Seems as good a day as any and a better day than most to post this, though Pacific Time is going to cock it up. Sigh.
Summary: Boys become Thunderbirds
Chapter 1
Scott - Spring Break
In which there is a family barbecue - Gordon Tracy prepares a welcome for his brother – John Tracy feels angry and guilty simultaneously - Virgil Tracy learns that sometimes it is easier to keep a secret than to share it – Alan Tracy is allowed to fly transoceanic for the first time and Professor Hiram K. Hackenbacker compares his life to that of J. Robert Oppenheimer.
He's more than two hours late.
He flies commercial into Honolulu the night before, on the jump seat of a Tracy Industries affiliate, and meets up with some buddies from basic training. For old time's sake they hit the tourist hotspots, cruising around and hopping bars in Waikiki.
In the morning, he slides out of bed, grabs his trousers and dresses in the hall. By way of apology to his bed mate he leaves a paper bag containing a store bought coffee, a Danish and his number - should she ever be in New Mexico - on the table in the kitchenette. He strolls the prom for an hour or so until he's sure that his head is clear before he heads to the dock.
The little seaplane is Gunderson's pride and joy. The chassis is essentially a 1990 De Havilland Beaver, but it has been retrofitted for range and speed. Most of the guts of her are now Boeing, but she's got an Airbus nav system and Endymion Inc. retros. There are even a few TI components in there. The wingspan has been altered to improve her velocity capabilities, meaning her silhouette now resembles a 2022 Hornet more than anything. Gunderson once told him he 'might do' as a pilot. That he is not only allowing him to fly his baby, but to fly it solo for a couple of days, is an honour without compare. He makes sure he's good and sober before bringing her up.
He's soon cruising at 20,000 feet.
Under pain of death he wouldn't admit it to Gunderson, but actually, he doesn't like the baby much. He learned to fly these skies in a Beaver when he was twelve years old and flying with her brassy younger sister feels a bit like cheating, even if she does show a bit more leg. But the freedom of having her, of not having to rely on pick ups, of being able to come and go as he pleases, is worth so much that he'll even put up with a lousy date.
It's a clear day over the Pacific. On days like this you wish you could keep flying forever.
As if on cue, he gets the first glimpse of his destination, no more than a bruise-coloured smudge on the horizon. A lead weight settles in his stomach.
The islanders call it Kanavatu's Nest, Vanity Fair had called it "an eccentric's paradise", his kid brother has taken to calling it Supervillian Island.
When he's in the mood, Scott calls it home.
Right now he doesn't think he's in the mood.
The baby buzzes as he eases off on the yoke and takes her down.
"Tracy Island, this is Alpha Echo Hotel Three Four Two, on final approach. ETA seven minutes." He could still turn her around. The idea strikes him even as he signals the island. Meet up with Skip and Teo in Barbados. Or keep flying, spend a couple of days surfing on the Barrier Reef.
But now the radio is crackling to life. "Holy unethical aeronautics, Three Four Two, what is that monstrosity? Is that supposed to be a beaver? You can't land that thing here. Are you trying to kill our poor father before he's even cooked our dinner? John, arm the laser canons. Release the supersharks. Let's put that poor creature out of its misery."
If it sounds like a duck, and quacks like a duck and provides stupid running commentary like a duck then it's probably a duck. But Gordon is supposed to be halfway around the globe, at boot camp in Tallahassee.
"Oh. He didn't tell me you were home." As retorts go it's a D minus, tops. He knows he's missed a beat, let Gordy chalk another point up on the great cosmic brotherly scoreboard. But now that lead weight is turning to a squirming bag of worms in his guts. What is Gordon doing here?
Gordon laughs a throaty, sinister laugh. "I know. I know. If he'd told me you were coming I would have skipped out too."
"ETA six minutes, asshat. Coming in via the western approach."
"Cool beans. John ate your T-bone, by the way. And I prepared a little something to welcome you home."
He has to land her with Kenny Loggins being blasted at him through the radio, on loop.
He ties the baby up at the jetty, but in one last ditch attempt to stave off the inevitable, he doesn't take the main path straight to the house. Instead he swings down by the beach. Call it the scenic route.
He's pre-empted. John is standing on the beach, his feet bare and his shirt untucked. He presses a cold beer into Scott's hand by way of greeting, like he knew all along this was the way Scott would come. "You're late. Hey."
"Yeah, sorry. Hey." He necks the beer and then balances it on a friendly rock, kneels and strips off his shoes and socks, lets his toes curl into the warm sand. "Home… I guess?"
"Yeah. Feels odd to me too."
While he's bent over he casts a sly look up at his brother, assessing him. It's been six months since John was anything but a flickering holo on his tablet. The threatened mountain man beard has failed to make an appearance, though he's fighting off a smattering of ginger stubble. His hair is down to his ears and he's paler than ever. Scott has never seem him look so, well, so flabby.
"What?" John is always acute to being watched.
"Nothing."
"You're making an 'I am concerned' face."
"I'm not making an 'I am concerned' face. I'm not concerned." The lie comes easily.
He knots his shoelaces together and slings his boots around his neck, rolls up his jeans like he's a kid again. "Come on, I wanna put my feet in the water."
Standing with his feet in the surf he really does feel like a kid. This is where he'd come that morning when he'd left for basic training. He'd wanted to say goodbye, as if the island wouldn't be here when he came back. He realises now that maybe he was right. You can't go home again.
God, he'd been so young, green as a stalk of celery, so worried that he would let Dad down, that he wouldn't be able to live up to the hallowed Tracy Name. Where had that kid gone?
It's been the bones of three years since he's been back to the island. Sure, there had been family meet ups at John's graduation and Gordon's biggest galas and that disastrous Thanksgiving in Grandma's house. There had been other meetings too, two weeks hiking in the Himalayas with John, a camping trip with Alan and Grandma, the seemingly endless round of Tracy Industry events that Dad somehow always manages to finagle him into attending, but when it came to being dragged home, he had always managed to slip the hook. Now here, in the surf, with a southern breeze bringing in the smell of the ocean, he wonders why.
Then he remembers.
"So, did he tell you what this was about?" He doesn't turn towards John.
"Not a word. You?"
"No. Do you think he could be sick?" Skip's dad had died of myeloma late last year. From a distance he had watched the hail, hearty, former ranger sicken and die, shrinking and wizening like an old apple. The idea that something like that could happen to their own indestructible, infuriating, 'impossible is my middle name' Dad seems at once laughable and terrifying.
"No, I don't think so." John shakes his head once but emphatically. "This is something different."
"You think he's being arrested? Fraud? Embezzlement?"
John's nose crinkles. "Much more likely. Or maybe he's planning to move house again."
"Antarctica, this time."
"The Romanche Trench."
"The moon." They both laugh.
John gives him another minute, then kicks him in the back of the knee. "Come on. Dinner time."
Scott retrieves his beer. Going carefully, so as not to disturb the turtle nests, they make for the house.
As they clamber, barefoot, up the cliff path, John tells him, in his matter of fact way, what life in the polar research centre, studying magnetispheric plasma discharges, is like. He speaks with enthusiasm about how his research is progressing and you would have to know him well to see how tightly he's keeping a cap on his disappointment. Fortune 500 companies have been headhunting John since he was 15, but none of them had the lure of WWSA. John's dreamed of space since he was a little kid explaining to his teddy the phases of the lunar cycle. When the Space Agency had come knocking he'd abandoned his PhD in telecommunications to chase his dream.
But the Space Agency brass, maybe just because they saw how gifted John was in the area, or more probably because they were wary of the Tracy name, had stranded him in the research track. Soon enough he'd have a PhD in astrophysics to replace the one he'd left behind, but he was no closer to space now than he had been when he left MIT 18 months ago.
Does that explain the weight gain? John's always been fastidious about every aspect of his life, exercise included. In his head, John's been an astronaut since he was nine years old. Maybe it's just the Arctic diet of seal blubber and spam that's getting to him, but it chills Scott to think that any part of his brother might be willing to give up the dream.
"Hey, it's been so long since I've hit the trails. Tomorrow morning you and I should go for a run."
His attempt at tact hits with all the subtlety of a pie to the face. A small crease of annoyance appears between John's brows. "Yeah Scott, if you like."
There's a little frisson of relief, that although they're thousands of miles apart, although they barely talk now and never see each other, although their lives seem to be on perpendicular trajectories, he still can push his little brother's buttons. John doesn't speak to him again until they're at the house and Scott can't help half a grin.
Gordon's reporting as to the fate of his steak turns out to be an exaggeration. Dad's just firing up the grill as they arrive by the pool. He's engrossed in applying Grandpa's secret sauce with a basting brush onto a rack of prime cuts of meat and will only be distracted long enough to give a cursory wave before he goes back to his careful prep. "You're late."
"Yeah, sorry."
There's an outsider here too. One of Dad's pet boffins stands by the pool, nervously nursing a White Russian. Dad had Scott give him dinner one time. Hissam something…
"Big Brooother!" Scott sidesteps automatically, which is a mistake, because it puts John, who is behind him, right in the path of the stampeding Gordon. John is catapulted straight into the pool.
"Gordon!" John surfaces a second later, gasping and wiping his hair out of his eyes, as incensed as a large marmalade cat.
"Whoops! Sorry, John, my bad. I was aiming for Scotty." Gordon stands poolside with his hands on his hips and grins from ear to ear.
Scott takes this opportunity to hip check Gordon into the pool.
Gordon splutters to the surface. "Oh yeah, real mature, Lieutenant. I bet that-" John jumps on him and is soon making a good attempt at sitting on Gordon's head.
"Heya, Scott." He turns. Virgil, a large wooden salad bowl under one arm, has come out of the kitchen.
Scott doubletakes. "Virg- What are you doing?"
Virgil gives a big shrug. "Uh, mixing potato salad?"
Here. What are you doing here? Virgil should still be in college in Chicago. Gordon should be in Florida. It's nobody's birthday, Mom's anniversary isn't for another ten months. What could be so important that Dad had to drag all four of them back here? What the hell is going on? The worms in his gut are squirming again. He swallows, trying to quell the dread. What if -?
But he doesn't get to finish that thought, because now he's been distracted enough for Gordon and also John - still smarting from the running comment maybe - to lunge out of the pool and seize him about the knees. He's dragged under water.
What follows next is three minutes of knee-elbow-cough-breath-elbow-squirm-breath-splutter-knee.
"Alright you lot, knock it off. We've got dinner in ten." Dad calls a halt and Scott lets go of the headlock he's got on Gordon, feels John's weight drop away from around his waist. His boots and overnight bag are both floating in the shallow end. John wafts them over to him before climbing out.
Gordon whips his shirt off and uses it to towel his face and hair. Underneath he's only got his swim trunks on. "Think I got you that time, bro."
"In your dreams, squirt," It's second nature to respond.
He and John are rapidly dripping a second water feature onto the terrace. Dad throws a towel over each of them. "Upstairs, dry off, then dinner. Gordon, manners!"
Gordon is dribbling water over the dinner table as he picks at the Caesar salad. He grins and shows a mouthful of cherry tomatoes.
Dr Hissam gives them a polite smile, but moves well out of their way as they tramp inside. Virgil has disappeared again.
They leave wet footprints all the way up the steps. "Virgil's here too?" He checks with John, just in case it's heatstroke that's making him see imaginary brothers. "Is Alan?"
"Getting in tonight, apparently. Kyrano took Gran to pick him up."
"John, what the hell's going on?"
John shrugs. "You tell me, Scott. If he confides in anyone, he confides in you."
John heads up a level and Scott ducks into his old room. It is s almost precisely how he left it, though someone has given it a recent air out, so it smells of lavender and not of mildew. Almost everything in his overnight bag - including his electric razor - is sopping wet, so he's forced to go digging in his closet for dry clothes.
Boy, did he wear a lot of orange and mustard when he was at college. He makes a note to donate the red shirt with the dolphin and tuna pattern to Gordon. He finds a pair of old jeans and wriggles into them, towels off his hair, wonders about what John has just said.
"Come home." The call to barracks couldn't have come at a worse moment.
"I can't just-"
"You've got unused leave. Take a week, the week after next."
He'd bristled of course. The automatic assumption of authority, the nonchalant invasion of his privacy, it was all Jeff Tracy 101.
He'd spent the morning pulling people out of the rubble of the American Embassy in Cuba. There'd been a firebomb attack. He'd spent the afternoon arguing with his superiors. The attack hadn't just targeted the embassy, it had taken out four whole blocks in downtown Manilla. There were people there still, dying and in need of help. The GDF's mandate was to help those in need. Cuba fell under the treaty of nations. Why were they buckling to political pressure to assist only those on American soil?
Stubbs had had to drag him outside afterwards. "They think you're an arrogant son of a bitch. A conceited, pompous little rich boy who thinks he can do and say whatever he wants because his daddy's richer than Jobs and a big damn hero to boot."
"I know who my father is." It had been all he could do not to sound like a sulky child.
"Oh good." Stubbs is tiny, fiery, uses her challenge coin more than anyone he's ever met, even though she doesn't drink, and cooks the most amazing Fesenjan, which her Iranian Grandpa taught her how to make. "They think you think they can't touch you. Don't give them a chance to prove you wrong."
"What are you trying to say?" He'd tried to get up and Stubbs had shoved him down again. "That I'm here because of who my father is? I earned my right to be here, same as anyone. I'm one of the top pilots in the unit."
"No, hotshot, I'm telling you that you're lucky you are the best damn pilot in the unit, otherwise you'd be out on your ear because of who your father is."
"What am I supposed to do? It's my job to tell them the things we see on the ground that High Command and The World Council don't. This is wrong. You know it. I know it." It kills him sometimes how like Dad he is. How he can feel himself getting loud and obnoxious and riled up at all the same things, but when Dad talks, when he uses The Voice, people stand back respectfully. They just look at Scott like he's a reckless pup.
"We're soldiers. We do what we're ordered. That's the deal." Stubbs had spelled it out for him, nice and slow, like he was a slow kid.
"A civilian ran the blockade at Bucharest last year, you know? Made it through the air trenches while the entire GDFAF sat around with our thumbs up our asses, managed to get essential supplies to civilians on the other side." He thinks about that Bucharest run a lot lately.
But Stubbs had just rolled her eyes. "And got shot down for his trouble. Tracy, I really don't want to have to attend your court martial."
Now this.
"Come home. It's only a couple of days. John's coming too. It's important."
So he'd come, like a good dog fetched by his master's voice. And now he's here, wishing he could be anywhere else.
He slips out of his room and makes for the downstairs, but halts when Virgil calls his name. He turns.
John had warned him about Virg's attempts to cultivate facial hair, so he doesn't openly guffaw. Actually what hits him is the sensation of having to look up. From his position on the last step of the stairs Virgil is half a head taller than him.
Virgil seems to realise it too, because he hops down off the step. This goes a ways to address the balance, but still leaves Scott feeling disconcerted. When he had left the kid had only come up to the top of his breast bone, but now Scott's only got a bare inch or two on him. His clothes are baggier than ever, shirts piled on shirts. Still self-conscious about puppyfat maybe? And that moustache! It looks like his face should be posted with a sign saying "Caterpillar Crossing".
"Hey Virg."
He remembers the long letters that Virgil used to send him, full of asides and sketches and details of school and island life, sometimes even written out and posted on precious paper. He doesn't remember when those letters stopped coming or when his own holos slackened off. He does remember feeling relieved when they stopped.
He faces up to Virgil. It's a different feeling than with how it is with John, or with Gordon. With Virgil he is looking at his brother and seeing a stranger.
"I thought you could use these." Virgil passes him a clean white t-shirt and a pair of socks.
He accepts them and heads back into his bedroom to change but finds Virgil lurking at the bedroom door.
"How've you been, bud?" He tries as he pulls his shirt over his head. "How's school?"
Virgil had started art school in the fall. Getting him there had required a fight that had ruined Thanksgiving '55 and had left Scott and Dad not speaking for over two months.
"Yeah. It's good." Virgil shifts from foot to foot.
"Hey, and thanks for the Christmas present." The hunting knife Virgil had sent him had been beautiful, perfectly balanced, wonderfully crafted. It had made him the envy of the unit. "Uh, I guess I never got around to sending out gifts this year."
That lie trips out quite easily too. Alan had got a new snowboard. John always needed new telescope lenses and he's had an agreement with Gordon since he turned eighteen that he would pay for Gordon's Playboy yearly subscription and Dad would never find out. But he's got no idea anymore what Virgil would want. The last couple of years he had bought him canvas and paintbrushes, but now that Virg was actually in art college these seemed trivial.
"Don't worry about it," Virgil says. "Hey, can we talk?"
"Sure. How about tomorrow? We could take the catamaran out? Or we could go climbing. Do you still climb?"
"Yeah, I still climb." There's a check of something like irritation in Virgil's voice that has him looking up.
"Right, just, ah, just I wasn't sure. Is something the matter?" He can see now that Virgil's uneasy.
"No. Nothing's the matter. It's just-"
Suddenly he understands. "He's not giving you a hard time, is he, Virg? I've told you before, you do what you want to do. You can't let him push you around."
"I'm not. Scott, I- "
"If Dad had his way we'd all be pilots, right. Imagine, right?" He chuckles.
"Scott, just - "
"I'll talk to him, okay. Don't worry. And for what it's worth I'm really proud of you for pursuing this."
Virgil sags a little, and Scott sees how much this must have been bothering him. "…Thanks Scott."
"Hey, Comrade Tracy, your rabbit food is served." Gordon calls up the stairs. "You too, Lieutenant Windbag."
Scott jabs Virgil in the ribs. "Come on, champ, let's get this over with."
John's lined up the benches on the patio and the table is heaving with food.
They sit down to dinner. Grandpa always did know how to cook a mean steak and so for the first couple of minutes there's nothing but agreeable silence punctuated by demands of "pass the black pepper" and "hey, don't hog all the beans". He, John and Dad tuck into prime cuts of ribeye, while Virgil - who had declared himself a vegan just before starting school - mooches over a Caesar salad, and Gordon plucks at a pair of poached chicken breasts as his eyes make love to the bread basket.
Professsor Hissam nibbles daintily on his lamb cutlet and watches in faint horror and fascination as the Tracy boys go to work.
Mouthful by mouthful conversation starts to return. "Do you still see Ortega and Lieberrr?" Dad asks after his old colleagues, as he helps himself to another spoon of mash.
"Major Lieberr's down in Nicaragua, now. They have her teaching survival skills to the new recruits. I still see Ortega." In fact it has been less than 48 hours since the superior officer threatened him with an insubordination charge if he didn't pull out and leave the Mexican family to the floods and their fate. Ortega hadn't wanted to risk the equipment in further engagement. He quickly changes the subject. "How's Tallahassee?"
"Amazing." Gordon drags his gaze away from the golden glob of butter sliding down John's corn on the cob. "So many girls. Tanned, fit, athletic girls and so competitive. You wouldn't believe- "Gordon catches Dad's eye and breaks off. "And the Olympics and training and 110 per cent. Super important."
"And where are you s-studying?" Professor Hissam asks Virgil as Virgil passes him the salad bowl.
Virgil tries to spear a crouton with a particularly violent jab of his fork, "Hmm, what?"
"Virgil's our resident artist." Scott says, "He's very talented. And we're all very proud to him." He looks to Dad to see how he'll react, but Dad is fishing for the salt and either hasn't heard or is refusing to rise to the bait.
"Subtle as a truck there, Scotty," says Gordon.
It's the Professor who looks confused. "You're an artist? Are you sure?"
"Yeah Virg, show us some artwork."
The table judders and Gordon's feral grin becomes an O of pain. Virgil examines his baby gem morosely. "Maybe another time."
Did Scott imagine the look that passed between his father and the Professor? "Pass the sweet potato if you would, Brains."
John reaches for the bread basket and Gordon nudges it just out of his reach. He tries again and Gordon nudges it a little further. "Cut it out, Gordon."
"You sure you want to be doing that, tubs?"
John drops his fork. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, maybe you're just putting on insulation for those Arctic winters." Gordon takes an extra big slurp of his protein shake.
"Knock it off." Scott picks up the bread basket and puts it in front of John.
"Phew. Good thing big brother's home to settle all our arguments for us." Gordon shoots him a sickly sweet grin. "How do we get along without you, Scot?"
"This isn't an argument." John slices into a bread roll and butters it with deliberate care. It's hard to get him really angry, but Gordon is nothing if not a born button pusher.
"I get it. If I was in your position I'd eat my feelings too."
"Give it a rest, Gordon," Virgil murmurs.
John's cheeks almost match his hair. "Tell me, what does it take to swim up and down a pool a hundred times a day? The average intellectual prowess of a wind up rubber duck, I'd calculate."
The table goes silent. Gordon's grin has frozen on his face. John looks immediately like he's regretting his words. He scoops mange tout onto his plate. "Sorry."
Scott can't believe how quick it's all gone bad, without him even having to contribute, without him even sizing up to Dad yet. John's shoulders are shaking as he takes rapid, shallow breaths. Gordon looks ready for a fight.
"May I be excused?" Virgil doesn't wait for permission, but shoots to his feet, nearly knocking the table over.
"Virgil, sit down!"
"Don't yell at him!" It slips out before he can stop it, a reflex triggered by Dad's use of The Voice.
The whole table seems to be holding their breath. Scott eyes Dad, but Dad isn't looking at him.
Virgil sits down. "Can you pass the potato salad, please, Scott?"
But Dad isn't done. "All of you. I invited Professor Hackenbacker here as a guest. I promised him I had five sons who could… who could manage a simple dinner without tantrums or abuse, but I guess that was too much to hope for. Now, I'm going to finish my dinner. Then we're all going to go upstairs. There's something important I need to share with my sons. Since they're not here, you lot of talking apes will have to do instead."
None of them are hungry anymore, so all four of them sit around and watch as Dad finishes his meal down to the last bite.
"Okay," He puts his knife and fork down, "Let's go upstairs."
They follow him to the den, so he can begin whatever it is that is so important that he needed to trap them on a small volcanic island surrounded by a hundred leagues of ocean to do it.