PROLOGUE.

Outside The Santini Air Hangar, Van Nuys Airport, California.

Friday 25th May, 1984.

The shrill, insistent ringing of the telephone split the otherwise peaceful mid afternoon as Stringfellow Hawke wrestled with trying to loosen a particularly stubborn wing nut. He was still working on the engine of the Stearman, out on the tarmac outside the main building.

The temptation to feel the pleasant warmth of the California sunshine on his body had been too great.

"Oh …. For crying out loud …." He groaned expressively.

He lay with his eyes closed, briefly listening to the telephone ringing, grating on his nerves with its persistence, then he carefully set down the oily rag and wrench that he was holding, rose agilely and trotted across the tarmac to the hangar.

"Hello Dominic …." He answered the phone extension just inside the hangar doorway, a little breathlessly, in a gruff voice and with an exasperated sigh for good measure.

"What took you so long?" Dominic Santini demanded in a hoarse voice, not even questioning how the younger man had known that it was him on the other end of the line, then proceeded to sneeze loudly several times, causing Hawke to snatch the telephone receiver away from his ear lest he be deafened.

"You sound better …." Hawke drawled sarcastically when he eventually put the receiver back to his ear.

"Clown …. Have a little sympathy for a guy who is suffering here …." Santini snivelled.

Hawke had had plenty of sympathy with the older man when he had returned from Seattle, two days late, after having been delayed, firstly by high winds and then by fog, and in the grips of a nasty head cold and a fever.

However his sympathy had soon run out when Dominic had had him running around fetching aspirin and Vitamin C from the drugstore and calling the hangar every five minutes to remind him to pay an invoice or to order a part or to cancel a flying lesson with a regular customer ….

For the past two days, every time he had tried to get down to some serious work on the Stearman's engine, Dominic Santini had called with yet another request.

Frankly, Hawke was all sympathied out ….

"When you coming back to work?" He snarled.

"Why? Too tough for you to handle on your own?" Santini croaked back.

"No …. But at least the phone will stop ringing …."

"Oh …. I see …. Tired of helping out a sick old man …."

"Dom …. For a guy with a sore throat, you sure can talk …. What do you want?"

"Sore throat ….. Hah! That's it …. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind stopping by the store and getting some honey …. And lemons …."

"Honey and lemons …." Hawke sighed deeply and rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation. "Ok, Dom …. Anything else while I'm gonna be there?"

"Well …. If you're offering, I could use a loaf of bread, some milk, and a little Pastrami …."

"Dom …."

"Feed a cold."

"And starve a fever …." Hawke growled.

"Fever broke in the night …." Santini countered.

Hawke could not suppress a smile.

If the old man had gotten his appetite back it was a good sign, and then maybe he would show up for work on Monday and they could get something done around here.

"Ok …. Bread, milk, Pastrami, honey, lemons …. Maybe I should throw in a little garlic for good luck …."

"No …. but a few bottles of beer wouldn't go amiss …."

Hawke pressed his lips together to stop himself from saying something that would upset the older man.

"Can I get back to the Stearman now?"

"You still working on that?" Santini's voice rose in incredulity.

"Yeah, I'm still working on that …." Hawke drawled. "Never gonna finish it either, if every time I manage to get the wrench in my hand the phone rings …." He sighed deeply. "Go back to bed, Dom and I'll see you later."

Hawke set the telephone receiver back down before Dominic Santini could say anything else, and leaned against the hangar doorframe, squinting in the bright sunlight as he suddenly noticed two heavy set men admiring, the Stearman out there on the tarmac.

He scratched the side of his head with oil smeared fingers and tried to decide if he wanted coffee before he went back to try to start work on the Stearman again ….

Although he just knew that Santini would be on the horn again inside five minutes with another item to add to his shopping list ….

Pop corn ….

Or potato chips …. To go with the beer ….

Coffee ….

Best idea you've had all day ….

He sauntered back into the hangar and over to the hotplate where he poured out a small mug of the thick, aromatic black coffee and sipped at it with appreciation.

It was nice to just have five minutes to himself.

Since getting back from the cabin he seemed not to have had any time to himself at all.

He hadn't seen Alex since Sunday night when, he had driven her back to her place and left her on the doorstep with a kiss that had left them both weak at the knees and breathless.

If that had left her with any doubts as to his true feelings for her, then he didn't know what else he could do ….

After her revelations Saturday night, they had slept fitfully in each other's arms and then in the early hours of the morning they had finally turned to each other for comfort and their love making had been the most tender and passionate that he had ever known ….

And when it was over, they had held each other tightly, reaching a silent agreement that they would enjoy what was left of their time alone together and not spoil it with still more talking ….

They had walked and laughed and chased each other and Tet around the lake before making a hearty lunch to finish off what was left of the fresh supplies, as Hawke did not know when he would be returning to the cabin next, and then they had packed up the chopper and headed back to Los Angeles.

When he had finally said goodnight to her on her doorstep, Hawke had promised her that he would call her ….

That he wouldn't make her wait too long ….

And that when he did he would have answers for her ….

She had nodded silently, and then gently pressed a soft kiss to his rough cheek, her fingers lingering lightly over the livid bruise that was now colouring the outside of his left eye, staring deeply into his beautiful blue eyes, as though desperately trying to commit his image to memory.

As though she feared that she would never see him again ….

And he had felt the need to reassure her with another deep, drugging kiss ….

Hawke had lain awake for most of that night, thinking ….

And he just kept coming back to the fact that he loved her ….

Remembering what Dominic Santini had told him, a few weeks back ….

That getting hurt was the price you paid for loving someone ….

When Dom had called on Monday to say that he was socked in by bad weather and would not be back for maybe a couple of days, when the weather forecast was for clearing skies, Hawke had thrown himself into tidying the hangar and clearing the backlog of paperwork on Dom's desk ….

Never his favourite job ….

Working himself to the point of exhaustion so that he slept soundly that night.

Wednesday had seen Dom return, looking a little like death warmed over, and Hawke had known that he couldn't let him go home alone.

Hawke had called Alexandra and explained that Dom was sick and that with his work load at the hangar, it would probably be Friday or Saturday night before he would be able to see her ….

When he again promised her, that he would have answers for her.

She had agreed with him, explaining that she too had a lot of preparation work to do for tests for her class and they had agreed a time and a place to meet on Friday evening, before ending the call.

Hawke had taken Dominic Santini home and had spent the night with him, feeding him aspirin and cough medicine and fruit juice and trying to settle on the lumpy, over sprung old couch ….

And finally, Dominic had prised out of him what was on his mind ….

He had been vague about details ….

Just giving Dominic a brief outline, and the older man had looked him squarely in the eye and asked him what the problem was ….

Hawke had laughed out loud.

Trust Dom to get to the crux of the matter.

So what exactly was his problem?

He loved Alex ….

Wasn't that really all that mattered?

After another fit of sneezes, Dominic Santini had regarded his young friend and let out a soft sigh.

"You love her …." He had said sagely. "You can't deny it …. It's written all over your face …. And I guess she must be pretty serious about you too, else she probably wouldn't have said anything about this …. Epilepsy thing …." He sighed again. "So tell me, son, would you love her any less if she had say …. Diabetes …. Asthma …. Or if she had a heart condition?"

"No …." Hawke had sighed deeply then, seeing where Dominic was heading.

"I mean, she's on medication, you said …." Hawke had nodded in confirmation. "So …. It's just one small imperfection …. One you can't even see, right? Sounds to me like all the more reason why you should love each other as much as you can, while you can …. We're all a long time dead, String …. And love like this doesn't come around every day of the week …. Don't you know that by now? Live for today …. And let tomorrow take care of its self …." Had been Dominic's wise advice, and the relief that Stringfellow Hawke had felt had been immense, like a huge weight had been lifted off his chest.

Dominic was right.

Love like theirs did not come around every day ….

And he would be a fool to walk away from something so perfect ….

So beautiful ….

Because he feared the pain he might be subjected to when it ended ….

It did not have to end with Alex's death ….

Or his death ….

It could just as easily end because he was a stubborn, pig headed, moody SOB and she couldn't put up with him any more ….

It didn't have to end at all ….

They could live happily ever after for many years to come and have long, productive and fruitful lives together ….

Wasn't it worth taking a chance on?

Hawke had smiled softly then and Dominic Santini had grinned at him.

"I see you've made up your mind …."

"Yeah …. Guess so …."

"You won't regret it, String …. No-one should be alone …. Especially someone as young as you …. When someone out there is offering a heart and arms full of unconditional love …. Grab it with both hands, son, and give it back with all your heart and all your soul …. And you won't believe the rewards …."

"You through?" Hawke had chuckled then.

"Yeah … now get me some more aspirin …. Oy my head …. My back …. My throat …. Hurry up will ya …. I think I'm dying here …. And when are you gonna tell me how you got that beautiful shiner …."

All day Thursday, Hawke had had to fight the impulse to pick up the phone and call Alex ….

To jump into the jeep and drive over to her place and sweep her off her feet …. Tell her that he knew what he wanted now ….

And that was to have her in his life whatever the cost ….

For however long they made each other happy ….

He wanted it all ….

With her ….

But he had resisted the temptation ….

Knowing that seeing her on Friday night ….

Tonight ….

Would be all the sweeter.

He could even picture the look on her face ….

"Hello in the hangar …."

Hawke's reverie was rudely interrupted and he turned around to find the two men who had been interested in the Stearman, now standing just inside the hangar doorway.

They were well built, clad in smart dark grey business suits and reflective sun shades and just for a moment, Hawke thought that he recognised the heavy accent as something Eastern European.

"Hi …." He greeted the men with just a hint of suspicion. "Can I help you?"

"Yes .… Actually, we were just admiring the …." Hawke watched as both men began to walk confidently toward him, indicating with their thumbs to the aircraft parked on the tarmac outside.

"Stearman …. It's a Stearman …." Hawke sighed, his suspicion growing now. If they were genuinely interested in the old plane, you would have thought that they would at least have known what model she was ….

"Quite a beautiful machine …." The first man said in a very heavy accent as he drew closer to Hawke.

"Yeah …." Hawke responded, eyes narrowing slightly, oil smeared fingers drifting absently up to rub at the developing bruise close to his left eye …. Leaving a black smudge of grease covering the bruise ….

He was beginning to get a very weird feeling here ….

That peculiar niggle in the back of his head ….

That certain something that alerted him to coming danger was prodding him now ….

And he had learned never to ignore it ….

It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

"We would be most interested in buying such a beautiful machine …." This from the second man, who moved beyond where Hawke was standing, toward where the Bell Jet Ranger was located, on the other side of the hangar, where it had been stored after refuelling.

"Sorry. It's not for sale …. At least not through Santini Air …. We've only been hired to maintain and restore her …." He explained, frowning as he watched the second man peering into the cockpit of the Bell Jet Ranger. "But …. If you're really interested, I guess I could give the owner a call …."

"Please, do not trouble yourself …."

"It is not the real purpose of our visit here …."

"No …. We are looking for a certain gentleman …. A …. Pilot …. A man called Stringfellow Hawke …."

"Who wants him?"

"I am Klaus Bauer and this is my colleague, Viktor Von Schmidt …." Hawke nodded, looking from one to the other of them, but did not speak.

"We are from out of town …. Businessmen from West Germany, presently here on vacation …." The first man explained and while he talked, the other man continued to pace around the Bell Jet Ranger.

It made Hawke very nervous that one of them was out of his line of sight ….

While the other one was keeping him occupied ….

He didn't like it.

Not one bit.

But he couldn't for the life of him think what they really wanted ….

If they were thinking of stealing a chopper, then they were fools ….

Everyone on the strip knew Hawke and Dominic well, and the Santini Air colours …. and would be on the telephone to the cops in minutes ….

There was nothing else of value on the premises ….

Certainly no large sums of money …. Just change in the petty cash box ….

One thing was for sure ….

Something just didn't add up ….

Good manners meant that Hawke was having to look at the first man while he spoke, which meant that he couldn't watch the second man as closely as his intuition was telling him he needed to ….

But while he was worrying about what the second man might be up to behind him, he wasn't really concentrating on what the first man was saying either ….

Did he say they were from West Germany?

Again that niggle in the back of his head ….

He could have sworn ….

The more he heard of those accents .…

He could have sworn they were more like ….

Russian ….

And there was the damned phone again ….

Dammit Dom …. Your timing is brilliant ….

"We should explain …." The first man, the one who had introduced himself as Bauer, continued, noting Hawke's eyes as they briefly flicked toward the office and the peeling telephone.

"Back home, in Germany, we are movie makers …." He confided, smiling smugly, trying to draw Hawke's attention back. "We make films for cinema and television …. Also public information films and commercials …. Not like your Hollywood, but …. We make a good living and have a good reputation …." He explained in a heavy accent.

"We are looking for a stunt pilot for our next picture …. And we were told that this Stringfellow Hawke is the best …."

"Don't they have stunt pilots in Germany?" Hawke frowned, preoccupied with finding out what Dominic Santini could possibly want now, but grateful for the interruption so that he could figure out what it was these creeps really wanted ….

"Ja …. Naturlich …. Of course …. But we really need a very good pilot …. A skillful …. but flamboyant pilot …. for our next picture …. A risk taker …. Fearless …. Someone who enjoys a challenge …." This, from the man who had been introduced as Von Schmidt, now.

"I should get that …." Hawke said absently, waving vaguely toward the office with an oil smeared hand, then frowned, as he realised what the foreigner had said. "Skillful and flamboyant?" He queried. "Any decent pilot worth his salt will tell you that the two things are mutually exclusive to each other …" He pointed out gruffly.

"If this Hawke fella is really as good as you seem to think, then he'll tell you that safety is the most important thing …. Making it look good is down to the guys on the ground and the guys in the back room putting together the special effects …. There are enough risks in going up, flying straight and level and getting back down again …. Anyone who wants to fool around up there isn't a good pilot .… he's just an idiot …." He concluded.

Dammit, now he had lost sight of the other man ….

Hawke had an awful sinking feeling that he had circled around behind him ….

"Look …. I really should get that …." Hawke added casually, eyes darting between the first man and the office again. "The boss …. Home sick with a cold …. But that doesn't stop him checking up on me …."

"Let it ring, Mr Hawke …."

The second man, Von Schmidt, suddenly appeared behind him ….

His harsh, gravel voice close in Hawke's ear ….

Pointing a gun at the tender flesh of his temple.

"Hey …. I think you got the wrong guy …. I'm not Hawke …." He protested calmly.

"Oh please, Mr Hawke …. Do not play games with us …."

"You are Stringfellow Hawke …." This from the first man, Bauer, now, who was wearing a particularly nasty, yet knowing smile. "Now if you will be so kind as to take off your clothes …. Coverall …. watch …. Bracelet …. Remove them very slowly, Mr Hawke …. No sudden moves, if you please, my friend has a nervous trigger finger …."

To emphasize the point, Von Schmidt jammed the cold steel of the handgun deeper into the skin at Hawke's temple, and with a brief shrug of acquiescence, Hawke began to unbutton the grease stained coverall.

While Hawke undressed, Bauer fished a small two way radio out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and spoke into it ….

Gruff, staccato language, guttural and completely incomprehensible to Hawke, as he stepped slowly out of the coverall.

And he guessed that it was indeed Russian.

He also knew that he was trapped.

A sitting duck ….

He could maybe take out one of them ….

The first guy ….

Bauer ….

But the other one, Von Schmidt ….. with that gun, he would be a problem ….

If he really did have a nervous trigger finger ….

Hawke knew that he couldn't take the chance of getting his head blown off ….

He would have to wait it out and see where this was heading ….

They didn't want him dead.

He was sure of that.

They wouldn't have wasted time in concocting the story about needing a stunt pilot if all they wanted was to kill him.

When they had discovered that he was here alone, it would have been a simple job to just shoot him and make their getaway ….

No ….

They were well prepared …

Which meant that they had a purpose ….

Which meant that they needed to keep him alive ….

Airwolf ….

That was what this was all about ….

It had to be.

It was the only thing that made sense ….

And it gave him a moment of hope ….

They couldn't kill him ….

They needed him ….

Firstly to tell them where Airwolf was ….

And secondly, to fly her for them ….

In the brief instant that all of this was flashing through Hawke's mind, a dark grey limousine swept into the hangar and pulled up in front of Hawke and the two Russians ….

Hawke suddenly noticed that the telephone had stopped ringing ….

And he silently thanked God that Dominic was not here ….

Because, he suddenly had a horrible feeling that this was going to get real ugly real soon ….

Dropping his watch and bracelet on top of the rumpled coverall on the ground, Hawke watched in morbid fascination as five more men got out of the luxury car, all but one of them armed with similar handguns to the other two.

Three stayed with the car ….

One of them covering the hangar door, the other moving slightly to cover Bauer's back ….

And one more ….

The one without a weapon …. who held back …. His back turned to Hawke, while the other four walked quickly toward him ….

But Hawke could see that there was a marked difference between this man and the others …. He was of medium height and build …. Not dissimilar to his own …. And most definitely not like the heavier, more powerfully built men who accompanied him.

Hawke also noted that one of the advancing men was carrying what looked like a medical bag, which he set down on the workbench and opened quickly, while the other two came around behind Hawke to join the man who held the gun to his head.

"Roll up your sleeve, Mr Hawke …." Bauer, producing his own weapon now and waving it recklessly in Hawke's face, ordered, but when Hawke did not immediately react, the two newcomers suddenly grabbed his arms and yanked them roughly behind his back, while Bauer barked out a fresh set of orders in Russian, which then resulted in Hawke's left arm instantly being yanked back out in front of him and his shirt sleeve being roughly pulled open and shoved up his arm.

"You would do better to co-operate with us, Mr Hawke …." The man with the gun to his head sneered. "You are going to be spending considerable time as our …. Guest …."

"It won't hurt a bit …." Bauer was also smiling cruelly as Hawke watched the man who had been carrying the medical bag begin to walk toward him, now carrying a loaded hypodermic syringe …. "Dr Dimitriov here has orders to be especially gentle with our new American …. Friend …."

Hawke's deep blue eyes suddenly grew wide with anxiety at the sudden realisation of what they were about to do ….

He began to struggle, trying to wrench free, but the Russians' grip on his arms were like steel bands, and he knew that it was futile.

In a few seconds the man with the syringe was on him, jabbing the needle into his arm and delivering the substance within swiftly ….

Hawke felt it hot and stinging as it entered his blood stream, burning as it dispersed around his body swiftly, aided by the frantic pounding of his heart.

Almost immediately the hangar began to swim in front of his eyes ….

Whatever it was they had used was powerful stuff ….

He could already feel his strength ebbing away ….

Draining out of him …. Down through his legs ….

The Russians having to take more and more of his weight as he felt consciousness slipping away from him.

He blinked rapidly several times to try to clear his vision, but it was useless …. Suddenly it was like watching everything in slow motion ….

He could hear more barked orders in Russian and hurried movements around the hangar, but all he could see were vague shapes and fuzzy faces ….

And he could feel himself being dragged toward the car now …. Rough hands all over his body as his limbs refused to co-operate.

But in one final moment of clarity ….

Stringfellow Hawke struggled, found a meagre resource of energy and managed to break one arm free and tried to make a dash for the door ….

Only to go crashing to the floor, eyes rolling in his head, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as he tried to fight off the effects of the drug ….

Strong hands were suddenly upon him once more, hauling him to his feet ….

And the last thing he saw with any real clarity, before being bundled into the back of the grey limousine and succumbing to unconsciousness ….

Was his own face ….

Looming over him ….

Cold, dead, emotionless eyes in a face that so perfectly resembled his own it was like looking at himself in the mirror ….

Vladimir Sevchenko barked out orders to his men as they bundled Hawke into the back of the limousine and then turned to Uri Gregorovich and gave him a look that said things could not have gone better for them ….

It had been a stroke of luck to find Hawke alone at the Santini Air Hangar again today ….

And when it had been clear that no-one was going to be joining him …. That they would encounter no resistance to speak of …. They had quickly decided to put their plan into action.

It had gone perfectly.

"You're men know what to do?" He challenged Gregorovich, as he watched Dr Dimitriov, coaxing the replacement Stringfellow Hawke to don the discarded coverall over his plain blue shirt and blue jeans.

The other man nodded in response, a murderous look in his eyes briefly.

"Then they had better get on with it …. Remember, don't over do it …. We need him alive …."

"Yes, Comrade General …."

Gregorovich indicated to his men that it was time ….

They had talked it over and they knew just how far they needed to go, and which parts of the body they needed to concentrate on ….

They waited while Dr Dimitriov moved away from his patient and returned to his medical bag once more, to prepare another shot.

When it began, the beating was horrific ….

The first blow was to the stomach, winding the replacement Hawke, and as he buckled, his lithe body folding in on it's self as he doubled over in shock and pain, another almighty blow landed squarely on his jaw, then another and another, concentrating mainly on his face, the odd kick to the ribs and stomach, and kidney area of his lower back, but the majority of blows were aimed at and found their target …. On his face ….

Throughout it all, he did not make a sound ….

He couldn't ….

Because, he suspected …. His jaw was either dislocated or broken ….

Within a couple of minutes he was lying breathless and semi conscious on the hangar floor, his face a mass of bleeding cuts and bruises ….

Dimitriov returned to check that they had not gone too far, and administered the shot he had prepared, giving his subject the final command ….

Effectively activating him for his mission ….

Before he finally slipped into unconsciousness.

"Come, Comrade Doctor …. You have a …. new …. patient to concentrate on now .…" Vladimir Sevchenko slipped his arm around the doctor's shoulders and guided him toward the limousine, neither man looking back to where the replacement Stringfellow Hawke lay prostrate and unconscious on the hangar floor ….

Now all they could do was put their faith in him ….

And the programming ….

And if all went according to plan ….

Airwolf would soon be in their hands ….

And if it did not ….

Well, that simply did not bear thinking about ….

As the General and the Doctor slipped silently into the limousine, Gregorovich and his men finished their work by making as much mess of the hangar as they could, endeavouring to make it look like a robbery ….

Scattering papers and parts all over the hangar floor and wrenching the door of the Bell Jet Ranger open to make it look like they had tried to steal it ….

And then they too slid into the limousine and within minutes it was pulling quietly and sedately out of the hangar ….

And none of Santin Air's neighbours were any the wiser.