Alan gets in (more) trouble. Thanks for reading and reviewing Sam, Zeilfanaat, Silver Bee and Tikatu. Much appreciation wafting your way. =) Edited for geographic content.
4: Yellow Flag
Birmingham, Alabama, in the living room of his parked luxury motorhome-
There are times when you're badly hurt, and don't know it, yet. Times when the stunning force of a blow has you blinking and reeling before the pain has a chance to set in.
Over the wall comm, his father had said: "Alan, you'd better sit down," words that could only mean serious trouble. Blinking, Alan Tracy backed up until he felt the edge of an easy chair bump the back of his legs. Then, folding like a cheap paper fan, he sat down.
"What's going on?" The racer demanded, in a voice too strained and tight to be his. A hundred scenarios flashed through his mind; all of them involving his brothers. All of them dangerous.
On the big, flat-screen wall comm, his father seemed to take a deep breath and strengthen himself. Then, Jeff began to explain.
"There's been a… there's been a situation, son. You remember the ground-breaking ceremony for our Southern Kansas facility?"
"The one Virgil and Grandma are supposed to be cutting the ribbon at?" Alan hazarded. His family's schedule hadn't exactly been top priority, lately.
On screen, Jeff nodded, his brown eyes flicking to one side, momentarily, when Scott said something too low for the comm pick-ups to transmit.
"That one, yes," Jeff answered. "The one I should have gone to, myself, instead of letting them head for the States, alone. Anyhow, Mother and Virgil arrived in Wichita last night, spent the evening with friends at the Crowne-Plaza Hotel, and then reported to corporate HQ in the morning, exactly according to plan. You know… for the ribbon-cutting ceremony."
Alan stared hard at the screen. His father wasn't usually so roundabout and uncertain. Normally the most direct and forceful of men, Jeff Tracy had never waffled or hesitated, until now.
"What happened?" Alan asked very faintly, not really wanting to know.
"Gordon's out prepping one of the planes," his father responded, evading the question. "We'll head out to the mainland just as soon as our flight-plan clears, then drive to St. Francis Hospital in Wichita."
"Are they all right?" Alan questioned, knowing better. "Are Grandma and Virgil okay?"
It was Scott who answered him, straightening up from the desktop monitor screen he'd been watching.
"Bluntly, no, Alan. Not even close. Reports are still coming in, but it looks like several gunmen disrupted the ceremony," said his brother in flat and clipped tones. "Evidently they'd been planted ahead of time among the guests, employees and onlookers. They hit Virge and a few of the bodyguards with multiple shots before being taken down by security. Looks like Grandma was only nicked, but one of her guards did serous damage getting her down and out of the line of fire. She's an old lady… her bones are pretty fragile."
Alan felt his stomach begin to roil.
"And Virgil…?" he asked, like a kid peeking at the darkness through tightly-laced fingers. "How's he doing?"
"In critical condition, last I heard, but they're working as hard and fast as they can to stabilize him. You need to come home, Al. ASAP."
Alan's insides reeled like a top as his hopes for a winning race year went suddenly glimmering off. All at once, that luxury motorhome seemed to shrink around Al like a fist.
"What…? But…" But there was Darlington coming up and Dover after that. "Couldn't I visit them for you, instead? Save you the trip? I mean, I'm already here on the mainland. It wouldn't be any trouble at all to skip practice and fly to the hospital!"
He had almost a week before the Darlington qualifying runs; plenty of time to get there and back. A change came over Scott's face, then; a bleak reshuffling of hard planes and angles. When relaxed, the dimples in Scott Tracy's cheeks were deep and noticeable. Now they'd been ironed almost out of existence by frustration, worry and stress.
"Alan," he snapped, "I have to stay here and mind the damn desk, just like John's trapped in orbit. I'd sell my soul for the chance to rush to that hospital, but we can't leave the family business unmanned. Gordon's going with dad, and I need someone here, just in case. Now, pack your things and get your ass on the next flight to Tahiti. That's an order, Mister!"
A whole slew of emotions boiled through Alan's gut at the sound of his brother's command. See… Scott was through with life beyond International Rescue. He'd already made his mark on the world, like a big dog padding through freshly-poured concrete, and he had the medals to prove it. But Alan was just starting out.
The blond race driver's eyes flicked from the wall screen to his four-foot-tall, beer-drenched trophy; a gleaming swirl of acrylic and brass. The first of many, he'd promised himself… but only if he got the chance to actually race. Trying again to make them see reason, Alan said,
"You've got Brains, still… and TinTin, at a pinch. You could call Lady P, even, and I could always get picked up in a hurry, if somebody sounds an alert. I mean, Gordon used to do it all the time, while he was in the Olympics! That whole business with Hammerhead went down between two of his biggest races, remember? We worked it out then, so why not now?"
"Because other than Gordon, we had a full crew," his father cut in, looking craggy and harsh as an ocean-side cliff. "And because everyone else was still safe and uninjured. At the moment, that isn't the case. We need you, Alan. I'm sorry about the Daytona 500…"
"Darlington," Alan corrected resentfully. "I'm driving at Darlington Raceway, next."
"There's always next year," said Jeff, slamming the lid on Al's hopes for the season. His next words were nails hammered deep in the coffin. "We need you, Alan. Bottom line, family comes first."
Except that… unlike Scott, Gordon or John… Alan had never done time in a military or government-type organization. Unlike Virgil, he wasn't a patient philosopher. All his life, he'd been an indulged and petted younger son. He wasn't adept at following orders. 'Yessir' wasn't Al's knee-jerk response to commands from above.
"Dad," he said slowly, gathering iron and ice. "I'll visit them at the hospital in Kansas, and see them first hand, with flowers and everything. But I've got a life, just like Scott and John and Gordon did."
(Virgil, too, for awhile… though not much ever came of that brief moment's freedom but a few concerts in Europe. Poor Virge hadn't even gotten his full degree at a brick-and-mortar university, completing the last year online.)
Heart hammering, Alan went on to say,
"I'm not your employee, Dad. I'm your son. That said, I'm going to sign off now and see about a plane ticket to Kansas. You don't have to worry about sending a corporate jet. I'll visit Grandma and Virgil, then head on back to race like mad for the pole position at Darlington. I'll keep visiting every chance I get, but if I don't grab for the prize while it's offered, Dad… if I lose my momentum… I'll spend the rest of my life flying for you and wondering what might've happened if only I'd had the guts to say: my life, my decisions, my way. I've got to do this, Dad. I'm sorry."
On the big wall screen, Jeff's face was set like stone; impossible to read. Scott's was an open and furious book, though.
"I see," said Jeff, after a long and frost-clotted moment. "In that case, there's nothing more to say. Good luck with your racing career, son. I hope it turns out to be worth what you're throwing away. Tracy, out."
The screen died very suddenly, leaving Alan alone with nothing but static, confusion and shivery insides. He'd had to, right…? The whole world wasn't Tracy Aerospace and International Rescue! Seriously, just for six dang months… the rest of the season… could the idiots of the world avoid cliffs, wild animals, sharp objects and stupid, back-firing prison breaks? Could they not refrain from smoking around their fuel depots, or field-testing risky equipment? Just for six months?
Whatever, there was no sleep for Alan that night, as he canceled engagements, then woke up his hung-over race team and told them drive on to South Carolina. That he had family business to attend to in Kansas, but would meet them at Darlington in time for the Southern 500.
Next there were travel arrangements to make, a red-eye flight to catch… and plenty of feelings to squash, most of them bad. Up in the plane's sumptuous first-class compartment a few hours later, Alan took out his smart phone and checked for messages (there weren't any, even though he'd texted Gordon, like, half a million times). Not sure what else to do, he called John, who responded with typical brotherly patience and understanding.
"What the hell was that all about?" demanded the astronaut, on a tightly secured line. Naturally, he'd been listening in from the station. John Tracy saw and heard just about everything electronic that took place on Earth. Especially those things which affected his family.
A little defensively, Alan said,
"That was me, declaring my independence and signing the bottom like John Hamilton."
"Hancock," his brother corrected him. "It was John Hancock who signed the big F-you signature on the Declaration of Independence."
"Whatever!" Alan scowled out the window at a fast-moving landscape of farmland and rivers. "I've got a life, John. You wouldn't have let them stop you from going to Mars, would you? I mean, if someone got hurt back home?"
"I dunno," John reflected, very far overhead. "I don't think they'd have told me a thing till after the mission."
"But if they had?" Alan prodded, desperately wanting some back-up. "If you knew Grandma was in the hospital with Virge before takeoff…? What then?"
"Depends on the nature and severity of the situation, I guess." John decided, sounding like he'd turned away from the comm screen, a little. Probably checking on shipping and storms, or something. "If I got out of the mission too close to launch, NASA would have to switch from prime crew to backup, and that would have affected more than just me. But if Grandma and Virgil were in really bad shape… hell, yeah, I'd have stayed."
"Thanks, man. You're a real boost to the ol' psyche, you know that?"
A beaming stewardess came down the aisle with much-needed drinks on a rattling cart. The droning engines and whispering air vents played counterpoint to all of that musically chiming metal and glass, filling out John's rather flat, toneless voice.
"Sorry," the astronaut told him, as Alan accepted a cold cherry soda and lip-sticked phone number. "You asked, and I'm not much of a liar."
"Yeah. So, who did it? Shot Virge and Grandma, I mean," said Alan, hurriedly changing the subject. Karla. His newest fan's name was Karla...
"Three dead guys and one in a coma," his brother responded.
"Whoa… seriously? Security nailed the assailants right there?" Alan whispered; turning away from the cabin's few passengers.
"No. They're all in custody, actually. But their fake IDs came from three certified dead TA employees and one in a persistent vegetative state. Kind of curious how the gunmen got hold of those. Not to mention the source of their funding."
And when John became curious, he could not be shaken loose for love, money or the brittle crack of a few shattered laws. One way or another, he'd have his answer.
"But you figure we caught 'em all, right? I mean, there's no further danger in public appearances?"
"Hard to say. Watch your back, and if dad sends you a team of bodyguards, don't chase them off. Looks like its open season on Tracys, again."
"Yeah, well… You're not exactly invulnerable up there, yourself, John. Watch out for meteors and stray missiles."
"More like stray space debris, but, yeah… I'll stay alert. Talk to you later, Alan. Tell Grandma and Virgil I'm thinking of them."
"Gotcha. Wish me luck with Dad, today. Something tells me I'm gonna need it."
"Luck. Ring me again from the hospital."
"Okay," Alan promised, ending the call. At least there was one family member he hadn't completely ticked off.
As the plane neared Wichita and their captain broadcast his tray-table and electronic devices warning, Alan got to wondering who'd gone after his calm middle brother and elderly grandma. Industrial spies? Disgruntled former employees? Eco-peace groups committed to ending weapons and exploration technology? Or maybe some of IR's more insidious enemies? The Hood, say… or a criminal gang whose last stupid venture had gotten them rescued and jailed.
Whatever the case might be, Alan fastened his flimsy seat belt (no 5-point safety harness and roll-cage, here) and vowed to keep a sharp eye out for skulking strangers. After all, any smile could hide plots, and each handshake, a needle.
There was no car waiting to pick him up at the airport, so Alan rented one, just like the normal folks did. A Ford Mustang, naturally. Got his own luggage in the trunk, even, thinking that: hah, there wasn't so much to this average-Joe business.
Pulling away from the parking garage and out onto Roosevelt Avenue, the race driver felt pretty good about himself. Grandma was going to be fine, he decided. Virgil, too. How else could it be, in a fair and sane universe? Alan wasn't much the religious sort, but he attended Mass once in awhile to please Grandma, ate well-balanced meals and took care of his karma. Surely, the world owed him a couple of favors.
Driving through Wichita's sparse morning traffic, Alan thought so, anyhow. It took him half an hour and three badly wrong turns to discover that his car's GPS had been hacked, and that he'd picked up an ominous tail; a silver-grey Cadillac, pouring along in his wake like a long, fluid shadow.
Adjusting the rear-view mirror, Alan checked twice and made several last minute course changes, just to be sure. And yeah… he was being diverted to the outskirts of town, and followed. Probably, he ought to have called John or dad, but this particular threat, following the attack on his brother and Grandma, cut to the heart of Al's temper and pride.
"Mister," he said to the silvery car in his mirror, "I drive for a living. You're gonna have to do better than tha…"
Alan didn't spot the garbage truck rumbling across morning-slick Palmer Street from a hidden alleyway till it was almost too late to react. Fortunately, his reflexes weren't road, they were racetrack. He swerved and floored the gas pedal instead of falling back; cutting ahead of the big, rusted hulk like a gazelle playing chicken with a charging bull elephant.
A deep, resonant horn blared. Air brakes hissed and squealed. The stench of ripe, sloshing rubbish flooded the air. Alan ignored it all, cutting near enough to wave at the wide-eyed truck driver. Then, whooping aloud, he shot past, climbing halfway onto the sidewalk in the process and leaving the Cadillac trapped
"Ohhh…! So close!" Alan exulted. "Better luck next time, guys."
Of course, that's when the car's drunk-driver safety control system was hijacked, and all of the door locks snapped tight. That's when he went for a ride out of town.