Summary: Some people think being the one organizing things at Mobile Control is the easy job. What happens when that very thing makes Scott Tracy a target? Follow-up to my story "Darker Side of Blue."
Author's Note: This story contains references to male rape and may therefore not be suitable for all readers. While the act is not explicitly described, I've given it an "M" rating simply due to the subject matter contained herein.
SITTING DUCK
Another rescue. He loved it. Loved the adrenaline racing through his body. The way his heart beat in double-time when the klaxon sounded, when standing in the Lounge getting the debrief, when assessing the situation. Every military operation had caused the same reaction. Getting suited up, hopping into the cockpit of the latest in Air Force technology. And space. The feel of a rocket blasting to life, G-forces pressing you so far into your seat you were sure you'd go right through it.
But there was nothing like Thunderbird One.
From the time he grabbed the light fixtures, from the time the wall swung him around into One's hidden hangar; from the moment he saw her sleek, silver body and the gantry began to move, to bridge the chasm between him and her...those first moments were like the anticipation of making love with someone new for the first time. The actual flying was like an extended orgasm. The kind that makes stars explode in your head, that keeps you high for hours.
He could never get enough of her, of feeling the power beneath him. Pure exhilaration.
He'd given up a lucrative and rewarding career as an Air Force Man to take this job. But there weren't very many times he regretted it. He rolled his head first to one side, then the other. A few bones in his neck cracked and he sighed softly. Grasping attitude and speed levers that were smooth, worn from his gentle hands. The high-pitched whine settled into his consciousness. This seemed to be a fairly straightforward rescue. He'd already given setup orders to Two's crew. No need for anything but the man and his ship.
Always good. Always optimistic. Always ready for action. At the beginning, always okay.
And on he raced.
First on-scene, as usual. Sometimes, if the situation was dire enough, this moment would start a whole different type of adrenaline rush. The rush that came from knowing people were in danger of dying, and that you and your brothers were all that stood between them and the Great Beyond. In this case it was a cave collapse. The people here in Pennsylvania used caves to draw tourists as much as Orlando used Disney World to do the same. Most had been brought out, but apparently there was a teenager and two adults as yet still trapped. Hopefully, Scott thought, still alive.
"Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two."
"Mobile Control here. What is your ETA, Thunderbird Two?"
"ETA now 3.5 minutes, Scott."
"F.A.B. I'm waiting for the local sheriff to arrive."
"What? He's not already there?"
"No," Scott replied with a half-frown and half-grin. "Apparently his wife's getting ready to give birth to twins."
"That's some kind of dumb luck, it happening now with this thing going on," Virgil replied.
Scott heard the whine of her engines and watched as the small green speck grew and grew until it was hovering not more than a handful of yards away. Of course, he'd never tell Virgil, but he really admired Thunderbird Two. Virgil always claimed it was better than One – and many friendly...well, mostly friendly...arguments had ensued. Before he could take that thought any further, he heard the VTOLs ignite. Scott could feel the heat as they fired and narrowed his eyes.
"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two. Let's not barbecue the field commander."
The expected guffaws soon came to his ears and he grinned. The giant 'bird began to rise on her stilts until at last she came to a stop high above Pod 5.
"Thunderbird Two to Mobile Control. Alan, John and I will be handling the extrication, and Gordon's with us on medical."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two." Scott checked the local map he'd downloaded via satellite from Thunderbird 5's computer. He saw very little in the way of obstructions below-ground. Using the flat-panel touch pad in directly in front of him, Scott maneuvered the pointer to the western side of the second tunnel that had collapsed, where the trapped tourists were supposed to be. A quick double-tap zoomed in on that location and confirmed the existence of a third tunnel only five feet to the north of Tunnel 2. And to the south, the first tunnel was merely 4 feet away.
"That set of caves is a spider web of tunnels, Virgil," Scott said into his headset mike. "I don't like what might happen if the Mole cuts through the north or south entrances. Take it down the second one only. You'll have to bore down about 20 feet before the western edge of the collapse and come right back up through the debris blocking the tunnel."
"Do we know where the tourists are exactly?" Virgil asked as the Mole's trolley roared to life inside the pod.
Scott frowned as he used his finger on the flat panel to trace the path he wanted the Mole to take. "I'm showing they're nearer the eastern edge. This is going to have to be precise, Virg. You can't be off by so much has half a foot when you surface. I'm transmitting the map and projected path to you now."
"F.A.B."
So many things could go wrong on this. Truth be told, he wouldn't want anyone but Virgil piloting the Mole right now. If anyone could make that hair's breadth entry without causing the tunnel to completely collapse over the trapped people, it was Virgil. But as precise as he was, this worried Scott. Even if the tunnel held during the Mole's entry, it could very well collapse before his brothers got all the victims out.
He looked up just as the sounds of the Mole roaring out of the pod reached his ears. A man ran towards him, shirt tails hanging out over his jeans, his fly unzipped halfway and his boot laces untied. The man was probably in his early forties, brown smartly-cut hair showing no signs of gray yet. Scott smiled in welcome as the man huffed up to his mobile control unit.
"Inter...national...Rescue..." the man puffed.
"Yes, sir, and you are?"
Have to play it cool. No matter who or what you're confronted with. Everything's still okay. Rescue's only just started. Diplomatic. Kind. Understanding. Thoughts running rampant beneath the near-black curls.
"I'm Sheriff Tupper," the man said, offering a well-calloused hand. "Sorry I'm so late. My wife Mary's havin' a hard time poppin' our twins out!"
Smile politely again, shake the offered hand. No big deal. Outwardly.
"No problem, Sheriff, we have the situation well under control. Your local rescue personnel are on-scene to assist once the victims have been recovered."
"So I can go back to my wife?"
Lives were at stake. The local economy could suffer from this collapse today. As the head of law enforcement, he was more worried about his wife and family than potential deaths and the devastation wreaked on a local mainstay. Perhaps if you had a wife and two brand-new babies coming, your priorities shifted. Substantially. But were they not in good hands? Were they not in a place where help would be immediate no matter what happened? These trapped tourists were not. Priorities.
His priorities had always been skewed, and changed whichever way his thoughts blew. One minute, one brother. The next minute, another. Hurt one to help another, let one die so that another may live. Decisions, always decisions. Hurt your father to do what you felt best for strangers. Refuse to stop when you knew going forward might kill. Smile tightly and nod and pretend everything's under control. It has to be under control. Mustn't give the illusion that it's not. Not even to yourself.
"Of course, Sheriff, I completely understand." Lie to protect. Lie to serve. "My best wishes to you and your family."
"Thanks, buddy!" he replied with a clap to Scott's shoulder. "You take care, and just get in touch with the station if you need me, they'll know how to find me."
Scott nodded, lips still drawn. The corners curved upwards as the thoughts turned south. Selfish bastard. International Rescue's here, I don't need to be here. They'll handle it. Never mind my men, my fellow townsfolk. Never mind the lives at stake. Never mind what I could learn from them. What I could learn that could very well help me in the future.
Selfish. Cold. Reasonable. The facts were such that the only logical conclusion was to stay and help. Help rescue, help watch, help direct. But no. He didn't want to stay. International Rescue didn't need help. They could do anything. Everything. The impossible. So good-bye, good luck and thanks. Thanks for making my responsibility go away.
His face turned to a grimace as he watched the Mole's trolley rise from the back. The great drill bit started turning, the rear jet came on. Once again sending them into peril. Once again making the decision. Once again in command. Au revoir rather than good-bye. Then no good-bye left for your memory if the unthinkable happened.
"Mobile control to Mole. Keep me informed."
"F.A.B., Scott."
"Mobile control listening out."
Listening just in case he heard it – a twinge of worry in Virgil's voice; a clipped, short bark in John's; an octave higher in Gordon's; breathlessness in Alan's. He knew the cues. It was never a case of words, only of actions. Of sounds. The years had provided him with supplemental information on sounds from the four he knew so well outside of this business.
The family business. The secret business. Nobody on Earth knew he was God. Nobody would ever know. It was as it should be.
You will live and you will die.
Sorry, that's the choice to be made, and it's my choice to make. You're only ten years old? Sorry, I'm God. You're newly married? Sorry, I'm God. You're pregnant? Sorry. Can't help you.
Over and over again. Maybe having a wife and children did change your priorities. He had only known the life of the eldest. No childhood to speak of, gone too quickly in a terrifying flash of tragedy. Always responsible. Always there to dry a tear, to rock a small body, to help with homework, to guard and protect. To protect and serve. Older brother. Field commander. Those were his priorities.
No children.
Why was he thinking of this now as the Mole disappeared beneath the surface? Because if there were children at home to hold and care for, it would help take up the void left behind by the death of one of these men who were his brothers. His sons. They were his children. They had taken the void left by Mother. Replace one love with another, but it didn't work, not in the long-term. Temporary graces, temporary salve for the wound, but without rooting infection from its center it would fester and eventually rupture and there would be all the ugliness of years' worth of being eaten away.
Ugliness as his eyes followed the blip on his monitor. Tunnel down, tunnel in. Further and further, danger increasing. Never easy, never unwanted, never knowing the outcome. A stranger approaching. Hand at the ready, prepared to grab the laser pistol if needed. Not always welcome, International Rescue, not always friendly faces. A woman, older, probably in her sixties. Seemed harmless but you never knew. Fingers flexed, prepared.
"Sir, my granddaughter is in there."
"Yes, ma'am, is that the teenager?"
"Yes, the teenager and the two adults are my two daughters. Lisa Grimm, Lora Parsons and my granddaughter Jade Parsons."
"Could you describe them for me please, ma'am?"
Lisa and Lora are twins, my daughters you know, both have long, brown hair, both fairly thin, both have brown eyes. My granddaughter's got sandy blonde hair, cut short, real curly, a bit plump."
"Thank you, ma'am, I'll relay that to the team."
"They're helping, they're going to save them, right?"
Reassure. Lie if you must, you can't predict the outcome. "Yes, and your name?"
"Karen, Karen Grimm."
"I'm Scott," he replied, sticking his hand out. She took it and clung to it, eyes raking over the monitors and buttons of Mobile Control. Safety concerns, security hazard, but no, she wouldn't remember a thing. They never did. He held her hand. Be strong, be the rock. That's her family down there. It's his family down there, too. Kindred souls watching and waiting. They never remembered what they saw. She wouldn't even remember what he looked like. Thousands of studies had been conducted. Victims and their families remembered vague impressions – dark hair, light hair, blue eyes maybe, and safety. How the men of International Rescue made them feel more than how they looked. Good for business. She wouldn't remember him or MC.
"Mobile Control to Mole. Have description of three targets." Proceed to give them the facts, monotone, staid, show no emotion. Be sure. Certain. Show strength to the grandmother, the mother. Hand squeezed his harder as Virgil acknowledged receipt of descriptions. Squeezed yet harder as a rustling noise came from behind.
At the base of the Appalachians. A mountain range over 1,600 miles long and stretching from Canada to the Caribbean. Thick forests here in Pennsylvania, can't see through the trees. Thick bushes, thick trees. This was the other side of Blue Mountain from the skiing side. Beautiful country. God's country, some might say. Miles of flat rock and flat land then forests and trees. Rough terrain, near impossible to hike if you strayed from the trail.
Blue Mountain rose behind him, high into the sky as he turned, letting go Karen's hand as his hand twitched again, so ready to grab the gun. Trees not fifteen feet away, suddenly the thought that maybe this wasn't the right place to have set up Mobile Control. Probably overreacting, just an animal, lots of wild animals in these parts. Might be a mountain lion, if it attacked he'd have to shoot. To protect Karen. After all, it could have him. Would be interesting to tangle with a pissed off overgrown kitty. He could win or he could die trying.
Morbid thought fled as the rustling came again.
"Uh-oh."
His head whipped around as Karen whispered the exclamation. "What?"
Four men emerged. Clad in jeans and some with flannel or tee-shirts. All large. All with shaggy unkempt hair, beards that were dirty and too long, knotted in places. Work boots worn through, holes in the shoes, one with cowboy boots. All looked upon him as he and Karen looked back.
"Why did you say uh-oh?" he whispered.
"I didn't believe...I didn't believe they were real," she breathed.
"Who? Who are they?" The men just stood there. Karen gaped openly. "Ma'am, please!"
"Uh...I-I'm sorry, I just...I can't stay...I can't stay!" With that, Karen turned on heel and ran. Ran and ran back the many football field lengths to the waiting ambulances and fire trucks.
"Mrs. Grimm!" Scott barked, but she didn't look back, didn't stop. He turned back to the four men. "May I help you gentlemen?"
He couldn't keep the hairs on the back of his neck from bristling. Couldn't keep the goosebumps from forming all over his body. Couldn't keep the small lines of sweat from his upper lip and forehead. His mind raced, taking stock of their appearance – poor, middle-aged, dirty, eagle eyes boring into his skull. Something told him to run. Run after Karen. Be afraid. Can't leave Mobile Control. Even that technology is coveted. Are they here to steal it? Here for the 'birds? Listening to the chatter between John, Virgil, Alan, Gordon. Listening as they reached their destination and prepared to rescue the victims.
"Mobile Control, acknowledge."
He daren't move.
"Mobile Control, please acknowledge."
If he moved, they might, too.
"Scott, are you there?"
Can't answer you, Virg, not now.
"Scott." That sound. The pitch, the tone. Worry. "Scott, are you reading me?"
Other voices, discussion, what to do.
The men moved closer. Scott drew his firearm, but as fast as his quick draw was, it wasn't fast enough. Something hit him from behind. He felt the thump, but hadn't time to turn. He felt his body crumple to the ground, felt the pain at the base of his neck. Heard his brother's voice as the last thing lulling him into unconsciousness.
"Scott!"