Summary: In the year they have been in operation, International Rescue has seen their share of death and destruction, no death being more sad and painful than that of a child. But when California is rocked with an 8.8 magnitude earthquake, the Tracy family will be faced with a death that is much, much closer to home.
Author's Note: This story was written quite a few years ago, and has been housed at the Tracy Island Chronicles.
DAWN OF GRAY
Chapter One
John grinned as he waited for his older brother, Scott, to serve. It was a beautiful October day in the South Pacific. A soft breeze was blowing and John had only been home from Thunderbird 5 for a few days.
"Luv-30!" Scott called out. He threw the ball up and pounded a deadly serve in John's direction.
Six-foot-one John Tracy dove headfirst toward the soft grass of the court. He managed to hit the ball back across the net, but the dirt beneath the grass sure didn't feel soft when he hit.
Scott mercilessly smacked the ball back John's way even though John hadn't yet gotten back to his feet. It whizzed by his ear and hit the chain link fence. Narrowing his eyes, John picked up his racket and was about to say something that would definitely have led to a fight when his wristwatch beeped.
"What are you waiting?" Scott began to ask. But he stopped as his own watch began to beep.
Without another word, the two men dropped their rackets and headed for the house.
"Earthquake in California, boys."
"Another one?" John asked. "We were just there two weeks ago."
"They, uh, seem to be coming more frequently," Brains suggested as Scott headed for his two light fixtures.
"Virgil, John, Gordon, Brains, it's all hands on deck. Ah, Tin-Tin, there you are," Jeff acknowledged Kyrano's daughter as she rushed into the Lounge. "You're going, too."
"Yes, Mr. Tracy," she replied. Virgil crossed the room to the painting of his father's rocket ship as the others headed into the hall outside the Lounge. They were on their way to the passenger elevator that would ferry them down to Thunderbird 2's cockpit.
Scott quickly changed into his uniform as Thunderbird 1 made her way down the sloped tunnel on her gantry. He slipped the sash over his torso, fastening it to the uniform, then placed his hat on his head and hopped into the gimbal-slung chair in the cockpit just as Thunderbird 1 reached the launch pad. Strapping himself in, he clicked open the communications channel.
"Thunderbird 1 to Base. Ready for takeoff."
"You're clear to go, Scott. Check in with Alan when you're airborne, he'll have the details."
"F.A.B."
Scott pulled the levers back towards him. The engines clicked then ignited, and he soon felt the familiar power of the great silver rocket plane as it roared out of the silo and streaked toward the clear blue sky. Once he hit cruising altitude, he opened a line to Base.
"Thunderbird 1 to Base. Changing to horizontal flight."
"F.A.B., Scott."
"Thunderbird 1 to Thunderbird 5."
"Thunderbird 5 here."
"Okay, Alan, what's the story?"
"Bad one. They got hit with an 8.8, Scott. Centered about two miles east of the epicenter two weeks ago. About a mile west of Lancaster."
"Have you been on with the authorities yet?"
"Can't get through, Scott. I've got no more information than what I can get from the reporters at this point. Communications to most of southern California are completely down."
Scott sighed and shook his head. "This is going to be a bad one."
"I know. Wish I was there to help."
Smiling to try and put his youngest brother's mind at ease, Scott replied, "Hey, right now I need you to be my eyes and ears up there. So don't be so worried about not being here. Okay?"
"Yeah, okay. I'll call you if I get any more info."
"Thanks, Alan. Thunderbird 1 out."
Scott settled back into his chair as he streaked across the ocean toward North America. It was like dejà vú. Not two weeks prior he'd been on the same heading for Southern California for the exact same reason. Only last week it had been a 7.0. An 8.8, he knew, would have caused utter devastation. They were going to be gone for a long time.
And the people. There would be many dead, many wounded, many trapped, many needing a miracle. And International Rescue somehow had to bring the miracles the injured so desperately sought. He wondered how many there would be this time. How many would be gone before they arrived? How many could they save? They were six strong, but six against millions of victims?
The odds were definitely not in their favor. Then again, they'd been up against hard odds before and come out smelling like a rose garden. Earthquakes, though, were different. The initial one was always the worst, but this was the mother of all quakes, no doubt to be followed by several aftershocks, some of which may register awfully high on the Richter.
Scott's thoughts were interrupted by Virgil's voice over his speakers.
"Thunderbird 2 calling Thunderbird 1."
"Thunderbird 1 here."
"I'm about twelve minutes behind you, Scott. What's the situation?"
"Alan can't get much, Virg. Communications are gone out there. It's an 8.8. Epicenter is somewhere near Lancaster."
"Lancaster?"
"Yeah." Scott frowned. His brother's voice sounded strange. "What is it, Virg?"
"Remember back when I was at DIT?"
"Sure."
"We did part of our class project on that SASS system they were building."
"I remember that. The San Andreas Seismological Sensor array."
"Yeah." Virgil was silent for a few seconds. "Guess it didn't work too well."
"Maybe it did and people are alive because of it."
"Maybe. I'll radio you when I'm close to Danger Zone. Virgil out."
Scott opened his mouth, but the channel was closed. Evidently, Virgil had a little bit at stake here. If, when they arrived, they discovered the SASS had been successful in warning people enough in advance for them to reach safety before the quake hit, everything would be all right. If not? Well, Virgil had that Tracy trait of serious self-flagellation, even when it was unwarranted. He'd be sure to be convinced that he and his classmates at the Denver Institute of Technology hadn't done their work properly, regardless of whether or not that was indeed the case.
Shaking his head, Scott checked the GPS on 1's control panel. He was now fifteen minutes into the 45-minute trip. Half an hour to go. This was worse than the rescues themselves, this waiting. Knowing that every second counted, that being one minute later could mean the difference between life and death for someone. He squirmed in his seat and glanced at the chronometer. Twenty-eight minutes.
Damn.