Echo of the Wolf

Desert dusk slashed through the rocks in hard lines, bleeding gold into the Lair’s shadow. Stringfellow Hawke knelt by the cave mouth, his hand hovering over the sand where the wind had not quite erased a second set of rotor prints. He frowned, tracing the crescent—wrong spacing, half a boot off from Airwolf’s landing gear. For a moment, the air felt charged, as if the cave remembered another machine’s weight. Dominic Santini’s voice echoed from inside, rough and warm. “String, you coming in? Cello’s gettin’ cold.” String looked up, eyes distant. “Someone was here. Someone flying something big.” Dom’s eyes narrowed; he had been a pilot too long to laugh it off. “Firm business?” String shook his head, jaw tightening. “Archangel said Airwolf was one of a kind.” They moved inside, the cave cool and silent but for the soft hum of electronics and the slow-breathing presence of Airwolf, black and gleaming under camouflage netting. As String checked the helicopter, Caitlin O'Shannessy appeared in the mouth of the cave, hands on her hips, auburn hair catching the firelight. “Are we finally letting me in on the secret, or should I just start guessing?” she asked, trying for lightness. String almost smiled. Almost. Before he could reply, a distant sound cut through the cave. Not the familiar, wolfish howl of Airwolf, but something close—a machine imitating a legend. Dom’s face fell. “String, that’s—” String silenced him with a look, then flicked the radio to life. “Archangel, talk to me.” Static, then the smooth, clipped voice of Michael Coldsmith Briggs: “I trust you’re enjoying your evening, Hawke?” “Was Airwolf copied?” String’s tone was a razor. Caitlin’s eyes widened. Archangel’s pause was too long. “Not that I’m aware of.” The second howl rose again, closer this time, echoing down the canyons. Instinct moved them fast: Dom at the checklist, String sliding into the pilot’s seat, Caitlin pulling comms. The Lair’s ancient rock trembled as Airwolf’s turbines spooled up, ready to rise into the blue-black dusk. String’s knuckles whitened on the cyclic. “If there’s another one out there, we’re not letting it get home.” Night fell like a curtain as Airwolf lifted, its black skin stained by instrument green and cockpit red. Below, the desert unfolded—a chessboard of shadows and moonlight. Another howl, almost identical, shimmered across the radio bands. Dom muttered, “Can’t be—she’s one of a kind.” Caitlin scanned the horizon. “Got a radar ghost. Moving fast, same altitude.” String’s jaw set. “Visual confirm in thirty seconds.” Out of the darkness, a shape resolved—sleek, dark, with lines almost matching Airwolf’s. For a heartbeat, String saw himself in a black mirror. “Dom, arm one cannon. We’ll see if our friend wants to talk.” The two helicopters circled, black shapes against a hard blue night. The other pilot blinked running lights—red, green, white, in a pattern String recognized from old Firm codebooks: ‘Don’t shoot. Need help.’ Caitlin caught her breath. “They’re signaling—just like you did, the day you stole her.” Before String could answer, the stranger banked away, vanishing into the canyon’s shadow, leaving only questions and the howl of two wolves in the desert night. Dom’s voice broke the silence. “We got a ghost out there, kid.” String’s gaze lingered on the empty sky. “Yeah. And it knows where to find us.”

Comic