Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. The original characters come from my imagination, and I am certain that belongs to me
AN: This is a semi-sequel to Hidden Identity and previous stories. Hopefully, it can be read as a stand alone, as there are only minimal references to characters from my other stories. Enjoy… hopefully
A String of Miracles
People always say things along the lines of it'll be a miracle… the rest of the sentence has many endings. In my line of work, the rescue world, not the business one, the sentence sounds like this – it'll be a miracle if we find any alive. And that's where we come in. International Rescue is world renowned for performing miracles, be it dragging a person back from the brink of death through CPR or saving screaming children from a raging inferno that used to be their home.
But, at this current juncture in time, that is the least of my worries.
Instead, standing in the darkened living room of the main villa with my shrieking son cradled in my arms, I'm thinking, it'll be a miracle if I can calm him down before he wakes up the entire household. Also the thought, don't you dare break down now, flits through my head too.
In case you haven't guessed, the name's Tracy – common to the five other men of this household. I'm twenty-eight years old today and when I'm not playing superhero with my brothers through International Rescue, or chairing board meetings on behalf of my father, I'm just like any other person. Happily married to my version of superwoman, with a three year old daughter, two year old and three week old son.
"Hey, Nick, don't cry," I croon, holding him closer to my body. "Daddy's here."
If anything, his wails grow louder by the decibel. My throat clogs up, my eyes water, but I hold the tears back. I can't quite believe what four hours of non-stop fussing and crying can reduce me to.
"Please, baby, tell me what you need." My voice cracks and I know I'm not going to be able to hold myself together. My baby son is hurting for some reason, and there's not a damn thing I can do to alleviate his pain. This wounds me, cuts me right through the heart. It makes me feel inadequate, like a failure of a parent, and I've never felt this way with Melissa or Luke.
"Scott?"
I can tell from the tone of his voice that it's my father. He places a hand on my shoulder before taking his grandson. Nick, to his credit, settles in Dad's arms quickly. The feeling of inadequacy increases exponentially. I'm Nick's father and he cries and fusses continuously when I hold him, but as soon as Dad cradles him, he calms right down.
"Colic?"
I don't respond, burying my face between my palms. Colic. Of course. It takes a few moments before I register the drop of saltwater tracking its way down my cheek. What is this thing? A tear? No, this can't be happening, I think desperately. Tracy sons don't cry. You don't cry. Ever.
"Scott, it will get better."
"How?" Even though it's a question, my tone carries the dark undercurrent of an accusation. "Nick has been crying for half the night and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Then you hold him and he's completely relaxed. How can it get better when my son refuses to take comfort from me?"
"You're still learning with Nick," Dad placates firmly, handing Nick back to me. Nick begins to cry again, reaching a new crescendo. "He's only three weeks old; you're still learning how to respond to him and he's learning to react with you. Give it time."
I shoot a dubious look at him.
"Trust me on this, son. I have five sons and each one presented a different learning curve. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret," Dad winked conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "My sons are all grown up, men in their own right, but I'm still learning something new about them everyday."
I grunt, rocking the infant gently to soothe him. It's futile. There's no calming him, or rather, there's no calming him if I'm the one that's doing it. "Sometimes," I begin, finally voicing the fear that's been eating away inside of me for almost a month. It's a traitorous thought, but I need to get it out there, and Dad should understand what I'm going through. After all, he has five kids. "Sometimes, I don't think I'm cut out to be a father."
The rescue call comes in mid morning. Virgil leaps off his piano stool and heads over to the lounge, now the converted Control Centre. John traipses his way to the gathering too, after a swim, leaving pockets of wet puddles around the carpet. I, on the other hand, roll unceremoniously out of bed, where I was catching up on a bit of shuteye and stumble to the lounge.
"What have we got?" I stifle a yawn; rub at those bloodshot blue eyes of mine.
"Collapsed underground transportation network," Alan supplies from Thunderbird Five. For once, he is actually working on board Five instead of shirking his responsibilities onto John. "Location… London. I'm sending the exact co-ordinates of the rescue site through to the Thunderbirds' GPS."
"Excellent work, Alan," Dad praises before disconnecting the vid-link and turning to us. "Scott, Thunderbird One. Take John with you. Virgil, Thunderbird Two. Take the Mole and the recovery vehicles. I'd like to have Gordon going with you, but he's sick with the flu, so you'll just have to be a person short. Boys, Thunderbirds are go!"
I rush to the light posts and swivel, feeling more energized than I have in a while. It's funny what six hours of uninterrupted sleep can do to a person. John is close behind me.
The flight to London is short, as always, and we reach the danger zone in record time. Like most other rescue sites, the scene is chaotic. People mill around, panicked, shocked. The police force attempt to barricade the onlookers away from the site but they still spill over into the fray. Microphones buddy up with reporters, who are practically married to their respective camera. Hopefully, they report the right thing, tell people to avoid this area as though it's been infested with the plague. The emergency services are run off their feet – there are more casualties then people who can help. The din is deafening, with anxious family members screaming names, waving photos, desperately searching for their loved ones, for reassurances that they were truly alright. One quick survey of the scenario, and John and I both know we're in for a challenge.
Gotta love the easy ones. I quirk my eyebrow at John in typical Scott Tracy fashion.
John shoots back a look. What are you talking about? If we get complete and utter cooperation, life'll be so much easier. If we don't… well, that's where Lady Penelope can help out a bit.
"Virgil needs to get a move on," John mutters after our silent exchange. Each minute we lose without the Mole here to dig through the dirt is decreasing the chance of a successful mission.
"He'll be here as soon as be possibly can. After all, a flying watermelon on steroids can't travel that fast." John chuckles slightly, as per normal at my description of Thunderbird Two. "Meanwhile, we should look over the schematics of the transport network, find an appropriate point of entrance and get some estimated rescuee numbers. It doesn't hurt to be prepared."
Thunderbird Two lands within minutes of our arrival and primary assessment. Pod Five opens, revealing our famous drilling machine. Virgil steers the Mole beside us, opening the door to let us in.
"Thanks for the coordinates," he says as we strap ourselves into the passenger seats. Normally the Mole is a two man operation, which means that I would have been left at Mobile Control, but the sheer number of people trapped dictates that I would go with them. At just over 1000 people underground, breathing in stagnant air, I could help speed up the rescue process, thereby saving more lives.
The Mole skewers its way through the soil, reminding me of the way a bamboo stick would pierce its way through meat. Why I'm thinking about food, I don't know, but it sure makes the ride down interesting. The soil darkens as we dig deeper. It reminds me of Grams' Mississippi Chocolate Tart. I salivate at the thought – I haven't had that in ages, and I would kill to have just one more bite of it. Just one. My stomach rumbles in agreement.
"We're here," Virgil states, breaking into my musings. "Grab your stuff. Let's go."
Virgil has guided the Mole to a three way parting. Each tunnel darkens to pitch black, winding its way away from the central gathering. Each tunnel leads its way to pockets of people who need our help.
"Markers are our best bet," John offers, his voice amplified through the speaker in my helmet. "Let's separate those we can help from those who we were too late for."
"Let's not forget the emergency lighting," I offer. "Brighten up the route."
"Good thinking."
"Likewise, Johnny, likewise."
Virgil clears his throat. "Pick a route, any route."
Being Field Commander, I take charge. "John, you go north. Virg, you go east, and I'll take the western tunnel."
We part ways, adjusting the light on the helmet to high beam. It's dark as I make my way through the sooted tunnels, and it only grows darker. Without the light, I wouldn't have been able to see my outstretched hand in front of me.
After what feels like miles of walking, I reach the wreckage – there is no other word to describe it – and my heart plummets past my stomach and settles near my feet. The train carriage lies on its side, a twisted, mangled piece of metal. Wiring from the lights has shorted, sparking occasionally from where they've ripped out from the light fittings. Bodies lay, strewn out over the seats, sprawled over the floor, each one overlapping another. There are bloodstains on the floor, the walls, the fabric of the seats. It's coagulated in small puddles, scattered through the wreck. The stench, the mixture of blood, flesh and electrical burning, is worse than the smell of the abattoir Virg and I were called out to six months ago.
It'll be a miracle if anyone survived this.
I wade slowly through the sea of bodies, marking them with a red tag, closing the eyelids of those I pass. I murmur an apology to each and every person, as though that would lessen the severity of the incident, but it doesn't. It never has. It just seems like an appropriate thing to say.
The ceiling collapses, smashing heavily onto the helmet, rendering it useless. It's a miracle that wasn't my head. Thank God for small mercies. My entrance, my exit, is now blocked by rubble. The wreckage shudders, fatigued metal finally giving way, tipping precariously to one side, and I grapple onto the nearest handle to steady myself. The same cannot be said for some of the bodies. Like rag dolls, they roll to the side, tangled and clumped to one side. It's a good thing they have; they've revealed a miracle.
A woman sits, staring into the darkness, her back to me. I make my way over to her, careful not to tread over any obstacles.
"Ma'am, can you hear me?"
She nods.
"International Rescue, ma'am." I kneel beside her, searching for a thermal blanket to keep her warm. "Have you been hurt at all?"
"No," her voice is surprisingly steady, despite the conundrum she's caught up in. "I didn't know International Rescue hired people fresh out of university."
I pivot her gently, taking her insult as a compliment to my youthful looks, and stare at her condition. "You're pregnant," I blurt out.
"No! Really? Holy crap!" She glances at her stomach, and then glares at me as though I'm the stupidest man she's ever encountered. I'm disconcerted by this. The only woman I've ever known to give me this much attitude is my wife. It's a little off putting.
Desperately, I focus on the blocked exit. It's impossible to dig my way out. Any disturbance to the wreckage could make things ten times worse. Theory one out the window then. I'll just have to wait for Virgil and John to track my watch to locate us, as the communications device doesn't work. There's too much disturbance in the air, and try as he might, Brains hasn't found a practical solution yet.
"First of all, what's your name?" I ask. If we're going to be stuck together, I might as well build up a rapport with the lady.
"Amanda. Yours?"
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance." I ignore her question, hold out my hand and we shake. "Okay, straight to the point, when's your due date?"
"Two days ago," Amanda grimaces. "Listen, you've got to get me out of here. Now! Or you've at least got to get me to my husband. He's above ground – he's safe."
"There's no way I can get you out immediately," I explain patiently, trying to alleviate her fears. "We're essentially trapped in a cave in. Moving the rubble will make things worse."
She huffs, dissatisfied with my reasoning, stands and strides to the wall of remnant, as best as she can. "If you want something done, you've got to do it yourself."
"No, no, no!" I protest wildly, dragging her away to her seat. "Don't do that! You're pregnant –"
"And you're repeating yourself," Amanda snipes. "So you've been hit on the head by some concrete slab, or you're a dumb little bunny. Either way, we need help."
Just as suddenly, Amanda hunches over, face contorted in pain. "It's all good," she hisses out. "I'm fine. High pain threshold, y'know."
Amanda may be the mother, but the medical course Virgil and my wife made me take tells a different story. As the father of three kids, I know all too well what is really happening, and I know she's not going to be fine for much longer.
Apparently, Amanda realises this too, as fear lances across her face and she mutters, "Oh no, not now. My water broke." She promptly bursts into tears, making me feel out of my depth.
Okay. You can deal with this. You're trained to deal with this. Just break it down into smaller steps. Step one – calm Amanda down. Step two – deliver baby. Step three… I'll think of it later.
"It's not meant to be this way!" she sobs hysterically. "I should be in a hospital, with my husband beside me, doctors and nurses a button call away. I can't give birth in a metal ruin! I can't!"
"Amanda," I say, dragging her back to reality. "I really need you to focus. Take a few deep breaths, okay?"
She complies, dragging air into her lungs.
"Good," I encourage. "That's good. Try and keep as calm as possible."
Amanda glares at me, again. She really must think I'm the stupidest man alive.
"Is this your first child?" I question, distracting her while delving into my emergency kit for the appropriate supplies.
She nods, grabs my hand and squeezes it like there's no tomorrow. Wordlessly, I look at my watch and begin timing.
Crap.
This is progressing much faster than I would like – if Virgil and John don't find me soon, I'm going to be delivering this baby. On one hand, Amanda's labour could be progressing smoothly and quickly. On the other hand, her baby may be in danger with the fast delivery. A quick examination confirms that it's the former, and I break the news to Amanda. I can feel the relief radiate from her, and this relaxes her and me as well.
"You never did tell me your name," Amanda gasps, almost two hours after her water broke. "Pity, otherwise you'll be forever enshrined as dumb little bunny in my mind."
"Fine by me," I reply, checking on her progress. "Amanda, next time you feel like pushing, go to town."
There's a silence. It's eerie, especially in the Caverns of Infinite Doom. The silence is broken by Amanda half sobbing, half yelling. Quickly, I pull out a blanket from the emergency kit, rip open the sterile covering and place it on one knee. The baby's head emerges, and I unwind the cord from around the baby's neck, guiding the rest of the newborn out. I cut the cord and wrap the extremely small baby in the blanket. It's a girl, but my initial examination was wrong. Something has gone terribly wrong – a full term baby shouldn't be this small.
"Is the baby okay?" Amanda whispers, exhausted and tired.
"The baby's a little on the small size," I hedge, giving the newborn a score on the Apgar scale. She comes in at a seven, which is phenomenal, considering the circumstances. "You don't have fibroids, by any chance?"
Amanda shakes her head, hands outstretched for her baby. I hand her over wordlessly, with desperation to find an answer to this.
"Amanda, did you know you were expecting twins?" I ask, a slow smile creeping onto my face. Twins, this wasn't a disaster, this was a cause for celebration.
"Twins?" she mutters, aghast. "That's nice, but I'm not pushing out another one. I'll keep him or her in there. It'll be like boarding school."
"I think your baby has different ideas, ma'am."
The next twenty minutes pass by, and I've delivered the second of the twins, with no problems. Another seven on the Apgar scale.
"Congratulations, Amanda," I smile, wrapping the infant up in another clean blanket. "Healthy baby boy."
"Really?"
I nod. "Ten fingers and toes, all present and correct."
She looks up at me, eyes damp. "I'm gonna name him Dumb Little Bunny after you."
"Really?" To me, there's no higher honour than having a namesake. "In that case, you should probably call him Scott."
I've broken protocol, big time, by revealing my name, but hey, I don't want that kid being teased before he reaches middle school because he's called Dumb Little Bunny. Dad's going to stick it to me, but this is worth it.
"He is a Scott," she agrees, gazing down at her two children. She then looks up at me and asks, "Do you have any children?"
There's some commotion outside, giving me a legitimate reason to ignore her again, and I can see the nose of the Mole drill her way through the rubble. As soon as he can, John rushes over to evaluate the situation.
"Did you…?"
I nod, slightly proudly. "Yes, I did. Both of them. Twins. The miracle of birth never ceases to amaze me."
"Well, your rescue ride's here," John says, offering his hand to help Amanda to the Mole. I pack up the kit and follow them.
Inside the Mole, I don't head to the driver's bay, which is where John and Virgil sit. I hang back in the passenger lounge, filling in some paperwork for Amanda. It consists of a medical write-up for her doctor, and two souvenir International Rescue birth certificates. It's the first time I've had to write up a birth certificate with International Rescue. Only Virgil has done it before. In my line of work, it's a rare thing to write up a birth certificate.
"So, Scott, you didn't answer my question. Do you have any kids?"
My lips quirk. "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't. After all," I reply, teasing light humour lacing my voice. "I'm just a fresh out of university graduate."
"That's a pity," she says laconically. "You'd make an excellent father."
And with those words, a warm fuzzy feeling spreads through my body. If a new mother thinks I have potential as a father, then maybe I'm not quite as useless with my son as I thought I was. And getting me to believe in myself again, well, that in itself is a miracle.