Black Rotors Over Kyiv

Desert wind battered the cabin’s lone window as Stringfellow Hawke drew his bow across the cello’s strings. The music was an old Ukrainian folk song—he played it for his brother, but tonight the melody felt urgent, haunted. The radio crackled. Dominic’s voice over the line: “String, you need to hear this.” Within minutes, Hawke stood beside Dominic Santini at the battered kitchen table, maps and satellite photos spread between them. On the grainy feed: news of Russian bombardment over Kyiv, the endless blue-gray swirl of smoke and flame. But it was a smaller voice—over a secure channel, relayed by Archangel—that set their mission: a teenage girl, Yulia, and her family trapped in a basement as the city burned. Archangel’s white suit gleamed even through the fuzzy monitor. “This isn’t official. The Firm will disavow.” “Wouldn’t expect less,” Hawke replied, sliding the cello aside. Dominic’s hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him—family, always. “We fly tonight,” Hawke said. Outside, under the sear of desert sunset, Caitlin O’Shannessy intercepted them at the hidden lair’s entry. Boots dusted, eyes sharp, she’d guessed enough of their secret. “You’re going, aren’t you? I’m not staying behind.” Dominic grinned—always the heart. “You sure you’re ready for what’s out there, kid?” She didn’t blink. “Are you?” Within the lair, Airwolf brooded—black paint dulled by sand, turbines cooling with predatory patience. The cello case was stowed, radios tuned for Kyiv frequencies. Hawke’s hands danced over the controls as the rotors howled to life, dust swirling, the machine’s promise and threat rolled into one. Night bled into day as they crossed the Atlantic, dodging NATO radars with Airwolf’s silent running. Caitlin scanned satellite feeds, marking airstrikes, weaving through danger. Dominic’s hands were steady on the copilot’s stick, voice calm even as the city’s skyline appeared—Kyiv in smoke and shrapnel. Hawke’s eyes narrowed, intensity cutting through fatigue. “Basement, north of the university.” “Too hot for a low hover,” Dominic warned. But they pressed forward, Airwolf’s howling turbines scattering debris and hope alike. Below, Yulia’s family huddled as the world shook. Then, ground-fire lanced upward—an old Soviet battery, desperate. Hawke jinked, rotors biting air, cannon tracking. “Dominic, Caitlin—hold on.” He unleashed Airwolf’s non-lethal rounds, scattering the threat without killing. Within the chaos, Dominic spotted the signal—Yulia’s flashlight blinking in the ruins. Caitlin leaned out the side hatch, harnessed, voice steady over the comms: “You’re clear. Come on!” Yulia sprinted, dragging her younger brother and mother. Hawke held Airwolf rock-steady, rotors inches from ruin. As the family scrambled aboard, shells burst in the near distance. Caitlin pulled them in, slammed the hatch, and shouted, “Go!” Airwolf rose, black against fire-bright sky. Hawke’s jaw was set, grief and purpose welded together. They darted west, the city shrinking beneath them, the family huddled in Dominic’s arms. As dawn crested over the Carpathians, Hawke glanced to the back. Yulia’s mother wept softly, her son asleep in Caitlin’s lap. Dominic caught his eye, gave a tired, grateful nod. Over the radio, Archangel’s voice: “Extraction complete?” Hawke didn’t answer. He simply guided Airwolf toward the sunrise, the war behind them for now.

Comic