Authors' Note: All characters, events, companies and most places mentioned here are fictitious – we even have our doubts about that place we've called Australia. Many thanks to RL Bird for permission to mention an incident from 'A Touch of Malice'. This would still be at the bottom of the drawer if not for the unparalleled patience and generosity of Quiller. A special thank you to Samantha Winchester who guided the story in the initial stages. The story is mainly Brumby's work, though I had a little more input into it than I intended. Enjoy! Jackie.
Disclaimer: Even the characters have disowned us. They've fled back to their rightful owners, Granada Ventures, for safekeeping (which is definitely NOT us). We may gain an insane pleasure from doing this but certainly not money.
The Decision Makers
"They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone."
- Shakespeare
Prologue – Kysan, Korea
Scott Tracy, eldest of the five Tracy brothers and team leader of International Rescue, stood braced at their communications unit, with his feet spread and a steadying hand on the console.
"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five. John? What's the latest?"
Scott stared at the superstructure of his silver rocket-plane that overshadowed him with an almost benevolent protectiveness. Normally he would gaze up at his machine with a reverent awe but today, he studied its red nose cone, sleek body and slender landing struts as a way to gauge the movement in the ground beneath him. With the vibration of the heavy equipment clearing the debris from fallen buildings around him, it was impossible to tell where the movement was coming from – machine or earth. And he needed to know.
"Seismic activity increasing, Scott. Brains is predicting another sizeable aftershock. And soon."
Scott cursed under his breath, and, to keep his look of dismay from showing, turned his back on a group of city officials who were politely waiting for him to work some kind of miracle. He listened for the machinery working not far from him. Along with other emergency crews, Gordon had been using the Firefly as a powerful front-end loader to clear rubble from one multi-storey complex that had fallen in on itself. Virgil worked in Domo One to hold the last vertical section, which had been left standing precariously. John had picked up faint life-signs and they worked frantically to get to the survivors before the next shift in the ground.
"Mobile Control to Domo One. Virgil?"
"H-holding…" Scott could hear the strain both in Virgil and in the reactor of the Domo.
But he couldn't hear the excavator. "Mobile Control to Firefly. Report."
Gordon didn't respond.
"Gordon. Report."
There was a delay that tested Scott's patience then Gordon's voice came back at him.
"Okay over here, Scott. I think I'm getting somewhere. I think I may have found them." His voice was muffled and he grunted like he strained at something.
"What's your location?"
"Hold on a minute, I've found…"
Scott heard the chink of shifting masonry then the tap of metal on metal. Scott's heart rate jolted when he realised where Gordon could be. This time, Scott felt the deep rumble at the same time he heard it. His gaze, which had never left his Thunderbird, focused in on the unnatural sway of his machine.
"Gordon! Get back! Clear the site! That's an order!"
"I'm there, Scott. Give me a second." He heard Gordon talk in a reassuring manner to someone.
"No! Get out from wherever you are! Now!"
Scott felt the concrete ripple beneath him. Without referring to those looking on, he slap-locked the console and switched to his wrist communicator as he leapt for his hover bike.
"Virgil?"
"Can't…hold it…much…"
Scott could see the elevated arm of Domo One strain against the remains of a building as the section poised to topple. He knew Gordon had to be under there somewhere.
"Gordon! Get out!"
Scott gunned his machine across the devastated site to the Firefly. He saw the pile of hydraulic jacks and the distinctive blue of his brother's boots edging out from under a thick slab. The sight cut Scott's breathing.
He jumped from the bike and launched for his brother's legs, feeling as he did that heave, rise and gather of the pressure in the earth beneath him. He grabbed Gordon's boots and hauled backwards.
Gordon fought him. He kicked, yelled, writhed and clawed but Scott was more determined. The onlookers may have expected some show of heroics from the members of International Rescue. More often than not they were too willing to oblige but Scott was in no mood for sacrifices, not today, not after the week he'd had.
Gordon came back above ground with a rush and they toppled backward together as the surface beneath them convulsed. They'd no sooner come to rest when Scott glimpsed the entire site shift then settle with a deafening roar as forces greater than themselves raged about them and they were hit with the resulting draught. Gordon cowered on his knees, staring fixedly at the blood in his clenched fingers. Scott instinctively covered his brother as they were torched, blown and sand-blasted with dust and debris, the last exhale of a lost cause.
Silence gathered. Machinery stopped and voices stilled.
"It's gone…" Virgil despaired over the com-watch. "The whole frigging lot has gone…"
Chapter One – Sydney, Australia
Scott slammed his glass down on the table in front of him. He barely noticed that half its contents splashed over his hand, onto the sleeve of his shirt and over the table set for three. Scott did notice the waiter hesitate in his track through the tables as he served other patrons but Scott made no attempt to lower the volume or intensity of his voice.
"I made a decision, Gordon, and I'll live with it. Okay."
Virgil and Gordon glanced guiltily about them, also noticing his aggressive tone was drawing attention.
"I still say I could have got them out," Gordon whispered as he leaned into the centre of the table, looming large in Scott's line of sight when the prudent would have backed off.
"You don't know that," Virgil said. "We need to debrief. Discuss this with Brains."
Scott went to raise his glass to his mouth again but found his forearm pinned to the table by Virgil's hand.
"Eat something," Virgil told him.
When Scott looked at the plate of steak and pasta in front of him, he felt nauseous. He was famished but it reminded him of what he'd done that day, what he'd been doing that entire disastrous week. He attempted to take another drink but Virgil was equally determined.
"Eat something, I said."
Scott closed his eyes. He shoved Virgil's hand aside and emptied the glass.
Scott would have felt better if they'd been able to go home and thrash this out in the rescue debrief as they normally would. But as luck or fate would have it, a tropical cyclone had blown in over their South Pacific island base while they had been away and they had to wait it out on the Australian mainland.
Virgil, forever the peacemaker, had suggested a night out to unwind and relieve the tension between him and Gordon. It took some doing but Virgil had convinced him. Their father had thought it was a good time for them to visit the newly-opened Tracy Corporation offices in Sydney. What was the harm in coming into the city a little earlier than scheduled?
"I almost had that jack under, Scott. Almost," Gordon said. He moved to get in Scott's line of sight and Scott sighed, knowing his brother would not be put off.
"And it could've collapsed on top of you and we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Gordon," Virgil said. "Leave it, would you. You had no idea when the next tremor was coming." Virgil pushed his empty plate to one side. "Scott made a decision and it was the right one."
Scott ignored the growing pound of a tension headache and stared past the copper-haired head of his second youngest brother out into the darkness of the harbour. It was a warm, steamy evening. The quay was crowded with Sydneysiders as they dined and mingled. A flash of lightning highlighted the prominent bridge, which Gordon had called a coat hangar due to its unusual shape.
The lights, the boats, the sights and sounds of a harbour city were lost on Scott. He'd been immersed in too much mortality lately to give into the gaiety that easily. It was during times like this, exhausted, defeated, that the questions came. What if…? How could…?
Scott's focus shifted from the din around him to the rain as it ran down the awning that protected the windowless shopfront from the weather. For a moment he watched the water come together like the joining of hands, his gaze following the movement as the torrent cascaded to the pavement below.
"Not for those five we left in body bags, it wasn't." Gordon stared at his hand as if he was still seeing the tiny fingers entwined with his. "I had that boy by the hand. I promised him, Scott. I promised. Just a few more seconds."
Virgil sighed sympathetically. "Yeah, we feel bad about it, too."
"I left them in body bags. If you recall," Scott said before he could dampen the flash of anger that rocketed through him.
He could still see the shocked expression on his brothers' faces when he ordered them off the site once they had the rubble cleared from the dead. He'd taken it on himself to follow through on the decision he'd made and it was as a bitter medicine as he knew. He felt not a little guilty that his brother was going home with him when five families would be left to mourn their loss and he'd had the power to make that choice. It hurt like hell.
And tomorrow, no scrub that, today he would need to smile reassuringly at a whole bunch of new employees.
"This isn't working," Virgil said.
Scott reached over and downed Virgil's full measure of scotch then pushed back his chair with his legs to stand up.
"Let's find a way to lose ourselves. Come on, Gordo, what do you say?"
Gordon crossed his arms and leaned on the table drawing his finger along the rim of his own empty glass. "I wish we could go home."
Scott was stuck by the simplicity of the statement and the sentiment behind it but before he thought of a suitable comeback a light on his com-watch flashed. This time, the three of them swore loud enough to get the attention of the waiter.
After paying for their meal, Scott led his brothers out onto the busy footpath and herded them into shelter from the rain. He stood with one elbow on each of their shoulders so they could listen in and so it didn't look strange to be talking into his watch.
"Scott to John. What have you got?" Scott said, automatically slipping on his professional demeanour.
John's face appeared in the watch dial. "Sorry, I know you were promised a break. Time to do the neighbourly thing. Authorities on Caroaka are asking for help. That's an island three hundred miles north-east of base. The cyclone has cleared from there and a mudslide has taken out a highland village. Roads have been washed away with the torrential rain. Rescue workers can't get up there for at least twenty-four hours."
Mudslide. Scott felt the muscles in his abdomen clench. Not mud. He saw Virgil and Gordon exchange disgusted glances. Working in mud gave new meaning to the saying 'getting down and dirty' and it was worse when you were already feeling like crap on the inside. Mud was mind-numbingly unwieldy to work, its fluid nature giving it no structure for machines to work effectively. It usually came down to heaving a shovel.
He wasn't surprised by the emergency. Unanchored earth on steep terrain plus rain meant mudslide. What bothered him was that highland villages were most often constructed of lightweight materials. He grimly did a count of the body bags they had left on board. There would be little rescue, only recovery. But then – if they saved one life it would be worth the discomfort to them.
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened. "Give us thirty minutes." He grinned when both his brothers protested. "All right, make it forty. Just to humour the sceptics."
John knew exactly where they were – a long way from their machines. Thunderbird One and Thunderbird Two were camouflaged by nets in the house paddock of Lady Penelope's Bonga Bonga homestead hundreds of kilometres to their west. They needed to drive their hire car back to the airport and fire up Tracy jet Three for a subsonic dash across the Australian outback before they could even think about the rescue effort. In order to do that even under one hour and fifteen minutes as Scott estimated, he would need all the help John could give him.
The men jogged back to the distinctive sedan they'd left parked up a few blocks from Circular Quay. As they were unfamiliar with the territory, Scott left the communication line open.
"Call up all the telemetry. You're my eyes and ears, bro."
John's blond-haired visage didn't change as it floated eerily along on his wrist. "It'll cost you."
"Doesn't it always." He bet John was referring to the fact that their father didn't know they'd left Bonga Bonga. "Speaking of threats. How's communication with base? Any chance Alan can get over?"
"Not a hope. You're it, Scott. The eye'll pass sometime in the next hour then they'll have to wait for the wind to abate. They're bunkered down in the lab but they're not expecting catastrophic damage. At the moment communication's patchy. If it is taken out it shouldn't take Alan too long to restore it."
By the time all three made it to the car they were tearing at their jackets from the heat. Scott automatically headed for the left side of the vehicle prepared to do battle with Gordon who had taken up his position by the front door. Then he corrected when he remembered where he was. Australians drive on the wrong side of the road. By that time Virgil had beaten him to the driver's door. His brother leaned against the door panel with his arms folded.
"I'll drive."
"No chance."
"Father stood you down. You had a shit week and you're not supposed to be on this. I'll do it."
"Out of the way. You heard John. Al can't cover for me and it's my job, my responsibility."
"You didn't eat and you had – a couple of drinks."
Scott glanced across the roof of the car to Gordon who picked at the paintwork absentmindedly.
"Gordon? You sure you're okay?" Since Gordon's recent horrific ordeal at the hands of kidnappers, Scott got worried when Gordon went quiet. He saw he needed to have a good talk with him but patch-up work was for home and they were a long way from there.
"Sure thing," Gordon replied while still staring at the roof of the car.
"Look. The one thing I'm glad about. I didn't load you into one of those bags. Okay?"
Gordon nodded.
"The damn keys," Virgil said.
Scott leaned heavily against Virgil's shoulder. "Let's see if I got this straight. One before we left Bonga. One while you waited for your order. One with your meal. Do I need to go on?" Scott pointed to the interior of the vehicle. "It's got a drunk meter, for heaven's sake." He used Gordon's term to describe the ignition interlock fitted to the Monaro but it still didn't get the response he wanted from the redhead. "If I fail, I'll hand them over. Agreed? Come on. No time to argue."
Virgil mulled it for a second then unhappily stepped to take the back seat. Scott got in, cracked his knuckles and pressed his finger in the sensor as the first part to starting the car. The rental company had installed driver impairment technology to measure reaction time and co-ordination to make sure the driver was fit enough to pilot. Scott followed the rapid sequence of six activities with ease and the car started.
Scott referred back to his wrist-com. In Tracy vehicles they could bring up the information on a visual satellite navigation screen, here John would have to guide him blind. John would be looking at street layout, traffic position, traffic light sequences, pedestrian location and that all-important notification of speed detection units, both automatic and manual. To help those people on Caroaka he would really need to fly and that meant on the ground as well as in the air.
Scott ran the wipers and did a sweeping check of the instruments in the habit of a pilot. "Everyone strapped in?" When he got murmurs from around him, he said. "Okay, John. It's dark and raining so help me good, okay?"
The airport was eight kilometres south from the centre of Sydney. Scott pushed the car first through streets of inner city office buildings then inner city industrial areas then into re-developed urban precincts. He had no trouble handling the hazardous conditions with John feeding him information and his brothers riding shotgun. He had no trouble, that is, until they could virtually see the lights of the airfield.
He took a left turn from the arterial onto a feeder road that would take them to their destination. It was a fast turn and he felt the rear of the Monaro slide a fraction. Oil, he bet. He accelerated smoothly to stop any side drift and was really beginning to open it up on John's go-ahead when there was a simultaneous shout. His senses picked up both John's shout of warning and Gordon's plea of "Look out!"
Scott saw a flash of fast-moving colour in his headlights. It was a pedestrian, cutting a path straight across him. He made a stab at going around the person like he would on a slalom course but they kept pace with his accelerating swerve to the right. There was a sickening thump then a cry from the other occupants of the car as an outstretched hand came at them like an arrow. The fingers, fully extended, contacted the windscreen and stuck there for a horrific millisecond. The rest of the body followed, slapping into the windscreen to crack it before sliding silently off the side, swept off the bonnet by the sideways movement of the car.
Shocked by the impact, Scott overcorrected. His instinct told him he was way too far to the right not to make contact with something solid. Before he could override this natural tendency, his foot was on the brake, sending the vehicle into a slurring slide. He tried to reverse lock and accelerate out of it but in the wet the tyres refused to grip. There was little he could do. He watched helplessly as the Monaro slid sideways. Then slammed into a power pole.