Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, nor do I make any profit from this.
VSM Vital Signs Monitor
MCU Mobile Control Unit
Alan stared at the ceiling queasily, wondering what he had drunk to make the room move like that and why no-one had stopped him. Then he remembered where he was, and realised that the room really was moving. By the time he sorted out that concept, it had stopped again. There was a crashing noise, and the groaning of metal, but he ignored it for the moment. Why was he lying down, wrapped up in layers of... uniforms? Strapped down to a stretcher. He must have been injured, but he did not remember it happening. What had happened? A soft beeping gave him a clue, and he twisted his head to look in surprise at an active VSM resting by his shoulder. That was right, he had gone to find a VSM for Scott. And then the ship had moved... oh yes, and everything had come crashing down on top of him. He remembered seeing the MCU moving and trying to dive out of its way, then everything had gone black.
Clearly, he had been knocked out, and injured in some way too. But he did not feel injured. He was aware of a dull throbbing in his stomach, but it seemed rather distant. Everything seemed rather distant, including Gordon's shouting. He must be drugged. Wait, Gordon was shouting?
"Gordy?" he tried to shout back. "Over here!"
"I heard you, Alan, I'll be with you in a minute!" his brother replied, sounding harried.
Alan blinked.
"Okay."
He could wait. He glanced back at the VSM and noted irritably that it was turned away from him, so he could not see his own status. Well that was standard. Peering beyond it, he wondered why his stretcher was tied together with Scott's. Unable to get his head around that one, he noted that Scott was shifting slightly as though suffering a nightmare. He frowned. How long had it been since Scott lost consciousness? The last he remembered it had just happened, but that must have been some time ago given the fact that Virgil and Gordon had had time to get him out here and set up on the stretcher.
"It's okay, Scott." he called to his brother, feeling odd to be reassuring the older man when it was usually the other way around. "We'll be out of here soon. Everything's going to be fine."
"You could've been killed."
"I wasn't."
Gordon just glared at him, shaking his head and pulling a splint out of the medkit.
"Gordy, I'm okay." Virgil said more softly.
"No, you're not." Gordon said through gritted teeth. "You're not and I'm not. None of us are. We're not thinking straight. We should've seen that you were right where the chair was going to fall. We should've seen it. It's our job."
Virgil turned his head away, willing himself not to cry out as Gordon applied the splint to his broken arm. Gordon had a point: they should have seen the consequences, but they had not. They had not because they were so tired and stressed, and because they were taking all of this personally rather than working professionally. How many times had they been lectured on the importance of acting professionally?
It was only when he had heard the clattering above him that he had remembered the seat. If he had not been in so many dangerous situations over the years, he might have paused to look up at it and if he had wasted time doing that then it would likely have crushed him. Instead, he had thrown himself to one side. It had still been too late to get away completely, and it had crashed into his arm as he moved, but it could have been worse. So much worse.
"Nngh!"
"Sorry. Okay, how's that?"
Virgil drew his arm closer, cradling it against his chest as he blinked away involuntary tears from when Gordon had tightened the pressure cast.
"Sore." he said shortly. "But I'll live. Hey! No, no drugs - I need a clear head if I'm going to fly us out of here."
Gordon paused, holding the needle ready.
"What makes you think I'm going to let you into the cockpit like this?" he asked flatly.
"You let me?" Virgil echoed. "Gordon, if you think I'm going to let you touch those flight controls in this weather, you must be mad."
"I'm the only uninjured one left."
"And you're an aquanaut, not a pilot."
"I can fly. Not as well as you or Scott, but I can do it."
"In this weather? No."
"And you could? Broken arm and all?"
"Yes."
"Bollocks."
Virgil opened his mouth to argue, but then his gaze landed on Scott and he paused. He did not argue often with his brothers but when he did it was inevitably with either Alan or Gordon, more often Gordon, and usually it was Scott who broke it up. But right now Scott was relying on them both to work together and sort this out.
"Look." he tried to compromise. "Lets just all get over to Two. Then we can argue about who's doing what. When we've got them in the sickbay."
Gordon glanced over his shoulder then put the needle back in its case.
"Alright. So how're we going to do this?"
They both stared out into the darkness, then Gordon spoke again.
"Can you get the stretchers separated?"
"Yes." Virgil said confidently, though in truth he was far from sure.
"Right. I'll go across and create a guide line. Then I'll bring another one back, along with the rain covers for the stretchers. It'll make them harder to handle, but we need to keep them dry."
Virgil nodded.
"Sounds good. Lets find you a harness and wire reel."
"Dad?"
His father did not answer immediately, still staring off to the right of the screen. At his brothers' portraits, John surmised, and tried again.
"Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?"
Jeff blinked.
"John. I didn't hear you. Has Virgil called in again?"
John tried not to let his distaste for his father's detachment show on his face. It was not Jeff's fault - Brains had had to give him something to calm him down before he gave himself a heart attack, worrying. John understood it, he had not liked the way his father had gone so grey after Virgil had signed off, but the ensuing detachment did not make it easy to deal with him.
"Not yet, dad. I've been thinking, though. What are we going to do when they get out of One?"
"Get out of one what? Oh. You mean Thunderbird One."
"Yes. From the sounds of things, Scott and Alan both need a doctor. Are we going to get Virgil to divert to a hospital and drop them off as IR operatives, or are we going to bring them home first and take them in as the Tracys? We're going to need a watertight cover story if we do that, but that might be better."
"Oh, but what about Alan!" Tintin interrupted, coming into the camera's range. "Surely they should be taken straight to a hospital!"
She had been crying, clearly, most likely over Alan. Virgil's description of Alan's injuries had hardly been tactful, and John wondered vaguely if Virgil might also be suffering a bit from shock.
"It's difficult to say without more detail." he said carefully. "But the fact is that there really aren't any hospitals nearby. Not ones where the technology is up to date, anyway. And to be honest, I think Virgil and Gordon are running on adrenaline, and the second they get Alan and Scott to safety they're going to collapse. Better that they do it at home. That way, at least, we can keep it under control."
"But John, Virgil said Alan was bleeding." Tintin protested. "He needs a hospital."
"He needs a professional assessment." John qualified. "Look, if he's seriously hurt, Virgil won't even wait for orders before he diverts - he'll just do it. We've all been doing this for long enough to know when something's life-threatening, and Virgil and Gordon are more on the front line than any of the rest of us. But assuming that they are coming home, we need to be ready for them. I think it's time to tell Doc Callenson the truth."
Tintin gasped, but John kept his attention focused on his father.
"Dad, you've had him checked out half a dozen times and he's clean. You know that. And he's a good guy, at heart - that's why he's caused us so much trouble. He worries about us. Telling him the truth is the only way we're ever going to... hold on, transmission coming through from Gordon. Gordon - go ahead, I'm on with base."
Gordon was drenched, his hair plastered down against his head, his skin pale with cold.
"Oh." he said, clearly not expecting the direct link. "Oh right. Brains, if you're there - thanks. It worked a charm."
"You're wet." Jeff noted.
"Uh, yeah dad. The weather's not letting up."
"How are your brothers?"
Gordon seemed to flinch at the question, then shook his head.
"They're still back in One. We're going to move across now, but I'm setting up some guide lines or we'll lose the stretchers in the wind. I'm calling to say we'll be out of contact for about twenty minutes doing that and getting things settled, then one of us'll call in again."
"F-A-B, son."
Gordon frowned, then nodded.
"Alright. Two out."
John looked unhappily at the now blank screen. Something told him Gordon had had some other news, news that he would have shared if he were just talking to John instead of to their father. News that would now remain untold.
"John?"
He tore his eyes away and back to the main screen.
"Yes dad?"
"Call Jeremiah, son. You're right. We need his help."
"F-A-B."
Gordon slogged back to Thunderbird One through the mud, fighting the wind and rain as he moved hand over hand along the wire he had already strung. The second was currently clipped to the full body harness he was wearing. He had practically had to crawl across to Two to avoid being blown away, and it would be far worse with the stretchers to manoeuvre. Much worse with Virgil being one-handed.
It was stupid, getting in an argument with Virgil at this point. Stupid and unprofessional. They were both tired, they were both fighting off the emotional shock of Scott and Alan's injuries, and they had both gotten a fright when the loose pilot's seat had fallen, but it was no excuse to revert to childhood bickering. Virgil was right in one thing at least - there was no way Gordon would even attempt to take off in this weather. It was so wet that he could almost have launched Thunderbird Four in it, and the wind was gusting well past seventy knots. Virgil could handle Two in these conditions, Gordon had seen him do it. But with a broken arm? He had no idea, and he suspected Virgil was not so sure either.
The fact was, they may have little choice but to try. There was no doubt in his mind that they needed to get Alan to some kind of medical facility as soon as possible, and Scott and Virgil too. They were still several hours flight from base, even at supersonic speed, although that could be cut down if they pushed to rescue speed and got lucky with the weather. A grim smile curved his lips. They had not been very lucky so far, surely they must be due some luck about now?
As though to disabuse him of that notion, a moment later a wind gust caught the wire he was leading and tugged it viciously sideways. The movement yanked him off balance and his back cramped painfully as it was twisted. He fell into the mud, gasping, seeing stars before his eyes. Not now, oh God he could not be incapacitated now. Not when they were all counting on him.
...to be continued.