Phew! Vacation, at last... and what a year it's been. But enough about that! Time to say thank you to Zeilfanaat, Tikatu, Silver Bee and Ship's Cat, then get on with the story. =) Further edited.
7: Running Wide Open
Wichita, Kansas, in one of the Tracy family's farm-and-ranch work trucks-
John got a pretty garbled notion of just what had happened to his brother, probably, because Alan was too tired and punchy to think straight. Going from race day to victory celebration all-nighter, to red-eye flight, and then being carjacked… not to mention ditching his co-opted ride at a busy intersection… had left Alan with little upstairs but headache and wool.
The story came out, all right, causing the twins' delicate eyebrows to hike right up into their hairlines, but it came forth in ragged, woozy chunks. Blond and battered, Alan talked, nodded off and then talked some more, all through the town.
" 'Kay… so I got to the airport… uh, airport in Kansas, yeah… rented a car… hadda be a Ford product. 'S in the contract… Sponsors, y'know… hire a ninja assassin if I drink the wrong beer or drive a Chevy… Anyways, got a car, only somebody hacked it, or something… public safety system took over… started heading me outta town… Oh, forgot to mention, picked up a tail outside of the airport. Grey Caddy… guys inside dressed up like movie cowboys. Dunno what they were thinking, 'sides planning to nail me."
He must've fallen asleep then, because Sharie Redfeather turned around in her seat and gave him a nudge.
"Al," she snapped, "Wake up! If something's going on, we need to know about it, and so does John. What happened next? How'd you get out of the car and away from those guys?"
Sharie was the quiet twin, normally, but a few years away from her sister at teaching college had made her a bit more outspoken. Pretty, too, in a wind-swept and far-seeing way.
"S'okay," he grunted, nodding like a dashboard bobble-head. "I'm awake. So… the car, yeah. Couldn't hotwire the stupid thing… doors wouldn't open, either… so I got a glass-breaking tool outta the glove compartment, broke a window and climbed out at the next stoplight… only my wrist comm got stuck on something, so I was dragged a little 'fore it came off. Then I got fan-rushed, but that's okay. 'S all about the fans."
Far upstairs, John Tracy processed all of this in silence before pressing a red microphone key to say,
"That would make three distinct, well-organized incidents within the last 36 hours. No more public flights or car rentals, Alan. I know what your feelings are about using corporate transportation and funding, but safety has to come first. Stick with the ladies for now, make sure you're packing at least a .45 caliber, and get some rest. I wouldn't back you against a pissed-off three-year-old, right now."
"Yeah…? Come down here and say that to my face, Astro-Boy! Beat you down to your tube socks!"
Up in the beeping and creaking, rumbling space station, John smiled a bit, shaking his head. His next comment was addressed to the twins.
"See that he's patched up before he reaches the patients, please. The last thing they need is more stress. I'll keep an eye on things from up here, but it's tough to spot trouble before it develops, in a city the size of Wichita. Too much extraneous noise and web activity."
At this point, John couldn't even be sure that the problem was IR related. Possibly, someone just had it in for the Tracys as a family, or else hated their vast multinational corporation. He meant to find out, though, and soon.
From below, in a big green truck whose progress John was tracking via hacked satellite cam, Teena said,
"We got this, Rocket-Man. Anyone sneaks up and tries something funny is gonna get hurt. We don't take well to ambushers and backstabbers."
The twins' fondness for John Tracy went back a long way, to when they'd accidentally overheard him talking to his horse one day in the family stables. Much had happened since then, but he was essentially the same quiet, deep-centered person, able to fathom best those things which spoke without language. Now, he said,
"Understood, ladies. Call in with hourly updates. I mean it. If I don't hear from you every hour on the hour, starting right the hell now, I'll institute immediate search and rescue procedures."
It was hard sometimes, being so helplessly far from the action. Of course, there was always the escape pod option, a course he'd taken before.
"Relax, Sky Watch… it's handled. We'll breathe deep, run swift and touch the Earth soft in your name, till you're safely back home."
Teena always closed that way, whenever they'd talked for awhile. It was sentimental, but nice to hear.
"Later," he responded, signing off with much less personality. "Sky Watch, out."
It made sense to be cautious, because signals could be tracked to their source, locations pinpointed… and because no one was further from help. Even in Thunderbird 3, from launch code to docking, it took nearly 45 minutes to reach the space station. Essentially, John Tracy was on his own, up there.
Down below, Sharie was doing her part to make Alan Tracy presentable. Fortunately, there was a first aid kit and work clothes in the back of the truck cab, and Alan wasn't a large man. He could change outfits in the rear seat with a minimum of squirming and colorful language, and only occasional help. The non-driving twin was able to get their friend cleaned up before they reached the hospital, catching brief glimpses of town, sluggish river and traffic at each turn and stoplight.
Her sister, meanwhile, drove alertly; dark eyes scanning the street and buildings for any trace of a scope-flash or a tailing grey Cadillac. Done her time in the Army National Guard, had Teena Redfeather. She knew what to look for and how to stay safe on the road in a possibly hostile city.
They reached Wichita General Hospital some thirty minutes after signing off with John. Most likely, he was aware of this, but Teena checked in again, anyhow; promising to call once more on the hour, and then again when they got in to see Grandma and Virgil.
Alan had roused himself somewhat by this time, being well accustomed to forcing charm and alertness whenever he and the public collided. Sometimes, this was a problem. Once, during an IR mission to Ceylon, a small girl had come running up to him with paper and pen, and he'd nearly autographed, '#37, Al Tracy' before recalling that he wasn't out at the racetrack. She'd been just as happy with a cartoon rocket and smiley-face, though.
At any rate, a battered, exhausted young man had climbed into that truck. A cleaned-up and confident professional driver emerged, smiling behind his borrowed sunglasses at the inevitable newshounds and cameras. Any attack on the Tracys was big stuff around here. Throw in their most currently famous rebel son, and the situation turned into a three-ring media circus, complete with popcorn and loud-speakers.
The hospital's underground parking garage was jammed with reporters, most of whom were not able to cross into its guarded VIP section. Alan gritted his teeth at the implied elitism, sheer poison to a NASCAR driving career. Rolling down his window, he leaned out to wave and holler,
"Folks, I'll catch you on the way out… I promise! Gotta take care of my family, first, but I won't forget!"
That stifled some of the murmurs, as did word that a Tracy Aerospace helijet was on final approach to the hospital's reinforced rooftop landing pad. Half the reporters took off running, making it easier for Alan, Teena and Sharie to push their way to the VIP elevator. Used to manhandling cattle on a vast cow-and-calf spread, Sharie and Teena had no trouble chucking a few dozen newsmen out of their way. Not that the reporters didn't try hard.
"Alan!"
"Mr. Tracy! Over here!"
"Just a few words, Alan! Will this affect your racing career? Are you worried about your family? Who do you think's behind the shootings?"
"What was it like turning your back on money and privilege, Al? Can the fans ever relate to a billionaire race driver?"
...And so on.
The underground car park resounded with questions and glittered with lights, but Alan pressed onward, flanked by the twins. Determined, they got to the elevator mostly unscathed, breathing easy at last when those polished bronze doors shut out the clamoring mob. Only then did Al drop his trademark friendly-but-serious smile.
"Can I have another aspirin?" he pled, massaging his temples while staring at his reflection in the elevator doors. "My head's about to explode."
Sharie fished a white plastic bottle out of her backpack (like Teena, she refused to carry a purse) and then shook a tablet onto her palm for him.
"Go easy," she chided. "This stuff'll rot your stomach and liver clean through."
"I'll get new ones," Al promised carelessly, swallowing the aspirin with a swig from Teena's water bottle. "But I can't do much signing and glad-handing with my brain dribbling out from both ears."
The real problem was tension, lack of sleep, and concern for Virge and Grandma, plus the thought of facing his newly arrived dad and brother. Tall order for one little pill, but Alan had faith. Puffing out a long, slow breath, he repeated an old mantra of his and Gordon's… something they'd picked up from an old sports movie.
"Pain heals, chicks dig scars, and glory is forever."
It sounded funny, whispered in a carpeted gilt-bronze cubicle with perfumed air and light classical music playing. Made him feel better, though.
The VIP lift did not stop on any of the hospital's public floors, except for the Intensive Care Unit. Even rich people had emergencies, and sometimes their Gucci-and-caviar butts ended up in a bed alongside Joe the babbling homeless guy. Illness and accident were tremendous levelers. At first, anyhow. The differences showed up later.
Their elevator fetched up at the right floor with a clear chime and the soft sigh of pneumatic parts. Its doors opened moments later onto a short hallway which was appointed more like that of a grand hotel than a hospital. No matter. Took them three rapid steps to cross the brief passage and then push through a set of wide swinging doors. Past these, they were plunged into ICU, a whole different world. A quick, savage scrub-up was followed by the donning of germ-free smocks. Only then they were freed to go further.
The staff had done their best to isolate Virgil and Grandma, setting them up in a far curtained corner of the ward, but other people were present and very much curious. Again, there were gasps of recognition and shouted questions. Again, they kept moving. Crossing ICU at a fast stride, Alan let Teena do most of the talking. All he wanted was to reach his brother and Grandma; to speak with them before Dad and Gordon showed up, and the situation got tense.
He'd tried to prepare himself beforehand, but seeing big, strong Virgil hooked up to machines… seeing his grandmother wrapped up and splinted like that… Well, it got to him. Alan's breath caught and his sky-blue eyes blurred, so it was Teena who spoke to them first.
"We're here, Virge… Grandma Tracy."
Very gently, despite the ward nurse's narrow-eyed glare, the twins reached forth to touch those who'd once rescued and sheltered them.
"Alan's come, too."
They were not outwardly emotional young women. What the heart had to say, anyone who truly cared to could hear, reasoned Sharie and Teena. Physical presence after a long journey was all the display they could offer.
Virgil remained unconscious, but Grandma's brown eyes flickered open and slid across to their faces and Alan's. She smiled at them, briefly, then went back to sleep, mouthing,
"Love you…"
Sharie drifted over to stand by Virgil's bedside. Placing one hand upon the bed's chrome guard rail, she looked as fierce and unyielding as a sentinel. For his own part, Alan had to swallow hard several times before saying,
"Guys… it's gonna be okay. We're here, and dad's on his way with Gordon. You relax and get better, okay? It's gonna be just fine."
The grim, wrinkled ward nurse was trying to tell him something, and periodically the hospital intercom would crackle and blatter its calls and reports. He paid them no mind, building up certainty that all was well; all was being fixed, patched and handled. That nobody, no way, could mess with the Tracys.
Some people were given to prayer. Alan just reasoned with the universe, expecting that things would go his way as a matter of natural course. The bright, harsh lighting of ICU began wavering in his headache-y, tear-blurry view, but he wouldn't cry openly. None of them did, not ever.
There were stained bandages and parasitic tubes all over Virgil. Alan balled his fists tight. He had to fight the urge to rip all that stuff off of his brother, where he couldn't accept they belonged. To keep himself from going crazy, he just started talking. Any dumb thing. Didn't matter. Just for a wall of fate-blocking noise.
Maybe Virge heard him. Certainly some of the monitors jiggled and beeped. But whether his brother could hear Alan's babble or not was beside the point. The racecar driver kept right on speaking, bringing home and safety into that barren hospital ward.
Distracted by his one-sided conversation, Alan was very surprised when a buzzer sounded and the ICU doors swung open hard enough to slam against the walls. Charts rattled and monitors wavered as Jeff Tracy stalked into the place like he owned every atom and signed all the paychecks. With him were red-haired, muscular Gordon and three dead-pan body guards.
It was hard to be sure what they meant to each other just then, or which tone to take, so Alan stepped aside, giving his father and brother a cautious nod.
"Hey, guys," he said. "Good to see you."
He'd hardly got the words out when both Jeff and Gordon reacted to the slight buzz of their wrist comms by glancing at the miniature screens.
'Oh, geez,' Alan thought. 'An alert.'
…At the very worst possible time.