FALL FROM GRACE
Part I
By Linda Ryner
JANUARY 1985
Michael Coldsmith Briggs the Third shut the closet door quietly after having hung up his coat and turned to walk into the living area of the modestly furnished apartment. The January winds rattled the casements, making the warm interior only more inviting. The curtains had been drawn and the otherwise stylish decor was secreted in a pall of leaden dullness, nearly matching the gloom of the grey skies outside. The Deputy Director sighed, steeling himself against the heavy air of mourning that permeated the four walls. He paused just outside the entryway, gaze settling on the huddled figure on the black leather sofa. The young face was almost completely shadowed, shrouded in sorrow. Michael approached and stood silently before her. "Should I fix you a cup of tea?" he asked softly. There was a long moment of silence. Then, the shadowed face tilted. "I'd rather have a single-malt." "All right." Unhesitatingly, Michael moved behind the bar, complying with the request. Straight up, no ice, he knew. The face again became lost in the darkness, the figure pulling into itself even more than before, knees pulled up to chest and arms clasped around them, chin resting on top. He could sense the insecurity exhibited in the near-fetal position -- the desire to be left alone, the stinging, relentless grief. But leaving her alone now would be the worst thing he could do. Not before he saw at least a glimmer of the acceptance of death that was mandatory if life for the living were to go on. He had yet to see Jackie Kendricks, his goddaughter of twenty-five years, shed so much as a single tear. Michael closed the bottle of single-malt, placing it on the shelf in back of the bar, then moved over to the still figure, extending the glass. Their fingers touched for a moment and their gazes locked. Then, she took it from him and when the tumbler was placed on a small wooden coaster on the end table moments later, the contents were three-fourths gone. "Better?" Michael questioned, sliding beside her to put an arm about her shoulders. She stood up abruptly, posture ramrod straight. Michael got to his feet and followed her over to the picture window where she pushed the curtains aside to stare at the park below. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she stiffened. But Michael ignored the rebuff, increasing the pressure with his hand. "Jackie, I know how hard this is on you, but you can't hide forever. You have to accept the fact that they're gone." Don't talk about them like they're off on vacation, Michael!" The young woman's voice shook with the effort of control. It was the first time since the funeral three days ago that he had seen her face this animated. "My parents were killed for what they knew -- no, not killed. Murdered! Tortured and murdered!" Michael's jaw flexed at her accusatory tone. "I'm aware of that. I have to live with that knowledge. But your parents knew the risk involved years ago when they started working for The Firm." He was unprepared for the coldness in her face when she whirled around and the smoldering violet of her eyes was a shock. "Damn you," she cursed him in a deadly-soft voice. "Damn you, Michael. And damn your Firm."
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EARLY SEPTEMBER, 1985, F.I.R.M. HEADQUARTERS, VIRGINIA
With a smile on her lips, Marella pulled the last dossier from the file cabinet. Of the five candidates the computer had kicked out, this last one was by far the most perfect for the upcoming assignment. She was sure it would be Michael's choice before he even saw the files. But all five had to be examined and not only by Michael. Stringfellow Hawke would have something to say about which of the five he wanted to work with. Not that Hawke was particularly happy with the situation. Michael had met with him three weeks before with a proposal to have a backup pilot, someone besides Dominic, to be trained for flying Airwolf. At first Michael received the expected adamant refusal, but the agent's argument had been persuasive and logical. Though Hawke didn't like it and made no promises, he understood Michael's position and grudgingly agreed to look at some possible candidates. Marella entered Michael's office and set the files down on his desk. Archangel swiveled around in his chair, facing her. "Well?" he asked. "Five candidates, sir, all highly qualified for the assignment," Marella told him, waiting for him to take a quick look. "Excellent." Michael opened the top folder and began to read. For a moment there was total silence. Then, he closed the folder and pushed it across his desk toward his operative. "You know better than this, Marella. This one won't do. Put it back." Marella stared at him. "But, Sir . . ." "Secure the other profiles in my briefcase and have the jet on the tarmac in an hour," he continued brusquely. "I'll meet you there." "Sir, that's the best profile of the bunch!" she protested, leaning forward on his desk. "In fact, it should be the only dossier in your briefcase and you know it!" "And I said," Archangel told her evenly, "that it wouldn't do." He rose from the chair. "One hour, Marella." Marella contemplated his reaction after he left the office. Obediently, she placed the other four profiles in the open briefcase on his desk. Her hand rested on the fifth one for a brief moment. Opening up the discarded folder again, she scanned the bio and resume. Though the pilot's contract with The Firm had been dissolved, there was no reason for it's exclusion, she thought to herself, especially when they were talking about someone who was easily one of the best in the country. Never mind the fact this pilot more than deserved the chance. Marella debated whether it was worth risking her position with an open breach of discipline. After only a moment's indecision, she placed it in the briefcase with the rest.
Business at Santini Air wound down at the onset of late afternoon, which was fine with Michael. While he didn't begrudge Dominic Santini turning an honest dollar, he wanted to get this selection process over with, contact the chosen backup pilot and commence the training -- first on the Airwolf simulator and eventually on the real thing. Hawke and Dominic were waiting for them in the office. Santini sat in is swivel-chair at the desk with a mug of coffee and Hawke was perched on the desk corner, arms folded across his chest in resignation. The minute he and Marella entered the office, the atmosphere became charged with tension. Michael would have preferred a warmer welcome, but his relationship with the two men had always been based on mutual need, not friendship. Even if he would have liked their relationship to take that turn, it wasn't likely until he could produce the one thing Hawke required above everything else. His brother, St. John Hawke, MIA now for fifteen years. Dominic rose from the chair, indicating the coffeemaker on the other side of the room. "Coffee?" he offered, keeping the edge out of his voice as much as possible. "Thank you, Dominic," Michael replied cautiously. After a few moments of awkward silence, Dom returned with two ceramic mugs full of the hot, steamy liquid. An obligatory swallow or two later, Michael set his cup on the air conditioner and placed his briefcase on Dom's semi-organized desk, flipping it open. He took out the profiles and handed them to Stringfellow. "Let's get this over and done with," Michael said, turning around to sit in a hardback chair across from the desk. "Those profiles are of the top pilots in the country. Should we wait for your decision here or do you want a few days to render one?" "Just a few hours," the pilot replied. "Why don't you come back to the office around seven-thirty tonight. I should have an answer for you then." Michael nodded. "All right. Take a good look at those dossiers, Hawke. All of them are very good, but the final decision lies with you as far as whom to train. Everything, including psyche profiles, are included. I know you don't like this setup," he continued, "and I really didn't want to do this. But The Committee is putting pressure on me. It's justifiable when you consider the possibility you could be seriously injured or -- God forbid -- killed. If we want to keep things the same, I think placating The Committee on this point is a nominal price to pay." "I don't like the idea of some wet-behind-the-ears hotshot flying Airwolf," Hawke growled. "Flying The Lady is special. It's not going to be a simple process to train this pilot." "That's why we're going to commence training on the simulator first," Archangel stated. "It's also why I wanted you to pick the backup. You know what you're looking for and who you can work with." Dominic sidled up beside Hawke almost protectively. "Yeah, as long as it's a Company pilot," Dom said with a derisive frown. "Who's really benefitting here? String or The Firm?" Marella flashed Dom an angry glare. "Michael's always been square with the two of you. You can't question his judgment or motivations." Stringfellow fingered the manila envelopes containing the profiles as Dom graced Marella with a half-hearted scowl. "I understand your position, Michael, and I've agreed to take a look. But I don't have to like it." "No, you don't," Michael agreed, uncrossing his legs to lean forward. "I know you'll make the best choice." He rose and made ready to leave. "Are you sure seven-thirty is enough time?" "It's enough time. I know what I want." Dom made no bones about voicing his opinion after Archangel and Marella left. He stood before Hawke, hands on hips. "Just like that? You're gonna give in to him just like that?" "I'm not giving in, Dom. If I don't think any of these candidates measure up, he's SOL." He paused. "I hate to admit it, but Michael has a good point." "Yeah, his head. What if he's trying to get Airwolf back?" "He knows if he screws with me I'd cut him off. He's not stupid, Dom." "Yeah? Well, Archangel has a way of finding things and nothing says he won't be able to take Airwolf right out from under our noses if he wants to -- especially when he has a pilot that works for him in training." "I don't think Michael would do that. He's got too much to lose. The Pentagon and The Committee would nail him to the wall if he lost use of The Lady. Right now, we're the only ones who can fly her. Even if we train somebody good enough to take her away from us, they still have to find out the location. I don't know about you, but I have no intention of revealing that." He began to peruse the files. "Michael's a lot of things, but he's always held up his end of the bargain and he's never lied to me." "But he has distorted the truth, sometimes," Dom reminded him, then shrugged. "Well, I can see your mind's made up," he grumbled. "I still think it stinks." "Relax, Dom," Hawke soothed him. "I won't make any half-assed decisions." Dom gave up. "Do it your way. You always do." Muttering to himself, the older man stalked out of the office. It was nearly seven-thirty when Hawke had his candidate selected. With a feeling of accomplishment, he reached for the coffeepot to pour his umpteenth cup of the evening. All the pilots that had been chosen Hawke knew of, three out of the five having been on the second string of test pilots for the Airwolf Project in late '82 and early '83. But this one -- he knew he could work with this one. This one had a drive and a talent that most pilots only dreamed of having. Before he got more than a sip of coffee in, the door opened and Hawke turned to see Dominic enter the office. "Find what you were looking for?" the older man questioned, trying in vain to maintain a casual tone. "Or was it a bust?" "Found my backup," Hawke confirmed. "Take a look if you want." He handed Dom a folder. "This pilot's background, credentials and training is incredible. Soloed at twelve years old. Sure gave her the jump on everyone else." He leaned over Dom's shoulder and pointed. "Finished high school by age thirteen. Special Firm educational training -- college equivalents -- and regular college courses in physics and applied sciences until eighteen at the Chicago Firm branch. Four years Air Force. Selected as part of an elite strike force against Iran during the hostage crisis. Stationed in Grenada as head of a security team while it was under siege at twenty-three years old. She took up a fighter during the attack and flew with some of the best. Surveillance missions around Afghanistan and Nicaragua, rescue missions in Cuba, Korea, Viet Nam. Even a couple of high-level flights into the Soviet Union. All this packed into about two and a half years working for The Firm in covert operations after her military stint. This pilot can write her own ticket, and it looks like she's doing just that, working for Michael." "Yeah, and are you sure you want a woman as backup on Airwolf?" Dom sounded doubtful as he studied the bio. "I mean -- all this looks great on paper. But what about real life?" "The profile speaks for itself. Is that all that's bothering you, Dom? The fact I chose a woman?" Hawke grinned at his old friend. Dominic returned the grin but it quickly faded when he got a bit further into the file. Consternation replaced his humorous expression as he continued to read. Noticing the change, Hawke frowned, asking, "What is it, Dom?" Dom's eyes met his. "Just how thoroughly did you read this, String?" "Enough to now what I needed to make an adequate evaluation. I skimmed the other stuff," Hawke replied, adding, "Nothing else has a bearing on whether or not she should be selected." Dom's jaw tightened. "Not even the fact that she's been on the Airwolf program before? On second string?" "Yeah, I know. She worked the simulator some. I saw her around when the pilots were in training," Hawke acknowledged with a little smile. "All the better. She'll probably just need a refresher course in the simulator. She's the pilot I want, Dom. If Archangel wants backup for Airwolf, she's it. I'm not going to settle for anything less." As if on cue, the door to the office swung open and Archangel entered the room with Marella close behind. With a rather smug smile on his face, the agent made himself comfortable in the hardback chair again. "Well, Stringfellow? What's the verdict?" String gave Michael a long, contemplative look. He picked up the four folders from Dom's desk. "Unacceptable," he said, tossing the first one in front of the Deputy Director. "Unacceptable." The second one joined it. "Unacceptable." The third one slid on top of the second at an angle. "Unacceptable." The fourth one missed the stack by an inch. Michael stared at the pile before him. "None of them suited you?" A fifth one from the top of the file cabinet appeared in Hawke's hand. "This one, Michael. This is the one I want." While Marella fidgeted unaccountably at his side, Michael took the file from his hand, opening it. Then he furiously slapped it down onto the desk and whipped around to face his operative. "I was under the impression you liked your job, Marella!" Marella met his gaze without flinching. "I do, Sir." "This will not happen again or I'll have you assigned to an ice station in the Antarctic." Immediate rage vented, Michael turned back to Hawke. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to choose one of the other four." String's eyes tracked from Marella's defiant stance to the still-angry face of the Deputy Director. "Sorry, Michael. Decision's been made. I get her or you and The Committee can kiss this backup pilot stuff goodbye." With an effort, Michael maintained his composure. "There are reasons why I wanted ot keep her out of this. If you read the entire dossier word-for-word, you'd understand why." "I know enough. Enough to know I want her," Hawke replied firmly. "She's best qualified of the lot. If for some reason she doesn't work out in the training, you're going to have to find someone equally qualified. Until then, she's the one." "I think," Archangel said tightly, "that we need to leave these files with you so you can study them more carefully, including the one you chose. I want you to understand why I want her out of the running." "I don't need anymore time." Hawke's face clouded. "Look, Michael, you're the one who's pushing this backup business. If I don't get her, you tell The Committee the deal's off." Michael sprang from his chair, eye blazing with anger. "Don't fight me on this Hawke! Any of those other four pilots are acceptable but this one's off limits." He leaned across Dominic's desk so he was nearly nose-to-nose with Hawke. "Don't you dare fight me on this . . . you'll lose." He swung around and strode out the door a few paces, his cane barely touching the floor. Marella looked after him worriedly, knowing that her boss was trying to regain his control again. She turned to Hawke and Dominic. "I thought I was right to include that file, Hawke, even after Michael told me not to. But maybe I wasn't right. Maybe you should do as he says and choose one of the others." "What's wrong with the one I chose?" demanded String. "Why the hell is he so opposed to Jackie Kendricks as Airwolf's backup pilot?" Marella met his steely gaze with troubled eyes. "For starters, Jackie Kendricks is Michael's goddaughter." Stunned, the two pilots stared at the operative, then looked at each other. Dominic leaned forward on his elbows, face taking on an owlish look. "Michael's got a goddaughter?" A wry grin teased his lips. "Gee, does that make her an angel, too?" Marella spared him an irritated glance. "Jackie's parents worked with Moffett on Airwolf at Michael's insistence -- on the blueprints, the aerodynamics, the computer schematics -- they were both good pilots and fabulous scientists and aerodynamics experts. Airwolf was Moffett's brainchild, and they were more than happy to let him take the credit and handle the PR while they stayed in the background. That was just the kind of people they were. They were also among those few of us who survived the decimation of Red Star when Moffett blew it up and stole Airwolf." She paused, sitting down in the chair Michael had vacated. "Jackie's a hell of a pilot, Hawke, but I suppose her dossier told you that. I've seen her fly. Between her abilities as a pilot and her educational background, you can see how she qualified for the program. Only her age kept her on second string. The majority of The Committee preferred someone a little older, who had a cooler head and more combat training." "What you're telling me is that I made the right decision when I picked her." Hawke frowned. "Now tell me why Michael doesn't want her flying backup." The Deputy Director returned to the office, his mask of control back in place, and stood at his operative's side. "Jackie's parents were killed in January of this year, murdered by Libyan terrorists while they were vacationing in Greece last December." His jaw hardened. "We had reports from the inside -- and photos." Marella rose from the chair and Michael slid into it, taking the weight off his game leg. She crossed her arms and looked down a moment, then continued. "It made big news within The Company, but we made sure the press played it down." The operative ran a hand through her raven hair, going to the window before she turned back to face Hawke and Dom. "They were murdered because Khadaffi couldn't turn them, because they refused to work for him putting together another Airwolf. They paid for their silence with thirty days in hell before they were killed." She rubbed her eyes in remembrance. "Jackie was supposed to go with them on the trip, but didn't when she came down with a bad bout of bronchitis. Naturally, she feels guilty," Michael added softly. "She only would have ended up like her parents," Hawke replied quietly. "I know that, you know that, everybody else knows that. But she still feels guilty. I guess she thought maybe she could have done something if she'd been there." Michael sighed, shaking his head. "How much does she know about her parents' deaths?" Hawke asked. "I never let her see the photographs we received, if that's what you mean. But what she doesn't know I'm sure she's guessed at." "So you don't want her training on Airwolf because of what happened to her parents and because of her recent loss?" "Yes and it would kill me if something happened to her, Hawke." "Do you think Jackie would even be receptive to the invitation?" Dom asked doubtfully. "I mean -- if her parents were killed over Airwolf --" "That's another thing to consider," Marella replied, breaking in. "After funeral services for her parents back in January, Jackie dissolved her contract with The Firm." Hawke was silent a moment. "If she's the pilot everyone says she is, she won't be able to pass up a chance like this. This is a decision for her to make, not anyone else." "She was most adamant about quitting," Michael told them carefully. "I let her out of her contract at her request because working for The Firm had entirely too many memories for her. Unless she's had a radical change of heart, I can't guarantee a thing." He smoothed a hand over the folder he held. "But maybe I owe it to everyone, even to Jackie, to give her the option. Much as I hate it." He replaced the profiles in his briefcase and clicked it shut. "If Jackie's the one you want, Hawke . . ." "I can't take less, Michael." " . . . then I'll do my damnedest to persuade her to come back. I don't like it. She's . . . one of the few good things left in my life." He looked away quickly, reddening slightly at the admission. "Whatever decision is made will be hers, not mine." "If you can't convince her," Hawke told him softly. "You'll have to find someone at least as qualified as she is." Michael hefted up his briefcase. "I'll get back to you within the week."
Michael rarely drank these days, but as he drew closer to his first meeting with Jackie in eight months, he found himself wishing he'd stocked the bar with something stronger than Perrier. He pondered what sort of reception to expect as he stared out the window of the limo as it made it's way from O'Hare west to the suburb of Schaumberg where Jackie worked at the local airport giving lessons and doing special contract work -- on location filming, shuttle flights to the surrounding areas, sightseeing. Quite a comedown from her work with The Firm. But it had been a means to stay busy while she decided exactly what she was going to do with her life now that she'd quit working for him. His goddaughter didn't have to work. Between her smart investing when she previously had worked for him and the money she'd received from her parent's estate, she could sit home, eat bon-bons and watch soap operas and Oprah if she wanted to. But first and foremost, she was a pilot. Now at twenty-five, he had, as stipulated in her parents' wills, turned the estate entirely over to her. In fact, it had been shortly after her parents' demise, on her 25th birthday that they had been sitting in the lawyer's office, signing papers to that effect. He remembered the look on her face that day. It had been like stone -- granite. He couldn't read her at all, and that bothered him. They had left the lawyer's office together, walking silently side-by-side down the hallway . . .
LATE JANUARY 1985
"Jackie, what's wrong?" Michael asked. The hallway was illuminated only by the overcast light coming in the windows lining the corridor of Schaefer & Sons Law Offices in downtown Chicago. "You've hardly said a word since I picked you up this morning." "Nothing's wrong." There was a moment or two of silence and their footsteps barely made a sound on the carpeted floor. "I was just thinking. Twenty-five years, and you're finally a free man." "What are you talking about? Free from what? Don't you think you can handle the estate assets? You've done very well with your own investments." "I don't give a rat's rear about the estate." She stopped, staring out the window at the traffic outside. Her hand touched the cold glass. "This isn't about the money. It never has been." "Then what is it about?" He came up behind her, wanting to reach out and pull her back against him, but as of late, she hadn't wanted to be touched. He watched the reflection of her face in the window, hoping for some clue. After a moment, her violet eyes turned toward the exit at the end of the hallway and she started walking again. He followed, opening the door for them and they braved the bitter outside cold, hurrying to the warm security of the limousine that waited for them at the curb. Once inside, the car's interior, he turned to her, concern evident on his face. "Jackie? What is it about?" She lapsed into silence, refusing to answer. Michael tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away, staring morosely out the tinted window of the car. Michael finally lost patience. "Tell me what's wrong! Have I done something to make you angry? Did I say something?" "No. It's nothing you've said or done." She closed her eyes. She looked exhausted, Michael thought. "When will you be leaving Chicago?" she asked dully. "I'm not keeping a schedule. Thought I'd stick around for a few more days. I was hoping I could interest you in dinner tonight and theater after." She was quiet a moment. "Why? It's not like you have to hang around. You've fulfilled all your obligations to -- them. And to me." "Are you trying to get rid of me?" Michael asked, frowning, wondering where all this was coming from. Then it began to dawn on him. "Jackie . . . sweetheart . . . do you think I'm going to abandon you now that my duties as your godfather are through -- and because you've quit The Firm?" He reached over, tipping her face around with a gloved finger. "Is that what you're upset about?" Her silence was all the answer he needed. "Everybody leaves, Michael," she finally told him. "I guess I thought you didn't have a reason to be around me anymore." "Well you thought wrong." He pulled her resisting form into his arms and held her close. "Why do I have to have a reason, anyway? I love you more than I could ever tell you. That should be enough reason right there." He'd felt her tremble through the thick winter coat she wore and was well aware it wasn't from cold. She looked up at him. Any other woman would have been crying tears, but not Jackie. He felt her ungloved hand touch his cheek and took it in his, pressing it against his face, then kissing her fingers. His lovely girl had always seemed to be starved for affection. As her parents globetrotted all over fixing problems and developing solutions for aerial crafts for different nations with which the U.S. was friendly, Daniel and Sara did what they could -- but they were both self-absorbed people more addicted to their careers with The Firm. They'd had a child, because at the time it had been the perceived thing to do. They'd taken care of her, given her the best of everything, sometimes even spent time with her at family gatherings, holidays -- but they had never really shown Jackie the kind of parental support she should have had, the emotional succor. From the time she was small, Michael had seen the sad little girl being farmed out to relatives and friends she barely knew as his comrades jetted about. Their work with The Firm originally had been slated for the Airwolf project only, but as time went by, other projects came up that were too tempting for the husband and wife team to pass up. Unable to dictate to them what they should be doing with their lives and feeling partly to blame for Jackie's situation, Michael had firmly stepped in. He couldn't always be there for her, but he was by damn going to be a staunch central pillar in Jackie's life. She needed something that would always be there, a familiarity, a permanence. Somebody in her life that could be counted on no matter what. He could at least do that much, and would have done more if he'd been able. Michael saw her mouth tremble almost imperceptibly. Instinctively, he leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips. Jackie kissed him back and before he could arrest it, the kiss had become much deeper than he intended. Jackie did everything with passion. Her kissing was no exception. Inwardly shocked at his momentary lack of control, not to mention his physical responses, Michael gently disengaged himself. Surprisingly, his face held no regret when he looked down on her. "You are so lovely, Jackie Lee," he told her in a low voice that held a warmth he seldom ever felt. "I won't abandon you. That's a promise." After a moment, she laid her head on his shoulder and tucked herself into the crook of his arm. Michael felt a sense of relief when he heard her say, "I think dinner and the theater would be wonderful."
That had been eight months ago. The limousine turned through the chain-link gates marked Schaumburg Airport and Michael nervously straightened his tie and adjusted his glasses. Through the tinted window, he watched a dark-haired woman emerge from one of the hangars, dragging a hand through sweat-soaked curls. She froze when she spotted the white vehicle approaching. As the limo came to a halt, Michael let out a long breath. He opened the door, squinting against the late afternoon sun and stepping out of the car's comfortable interior to be hit full-force by the day's lingering humidity. Jackie crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him warily as she moved forward, closing the distance between them in slow, measured steps. Then she waited, eyes locked to his. "Hello." It was an inane greeting, but at that moment, it was the only thing he could think of. "How's my best girl?" he amended accordingly. He felt a mild rush of relief when he saw a smile curl her mouth. "Hanging in there. How's my best guy?" "Smoother than a mint julep on a hot Southern summer night," he replied with a flirtatious smile. He reached out a hand to touch her cheek. "Got a hug for your old man?" "You spend eight months away and you want a hug? You must be joking." Michael gave her an exasperated look, then pulled her into a heartfelt embrace. "Get over here." He closed his eyes as he hugged her, breathing in her trademark perfume, Chanel No. 5. "I missed you, sweetheart." "I missed you more," she told him, voice breaking. "Eight months seemed like eight years." "All you had to do was pick up the phone. I could've been out here in a matter of hours. I didn't come to see you because I thought you needed time alone." He lost one hand in the soaking hair at the back of her neck. "You never even indicated to me over the phone when we talked that you wanted to see me." She leaned back from him. "I didn't want to take you away from your work. I know how important it is to you." She paused, looking up questioningly. "Speaking of which, what business brings you here to Chicago?" He stared down at her, shaking his head. "What if I told you the only reason I came was so I could see you?" "Then . . . I'd say you know how to make a girl feel very special." She moved away from him fractionally. "And then I'd ask what your ulterior motives were." "You know me too well." He caressed her face. "There are other reasons I'm here and," he continued, "I insist on taking you to dinner tonight so I can expound upon them." She stood before him, hands on hips. She stood perhaps all of five feet three inches, and had a small but not delicate frame. Her hair fell in dark brown waves halfway down her back and her eyes sparkled violet. She reminded him of a determined Amazon warrior. "Why do I get the distinct impression those reasons involve me?" "Because they do." He draped an arm about her shoulders and they leaned against the side of the limo. "I came out here because I really had no choice in the matter. Circumstances dictated I had to come out here to see you. Not that it was a chore, mind you." He smiled charmingly. Jackie studied him, cocking her head to the side. "What cirumstances? Do you mean you actually got yourself painted into a corner with no avenue of escape? I thought you always had an alternative to everything." "Almost always, but this time my options are limited," he replied in chagrin. "You're my way out, Jackie," he told her, placing his hands on either side of her face to tip it up toward him. Despite the familiar, tender touch, Michael knew that she was regarding him warily. She knew his charming ways and wiles when he was after something. Firmly, she took him by the wrists and forced his hands away. "What are you going to try and pressure me into, Michael?" "Nothing. I'll pressure you into nothing." The resolution in his voice did nothing to allay her suspicions. "You didn't come all the way out here to settle for a no," Jackie stated knowingly. "You came here, determined to get a yes." "I came out here to ask you a question," he replied diplomatically, "and I hope you'll say yes." "You couldn't pick up the phone and dial for that?" "No." "Are you trouble or something?" "Not yet," he answered truthfully. She sighed in frustration. "You're not telling me very much." "If you'll accept my dinner invitation, I'll reveal all to you tonight," he told her with a slight smile. "We could stay in. I could cook." "I didn't come out here so you could make me dinner. I'm taking you out. When are you off work?" "I can blow off the rest of the afternoon, I've got nothing on the books. As soon as I get my stuff together." "Then I'll wait and follow you home," Michael said, gazing down into her face so he could look into her gentle, violet eyes. "By the way," he intimated, "most of the reason I came here was because I wanted to see you. Business just gave me an excuse." She hugged him, straining just a little to loop her arms around his neck. "I'm so glad you're here." He held her tightly, a surge of emotion sweeping through him with vestiges of fierceness. Maybe eight months on her own had been good for her after all. She hadn't really changed so much despite everything that had happened. She was still his little Jackie Lee.
Michael expected nothing less than perfection at the French restaurant he'd chosen, Le Cygnet Rouge, and got it, right down to the personally embossed books of matches found on their table in the semi-private alcove. He was pleased with everything -- the decor, the special attention given them by the maitre d', but most especially he was pleased with his dinner companion. Jackie looked enchanting in an elegant black evening dress, an off-the-shoulder Spanish style with fringed shawl. Somehow, despite their long hours with The Firm, Daniel and Sara Kendricks had managed to raise a most charming woman. Michael flattered himself that he'd had a generous hand in that as well. "I'll give you this much, Michael," said Jackie, taking a sip of champagne. "You set your battlefields in very civilized surroundings." He dabbed at his chin after a bite of escargot. "I don't want to fight with you, my dear. That is not the object of this evening." "Really? What is the object, then?" She leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand. "French cuisine, soft music, secluded table . . . if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me." "But you do know better, don't you?" He smiled a little. "Eat your dinner." "I can't. I've lost my appetite watching you eat things that used to slither around on the ground." "This from a woman who eats her steaks almost raw -- before the moo's even been removed," Michael retorted in defensive amusement. She laughed and leaned forward on the table. "You introduced me to steak tartar, as I remember. I acquired quite a taste for very rare meat after that. So it's your fault, Michael my dear." She contemplated him fondly. "In fact, you introduced me to a lot of things, didn't you? My first polo pony, my first set of wheels, pierced ears, my first sip of champagne . . . what else?" "Ballet, opera, theater, flying . . ." "The Superbowl!" she added. "Do you remember the Superbowl two years ago when Dad was doing his man thing with the grill on the patio and it was twenty below? It got too cold and he wheeled the grill just inside the kitchen to finish up, thinking the smoke would blow out the screen --" " -- and proceeded to set off every smoke alarm in the house," Michael remembered, grinning. "We couldn't get the smell of barbecue out of the house for six weeks afterward," Jackie told him. "We scrubbed every carpet and cleaned every piece of furniture before you could breathe without smelling charcoal and lighter fluid. Mom just about killed him!" She laughed merrily for a moment, then became very quiet, lost in the memory. Her face sobered. "We did have some good times," Michael commented softly. He lifted his gaze to hers. "I'd like for them to continue." He paused, pushing his plate away. "I still can't believe you thought I'd leave you high and dry eight months ago." Jackie looked away guiltily. "I'm sorry about that. I was miserable and I guess I really didn't care if I made you miserable, too." "Not a day goes by when I don't think of you," he told her, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Yeah?" "Yeah." For a moment, he stared at her hand, a beautiful hand that tapered into delicate, perfecty manicured fingers. In that hand was soft warmth and caressing tenderness. Inadvertently, he drew it to his mouth and kissed her fingers repeatedly. Then, he stopped, suddenly aware of what he was doing. He drew it back down to the table. Who could ever guess those lovely hands, as small and beautiful as they admittedly were, could also hold death in them, he mused. She pulled her hand away a little self-consciously, resting her chin on it once more. "Well. The same back to you, Michael." Her flush was evident, even in the subdued light. "So why are you here in Chicago?" she questioned, eyes lowering to stare at the flickering candle in the center of the table. He hesitated. "I . . . have need of your piloting skills," he told her carefully. Jackie dropped back in her chair, lifting the glass of champagne to take a sip, then regarded its contents within the crystal. "A high-level mission?" "Not exactly." He licked suddenly dry lips. After four years in the military and further tutelage in The Firm under his direction, Michael had difficulty reading her sometimes. "But it's a long-term assignment." "Long term," she repeated, then pursed her lips slightly. "How long?" "I'm not sure. Possibly . . ." "You told me leaving The Firm was not a problem," she interrupted him. "We hashed this out eight months ago and dissolved my contract. I don't work for you anymore, Michael." "If there was someone else with your credentials and background available I wouldn't even ask you," Michael replied. "But there isn't." "Come on. Where you come from, pilots are a dime a dozen." "Not for the assignment I have." Michael also leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on one hand while he rubbed his moustache. "You're one of the top pilots in the country, Jackie, as far as high-tech machinery. That's why I need you." "Specifically for what?" "Backup piloting on a chopper." She stared at him like he was crazy. "Backup, yet, not even primary. Not interested. Get someone else if that's all it is." "I can't. Not for this." She took another drink of champagne. When she replaced the glass on the table, her hand shook a little and some of the liquid spilled on the white tablecloth. "What's the assignment, Michael?" He looked at her for a long moment and his expression never changed. "It's Airwolf." Jackie stared at him as though she'd been struck. Her hand closed over the champagne glass and a moment later, Michael found himself wiping Dom Perignon from his face. "You bastard!" Calmly, Michael dabbed at his face with his napkin. Inwardly, he wondered what had prompted such a severe reaction, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "May I ask why you did that?" She shoved her chair away from the table, fury clearly written on her face. "A year ago I would have jumped for it. It would have been the ultimate, after four years of Air Force and two and a half flying for The Company. But now -- you want me to fly her? After what it did to my mother and father and Gabrielle -- and to you for God's sake! You know what you can do with your precious helicopter!" She whirled away and Michael hurriedly slapped some bills on the table, picking up her black shawl as he left the alcove himself to follow her outside. At the door he caught her arm, but she jerked away as if his touch burned. "Go to hell!" she yelled at him coldly. "What is going on with you?" His voice rose in turn. "You're not being rational!" "What is it about this damn helicopter?" she shouted. "You don't give a damn about me! All you came out here for was a recruit! I hate you!" "No!" Michael grabbed her by both her arms, pulling her close. "No. You know that's not true. You know you don't hate me. You know this isn't the only reason I came out here. Look at me and tell me you think I'm lying." He loosed one of her arms and turned her face so she had to look at him. "Don't you ever doubt I love you, Jackie. For any reason." Her fists slammed into his chest but then she rested her head against it. "Damn you!" she cursed, but no words to challenge his motivations would come.
The trademark white limo pulled onto the gravel road of the P. Douglas Forest Preserve. A moment later, Michael and Jackie exited the car. She forged ahead and Michael quickened his pace a little to keep up with her, careful where he placed his cane. The area was quiet and serene except for the sound of crickets and the mournful cries of the pea hens. "Eight months ago," she began as Michael caught up with her. "I told you I wanted out of The Firm." "I know." "I told you I wanted nothing to do with anything of the work Mom and Dad had done." "I know that." She turned on him furiously. "Then what in the hell makes you think you can waltz back into my life with a proposition like this one?" "Jackie . . . it's what you've been wanting ever since the test-piloting program started. You'd be a fool to turn this down." "You have a lot of nerve, Michael!" "I have a job to do!" he flared. "I work for this country of ours, Jackie! It has nothing to do with nerve. As Deputy Director of The Firm, I have to make things run as smoothly as possible, with as little mess as possible." "That thing . . ." She broke off, jaw tightening. "That thing killed three people I cared about and damn near killed you and Marella too." Michael stared at her, shaking his head. "Jackie . . . it's a helicopter. It's an inanimate object. It has no life. You can't blame Airwolf for killing your parents and Gabrielle." He approached her, the disbelief on his face evident and took her hand. "Blame Moffett, blame Khadaffi, blame The Firm -- for God's sake, blame me. This weapon was meant as a protective force for our country. That's a good thing, Jackie. It didn't kill anyone. Airwolf isn't a living entity. It has no human attributes." "Like hell she doesn't!" She snatched her hand back and turned away. "You breathed life into her . . . you, Mom, Dad, Moffett, Preston . . . all the techs, all the pilots, even I had something to do with it. She's alive, all right. People kill for her. Moffett stole Airwolf from you and would have given it to Khadaffi. My parents were murdered when they refused to help build another one. Gabrielle died trying to get that bird back." She paused. "Airwolf is surrounded with death. Why should I run the risk of being her next victim?" "First and foremost, you're a pilot," Michael reminded her. "A damn good one. I owe it to you to give you a chance at this if you want it." He came up to her and wrapped her in his arms, unmindful of the stiffening of her body against his. "Sweetheart, I pushed to get you on the Airwolf project because I knew you could handle it and I wanted you flying one of those first five birds off the production line for me. You wanted it as much or more as I did for you at the time." She turned in his embrace, eyes never wavering from his. "At the time -- yes. The price tag is too high, Michael. I used to love that piece of machinery. But I cured myself." Jackie pulled away and walked around him a few paces. "She's metal and computer components. Cold. Impersonal. A damn machine more important to mom and dad than . . ." She broke off, shoulders slumping, but Michael heard the unspoken words and his heart lurched into his throat when she covered her face with her hands. "Do you really know what Airwolf cost me? Do you have any idea?" Stunned, he came up behind her, placing both arms around her waist and pulling her back against him. "I'm sorry," he murmured, at a loss for words. Never in the world had he realized that she felt this way -- that Airwolf had been the underlying reason she'd left The Firm. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "Bottom line, Michael. Tell me what happens if I turn you down." "It doesn't matter. I had absolutely no idea you felt this way." He took her hand again to lead her back to the car. The ride back to her apartment was silent. Michael was going over some papers in his briefcase when a black and white 8 x 10 fell out of one of the folders. Automatically, she picked it up, looking at it. Michael took it from her hand, continuing his perusal. Jackie finally leaned forward and picked up the folder from inside the briefcase. Michael's hand closed over her wrist. She looked up at him. "Michael, I've been in the program and I helped out running your division for months when you and Marella were out of circulation," she reminded him. "There's nothing about Airwolf I don't know about." Michael let go of her. "I thought you weren't interested." "I'm not." She laid the folder in her lap. "I don't suppose I could talk you into watching Sunset Boulevard with me before you turn in tonight?" He shook his head. "I can't. I'm going to have to scour the country looking for someone else to do this." His voice was not accusatory, he was just stating a fact. "Most of the reason you came to Chicago was to see me, but it's business as usual now? That makes sense." Michael looked up at her. "What I told you was true. I did come here to see you. Things just didn't pan out the way I'd hoped." The limo stopped in front of Jackie's luxury apartment building and the automatic doors unlocked. Michael moved to get out ahead of her, but she stopped him. "You don't have to see me to my door. I know the way." She slipped out, shutting the door decisively. The tinted window buzzed as it rolled down. "Jackie, the folder," Michael said, indicating the file she still had in her possession. Jackie held it up in her hand a moment. "This?" She slung her shawl over one shoulder. "You can come get it tomorrow when you stop by for breakfast," she replied. "About nine?" Michael regarded her in exasperation. "Is that the only way I'm going to get it back?" She nodded, smiling lopsidedly. "I'm afraid so." "Well, then. I guess I have no choice. Nine, you said?" She nodded. "I'll be here," he promised. The limo lumbered down the street and Michael watched out the back window as they neared the freeway. He'd planned to leave immediately after finding out Jackie wouldn't do it. But a few more hours either way probably wouldn't matter. He owed her a breakfast after all the time away. Besides, Jackie made the best Eggs Benedict this side of the Mississippi.
Jackie took a long drag on her cigarette, blowing a smoke ring into the darkened atmosphere. She looked over at the figure curled up beside her on the bed and sighed, dropping her head back tiredly. Why did she do this when she knew it was always a mistake? Abruptly, she swung out of bed, grabbing the black silk robe draped over a nearby chair and wrapping it around herself. She went into the adjoining living room, padding over to the bar. She extracted her coveted bottle of scotch and a tumbler. In the silent room, ice being dropped in a glass and the crackle of the cubes as alcohol was poured over them were the only sounds to be heard. Jackie took a deep swallow, allowing the fiery liquid to spread warmly through her system. With a sigh, she leaned forward on the bar, staring into the shadowed living room. He always knew how to play her, to get what he wanted, if she had something he wanted. But tonight -- tonight had been different. He was leaving Chicago emptyhanded, without putting up much of a fight. Tonight he had held her tighter than he'd ever held her before. As if he didn't ever want to let her go. After another drag on her cigarette, she snubbed it out in a crystal ashtray. Too restless to go back to bed, Jackie crossed to the dining table where she'd tossed the folder she'd taken from Michael's briefcase earlier. She slipped into a chair and opened the file. The full moon poured light through the windows to illuminate an 8 x 10 photo. She'd crossed paths with this pilot at a number of the testing sites when she'd worked for The Firm -- the Airwolf project in particular jogged her memory. Any pilot working for The Firm had known Stringfellow Hawke by reputation alone. She smiled just a little. Despite his rather intimidating presence, he'd been pretty good to her during The Incident. Light flooded the table area when she pulled the chain on the overhead light and took more items from the file. Born July 15, 1949. Son of Stephen and Anne Hawke, who were killed in a boating accident on Eagle Lake in 1961. //God, Hawke was only twelve years old, then.// She continued to read. He'd joined his brother in Viet Nam in '69 and was assigned to the 382nd Helicopter Company in Southeast Asia. Late 1970 -- assigned to a mission to rescue a platoon trapped by enemy fire. Both he and his brother, St. John Hawke, had gone in and managed to get most of the troops out, but Stringfellow had been forced to leave St. John when his helicopter went down. St. John had either been captured or killed, no one knew for certain which, but the fact was, St. John's body had never been recovered. Jackie bit her lip. Man. Heavy stuff. In 1971, at the age of twenty-three, Stringfellow Hawke had been approached by Air America. Missions for AA were flown for various U.S. interests in Asia, but it had been common knowledge that the entire project had been a CIA cover. She would bet he accepted only because it kept him in the field so he could still look for his brother. In 1972, Hawke had suffered a minor injury in the line of duty and came home, completing his undergraduate degree before going on to a Master's in Applied Physics. At the same time as his academic career flourished, he'd opted for the life of a recluse, moving to his father's cabin in the California mountains. Thrown a bit by that last, Jackie paused, wondering just how much of a hermit the man had become. Michael had mentioned occasional problems with Hawke in casual conversation. Maybe they'd been worse then he'd been willing to admit. Filing the question away for the present, Jackie turned her attention back to papers before her, not that she needed to read any further. Hawke had stolen Airwolf after retrieving it from Moffett. A mission in which her friend, Gabrielle, had been killed. //Can't blame him for using it as leverage to get his brother back. Michael doesn't either, although I'm damned if I can figure those two out.// She put the papers down, then went back to the bar to get a cigarette and her lighter. She inhaled the smoke and slowly released it. She should quit this nasty habit. She hadn't had a single cigarette in a year, and now here she was spoiling that spotless record. But tonight, she told herself, she was entitled. Tonight she just might smoke the whole damn pack. "What're you doing?" Her sometimes-boyfriend David wandered out of the bedroom, gloriously naked and half-asleep. "You smokin' those stinking things again? Thought you quit." Jackie smoothly walked over to the table and placed the documentation back in the folder before he could get a look at it. "I started again." "C'mon back to bed. I don't like sleeping alone." "In a minute." She snubbed the cigarette out and picked up her tumbler, taking another deep drink. David wandered back into the bedroom and Jackie flounced on the sofa, sighing in frustration and looking after him guiltily. She wouldn't tell David about leaving Chicago. It would be cleaner just to go. After she got settled into her Los Angeles abode, maybe she'd call him. Or maybe she wouldn't. Whatever happened, the first order of business was to relieve Michael's mind about the predicament she'd put him in. "Jackie!" he called impatiently from the bedroom. "In a minute!" She settled back. Stringing David along was wrong. He hadn't mentioned the L-word yet, and hopefully he wouldn't. She'd mistakenly thought that maybe with David it would be different. That maybe David, with his blonde good looks and barrel-chest and dry sense of humor and slightly chauvenist attitude might just be the one. Until Michael had returned. She'd invited David for a marathon bout of lovemaking tonight after getting home, using him to forget the pain, to forget who she was, to just forget . . . "Damn it, Michael," she cursed silently in the darkness. Jackie rubbed her eyes and thought back to the Red Star disaster . . .
SPRING 1984
The hospital room was darkened, the curtains pulled shut against an overcast sky. The figure that lay on the bed was immobile, still, almost corpse-like. If the monitors hadn't been making their rhythmic noise and had the hiss of the oxygen apparatus not been present, Jackie could almost believe that Michael was dead. Her eyes were glued to the equipment, willing the machines to keep going, for the readouts to strengthen. It had been some hours since Michael's emergency surgery. Already, she'd heard the doctors and nurses talking about a possible bronchial infection that could turn into pneumonia. She chewed on her thumbnail as she sat vigil, unable to believe this strong, vital man was being kept alive by machines. She'd known about the demonstration at Red Star earlier that day. But Moffett had his pilots chosen, and extra personnel were more of a hindrance than a help, she knew, so she'd stayed at Michael's L.A. penthouse, waiting for word on how the trial run at Devil's Anvil had gone. If things went well, she could bet on dinner out and dancing. If not, it would be takeout or room service, a videotape and brandy after. Or Jack Daniels, in Michael's case, if he was sufficiently upset. They would sit quietly in each other's company, watching the video, but not really watching it. She'd hardly expected to get the phone call she did that morning. It had been Gabrielle indicating she was to leave immediately for Galen's Keep, the Firm-owned, Firm-staffed hospital located near Hemet, California. There had been a terrible accident. Her parents had been spared as they had been camped out with some of the military and fellow scientists, watching the demonstration from a plateau in the desert. Had it not been for the quick recovery and rescue efforts of the ground units used in the demonstration, absolutely no one would have survived. Marella was in a coma, bruised and contused badly, eyes bandaged with no definitive report yet on damage done. But she was alive. Many of the techs and communications personnel had been caught directly in the line of fire as the Ground Control had been decimated by Airwolf's chainguns and missiles. They had not been nearly as fortunate. Michael, in trying to protect Marella, had taken the brunt of the explosion. His leg had been all but destroyed. It would be a veritable miracle if he could avoid amputation. But the doctors here were the best. If Michael had a prayer, he was in the best facility money could buy. The inventory of Michael's injuries were sobering. A glass projectile had severed his optic nerve and transplant was not an option. Jackie had looked at his chart and read the reports, some of which she understood, some which she didn't. When she didn't, she asked questions until she did understand. The diagrams in the chart did nothing to alleviate her concerns. The procedures done had been and would be numerous, and still there was no guarantee he would keep his leg. With the bone and skin grafts and replacement of shattered bones with metal and plastic components, Michael stood a chance, if the circulation could be kept going in the damaged arteries and veins. But the odds weren't good. "You've got to stay with us," she whispered in the darkness. "You've got to, Michael." After briefly reuniting with her parents and assuring herself they were all right, Jackie had gone directly to the Deputy Director's room in the CCU -- she had been sitting in the chair for the last nine hours, unmoving. Even when the nursing staff had asked her to leave for a couple of hours, she had insisted on remaining, unwilling to leave his bedside. Her parents could not persuade her either. So they left her alone there and were huddled in all-day meetings with The Committee and Gabrielle, now heading up Michael's division in his absence under the watchful eye of The Committee chairman, Zeus. Jackie looked at her watch. It was now going on five a.m. A few minutes later, the sound of high heels on tile floor arrested her attention and Jackie looked up, only to see Gabrielle come into the room. Even in the dark, Jackie could see her face was drawn and lined. "I thought I'd find you here," Gabrielle said softly. Jackie turned her eyes back on Michael's still form again. "They said possible pneumonia is setting in." "Smoke inhalation," Gabrielle confirmed. "He's damn lucky he's still here." There was a pause. Then, Jackie asked, "Moffett?" Gabrielle sat down in the chair beside her. "We're working on it. He hasn't turned up yet. Odds are he's gone to some third-world country and is offering Airwolf and his personal services up for bid in return for money and his sick sexual fantasies." "Any other survivors?" "Just Marella, Michael -- three techs, but they're in horrible shape. None of them are expected to make it past this morning." "Have the families been contacted yet?" "Not all of them. Are you volunteering?" Jackie didn't answer right away. "Give me a list, tell me what I'm not supposed to say, and I'll do it this morning." Jackie's eyes narrowed. "And when I'm finished, I'll track that son-of-a-bitch Moffett down and kill him for what he's done." "No you won't. You're going to be too busy helping me. We need to keep Michael's department going at optimum so Zeus won't find an excuse to shut it down. I've talked to Admiral Clayton on The Committee and he assures me that they'll let us stay running for as long as possible without Michael. We might have three, maybe four months." "Michael's eyesight is shot to hell with no prayer of transplant, he's got at least six months of rehab to go through now that they've rebuilt his leg -- that is, if he gets to keep it -- and pneumonia on top of that. That's not counting all the painful dings and dangs, like the shrap he caught. Have you seen his chest?" She rubbed her tired eyes. "Four months isn't enough time, Gabrielle," Jackie told her darkly. "It's going to have to be. I need a favor, Jacks." "You know you don't even need to ask. What do you need?" "We need to keep a lid on the Airwolf project. There's going to be mounds of paperwork -- reports, interdepartmental memos, you name it -- all classified. You already know about the project and I need someone to handle the paperwork that comes in, inputting reports and records, journal contents, obits, and keeping up with just the everyday stuff. So I need a private secretary -- and you're it. I've already got clearance for you from The Committee. Some of the members wanted to put Zeus in, but I convinced them I knew enough about running the Division. Most of them saw the logic, so you start day after tomorrow in the L.A. office. Everything on the Airwolf project is being funneled through there. I'd have you start today, but you need to rest up, first." "Do you have a schedule for me?" "You won't need one. You can work any hours you want when you want so you can be at Michael's side whenever you want to be, unless I need you for something specific. Here." She handed Jackie a special Alpha level passcard. "I used your Air Force ID picture, I hope you don't mind." She paused, wiping her reddened eyes with a trembling hand. "You work only on the stuff we give you and there'll be plenty." She paused. "You only talk to me or Delia about work-related stuff, absolutely no one else -- and I don't need to tell you this -- no one outside of the Department. Not even Zeus. When Marella is able to come back, we might be able to cut back on your hours and then some of us can take up the slack." "I'm not worried about the hours," Jackie replied. "I'll work for you for as long as you guys need me, even when Marella and Michael are back. Anything to keep The Firm going so Zeus won't close it down or start thinking he can run it himself." She elevated her arms in a stretch. "I haven't seen Marella yet. How's she doing?" "Hanging in there. Drifting in and out. The signs are good." Gabrielle leaned forward on her knees, , her gaze joining Jackie's, settling on the figure of her bedridden boss. "I really appreciate this. I know it's a comedown from covert fieldwork." "I don't care. I can do the work." Jackie sighed. She looked out the window at the brightening sky, then ran her hands through her hair. She settled back again. "I'll bunk at the penthouse for now. When Michael's able, I think we should set him up to recuperate at the ranch. He'll be more comfortable there." Gabrielle nodded, taking her hand. "Good call. We can set up a computer system for him so he can access the office files anytime he wants. But right now, he needs to heal." Gabrielle put an arm around Jackie. "We're all pulling for him, Jacks." "I know." Jackie laid her head on Gabrielle's shoulder. "I know you all care about him. He knows, too." She let out a breath. "He can't leave us. You can't leave us, Michael," she told him, biting her lip and burying her face in Gabrielle's neck, determinedly holding back tears. "Sombody's got to find Moffett and kick his bloody ass."
Jackie took another long drag on her cigarette, then went over to lean against the bedroom door, looking at the figure curled up beneath the covers. "Dave, you've gotta go," she announced, blowing a smoke ring in the air. Dave turned, a shock of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. He frowned. "How come? Thought you wanted me to stay." "I just thought of something I have to do." He glanced over at the digital display of the alarm clock. "At eleven-thirty?" "At eleven-thirty," she confirmed. "C'mon." She grabbed his jeans from the chair and tossed them to him. "I've got to shower. Lock the door when you leave, okay?" Jackie ignored the curse that issued from his lips as she closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower. She stepped under the hot streams of water and scrubbed vigorously. Maybe if she scrubbed hard enough, she might actually feel clean again.
Michael watched the tape of his goddaughter flying a fighter in the Grenada incident. He'd assigned her to the security team himself, confident of her abilities to head up as commander. He'd managed to raise some eyebrows by his choice and there had been murmurings behind his back about the fact Jackie might be sleeping with him to get the position. No one would ever openly confront him, but he had not been unaware of the gossip. Even though very few people knew she was his goddaughter, he had been openly taking her to the theater, to operas and symphonies -- Michael, though generally a loner, enjoyed social gatherings, and he enjoyed taking Jackie when he had the chance. Add to the fact she was also very attractive with a killer smile, it was inevitable that the rumors flew. The paparazzi alone had enough pictures of them together to fill a good-sized scrapbook. But then, the gossip mills had linked him to several women. If there was one thing he'd learned early on, he couldn't afford the luxury of serious relationships in his business. Twice he'd made the attempt and twice he'd been burned -- badly. His dates usually ended up with a courtly escort to the door and perhaps a kiss. It very rarely went beyond that. He'd chosen Jackie for the mission because quite simply she met the criteria. It was a shot at leadership, however small, and it looked good on a resume. It wasn't as exciting as running covert operations, but Jackie was delighted with the assignment. He never told her that he'd made the recommendation personally to The Committee. When the invasion took place, he'd been frantic. When she and her team returned to Langley the next day, they had been hailed as heroes. Michael had been waiting for her, showing up for and sitting in on the debriefing. Afterwards, he'd taken her aside and informed her she was going with him on a nice, peaceful vacation to the South of France and then Greece and Italy, away from the action for awhile. He needed to do some follow-up with his intelligence sources anyway and it was as good an excuse as any to go. Jackie had happily accepted and they'd had a fabulously memorable time that Christmas. He watched the dogfight and sighed. At least Jackie could fly. God, she was so good at it, a natural. Better than he'd been before his eyesight had been impaired from the Red Star incident. Michael really wished she would have accepted his offer. She didn't realize how lucky she was, to still be able to do it, to have a chance at flying one of the most incredible machines ever created. He would never do any flying alone again, not even a simple helicopter of Piper plane. Even if he were to attempt taking the stick, he would always have to have someone there by his side. He would never hold a valid license, not being half-blind. The phone rang and he frowned, pausing the tape to reach over the back of the sofa and pick up the receiver. "Yes?" He looked at the clock. Almost one a.m. "Front desk, Sir. I have a Jacquelyn Kendricks down here insisting on seeing you." "Send her up." Michael put down the phone and stroked his chin, wondering why she'd drive all the way downtown from Schaumberg. He unpaused the tape and let it run. In under a minute, the elevator door to the penthouse suite opened and Jackie stepped out. She wore what he referred to as her blacks -- black jeans, black cowboy boots, black chemise -- dark brown hair spilling down her back in long curls. Elegantly casual. Though he would never say it, Michael always found her particularly appealing in black. It lent an air of mysteriousness and danger to her aura. These thoughts clicked across his brain as did the question about why she was here with the folder she'd pilfered earlier. "You're up late." He indicated the folder in her hands. "Decide you didn't want to fix me breakfast?" She handed the folder over. "Yeah. Decided you owed me one instead. Can I bunk on your sofa?" "There's a second bedroom through there." He indicated the other side of the room. "No need for you to bunk out here." He watched inconspiculously as Jackie shoved her hands in her front pockets and turned her attention toward the TV. She raised an eyebrow, then walked around the end of the sofa, sitting down, viewing the tape as it played. Michael joined her after he put the file back in his briefcase. They sat in silence for a few minutes. "You're good," he finally said. "Damn good. Better than I ever was -- or ever could have been." Jackie shifted her attention to him. "You introduced me to that joy, Michael. You allowed me to explore it at my own pace and decide on my own whether or not I wanted to do it." She smiled faintly. "I had a freaking pilot's license long before I ever started driving a car." She sobered. "What makes you think I'm better? You won some pretty hefty regional and national awards." "I've never done that." He indicated the screen. "And I've never test-piloted experimental crafts with cutting-edge technology like you have. You fly them like it's the easiest thing in the world." "I've had my share of mishaps, Michael, or have you forgotten? I've ditched experimentals in both oceans and in the California foothills and once I came so close to hitting the side of a mountain, you can still see the scrapes in the rock where I squeezed by." "I know. None of those incidents were pilot error, either. It was always mechanical. I always worried about you and test-piloting." "Oh, hell, Michael, you worried when I was running covert missions, too. You thought you had it all tied up -- me as personal assistant to the Deputy Director of The Firm. A glorified secretary." "You would have been considerably more than that." She shrugged. "You've got your successor picked out and you've got a winner with Marella." "You could have been her assistant. I was going to groom you for that right along with Gabrielle and then decide which one of you was better for the job." "Gabrielle would have won hands down." He saw the momentary pain flicker across her face at the mention of her dead friend's name. "Besides, I don't want to be so fully entrenched in Firm business, Michael. I was perfectly happy with your just letting me fly and tossing some excitement my way once in awhile." "That's not doing much with your life, catching a few bones thrown at you." She leaned back. "I can do other things with my life. In fact, I've already made a major decision." "Perhaps better spoken about over breakfast," Michael suggested. "It's getting late." "No, I think you're going to want to hear this now." She looked over at him. "That backup piloting. I'll do it." Michael was careful to maintain a neutral expression. "What changed your mind?" "A lot of things, after I got over being angry. You were right. Airwolf didn't kill anyone. Moffett did." She picked up the remote and hit the TV button. An 'I Love Lucy' rerun filled the screen. She muted the sound. "You're sure about this? I don't want you pulling out halfway into the training." "I'm absolutely positive." She looked away. "I'd do anything for you, Michael." "You can't do this for me," Michael said sternly. "Not out of loyalty, Jackie. Do it because you want to do it. Do it for whatever your own reasons are. But never do it solely out of loyalty to me. You have to want this." "I'm doing it for you, for mom and dad. For me, too." Her eyes lifted to his. "You know I've always wanted to fly her." "All right then. Thank you for not making me scour the country for another pilot." He rose. "Brandy?" "Love one." She followed him over to the rosewood table where he poured two snifters and handed one to her. "Standard contract all right with you?" "Fine." "Townhouse? Or would you like to bunk with me at the penthouse or the ranch until you can find something more permanent that suits you?" "Beachhouse. Togetherness is wonderful, but I can hear the tongues wagging already if I were to stay with you." "Car?" "Ferrari -- black with all the latest toys." "Wardrobe?" "Don't need one, unless you're going to make me wear white." Michael smiled, taking a drink. "No, I think I'll let you get away with your own clothes. Do you still have that number I bought for you when you were eighteen?" She met his smile with one of her own. "It still fits." "Wear it for me when we go to see the Bolshoi in two weeks." She smiled in pleasure. "You got it." They went over to the sofa again and sat down. Michael contemplated her for long, silent moments. His hand reached over to hold a strand of her hair between two long fingers. "Do you want anything else written into the contract?" "Just one more thing." Her hand touched his as he played with her hair. "I want to spend more time with you. I've missed you terribly." "It's nice to know this old warhorse still commands some affection." "You're not old." She took another sip of the brandy. "You're the youngest guy I know." His lips curled. "Have I ever told you how good you are for my ego?" He watched her smile again. "Am I forgiven?" Her smile turned into a frown. "For what? I'm the one who threw the tantrum." "For giving you the brush-off earlier when you didn't accept the offer." "Like you say. You have a job to do. Lives depend on you. You don't need to apologize for that." "It's just that I feel like I should be spending more time with you . . ." "Michael." Jackie interlaced her fingers with his. "I love you for saying that. But it was my choice to stay in Chicago. I could have moved to California to be nearer to you and your main base of operations. I chose not to. You don't owe me anything." She paused a moment. "When Mom and Dad died, I didn't want to stray too far from familiarity. It felt right to be here at the time. I grew up in Schaumberg. For all the international gallivanting around we did, Chicago was home." She pulled her feet up and sat Indian-style on the sofa. "It's time to move on, now." "Quite a young lady you've become, Ms. Kendricks. I approve." "Quite a compliment from a man who used to change my dirty diapers." Michael's head rolled back and he let her hand go, grabbing at his chest in mock agony. "Oh, that hurt! I'm feeling my age, now. That hurt, Jackie Lee!" He laughed goodnaturedly. "You're younger than most men half your age." She echoed his laughter for a moment, then took his heand in hers once more and kissed it. "And it's Jackie, Michael. Please . . . just Jackie." His chuckles ceased and he pulled her against him so she leaned back against his broad chest. Then he picked up the remote and turned the TV off. In the past, they would sit together like this for stretches at a time, just enjoying the other's company. "Jackie." One hand stroked her hair and he took another drink. He sighed, adjusting his game leg to relieve himself of some of the weight she put on it. For the first time in a long time, he felt strangely content. "Once again, it's you and me against the world, sweetheart." Jackie put her snifter down on the table and settled comfortably against him. "It always has been, Michael."
The warm summer wind blew across the lake andcaressed teh faces of the two fishermen. One of the men felt a tug on his line and reeled it in as the other held a net under the writhing rainbow trout. "That's a beaut," Dominic Santini commented, admiring the creature. "Sure is," Hawke agreed, grabbing the flailing fish to remove the hook. "Archangel contacted me." Dom grimaced. "Yeah?" Hawke's face remained impassive. "Guess who's coming to dinner tomorrow night?" "Sidney Poitier," Dom grumbled. "Guess again." This time, Hawke smiled, amused by his friend's reaction. "Come on, Dom. You're more upset by this whole thing than I am. Relax. She's a nice girl." "I got nothin' against her personally," Dom replied sullenly. "It's just that I don't think you should have to put up with that sanctimonious son-of-a- . . ." "Now, Dom. No name-calling." Santini's lips formed a hard line. "Michael shouldn't put you in such an awkward situation." "Hey." Hawke readjusted his fishing cap, shrugging off Dom's concern. "If I thought for one minute that Michael was trying to pull a fast one, I never would've agreed to this setup. He does have to look after his own interests, Dom, just like we have to look after ours. He's always been up front with that." He clapped the older man on the shoulder. "Jackie's great-grandma on her dad's side was Italian. Michael said so. And I remember what you always say about anyone who's even a little bit Italian." "Italian, huh?" Dom's frown began to melt into a smile. "Uh-huh. Marella mentioned she's nuts about good Italian food. Looks like you might have a beneficiary for your lasagna recipe after all." The smile stretched into a grin. "Well . . . I suppose a kid with Italian blood and who's nuts about Italian food can't be all bad." "Hardly a kid, Dom. Twenty-five years old." "Ha!" Dom snorted. "You're a bit more than twenty-five and you're still a kid to me!"
END PART I