As usual, I don't own them. I am just toying with them awhile and hoping no-one minds too much.
Particular thanks to Virgil for his insights. Though I love him dearly, he has a restricted sense of humour, so I'm allowing him to cover one of the more serious moments in IR lore. If you want humour, you'll have to delve through my other stories. I know this episode been done many times before – this is just one way in which it might have 'gone down', and it is a necessary addition to my set.
Mostly psycho-babblish. TV-verse with my usual brand of AU thrown in.
This is set three to four months before 'Roughing up the mocking-bird' and twenty months prior to 'Introductions'.
…
Now we are five
…
We pick him up direct from his home base when his transport comes in.
He's wearing utilities, not full dress, but I still get that rush of unfamiliarity I always experience on the odd occasions I see him in uniform. Usually, by the time he's made his way to Kansas he's in civilian clothes. But this time we're not going to the farm.
He sees us and, breaking into a grin, he strides over and pulls me into an embrace. It lasts a few nanoseconds longer than John would be comfortable with, but I don't mind. It's been more than a year since we've seen one another. He breaks and eyes up Alan now. I see a brief look of chagrin cross his face.
"You've grown, kiddo," he remarks, and holds Alan at arm's length to inspect him.
Alan was three weeks pre-term and it's like he's always been playing catch-up. This is the first time Scott's seen him since a year gone Christmas and the kid is no longer a kid. We Tracys tend to be a tall bunch. But Scott favors Gramps Michael – Mom's father - both in looks and build. When we were kids he towered over the rest of us for what felt like years - but he's had to stand back and watch as we all overshot him in turn.
Alan's just the latest in the line.
He stops staring at our little brother, all grown up now, and gives him a hug, too. Alan pulls a face. He's getting to the stage where he thinks he's grown out of that stuff. He'll grow right back into it again, one day soon, same as we all did.
"So you persuaded Grandma let you come?"
"It wasn't easy, believe me."
"You don't say. I'm surprised she let you skip classes in your graduation year. You settled on Yale yet?"
"Harvard," Alan says firmly. He idolises John.
"No taste. You have no taste." Scott shakes his head in mock disbelief.
- I want to tell him what Alan's going to be doing with his vacations. But I can't -
We lead him to the car, and catch up a year's worth in about thirty seconds flat. Not the important stuff – that can wait.
"Nice wheels," he comments, holding out a hand. I hand over the keys without comment.
He says I drive too slowly – he'll probably say Alan drives too fast; he hasn't seen the kid behind a wheel yet - but that isn't really it. He's the ultimate control freak, hates being in the passenger seat. I learned a long time ago just to give in gracefully.
It's the same when we arrive at the jet. He looks her up and down – I like to think approvingly - and states the obvious.
"This isn't Tracy One."
"Nope. She's mine. Where we live now we need more than one plane."
He just grunts in response, but finishes his once-over and heads on in to the cockpit.
"I hear these are nice birds to fly. Do you mind?"
It isn't a question.
"Sure – be my guest."
"You filed a flight plan?"
I just shoot him a withering look, and dig it out for him. He gives it a brief glance and throws it onto a passenger seat. I know he has memorised it in that instant. He does the same thing with the display panels and the flight controls – a quick once-over and he knows where everything is. We settle down for the pre-flight checks and start to taxi.
I don't really mind. I've already flown from the island to Kansas and then done the trip from Wichita to Fairfield. I could do with the break. And in all honesty, I love to watch him fly. It took me a few flights to get a real feel for the way she handles. He's instantly at home.
To begin with he's in a sunny mood. Once we're airborne and out over open ocean he even lets me fly my own plane for a few minutes while he ditches his combat gear and tugs on a vest and jeans. But it doesn't look like lasting.
"So," he says wonderingly, slipping back into the pilot's seat. "An island."
Well, that isn't actually what he says. He's interjected an adjective, but it's unrepeatable. Suffice to say, he's been unimpressed with the whole island notion from its inception.
I remember the phone call when I first told him. It was way back when – he'd have been in his freshman or sophomore year, I think. There had been a long silence at the end of the phone.
"He's bought a what?!"
"An island. In the pacific."
Another long silence.
"What's he planning to do with a pacific island?" His voice had turned suspicious. "He's not going into weapons testing, is he?"
I chuckled. "No – you kidding? Dad? He's planning to live there."
His bewilderment was actually audible.
"Live there – as in permanently? Is he planning to retire? The boredom will kill him in a week. If he likes it so much why doesn't he just holiday there once in a while?"
I laughed again. "No, you don't understand. It isn't a holiday-paradise sort of island. It's a hundreds-of-miles-out-of-the-way-uninhabited sort of island. There'll be no-one except us there. He's planning to build a luxury villa."
"Now I know he's losing it. By the time he's built his luxury villa, there'll be no-one left at home to share it. It's only a few years before you'll go to college, and the rate Johnny's going, I shouldn't be surprised if he's right behind you."
- He was wrong, as it happens. John made college the same year I did. The annoying little tyke wasn't even sixteen when they let him into Harvard and he powered through two separate degrees in the time it takes most of us to do one –
"What are the kids going to do for school?"
"Don't know. S'pose they'll stay on with Grandma." To be fair, I was only fifteen and neither knew nor much cared.
But we heard nothing more about the island for a long time after that. Whenever one of us brought it up Dad would just shrug. "Work in progress," he'd say.
But everything changed a couple of years back. I was the first one Dad told, the first he asked to join him, even before he approached Johnny. I'll hang onto that for a very long time.
…
"That's it?"
He peers out curiously.
"Runway's just this side. It's very short. You're coming in a little high." I try not to sound anxious. He's remembered he isn't in a jump jet, right?
"That's because I'm not coming in."
He turns the jet. Apparently he intends to give the island a once-over.
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"Why not? Plenty of fuel," Alan puts in unhelpfully.
He sounds excited. I shoot him a warning glance. I hope Dad's security is as tight as he says it is.
Scott tracks the island counter-clockwise. He takes in the smaller islands in the archipelago at a glance - not much to see there – and turns his attention back to the main island.
"Wasn't expecting so many trees," he comments.
"Yip," Alan says enthusiastically. "And they're full of all sorts of nasty little bugs and critters. Darwinian nightmare. You'd be surprised what's managed to make its way out here."
"You can imagine what kind of a field-day Gordon has when he visits," I warn him. "But we're safe for now. He's in Taholah."
"I know," he says patiently. "He told me they won't give him leave. I planned to go out there to see him on Thursday night."
- Gordon's birthday; of course -
"Great idea," I respond. "John and I can come out too." With luck I can head off up to Seattle afterward for a little downtime with Iris. John will undoubtedly find something to do.
Alan's enthusiasm builds. "Yeah, fantastic – count me in too."
I pour cold water on his plans. "We told your principal three days. No more. I fly you back on Wednesday. I can stay on the farm overnight and head up north Thursday."
He pouts. I agree it sucks.
Scott banks so he can see the crater more clearly.
"Neat," is the only comment he offers. I can see he's already thinking about the climbing possibilities. That's a good sign.
He's more vocal about the villa as it swings into view around the other side of the island.
"That is just obscene," he mutters. "What the heck was he thinking of?"
Scott has money. What he does with it is anybody's guess. For the son of a billionaire, and someone who has somehow – according to John - accrued several tens of millions in his own right, Scott has an oddly parsimonious streak. He hates outward displays of wealth, and for the past four years he hasn't even shelved out for a decent condo – he lives in standard air force accommodation when he's Stateside, and presumably in some tent somewhere when he's not.
I fancy we're in for a hard week.
- I want so much to tell him what Dad's doing, but I can't –
"Scott, don't give Dad a hard time about it, okay? At least you get your own room."
The Kansas farmhouse could get a little crowded at times.
"I don't mind bunking in with you."
"If you miss my snoring so much, you're welcome to sleep on my floor. Do whatever you want. You're on vacation. Just enjoy it."
He'll love being able to keep to a routine. He's just a touch OCD. The military suits him. On the mainland we all have to be careful not to get into habits. Here he can go running same place, same time every morning if he wants.
"John will be here too." I continue. "Heaven knows when we'll all see you next."
He bites his lip and puts the plane into a tight turn to come back for landing.
"There's something else I ought to tell you," I put in hastily.
"Shoot." He sounds unenthusiastic.
"Dad's brought back a young scientist from T.A. to live on the island. His name's Hackenbacker. He's a bit odd, but he's okay, really." It comes out in a bit of a rush.
"Oh, Brains, he's fine, he just…"
Scott interrupts Alan. "Whoa. Back up there." He sounds alarmed. "There's someone else living on the island? Where? I don't see a second house." His eyes narrow. "Are you telling me he's living as part of the family?"
I knew he wouldn't like it. He doesn't like change, especially if it concerns family. Occasionally Dad tried to install a woman after Mom died. Scott wouldn't have it. We've only just got him used to the fact that Tin-Tin is a permanent fixture. The only person he ever took to right away was Kyrano himself. I don't know why.
"You won't see him much. He has some lab space downstairs and he spends most of his time down there."
He grimaces. "Would someone please explain to me why he's brought some stray to the island with him? I know the rents near the Aerospace factories have rocketed recently, but can't he just pay him more? Is he planning on bringing any more of his workforce over with him?"
"Scott, I don't know." I'm beginning to tire of this. "Why don't you ask him?"
I know he won't.
He still comes in steeper and faster than I would have done. I wonder – briefly – what will happen if he does run short of concrete. The hangar door is pretty solid, and it's shut. But he keeps the nose up longer than I could and the back of the undercarriage touches down just the right side of the water, and then when he does put her front end down he eases back so smoothly and firmly that she rolls to a stop on a quarter. I'm left looking at a couple of hundred yards of concrete. He smiles coolly. "You want me to walk her up to the hangar for you?"
I shake my head. "I'll put her away. Alan, show him up to the house."
The hangars are too close to the silos.
…
The rest of us have tried long and hard to persuade Dad to tell Scott. This is Scott - the guy with eyes in the back of his head. We are not going to be able to hide this from him for long. But we have other motives, too. All of us want him on the team. Even Johnny wants him on board, and those two don't exactly see eye to eye these days.
If we're going for nepotism, let's go the whole quarter.
John's somewhat prohibited little foray into military personnel files just made us more determined.
"I'm going on a poaching expedition," Dad had said. "I need someone who can test the planes and then head up the team when it goes into operation. Get me a short list - half a dozen names, John. They need up-to-date combat experience - the GXP is likely to handle most like an F-49 or a navy Vulture, so it needs to be someone who's used to flying solo. Whoever it is will also need to be able to handle themselves on the ground, so the more added skills you can find me, the better."
"Why not just get Scott involved?" I asked. "He pretty much fits the profile."
Dad shook his head. I felt my heart drop a little. We'd talked about this before, and this is how I thought he'd react, but I had to try.
"He and I wouldn't work well together, you know that, son."
"No, I don't," I persisted, reasoning it was worth just getting him thinking about this. "You don't know how you'd work together. You've never done it. No-one's asking you to do the whole father-son routine."
I blurted this out without really meaning to. I have never understood why the whole thing is different with Scott than the rest of us. Johnny has some insight into what it's all about, I think, but he's not sharing. None of us talks about it.
"Just keep it business," I added hastily. "It'll be fine. Besides, he's bound to figure it out if he's on the island for any length of time."
I can see him thinking about it. "Much as I'd like to bring your brother in on this, I really don't think it will work, son. If I offer him a place on the team and it goes wrong, it would be worse than never having him in at all. He's got a real good career carved out for himself where he is. He's done it without my help. Let him have that."
"You have the both of us on board with this, and you've already talked to Gordon and Alan about joining us when they're old enough. Why would you want to exclude Scott? He's better qualified to do this kind of job than any of us."
"Besides, if you bring Scott in you really can put your mind at rest about the whole security issue," Johnny interjected. "Let's say I get you your short-list. What makes you think you can approach any of them without them ratting you out to the government before you're ready to go public?"
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." Negotiation is what Dad excels at. He'd play it softly but make them an offer they couldn't refuse if it came down to it.
Johnny had eventually complied and accessed the files. I had watched over him as he worked, worried.
Hackenbacker could have helped, but refuses to get involved in anything so illegal. I can't say I blame him. He has a good reputation. If the whole thing goes wrong, Dad will pay him off handsomely and he can get tenure at any one of a dozen top-flight institutions.
Johnny's more vulnerable. It terrifies me when he does this stuff. When he was a kid he always had Scott for back-up, and it seemed more like a game than anything else. Now he's on his own. But that day he was fast and careful and he assured me he got in and out without detection.
He spent the next few days sorting through the data and compiling personnel packs. When he was ready he called me back in to see Dad.
"I got you your six, sir. I ran them all through the computer, trying different criteria. Some names tended to pop up a lot. These are the final inclusion/exclusion criteria I applied."
He tossed his list of 'must have' qualities over to Dad over who inspected it and looked up approvingly.
"Good work, John." He looked at the size of the packs and frowned. "Just give me the bottom line. Names, ranks, what they've flown, any other talents we can use. I'll go through them in detail later."
"Okay. First up, Piers Conchalto, naval lieutenant. Thirty-two years of age. Flies SiGs. Plenty of combat experience, earned him a bundle of medals, including a Silver Star." He glanced up. "This entire bunch are decorated up to the eyeballs – I'll give you the highest award each time, it'll save time. Good record with his superiors. He's an outdoor man, likes kayaking, abseiling, paragliding, parachuting. Speaks fluent Spanish and Russian."
Dad nodded. "Sounds like the right sort of material. Next?"
"The other naval pilot. Carl Johansen. Sub-lieutenant. Twenty seven and a rising star. SiGs and Vultures. Over a hundred and fifty combat missions. DFC. Natural leader, but a risk-taker. Off duty – well," John grimaced a little, "when he's not indulging his tastes for fast cars, gambling and women, he's quite an athlete."
Dad shook his head. "Sounds like a hot-shot."
John tossed the file to one side. "Next up, Sarah Silberman. F-49s. Air force, first lieutenant. Already taken a DFC. Just turned twenty-five. She looks likely to make captain at the first attempt. Plays a little by the book but very well-respected. Physically very fit. Off duty she likes to work out, and to climb and abseil, and she's recently started sky-diving."
"She looks promising. But she's maybe on the young side. I'll look at her again in a couple of years if we expand the unit. Next," Dad said.
"Jay Haines, Major, thirty-six. F-46s, F-49s, and he can fly choppers, too. Meritorious Service Medal. His combat experience is a bit limited given his age but he's known to be a good aerial tactician. He was injured on a couple of occasions when he might otherwise have seen more action. Boxes in his spare time. Fluent in Spanish."
"Put him on the 'maybe' pile."
"Next up we have Robert Collins, Captain, aged thirty. F-49s and Cobalts. Combat experience in most of the major war zones, and the only ace of the bunch. AFC."
Dad sat up. "AFC? Why hasn't he made major yet?"
"He's a known pain in the ass. He's had a couple of run-ins with senior officers. But he's good. He's a terrific pilot, and tends to think he knows best in the field. Off duty he has black belts in karate and jujitsu, and he won a football scholarship to the Academy. Speaks some Japanese."
Dad thought about it. "Maybe."
John tossed the file down.
"Last up is Michael Shannon, Captain. Aged twenty-six; turns twenty-seven in a couple of months."
"John," Dad growled.
John held up a hand. "Computer kept throwing the name out, I swear to you Dad. Whatever I did to the criteria, made no difference. He made the list nine times out of ten. Can't argue with the computer. Flies F-49s and Markers. Flown well over a hundred combat missions. Silver Star, plus an oak leaf cluster."
"What?" Dad turned to me, incredulous. "Did he say anything to you about that?"
I didn't have to feign surprise. It was as much news to me.
"What did he get them for?" Dad demanded.
"Read his file," John said offhandedly. "Known as a brilliant aerial strategist. Off duty he's a first class mountaineer and proficient in a number of martial arts including Taekwondo and Taiho-Jitsu," he continued rather unnecessarily.
Dad held up a hand. "John, stop. It's not going to happen."
John stared him out. He was clearly in for the long haul. "He at least deserves the same consideration as the others."
"He isn't going to want this."
"How do you know what he wants unless you ask him?" I put in, feeling it was a reasonable enough question.
Johnny sighed. "Dad, to be honest, I think he'll jump at it. I think at first the Air Force was everything he wanted it to be. But then he got posted to a war-zone and reality kicked in. You don't earn a Silver Star by handing out Hershey bars. People died – people just doing their jobs, same way he was. I don't think it sits too happily with that high moral code of his. The last couple of times I've seen him, I figure it's been eating at him. He's hardening up – I guess they all do – but the day he really stops caring is the day he stops being the brother I grew up with."
It was a long speech for John, and it got Dad's attention.
"He goes on the 'maybe' pile," Dad conceded at last. "He isn't the front-runner. I'll give things some consideration, that's all."
…
So we are under strict orders to say nothing to Scott while father 'gives things some consideration'.
He wanders around the living space touching some of the bronzes that he hasn't seen before. His mouth twitches slightly. He's made no secret of his disapproval. John's right. He's toughened in some way since I last saw him. I don't like the changes I see.
He leaps lightly up onto the dais. The Bösendorfer is one luxury I know he won't begrudge me. To my surprise, he runs his fingers up a D flat chord. He hasn't touched a piano in ten years, so far as I know…
…Dad says Scott used to listen to Mom play as a kid. The sharp mind that could do complex mental math at the age of four made short work of musical notation. And as a kid, I used to listen to him. Me, I used to play by ear before I started taking lessons, but he was the first one to sit me down and show me the difference between a quarter note and a half note. We both have absolute pitch. For a while Dad thought he might take after Mom and be a musician. Mind you, he was sure I was going down that route too. At least I still play. Scott kept it going for years after Mom died, but I suspect his heart wasn't in it. He was doing it to please Dad.
Being the eldest son of a billionaire comes with its downsides.
I figure the fact that Scott was cycling his usual route to his piano lesson when he was knocked off his bike and bundled into the back of a van was the final nail in the piano-playing coffin. Fortunately for us, he managed to give his abductors the slip after a couple of days with nothing worse than a few grazes to show for it. But shortly afterwards he gave up music lessons and started self-defence classes instead.
It wasn't the first of the kidnap threats, but it was the last and most serious. It was around about that time we stopped having routines and started using aliases. And shortly afterwards, Dad moved the family back to Kansas again, for the second time in our young lives…
…Scott stops, now, by the centrepiece over the fireplace and his expression changes.
"Wow," he murmurs finally. "This is fantastic."
I'm pleased by this. It's a personal favorite, the piece I'm proudest of to date.
His tone is warm. "I think it's the best thing you've done, Gussie."
The use of my childhood nickname here and now catches me by surprise. Then I realise, stupidly, it's triggered by my initials on the painting.
Gordon, John and Alan simply drop the 'Tracy' when they travel. I – in a moment of inspiration that I have had plenty of time to regret – took Gregory Ulysses Shannon, known to all my friends as Gus. I liked the play on 'Gus' Grissom, and it's easy enough for the other guys to remember when we're around other people. At the time I liked the idea of using Mom's unmarried name as an alias, and it seemed to please Scott, too. It's always seemed to irk him that he's the only one of us born out of wedlock (which isn't how he - or Grandma when she's having an off-day – refers to it).
He swings around, suddenly. "What are you doing out here, Virgil?" He shakes his head wonderingly. I know what he's thinking. Twenty-three is no age to be living at home.
"Working for Dad," I say simply.
"Working?" He raises an eyebrow.
I hesitate. I find it very hard to lie to him but keep to the half-truth. "I told you, I design machine parts for the firm. I can do it as well here as anywhere."
I fancy he may have detected the false ring in my voice, but at that moment Tin-Tin, home from her travels, provides a welcome distraction. She squeals and launches herself at him. In the years since she's lived with us he's finally learned to think of her as the sister he never had.
Or so I think. But he's in an unpredictable mood and steps back.
"For Pete's sake, girl, go and put some clothes on!"
He kinda has a point. The bikini she is scarcely wearing leaves very little to the imagination. She scuttles out, her color high.
I will have to go and smooth things over with her later. He's upset her, I can tell. Like Alan, she's come home specially to see him, and it wasn't much of a greeting. "It is hot," I say in her defense.
"And that isn't going to cool things down any. She's not a child any more, Virj. Doesn't she realise the effect she's having?"
She undoubtedly does. I wonder whether to tell him that she's developing a special affection for Alan. He'll probably notice. Then again, he may not. He isn't that interested in our private lives - if I want to talk women, I go to Johnny. And he was the last of us to fathom Gordon out.
We bump into Hiram. It goes about as well as expected. Brains lives in a world of his own. His head's so full of aerodynamics there isn't a lot of room for people, and he doesn't read them well. He certainly doesn't get the measure of Scott very quickly. Scott's jittery and over-formal, as he always is when he's sizing people up. Hiram's patronising, as he always is. I spot the danger signs and prise the two of them apart as soon as I can.
Johnny arrives. Scott, to my surprise, lights up. He was real fond of Sammy, John's ex – we all were – and he was best man at the wedding. It's taken a long time for him to get over the way John treated her. But Scott gets over most things eventually, and he's always had John's back.
He's cooler with Dad, but then it's mutual. He's sarcastic about the house, of course, which puts Dad's back up. Father figures he earned the money; it's up to him how he spends it. I figure Scott might feel quite differently if only he knew what underlay the whole thing…
- Just tell him, Dad –
Dinner is more uncomfortable than it should be. We miss Gordo here. Somehow the kid has the knack of getting a party going.
Dad quizzes Scott about how his career is going. He's typically close-mouthed in response. He doesn't mention he's been decorated. I don't know if it's modesty, or if it's something else.
So I watch the two people I care most about in the whole world dance around one another in the same old uneasy fashion.
- Please, just tell him –
…
Life has a way of forcing you to maintain a perspective.
The next day we get the news.
Gordon's boat has flipped at speed after the T-foil hit submerged debris. He isn't expected to live.
...