Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates.
Take offs are optional. Landings are mandatory. No free falling in between, if possible. And if you do free fall, try to avoid the abyss below.
Free Falling
International Rescue goes where it may.
By that, I mean we go where we're needed the most. Rain, snow, hail or shine, if we're needed, we're there. Natural or man-made disasters? We're there. As International Rescue, we are this ever present guardian, protecting the planet.
John, in a way, is the primary guardian, keeping the Blue Planet safe as he maintains a low, geostationary synchronised orbit with Earth.
Gordon, Alan, Virgil and I are the guardians that respond to trouble. If there's trouble underwater, Gordon will save the day in his yellow submarine. With space rescues, there is no better person behind Thunderbird Three than Alan. Well, maybe John could surpass him in that respect; we've never really known because John's always on Five when we need to launch Three. Virg and I, we're the workhorses of International Rescue for terrestrial issues. For rescues that need out-of-the-box solutions and men that can think on their feet, keep a cool head when things go wrong, work seamlessly together, Virg and I are your go-to guys.
Right now, Virg and I are in India. It's monsoon season, which in itself is not a good time. With the monsoon rains come the landslides and flash floods. It catches people unawares, and they get caught up in the mess Mother Nature leaves in her wake.
The small town we were called to help evacuate is devoid of people now. A successful mission, by all means. No fatalities against the rapidly rising water and only a few injuries from people trapped under rubble after a small landslide. No fatalities always make me feel good, despite the cold rain that pelts down on us.
Beside me, Virgil slaps his neck as a mosquito bites him.
"Too many Count Draculas here," he complains, rubbing at the red welt, hair flopping into his eyes.
"They just want to suck your blood," I reply in a bad imitation of the countless Count Draculas that pop up in television shows, swatting away the swarm of gnats that have formed, scraping my unruly curls backwards out of my eyes. "Be thankful it's not that sparkly fairy who lives in the woods."
Virgil scowls and huffs beside me. He's in a bad mood, and not just because I had a dig at Twilight. Not that I can blame him; caked in mud, cement dust and bits of dead vegetation and animals, I can understand his discomfort. Flying insects that want to devour us alive don't make things any easier.
"Anyway, I think we're done here, if you want to start loading Two's pod."
Leaving Virgil to his own devices, I liaise with the local law enforcement. I inform them where to install blockades in the road so that no one else gets caught up in this, and I inform them that if the situation worsens, they should just radio for help and we'd get there ASAP.
When all is said and done, I head back to my pride and joy, Thunderbird One. Even in the torrential downpour, she's the most beautiful jet I've seen. She shimmers through the rain, a silver haze, stark contrast to the brown of the land. I clamber on board her, reach into my small storage locker and grab a dry t-shirt, a pair of shorts and a towel, trying to rid my body of excess water. If I make a mess on board One, tracking mud and debris around her, I'm the one that has to clean her up. It's like looking after a child.
The towel, alongside my uniform, quickly becomes saturated with water. I throw the towel into a soggy pile on the floor, secure the uniform in the locker before pulling on the dry clothes. I'm infinitely more comfortable and warmer too. Dad doesn't approve of us flying home without wearing our uniform, but he's not the one that has to scrub mud out of the vinyl backing on One's chair. My method just makes life easier for me.
I punch in coordinates to take me home onto One's computer and radio Virgil. His face pops up on a small screen.
"You good to go, Scott?" he asks, voice muffled as he pulls his dry t-shirt over his head.
"Affirmative," I reply. "Just firing up her retros and then going to request take-off clearance from Air Traffic Control. Gordon?"
"Fast asleep in Sick Bay. This really took it out of him," Virgil sighs, flaking dry-ish mud off his hands. "I tucked him in with Smushy the teddy bear. He's secured in bed. I've got to run some final take-off checklists, and then I'll be set. About ten minutes behind you."
I throw my head back and laugh. Only Gordon would sleep with a cuddly toy that we keep in Sick Bay to comfort injured kids. "Okay. See you back at Base, Virg."
Disconnecting the line, I run one hand through my hair again. It's grown too long, keeps falling back down into my eyes, obscuring my vision, irritating me.
I connect up to local Air Traffic Control. Even International Rescue has to follow aviation procedures. For security reasons, I select a sound only line, so the correspondent can't see inside my sanctuary.
"This is International Rescue, call sign Tango Bravo One."
In the planning stages, Dad came up with the idea of using the abbreviated names of our ships as our call sign. For clarification with identification, we follow the phonetic alphabet with people who are not part of International Rescue.
"Go ahead, Tango Bravo One."
"Requesting take-off clearance and then a subsequent ascent to level 35."
A beat of silence. I arm the signal jammer that prevents local air traffic controllers from tracking our flight paths. If there's a problem, I'd prefer it if they talk to me. At the end of the day, I'm the pilot in charge of One, so it's up to me to get my Bird out of any trouble she could encounter.
"Tango Bravo One, you are cleared for take-off. There is minimal traffic in the area and there have been reports of strong headwinds, around 20 knots. Climb and maintain flight path at level 35."
I type in the details, instructing my version of cruise control to maintain an altitude of 35000 feet above sea level.
"F.A-" I catch myself just in time, shake my head at my slip of the tongue. "Roger. Over and out."
I increase the throttle from idle to full power. The retros fire, the horizontal struts retract and my Bird powers her way through the tumultuous clouds. I turn on her lights so I can see further ahead through the blanket of grey that envelops us. The rain continues to fall, bouncing off One's body, forming a metallic symphony. Not quite in the same league as Virg's piano playing.
It's a relatively uneventful flight. I take the opportunity to finish off the reports for the rescue while One's cruise control takes charge of the flight home, although I'm vigilant enough to monitor my flight instruments every few minutes. The weather radar catches my eyes. I frown; know I need to alert Virgil.
"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One," I call.
"Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two; receiving you loud and clear. Problems up ahead?"
"That depends. How far behind are you?"
"About ten minutes. These headwinds are really giving us a battering here."
"Okay, just so you know, there's a bit of turbulence up ahead. Watch out for- oh, that was bad!" I break off, disengage the autopilot and take charge of my plane.
"What is it?" I can hear the panic and fear in Virgil's voice.
"Macrobursts," I grunt back, wrestling with the controls to keep One flyable. So much for this being an uneventful flight.
Thunderbird One lurches violently from side to side. She flies like a drunk, slow and sluggish, stumbling and tripping on the walk of shame home after drinking a few too many. I'd know; I've been down that avenue a few times.
My stomach plummets, but my heart makes a leap into my mouth as One falls quickly. Her airspeed drops to a less than desirable cruising speed, but I can counteract this easily. A few moments later, I'm flying One, instead of having her fly me.
Even though the danger has passed, I choose to continue flying her. I'm entering new airspace, airspace over a hostile nation, so I radio in, identify myself and request clearance to follow my flight path. As International Rescue, permission is granted immediately. The storm clouds thin and dissipate, and I'm treated to a glimpse of the Sun, peeking out from the horizon. The grey skies spring to life, a pallet of pinks, reds and blues colouring my road home.
Time slows down. Each second crawls by. One banks to the right, a gentle roll.
A word comes to mind.
Tranquillity.
And then all hell breaks loose.
It happens so fast, if you blink, you'd miss it. The tail, where the boosters are housed, is ripped off One's body by a flying projectile, as easily as a knife slicing through a stick of butter. Master alarms shriek, lighting up like a Christmas tree, alerting me to problems with the now non-existent hydraulic systems, electrical systems and engines. It's somewhat redundant; I'm well aware of the issues at hand. From behind me, I hear circuit breakers pop free, machine guns firing at different times, pop-pop-pop. I flick vainly at switches, hoping something, anything will respond. I'm shit out of luck.
Wind buffets around the cabin, whipping my hair back into my eyes, much to my annoyance, all loose items flying out of her gaping hole in a tornado rush.
Rapid decompression. High pressure inside the cabin flows out, trying to equalise with the low pressure in the external environment. If I was in a passenger plane, this would be the time oxygen masks deployed from the ceiling. I've been involved in one of them too, on the flight from Yale to Oxford.
Oxygen masks.
I reach down, pull the mask out from under my seat and secure it snugly over my nose and mouth. Breathing comes easier now. I drag air into lungs that are desperate for oxygen.
Thunderbird One, unbalanced, drops her nose and descends. I lose altitude but gain speed at a rapid rate. Not something I want at this point.
Rudimentary pilot rules pop into my mind. Take-offs are optional but landings are mandatory, and a good pilot always makes sure that the number of landings he's done is equal to the number of take-offs he's performed.
This may be the time I have to break those rules, and it irks me. Now I've grown out of my teenaged years, I've learnt that I'm not much of a rule breaker.
Another thought pops into my mind. It makes sense, so I comply.
"Mayday!" I yell into the microphone in the mask. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Thunderbird One. I've lost all hydraulics, all electric systems and my engines. Circuit breakers popping left, right and centre."
"What about the wings?" Virgil demands. At almost fifteen minutes behind me, there's not much he can do, other than talk to me. Can't see the problem, can't see the damage I've got, can't see what I'm contending against. All he has is my word and his imagination to paint the picture.
I test out the flaps and spoilers on One's wings. They seem to be functioning. For how long, I don't know, but for now, I need to work on descending safely.
"How far are we from Base, Virg?" I need to know. I've lost all my navigational systems. I'm flying blind now.
"Half an hour, give or take."
Horror fills me from the toes upwards. I feel cold and clammy. Sweat makes my hands stick to the levers. Perspiration tracks down my back, settling at the base of my spine, making the shirt stick to me.
"I can't make it, Virg. I'm gonna have to ditch."
With that, I disconnect. Or rather, my communication cables fail. Either way, it's for the best. I can't afford to have the distraction of a conversation when I should be flying my crippled Bird. I feel isolated though, like I'm the only man left walking the planet.
I pull back hard on the yoke that controls the way One's nose moves. Without the hydraulic systems, it's like dragging a dead weight, thanks to G-forces. Gravity's a bitch at times.
One rises up with me inside her. I've generated lift, gained some altitude, but it comes at the expense of speed. I reach the crest of the climb, listen to One whine against the strain I'm pushing her under, before she nosedives again. I lose height but I gain speed.
Flying One now is a paradox. I have to lose speed to gain speed. I have to gain height to lose height. It's a trade-off; to generate lift, I sacrifice speed and vice versa.
We oscillate in this pattern, resemble a sine wave, rising and falling for God knows how long. She shudders, creaks and groans each time I try and pull her back from the brink of disaster, stop her from free falling into the abyss below.
"I'm sorry, baby," I apologise, dragging back on the steering column once again. "Just work with me here. Please? I promise to fill you up with premium fuel and give the crap stuff to Alan if you do."
I fiddle around, searching for a lever under my chair. I struggle to find the ejector seat lever. Then I realise that I'm not in a fighter jet; Dad did not approve of my seat ejection idea during the final design of One, no matter how hard I protested against his logic. I want to be able to use this situation to say I told you so.
It is on the final dive down that I realise that she is past the point of control. I give up trying to generate lift – by now I've lost the battle I was trying to win. I concede defeat gracefully and brace myself for impact.
The ground grows larger, an insignificant speck growing into a looming threat. I fold myself in half from my hips, use my hands and arms to shield my head as best as I can.
I remember my first solo flight. I was sixteen, cocky and suffering from big-head syndrome. Dad was warning me about all the things that could go wrong and how to solve them. I had rolled my eyes and sighed, told him I wasn't three and that I knew all of that already. Theory was just as good in the practical world. Told him I would have a boring, uneventful, perfect flight.
Just for the record, I was right. For the most part. Landing was where I began to come undone. I came down a little too hard, a lot too fast. Raising the spoilers, lowering the flaps and applying the brakes to increase drag had little to no effect as the Piper Cherokee screamed down the runway. Friction formed between the tyres and the tarmac, sending up billows of smoke and sparks.
The air traffic controller's voice streamed through the headset I was wearing. "Make a hard right turn at the end of the runway if you're able to. If you are unable, take exit 101 off the highway, turn left at the traffic lights, obey the stop sign, navigate your way through the car park and make your way back to the airfield."
Laughter bubbles up from within me, betraying the seriousness of the situation. Regret and sorrow follow through quickly. I face certain death, and I can't quite believe the lack of a legacy I've left behind. No wife, or partner of any kind. Too afraid of commitment for that. No kids to carry on the family name. My failings come to light.
Can't quite believe that the last words I told Alan would have been an accusation. You ate the last piece of apple pie, Alan!
Can't come to terms with the fact that I had been in a strop with Gordon for pranking me by jamming pennies into a door so I couldn't get out of my room.
Virgil. Don't think I've mentioned recently how good his piano playing is. Don't think I've told him how much I enjoy watching him paint. Don't think I've acknowledged the way his presence has brought a touch of colour to my otherwise grey life.
Realise that I've never read John's latest novel, despite my promise that I would when I had the chance. Should have made the time for him and his accomplishments. He's done a damn sight more than me.
And Dad. Never told him I loved him. Ever. Never told him how much I love him. Always used the terms admire, or respect. I scoff in self-disgust. What kind of a grown man can't tell his father that he loves him, in all the ways a son can?
Thunderbird One slams into the ground, driving my head into the control panel. The world swims out of focus, and all I have are my regrets and failings for comfort.
Seconds – or is it hours? – later, I rejoin the land of the conscious. My head throbs, the epicentre of pain radiating outwards. I raise my hand and pop a bubble of blood that has formed. A small cut, barely penetrating the first layer of skin. I breathe in and out, slowly, deeply, regaining my breath, reassuring myself that I haven't kicked the bucket yet.
I unclip my safety harness, rub at where the safety straps dug into my skin, clawing me to the chair so I didn't fly out during the rapid decompression. I stand on shaky legs, hobble my way through the cabin. Apart from the cut to my temple, I appear to be unhurt.
The same cannot be said for Thunderbird One.
Inside the cabin, it's dark. Wires have been ripped out from their casing upon impact. They spark and fizz on occasion. The glass that covers the instrument panel has shattered, as has my windscreen, sprinkling the ripped up floor. There is only so much stress shatterproof glass can stand. I look down through the hole on the floor; see the metal frame that forms One's skeletal structure. My baby's been hurt, badly. I feel sick to my stomach, seeing the damage. I swallow the vomit that creeps up my throat.
I fumble through the darkness, grabbing onto insulation that hangs off the wall, pulling myself towards the gaping opening at the back on the wires. I monkey my way to safety, using makeshift grips before throwing myself, tummy first, onto the mercy of desert sand, isolated, with nothing in sight.
How long I lie on the sun baked sand, I don't know. The sand sneaks its way under the thin, cotton t-shirt I wear, settles in the dip of my belly button. I can feel it tickle. The granules infuse their way into the tops of my thighs; bury and scorch their way into my shins. I turn my head and spit a mouthful of sand out before rising to my feet.
I place a hand on One's body; feel my skin catch on the serrated edge of the metal, where her base was shorn off from her body. I pull my hand away in a blur of red, blood print staining her skin.
I smell jet fuel, look down at her belly, split wide open, a Caesarean cut gone wrong. Fuel tank ruptured. She bleeds, life force draining from her and I bleed too.
She looks terrible from the inside, and even worse from the out. I can't bear to look at her, see my baby in pain, so I turn my head to the ground. My heart breaks, diminishes into nothing just thinking about her in this state.
I move, hunker down under the shade of her wing, hanging onto her body with one set of rivets. It's probably one of the stupidest things to do, given that the combination of electrical sparking and jet fuel means she could combust at any minute, but I need the shade. I'd die from dehydration otherwise.
"Dad?" I whisper into my watch, which thankfully works. I activate my emergency GPS beacon, informing John up on Five, and Dad back at Base that I'm in some serious shit. I use it, plead with them to track my location and find me. "Dad? Are you there?"
There's silence. I panic, lost in a desert, miles from home with no supplies with me.
"Dad?" I warble, singing the song of fear into the watch. It's now or never. "Dad, I know this isn't the best time, but if I don't say it now, I never will. Dad, I love you in all the possible ways a son can. I can't believe it's taken me this long to say it, but it's true."
"Scott?" His voice comes back to me, rough, almost as though he's been holding back tears of his own. But that can't be right, because I've never seen or heard Dad cry. Riddled with interference and static, but his voice is there. I almost break down at the sound of it. Out here in the desert, I'm not alone. Out here in the desert, and my dad is with me.
"Son, are you alright? Virgil reported that you were having problems and then your communications cut out from him. I couldn't raise you either."
"I'm fine, Dad. A little cut up, maybe a bit burnt, but I'm okay," I reassure him. "Dad? Where, exactly, am I?"
"John's tracked your location to the middle of the Arabian Desert. You went miles off course, and you were incommunicado for at least two hours. I've got Virgil coming out to help you. He had to come back to the island, refuel and drop Gordon off before I would let him look for you. No point in having him crash too. He should be there in a few minutes."
A pause. I swallow against my parched throat. I've only just begun to realise how thirsty I am.
"How's Thunderbird One?" Dad ventures gently.
I choke back a sob, feel tears sting at my eyes. I have never felt so connected to a plane as I have with Thunderbird One.
"She's pretty bad. Can't fly. Had a tail-ectomy and her wings clipped. Apparently, she's been scheduled in for a C-section too."
Dad picks up on my pain. It's times like this that I really love my father and his uncanny Spidey-sense. The gruff, quiet voice fills me with hope. All is not lost with Thunderbird One.
"Scott, we'll bring her home and start fixing her up. All of us on Base. We'll make it right."
"Promise?" My voice wavers. I sound like a six year old, asking Daddy if he would protect me from the monster under the bed. Somehow, it's still not enough to fill the empty feeling gnawing away inside of me.
"I promise, Scott."
I almost don't hear his answer as Thunderbird Two's engines drown him out.
"I'll let you go, Scott!" Dad roars over the sound. "Virgil will need all the details he can get from you."
I close my eyes, a reprieve against the relentless sun; drift off to the space between consciousness and dreams, until Virg shakes me by the shoulders. I crack one bloodshot, blue eye open.
"Hey, bro," he smiles, tilting my neck so he can apply a Band-Aid to my laceration. "Good to see you in one piece." He offers his hand and hauls me out from under my crippled Bird.
Together, we take the fire fighting equipment and hose down One in foam, preventing any fire from breaking out. Now, she looks like a mangled mess that's sprouted a white beard.
With care, I wrap and secure cords around her frame, needing to make sure that she gets back into the pod Virgil brought with him, safely. I won't have her damaged more than she's already been. It hurts too much, for both of us. Virgil offers to help at regular intervals, but I turn him down. This is something I need to do myself. I take one last look at her, against my better judgement, feel my heart split into two all over again, before retracting the pod door.
Virgil'll take care of my baby as he flies Two home. He'll keep her safe for me. I rely on him to do that for me. Short of flying Two home – something Virgil will never allow, given my head injury – I've done all I can for her for now.
Virgil stands next to me, snakes his arm around my shoulder. "You okay, Scott?"
I nod slowly.
He doesn't say anything, but the silence is damning. Virgil knows I'm lying to him, knows straight off that seeing One like that would be like having my pilot's licence stripped away from me. So Virgil does what Virgil does best; he tries to comfort me.
"Is there anything you want me to do, Scott?"
I chew my lip. There are many things I want him to do. I want him to let me fly Thunderbird Two back to Base. I want him to contact suppliers so that I can start reconstructing the other half of me. I want him to scour the lands, searching for One's tail piece so I can complete her, sew her halves back together to form a whole.
But there is one thing I want above all of that. He guides me to the passenger chair, straps me in, checks the safety harness is secure. I look at him, stare straight into his honey burnt eyes and I tell him what I want him to do.
"Just take us home, Virg," I say, sighing tiredly. "Just take us home."
And Virgil, ever the compliant little brother, does that.