionate party here and you have to admit it's interesting he shows up on your doorstep after all these years."
Nhi Huong sent him," Hawke rejoined.
"Yeah, but to what purpose Hawke? You haven't seen her in ten years. She never even would admit to the boy being you son. Why now?"
Shrugging, Hawke looked away uncomfortable. "What difference does it make, Michael? He's here now."
"What diff…? Hawke!" he rejoined. "We're talking about national security here, not to mention your life!"
"Michael, I made a promise. I have every intention of keeping it," he grated, his voice dangerous.
"I understand that," the spy returned, meeting his uncompromising gaze with his own intent one. "I'm just saying, let us check out his story a little more."
"Fine, you do what you've got to do, Michael," Hawke retorted his shoulders rigid as he stalked towards the door. As he got there and turned the handle, he looked back over his shoulder at the spy. "Just remember, I'll do what I have to do," with that he strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Worriedly, Archangel stared after him. Finally, he reached up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I know Hawke," he sighed. "Believe me, I know."
Reaching for the phone, Michael called for Samantha. "Samantha," he began without preamble, "I need you to get me everything we have on Nhi Huong Trung, Sam Roper, Stringfellow Roper and a company called Chem-Tech - past and present. Priority One. Give it to Marella as soon as you have it.
Plunking the phone back into it's base, Archangel sat. Templing his fingers together on the desk, he sighed looking over at the computer display across the room. Taking off his glasses, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his one good eye wearily. "Let's just hope I can hold up my end of the deal, Hawke." he muttered. "Let's just hope…"
Ensconced in the small office of Santini Air, Hawke went over plans for the film shoot tomorrow. A cup of coffee long since gone cold sat at his elbow. With any luck, he'd hoped to be done long before his brother, Saint John returned and avoid the inevitable questions he knew were coming.
Setting his notes back down, Hawke admitted ruefully he wasn't making much progress. Frustrated, he raked his hand through the short, coffee -brown strands of his hair rumpling it. How, he wondered, did he answer Saint John's questions when he didn't know the answers to the questions himself?
Leaning his head wearily into his hands, Hawke jumped when the shrill ring of the phone jolted him back to reality. Snatching the receiver up, he growled, "Santini Air."
After a long pause, a metallic voice came on the line. "Listen up, and listen good. Stay out of the affair concerning Roper. It doesn't concern you."
"Who is this?" Hawke demanded angrily. "What do you …"
"Shut up!" the disembodied voice ordered, cutting him off. This is your one and only warning. Stay out of it, or you and your family will end up dead." At that, the phone clicked off.
Raging, Hawke slammed the phone down. In an instant, he snatched up the battered leather flight jacket he'd draped over a chair earlier and reached down into the metal desk drawer for the .45 he kept there. Sliding the gun into the small of his back, he slipped on the jacket over it, dropping another clip into his pocket as he did so.
Heading out of the office at a determined clip, Hawke loped over to the Santini Air jet ranger and swung into the cockpit. Shoving the headset on his head, nimble fingers flying over the buttons, kicking the rotors into motion he impatiently waited for rotor speed so he could begin his ascent. Pulling back on the collective, he swung the jet ranger into the air and away from the hanger.