TITLE: Sheltering Arms

AUTHOR: Meercat ()

SERIES: Thunderbirds

RATING: PG-13

CATEGORY: drama, angst

SYNOPSIS: TV-verse. Jeff Tracy suddenly finds himself a father again--times three. Will IR survive?

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never were, but don't I wish. If they were mine, they'd still be on (an in) the air and a Certain Director would have never gotten his hands on them! Not making no money off this (drat and doubledrat!). All original Thunderbird characters and sets belong to Gerry Anderson. No copyright infringement is intended.

SPOILERS: None for the series, but there are references to my previous story, "Phoenix Rising." You don't have to read it to follow this one.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't abandoned my CSI: NY story, "When the Evil Shall Be Done." I'm tuning the last few chapters now. This story has begged to be posted for almost a year now, so I thought I'd get it started.

SPECIAL THANKS: A very special thanks to Sam Winchester, beta extreme!

Chapter 1

Dying Declaration

Tracy One landed at JFK International Airport at ten minutes to eight in the morning, Eastern time. No one outside of the control tower made note of its arrival. This was not surprising, considering the atmospheric conditions. Shrouded in pea-soup fog, the silver jet and its equally silver-haired pilot might as well have been the only moving things on the face of the planet.

Using instruments to overcome zero visibility, Jefferson Tracy taxied Tracy One through thick fog until he reached the corporate hanger. Once there, he concluded post-flight checks before exiting the craft. The billionaire head of Tracy Enterprises signaled the men on duty to refuel even as he turned to the motor pool area and examined his choice of vehicles.

With a private grin, he chose the Thunderbird Maxim--a pre-production model based off his son Alan's initial design--for the short trip to Tracy Towers. He tossed his briefcase and overnight bag onto the passenger seat, gave the mechanics a final wave, and left the hanger, headed for the airport exit and the main city arteries beyond.

Because of the fog that shrouded the new Throughway connecting the airport to the financial district of Manhattan Island, Jeff activated the car's automatic navigation. Leaving the instruments to maneuver him through the hazardous conditions, he sat back and triggered his telecom.

"Jeff Tracy to Thunderbird 5. Come in, Virgil."

The face of his auburn-haired, second-born son filled the round face of his watch. Jeff grinned--the sight of his boys in their blue International Rescue uniforms never failed to give him a kick of pride.

"Thunderbird 5, receiving you strength five, Father. How was the flight?"

"Smooth, as always. I've arrived in New York and am on my way to headquarters. The traffic on the Throughway is unexpectedly thick due to fog, but the auto-nav is working fine. Remind me to thank Brains for improving the program and the scanners' sensitivity. I should be at the office in around 30 minutes." His attention focused on the white sling that supported Virgil's right arm. "How are you feeling?"

The face on his watch grimaced. "I still don't see why I couldn't stay on the island. I could have manned the base as easily as any of the others. I'm not that fond of satellite duty, you know."

"I never would have guessed. Son, you're in no condition to respond to a rescue, so we need Alan to fly Thunderbird Two. If a major alert comes in that requires four men, well, John is quite capable. And physically able-bodied, something you currently are not. It's only for a few weeks, son, until that gash on your arm heals."

Virgil sighed and looked down. "I know, Father. I do understand, and if I were in your place, I'd probably have done the same thing."

Jeff looked out the vehicle window and watched the heavy metal support cables of the Frohman Bridge blink in and out of the heavy fog bank. The East River lay invisible beneath the soupy mist. Foghorns moaned continuously as unseen ships attempted to navigate the narrow, traffic-clogged channel.

He eyed the chrono on the car's dash. He was making faster time than expected. At this rate, he would be at the office within fifteen minutes.

"That doesn't help much, though, does it, son?"

Virgil snickered. "No, Father, it doesn't. But I'll survive."

Startled by the violent screech of tires and the unmistakable impact of metal against metal, Jeff Tracy threw up his arms to shield his face one second before another vehicle plowed into the passenger side of the Thunderbird Maxim. Its internal passive restraint system deployed, the Maxim spun in a circle, clipped another car, and took a second hard impact against its back fender. It came to rest against the cement border of the far right emergency lane.

The first thing Jeff Tracy heard beyond the horrible sounds of crashing cars, blaring horns, and screaming tires was his son's frantic voice.

"Father! Father, answer me, please! What's happening?"

"Ah! Ow. Virgil, there's been ... some kind of-" Jeff cringed as he heard three additional impacts. Screams of pain and cries for help rose from nearby vehicles. He coughed against the stench of spilled fuels, oils, and smoke. "-there's been a major accident. New York Throughway, on the Frohman Bridge!" The smoke thickened, forcing him to cough again. "Middle span, I think. There must be ... at least thirty cars, maybe more. Fog is too thick to see, but I'm hearing multiple collisions--chain reaction pile-up. Better get your brothers here, on the double."

"I'm contacting base now," Virgil said. "What about you--how badly are you injured?"

Jeff hit the driver's side door release. It took three tries but the portal finally popped open. "Get those 'birds moving, Virgil. I'm going to see what I can do."

"Father, what about you?"

A lie would help no one, so Jeff gave himself a swift once-over. "Bruised elbow and a few cuts, that's the extent of it. Alan's passive safety system worked perfectly. Get going, now. Get this rescue under way. I'll do what I can on this end."

"F.A.B. Call if your situation changes. Thunderbird 5 out."

Jeff zeroed in on the first emergency responder he saw, a young police officer with buzz-cut, brown hair and a decidedly green complexion. Judging by his nauseated expression and his noticeable aversion to approaching any of the cars, this was most likely his first major accident scene.

"I put out a call on my car radio," Jeff reported to the young officer. "International Rescue answered. I wasn't sure it would work, but they heard me. They're on their way. They'll need a place to land, won't they? Some place for a command post?"

Too impatient to deal with an overly helpful civilian, the officer patted Jeff on the back like a bothersome child, thanked him rather absently, and went back to directing emergency vehicles into the accident zone. He made no effort to act on Jeff's information.

The Tracy patriarch shook his head and muttered, "Idiot."

Scott would make the arrangements while en route. Meanwhile, Jeff dove back into the unimaginable tangle of vehicles and bridge parts, determined to do what he could for the survivors.

For the next twenty minutes, he moved from car to car, tending victims. He directed the mobile survivors toward the triage area set up on the northern end of the Frohman Bridge. Those who couldn't move, either due to injuries or restrictions caused by the debris, he tended as best he could until better-equipped personnel arrived.

He found a final survivor even as the first stiff winds of the morning fractured the dense fog on that section of the damaged bridge. Mid-30s, petite and blonde, the woman lay trapped behind the wheel of a blue Zephyr LX. The Zephyr was wedged beneath the remains of a transport drone--a very large and unstable block of twisted metal, electronics, and insulation.

Jeff eyed the drone as only an experienced engineer and the Commander of International Rescue could, with attention to every influential factor. He categorized materials, strength, stability, points of potential support, and possible angle of descent. He estimated the length (100 feet before the accident, not including the automated guidance capsule) and weight (empty would be 90 tons, with cargo--bioelectronics?--close to 140 tons).

Scowling, Jeff made a mental note to bring charges against the transport company. The Frohman Bridge wasn't built to carry vehicles anywhere near that heavy. That drone should never have been deployed along this route.

It certainly isn't helping this woman's situation in any way, he thought. Without that drone to slam into her from behind, she might not have been hurt at all.

A minimum ten tons of unstable debris perched above the smaller vehicle, groaning and shifting at the slightest movement of either the Zephyr or the stressed bridge below them. A single wind gust or subtle vibration from an approaching rescue vehicle's tires could bring everything down on their heads.

Even so, the woman was alive and moving. Jeff Tracy ducked under an overhang of debris, knelt down, and peered into the car.

Before he could ask about her condition, the woman whispered, "Children ... my-my children, they're ... in back. Please."

Lord, please no. Not children.

With great reluctance, Jeff activated his watch's pinpoint flashlight and angled the light behind the driver's seat. He expected to see small, lifeless bodies but instead met bright eyes opened wide with fear and confusion. By some miracle, the back seat area had sustained minimal damage. Safety straps held the three children in place. Other than a low roof and broken glass, a few cuts and a large, dark bruise on the oldest child's right cheek, they looked otherwise unharmed.

"I see them," he said for the mother's benefit. "They look fine. Hey, kids. Don't worry, we'll get you out as soon as we can."

"Go away," the oldest, a reed-slender girl of around eight years, commanded. "You're a stranger."

Jeff couldn't help but smile. Scott would have said something precisely like that at this age, a tiny terrier with the heart of a pit bull determined to protect his--or in this case, her--siblings.

"Yes, I am. But there's been an accident, and I'm here to help. My name is Jeff. Don't any of you worry, now. I heard someone say that International Rescue is coming. Won't that be fun? You can see the Thunderbird ships."

Noise from the crowd behind him swelled at mention of International Rescue.

The youngest, a girl around three years of age with light auburn ringlets that reached her waist and bright green eyes, burst out with, "T'underburz!" She giggled and clapped her hands, all traces of fear gone.

The mother's hand groped through the wreckage and grabbed Jeff's sleeve. He turned his attention back in time to hear her ask, "What--what's your ... full name?"

"Jefferson Tracy. You?"

"I thought I ... I recognized you." The woman groped for his hand and squeezed it tight. "I'm A-Amanda. Albright. Please, it-it hurts."

"I know. Rescue Services is here. Hold on, now. Someone has called International Rescue. They're on their way. They'll get you out in a jiffy."

The woman tried to smile and shook her head. "No. They won't."

"Yes, they will. This is precisely the type of accident that organization is designed for."

She lowered her voice so the children wouldn't hear. "I'm ... I'm crushed ... from the hips down. I ... I won't be leaving this car."

Jeff's heart plummeted. He lay flat on the ground, ignoring the gouge of metal and glass fragments into his body and the sting of his bruised elbow as he worked to see into the warped wreckage and assess her condition.

Her entire lower body was pulverized. The instant someone removed the pressure, she would bleed out within seconds. Not even the great machines of International Rescue could save this woman.

"My ... my children. Please, save them."

Leaving the woman alone was the hardest thing Jeff Tracy had done in years. Concentrating on the victims that could be saved, he used a loose plastisteel bar to prop up a flapping section of dangling wreckage closest to the back of the Zephyr and peeled away the passenger door's safety glass. This provided an opening large enough for three children to climb through.

"Kids? I need you to unbuckle your safety harnesses and come here. We need to get you out, okay?"

The eldest shook her head again, firmly. "No. We're staying with Momma."

The mother's voice came from the front seat, strong with parental control. "Megan. Do ... do everything this man ... tells you to do."

"Momma?"

"Do it, Meggie. Take ... take Troy and Kylee. Get them out. This car ... isn't safe. ... Get them away from here."

Megan's green eyes clouded with tears. Even at such a tender age, this little one suspected what was about to happen.

"But what about you, Momma?"

"Get your brother and sister ... out of this car, Megan Marie. Right now."

"Yes, Momma."

The eight-year-old unbuckled her seat belt and stood up, leaning at an awkward angle in the tilted back seat. She freed her brother next. After a final suspicious glance at Jeff, she guided the five-year-old boy through the window frame.

Getting Kylee out of the child seat was harder--its frame had been bent--but after a few loud grunts and hard tugs, she lifted the three-year-old free and passed her into Jeff's waiting arms.

Megan crawled through before Jeff had turned back from passing Kylee to one of the people standing behind him, waiting to help. Instead of joining her siblings, she wiggled until she lay directly beside the driver's side door, close enough to touch her mother's bloody hand.

"I'm here, Momma. Kylee and Troy are out of the car. They're okay."

Amanda Albright did her best to smile. Megan didn't smile back. Jeff looked away, unwilling to see the knowledge of impending death in the child's eyes.

"Jeff?"

"I'm still here, Amanda."

"Something told me ... you would be."

"You daughter is correct. The little ones are safe."

"From the wreck, maybe, but ... not safe. Please, I ... I know this will be asking a-a lot. My husband ... is not a nice man. Megan and Troy can tell you ... things ... horrible things ... I was leaving him ... today ... going to-to a ... a shelter. Now, I-I-I can't ... must save my children. Please, don't let them go back to him."

"I ... I'm not sure I understand. Are you saying their father abuses you? Abuses them?"

Amanda struggled to nod. Though in great pain, her eyes and her voice were clear as she pushed out her last desperate request.

"I recognize you ... Jeff Tracy. I ... I've heard how you ... help people. You have a ... a good heart. Please. I want you to take my children. Raise them. Protect them since I can't ... any longer."

Jeff reared back in surprise. Jumping Jehosaphat! I certainly didn't see that coming!

"Momma, you can't mean that!"

Amanda met her daughter's gaze. "Baby doll, I'm dying. No, now. None of that. You know it's true. I don't want to leave you, but God has other plans. This man is ... a good man. He won't hurt you or ... or the others. He'll protect you."

"From Daddy."

"Yes. From Daddy."

The girl touched her bruised right cheek with shaking fingertips. "Daddy won't knock me down anymore?"

Jeff studied the bruise on the girl's cheek. Her otherwise fair skin was a vivid purple-blue, with a distinct yellow-green edge. This was not a fresh injury. It had to be at least two or three days old. He saw clearly delineated knuckle marks on the hairline side of the discoloration.

Something--someone--struck this child with a clenched fist hard enough to bruise her from temple to jaw line.

"No, sweetheart," Amanda promised. "He will never ... hit you again."

Megan tilted her head to study the older man. Jeff Tracy recognized an old spirit staring back at him. This child was growing up far too fast. Abuse had driven out any innocence that remained from her childhood.

"Is that true?" Megan asked. "You'll save us from Daddy?"

Jeff reached out to the child, slowly, giving her time to follow his movements. He would investigate this woman's claims and verify the abuse, if possible. Long experience--he was one of the world's wealthiest men, after all--posed the question: were Amanda Albright's accusations part of some desperate attempt to get money for her children? A man like Jeff Tracy didn't get to where he was without learning to be wary of other peoples' motives.

Should her accusations prove true, Jeff Tracy would find the children a new home with parents who would love and protect them. If her accusations proved false, he would back the father's rights 100 percent.

However it turned out, he would make certain the little ones were safe. That, at least, was an easy promise to both make and keep.

"I'll do everything I can to keep you safe," Jeff promised.

Megan nodded and said, "Okay."

The mother gripped her daughter's hand tight one last time, smiled again, and said, "Now, baby, go take care of your brother and sister. I need to talk to Mr. Tracy ... one last time."

Megan's eyes overflowed with tears. Before Jeff could stop her, Megan leaned through the wreckage and kissed her mother's cheek.

"I love you, Momma. For always."

"And I love you, Meggie. Tell ... tell Troy and Kylee ... when they're older."

"I will, Momma. I'll watch out for them forever and ever."

So very much like Scott. Jeff shivered with a distinct sense of déjà vu. Scott said those exact same words to his dying mother so many years ago.

"I know you will, my baby."

My God. The same response, as well. History repeats itself.

Megan kissed her mother's hand then slowly released it, backed away, and went over to where her siblings were being tended by other, luckier crash survivors.

At that moment, three emergency technicians arrived on the scene. The woman turned to tend to the children while the two men converged on Jeff and Amanda.

"Step back, sir, give us room."

Jeff tried to comply but Amanda held his hand in an unbreakable grip.

"Wait," she gasped. "I need ... witnesses."

"Miss, we need to-"

"I'm dying. I--I need witnesses to hear my ... dying statement. My husband ... Dillon Albright ... is an evil man. He abuses ... me ... the children. I do not ... want him to have ... custody. This man ... has agreed to become th-their guardian. This ... is what I wish. Please ... I want Je-Jeff Tracy ... to ha-have full custody of my children. ... He will ... keep them safe."

Whoa-now! Wait just one moment! Jeff thought. When did I agree to become their guardian?

The EMTs stared at the victim, at each other, then at Jeff.

"Is this for real?" the taller, older, and heavier of the two men asked.

Jeff wasn't sure how to answer. If he denied the mother's dying request, he might condemn the children to the care of an abusive parent. But if she lied or misrepresented her husband, he might be responsible for terminating a fit father's parental rights.

Before he could make any decision on this matter, he needed to consult his family, particularly his sons. An even greater concern was International Rescue. Accepting custody of three young--and not likely to be discreet--children would certainly throw a wrench into the organization's security.

The best I can do right now is hedge my bets. Admit to what I know and leave the rest to conjecture and personal opinion.

"The oldest child has a wicked bruise on her face. It's already starting to yellow, so it must be several days old. The girl says her father knocked her down."

"You're willing to take in," the EMT glanced over to count the children, "three kids?"

"I have five boys of my own, all grown. Three more would be no hardship."

"Lady, are you sure? How long have you known this man?"

"Don't you ... recognize him? Jefferson ... Tracy. The--ungh--the astronaut."

"Tracy? Tracy Enterprises?" the smaller of the EMTs stared at Jeff in awe. "Our department uses the air-powered extractor units your company designed for situations where electrical units could spark fumes or flammable gasses. We're using them at this scene, as a matter of fact."

Jeff nodded. He remembered the unit well. It was one of the first tools Brains ever designed for International Rescue. Tracy Enterprises had released the design for use by all branches of emergency service.

"Will you ... will you witness?"

The two EMTs nodded. Behind them, other voices spoke up, acknowledging her wishes.

Amanda Albright sighed and relaxed. Her children would be safe now. She could pass in peace. She squeezed Jeff's hand one last time, sighed out a final breath, and was gone.

Jeff stared at their joined hands--his still warm and firm, hers limp and growing cool. His boys witnessed this every day. How did they do it? How could they hold someone's hand, watch the life leave their body, and still remain sane?

The EMTs urged him away, even though they knew any chance to aid the woman was long passed.

Jeff knelt on the ground and gathered tiny Kylee to his chest. He tucked Troy tight against his left side and pulled Megan into a group hug. The younger children cried in confusion even as they held tight to him, but Megan bottled it up. She accepted his touch, his attempts to comfort, without letting herself break down.

They do it because of the ones they don't watch die, he thought, like these children. They do it for the ones they can save.

Rest, Amanda Albright, he cast his thoughts toward the sky. Whether it's with me, your husband, or with an anonymous but loving foster family, your children will be safe. You have my word.

TBC