Disclaimer: Well, I had hoped that my fairy godmother would have waved her fairy dust wand and given me the boys as a good luck gift, as I take my first steps into the thorny workforce-combined-with-study world, but nope. Nada. They don't belong to me, and no money is made from this.
First Forgive
It had been a hell of a rescue. I can't tell you the logistics, statistics of that rescue, nor the ones that preceded it. I can't even tell you who accompanied me on that fateful rescue. Well, I can, but that's beside the point.
As Field Commander, I'm expected to know these details intimately. Of course, it doesn't really matter, since I document each rescue, and each rescue document is of an impeccable standard. Even my father can't find fault in my record keeping abilities. No, it's more a matter of imposing these expectations on myself, just to keep myself on top of my game.
But lately, I've been feeling as though the top of my game just isn't enough. I'm letting my team down. Most importantly, I'm letting the world down.
There had been more fatalities than wounded.
There had been more severe wounded – injuries that still threatened the lives of the victims – than injuries International Rescue operatives were qualified to treat.
It's a rescue like the last one that makes me wonder if it's all worth it, if we can actually make a difference.
The world had been stunned with our arrival. The Fireflash rescue dominated global headlines for almost a week, with less sensational rescues flying under the radar.
Not that I minded. Less media attention at a rescue site made it easier to deal with the rescue itself. I'm not distracted by the voices of the media, clamouring to be the first network to break the story, nor am I disturbed by the constant attempts to engage me in a conversation to try and cajole me into giving an interview or a statement on behalf of International Rescue.
The particular rescue that had shattered my heart was called in at the middle of the night. Rubbing my eyes, my brain kicked into gear. I had to be on the ball, even though I felt so agonizingly tired.
"Bomb explosion in a school," Dad had said without preamble, scraping his hair out of his eyes and tying his sash around his dressing robe. "Almost the entire school population trapped under the structure. Kindergarten to Seniors. I've asked John to send the co-ordinates and building blueprints onto the computers on Thunderbirds One and Two. Thunderbirds are go!"
Without hesitation, I had sprinted to his craft, swivelling sideways through the wall. Virgil had tipped head-first into the chute that would take him to Thunderbird Two. A quick look at the details of the rescue – the flesh of it, not the bare bones Dad had summarised – and I requested that Virgil bring the Mole along with him.
Within moments, I was airborne. My heart slammed against my ribcage, adrenaline kicking in. Let me tell you something; it doesn't matter how much information I'm given before the rescue, it doesn't even matter if I've planned the perfect rescue with the equipment we have on hand; nothing ever goes to plan. Ninety per cent of the time, I fly by the seat of my pants, and hope it all works out.
You see, a rescue is like math. There are constants, functions and variables that my team and I have to work within. I like constants. They're predictable, like the equipment. Nothing about the equipment can change too much, within parameters we engineer into them. Generally, my brothers are constants too, following my instructions, deviating rarely. Once they deviate from my plan, they instantly become a variable. Functions change too, but they follow rules, just as I expect them to.
Variables, to be honest, are the bane of my existence as Field Commander. Variables are impossible to control, impossible to predict. Like the name suggests, they vary. There is no rhythm or rhyme to how they change. There are no rules or patterns. They just vary, for better or for worse. If one variable – just one – changes in the tenuous equation that comprises a rescue alters, the entire thing can be shot to shit.
Sleep comes to me in snatches, if it comes at all. It doesn't matter that Virg and I are under the mandatory seventy two hour period of suspension after being on a rescue for thirty six consecutive hours. Dad expects us to use this time to rest and recuperate, catch up on lost sleep, or maybe shoot some pool, but this doesn't seem possible for me.
I close my eyes, and I can see them. Innocent faces, full of trust that I could help get them out. They were no older than six years old. A whole lifetime ahead of them, cut short by my inability to save them.
I reach out to them as they dance in front of me, stretch my arms to the point of pain, but they're just out of reach. They slip further and further away, eventually falling into the abyss that swallows them whole. I watch on in horror, realise that my hands are being covered in blood.
So, no, sleep doesn't come easy.
Instead, I lay in the dark, my thoughts moving around my head like a lethargic spider. I recount the rescue, although there is no purpose to it. If anything, it makes me feel worse. Two little words keep biting at my thoughts.
What if?
What if I had made the wrong choice in sending Virgil over to the East Wing of the school instead of the West Wing?
What if I had asked Dad to send Gordon or Alan out with us?
What if I had encouraged Virgil to continue resuscitation instead of telling him to call time of death?
What if I had done the opposite; ceased Virgil's vain attempt at sustaining one life for the benefit of many more?
What if I was so tired, I had handled the entire rescue wrongly from the word go?
What if I had made the wrong choice?
What if it happened because I had made choices?
That would make me little more than a murder, wouldn't it? It was my extreme tiredness that clouded my judgement, influenced me in my behaviour on the rescue. I may not have set off a pipe bomb in the school's trash can, but I consciously decided who had a greater chance of survival and who didn't. I may not have had a role in the initial stages of the disaster, but I controlled the secondary stages.
In fatalities like this, it means I'm nothing more than a common murderer and a thief. They had a life, and I snatched it away from them.
In retrospect, the rescue isn't the hardest part of the job. I mean, physically it is. Despite all of our machinery, a large portion of the rescue still involves us hoisting and removing debris with muscle power alone.
No, it's the aftermath that's the hardest part, emotionally. I've dealt with fatalities in the past, but never on this scale. Informing the families is the hardest part.
It's something I'll never let any of my operatives do in my stead, no matter how hard it is. I'm in control of how the rescue progresses, the subsequent success or failure of it; I'm responsible for the fallout.
The last rescue, it was particularly gruelling. Every body was tagged with the identification cards the kids had to wear around their necks, as part of a school regulation. Every body had a name; they weren't just one of the masses, one nameless face blending in with a sea of thousands. Every body had some form of family waiting to wrap them up and spirit them off to safety. A mother, a father, a little brother or sister, perhaps.
It was almost impossible to maintain professional decorum in front of the family as I handed the body over, each a dead weight of guilt in my arms. Normally, the bodies would be taken into police custody for identification before being released to family, but since that step has been covered, the cops deem it okay to cut out the middle step.
I express our condolences on behalf of International Rescue, explain robotically that we had done everything we could. The standard stock response.
Inside, I wondered if I was speaking the truth. Had we done everything in our power for them?
Had I?
I had briefly had a moment of eye contact with each member of the family, trying to convey just how sorry I was through my eyes when I couldn't put it into words. If it's hard saying that, it must be infinitely harder being the recipient of such news.
Something shocked me in that moment. There was no anger, no resentment from the families.
Just gratitude.
I don't know what I'd done to deserve it.
In these seventy two hours, Virg and I can pretty much do what we want. Most of the time, we just relax on the island. Virgil often paints continuously. Dolphins, waves, sunrises, or maybe even Alan falling victim to Gordon's latest prank. These beautiful, and sometimes hilarious, images are immortalised in canvas and paint.
I just fly. I roll one of the ancient propeller planes I had restored years ago out onto the tarmac. I ignite the engine, remove the chocks from beneath the wheels and aim for the sky. Sometimes, I twist and nosedive. I stall the engine to the last possible moment before the point of no return. Other times, I contemplate just flying without direction, waiting for the engines to run out of fuel, and see where I land. I just want to escape from responsibility for a day or so.
It never works. The guilt will always catch up.
When it gets this bad, I'll head to the mainland – either New Zealand or the east coast of Australia – for two days. It's a closed invitation; no-one else is permitted to join me, as selfish as that sounds.
What I do there is strictly my own.
Dad had pulled me aside after the aftermath. For a man who likes to suppress his emotions, he's surprisingly clued into how we're feeling after a disastrous rescue. He offered me a two-fingered shot of whiskey. I knocked it back without a second thought, feeling the liquid burn my oesophagus.
It wasn't enough.
I poured another glass and skulled it like it was nothing more than water. And another one after that.
"There will be times when you lose, son," Dad said, swilling his drink in the bottom of his glass. The action reminded me of a tea-leaf reader, the ones who swill the dregs to predict your fortune. If only Dad could have done that for me.
I knew that. But it didn't change anything. I hate losing. I always have; I've never been a good loser.
"I read your report," he continued.
I waited for the reprimand, certain that I had screwed up in my exhausted state, but nothing else came from him. I poured another glass of whiskey and let it trickle down my throat for the slow burn. It hurt, but not as much as the rescue did.
"You're not God, Scott. You can't win them all." He headed back indoors without another word.
If that's true, then why has he given me the power to choose who gets to live or die?
I leave the apartment at twilight, walk alongside the Brisbane River. It should only take me fifteen minutes to reach my destination, but I amble along, watching the lights on the river bank slowly flicker out as offices shut down for the day.
By the time I reach where I need to be, the sun has set, and the sky is darkening. I prefer it this way. The building is tall and imposing, making me feel almost insignificant as I stand on the steps. If it were still day time, it would cast an impressive shadow on the sidewalk. Without a second thought, I enter.
Memories from my childhood come running back to me. I remember Mom struggling to get four of us ready on a Sunday morning so that we could come to a place similar to this. Only Johnny seemed more inclined than the rest of us to go. I remember asking her why she took us, despite our reluctance. She replied by informing me that it was so that we always knew that we didn't have to carry the burden of our worries by ourselves; that we knew that there would always be someone who would care for us without judgement. At the time, I didn't understand her explanation, but I knew I wouldn't forget it.
She told me that a week before she died.
To my knowledge, Alan, Gordon and Virgil don't come here anymore. John, I'm not too sure about, but I try and visit whenever I'm in town. It was the one of the many things Mom felt passionate about, and it seemed important to carry out her wishes. For me it's a way of honouring her and her memory.
I see a pew in my peripheral vision.
I see my mom sitting on one of them, only a lifetime ago, head bowed down in solemn prayer.
Oh, God, Mom…
I've let her down. I'm not the person she would want me to be.
Mom, I'm so sorry. Forgive me.
Please.
I walk further down, into the bowels of the church. My footsteps echo against the wooden floorboards, reassuringly heavy. The burden I carry on my shoulders becomes more apparent with each step I take. It appears to be empty, but I know where I need to go to find my saviour. I head to the furthest corner, just off centre to the right.
I would love to face the person I'm about to talk to, choose the chair that sits opposite him, but secrecy to IR dictates that I slide into a small booth, with a red curtain that separates us. I feel the solid oak bench, steady beneath my hands, unwavering under the immense weight of my confession.
The priest acknowledges me, invites me to talk.
It's been a long time since I've done this.
It hasn't been long enough.
I close my eyes, and open my mouth.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."