Chapter 9: Chocks away

Notes:

My brilliant beta Soleil_Lumiere keeps me honest, believe me! Once again, sincere thanks to her.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"Scott Tracy, ladies and gents. He's so far out of his depth, when he looks up all he sees is ocean. Dark blue, zero light. He's on his third tank, but whoops! He hasn't got one. He's so far down he's swimming with coelacanths, and they're having issues with the water pressure."

"He's so lost they've sent Waldo out to find him."

"He's so behind they've lapped him twice and started to mistake him for a pool boy on his break."

"Enough. God, you two."

Scott remembered glaring at Gordon and Alan, giggling like the idiots they were as he tried to assemble the first Im-Ex – immersion experience - player on Tracy Island. Brains had refused to leave the lab for something so trivial, Virgil was in Sweden, John was in space and Grandma was in Kansas, so somehow it had devolved onto Scott to set up their brand new family viewing extravaganza. The instructions were written in hieroglyphics, and at least three essential parts were missing.

He remembered hitting the wrong switch and sending the entire island into darkness. He remembered Gordon and Alan laughing so hard they were crying.

The moment was so clear to him it provided a kind of running commentary on permanent loop as he gazed at the cockpit of the Spitfire and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

The looks Spider was giving him didn't help his confidence, either.

"So – mind running me through the controls one more time?"

"You know where yer goin'?"

"Yes. Of course." Scott cleared his throat and straightened up from where he was peering at the various levers and knobs on the interior of the plane. "Lossiemouth GDF base, North Scotland."

"So you know the range you got in this old gal?"

He felt like a schoolboy in front of a particularly bloody-minded principal.

"Uh – you said 434 miles, at economic cruise mode of, ah – 220 miles per hour?"

"And 'ow far's Lossie?'

"Well, it's 768 kilometres, which is - uh, beyond my range."

"Yeah." It was as if Spider took some pleasure in that. "So you'll 'ave to land in Edinburgh, re-fuel there."

Scott nodded, concentrating hard. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much to learn in such a short space of time, and the nagging sense that he was missing details added to his sense of drowning upright on dry land.

"I'll contact Lady Penelope, get her to drop 50 litres of whatever Kayo's managed to find at Edinburgh airport."

Spider gestured into the cockpit. "See an automatic course finder in here?"

"Uh – no."

Spider nodded. Unless Scott was completely misreading him, the old man was taking a grim kind of amusement in Scott's complete disadvantage.

"You use yer gyro and yer compass. But look." He pointed to where the stick was positioned. "If you 'ave to move that to check the gyro, you'll tip 'er, 'ead off yer course. And with the distance you want to travel, you don't want to be doing nothin' but a straight line."

"So – how do I navigate?"

Spider shrugged. "Landmarks, mostly."

"Landmarks? What about when I'm over the sea?"

"Well, that's when you use yer gyro, innit?"

"And lose my line?"

Another shrug. "So you keep in yer head the sun's heading and work off that."

"Sun?" Scott felt his anxiety crank a notch. "Have you been to Scotland?"

At once, he regretted the comment. Whatever traces of humour existed in Spider's face moments ago was gone, and that kind of elemental sadness that defined the man took its place. An apology seemed more gauche than the stumble, so Scott tried to let him know his regret in the way he ducked his head and changed the subject.

"Well… doesn't look like there's a seat in here."

"Sit on yer chute."

It wasn't until Spider stumped over to the rear of the hangar and pulled out a tidily packed bag with straps that Scott realised what he was talking about.

"I sit on my parachute?"

Spider motioned for him to turn around, and he automatically opened his arms for the parachute straps to be fitted onto him. It was a modern parachute, he noted with relief. Before he could turn back, a headset was dumped unceremoniously on his head, and as a he turned a pair of thin gloves was thrust at him.

"Get 'em on yer. That's yer comms and those gloves will let you work the controls. Gets cold up there in the old Mark Five."

"I – thanks?"

"And check yer nails regular. No oxygen meter in the old gal, so you have to keep an eye on yer oxygen levels that way. Yer nails get blue, drop 'er a few thousand feet."

Scott looked at him in something like astonishment.

"Now, yer heading is 'ere – on the compass. Keep to that. 'ere – 57 degrees, 42 minutes North, 3 degrees 20 minutes West. So yer 'eadin' nor-norwest. You'll cross London and Leeds and – yeah, sod that. Just get to the coast and fly up 'er. Once you get to Edinburgh you just 'ave to cut straight up over Aberdeenshire."

Scott nodded. It made sense. He found his breathing was growing short, and he realised he was more than tense. As a man who prided himself on his coolness in a crisis, he hated to admit to himself that his pure ignorance here was scaring the hell out of him.

For a second, the thought that this task was finally beyond him flooded his mind.

He felt old Spider's eyes on him. When he met that look, it was unreadable. An uncomfortable few seconds passed, then Spider nodded slightly and looked past him to the soft green field.

"Yer brothers. Wot are their names?"

"Uh – Gordon. And Virgil." Scott gave a shaky chuckle. "I was just thinking of what Gordon would say, watching this. He'd be laughing his head off at me."

"'ighly 'umorous lad, I take it?"

"You could say that. And Virgil, he – he's about the nicest guy you'd ever meet." He drew a hand over his face, willing away the tension. "And they risk their lives, every day, to save other people."

"Mmph." Spider grimaced. "Don't know what yer doin' standin' around 'ere yabbering about them for."

It was so unexpected and so unfair that it surprised a laugh out of Scott. Spider left him, climbing easily onto the wing, pulling back the hood and opening the pilot's door, so Scott couldn't see his expression. But he knew that he'd just experienced Spider's pep talk, and he realised with gratitude that, in some alchemic way, it had helped. He scooped up his parachute and followed Spider onto the wing.

"Put 'er down there," Spider said, and Scott dropped the chute into the moulded metal space and then squeezed down to sit on top of it.

It was astonishingly tight. Scott was used to the freedom of movement of modern planes, and Thunderbird 1 in particular. Here, the metal sides pressed in against him. He realised he couldn't do up his flying harness, but before he could say anything, Spider was leaning over, doing it up for him, tugging on each strap to tighten it so much that Scott felt like he couldn't move even if the plane corkscrewed.

"That's yer quick release, there. Right. Yer set." He hesitated, then Spider ran one hand slowly along the edge of the cockpit. "You take care of 'er. Wouldn't be doin' this if I didn't know what those bastards can do. I ain't got no bombs, but she can carry two of 'em, hundred kilos each. I know that won't stop much these days, but if you get the chance, you grab a couple of bombs off them GDF and you give those arseholes a right bollocking."

"I'll do my best."

"Yeah." He sniffed. "I dunno."

As send-offs it was hardly Churchillian. Spider dropped down from the wing, then tapped at his head. "I can talk you through the take-off. Leave the hood open until she's away."

"Right. Thanks, Spider."

There was no response to that. Instead, the old man headed over to the control bank against the east wall and hit something. At once, the hydraulic chain attached to the Spitfire's undercarriage started up and began hauling the plane up and out onto the grass. When it was fully clear of the mound, the hydraulics were shut off, and Spider came back to bend under the plane and disengage the chain, before heading back to the RT controls.

"You hearin' me?"

It was utterly disconcerting to have a voice coming in at his ear. In his USAF and GDF flying in the 2050s, all communication was done via 3D vid-connects, with the avatars of the person communicating appearing above the control panel. Research had proven that being able to see the speaker had increased comprehension time and accuracy so significantly that the use of headsets and audio-only communication was considered outdated by the time Scott took his first flights with his father as a three year old. To have a cantankerous Cockney voice echoing in his skull threw him.

"Yes?" It was instinctive to look hastily about the tiny space, trying to find the speaker, before his brain kicked in and he tapped his own headset. "Yes, loud and clear."

"Well, I'll run you through. Just 'ope I don't forget something. Been doin' this so long, it's automatic."

Oh, good. Scott would have face-palmed except for the fact that he could barely move his arms and was scared to distract himself and miss anything.

"Righto. Now. Done the pre-check, and you make sure you do it proper before you set off again. No nicks in the tyres, full movement in the rudder."

"Yep, got it."

"I bloody well 'ope so." Spider's gloominess echoed in Scott's head. "Put the trim tab to neutral. Indicator switch on. Undercarriage selection down. On the right there's the fuel gauge – I checked, you got about 48 gallons in the top tank and 37 in the lower tank. I ain't got a drop tank on 'er, so you'll 'ave to make do. Full tanks, so you fly 'er straight. No fancy maneuvers. Right – you can latch the pilot door now."

Scott leant to his left and pulled up the small metal door that opened downwards onto the wing. It clicked to in a way that sounded completely dissatisfying to Scott's ears, used to engineered automatic doors of silent precision that folded together so completely they could keep space at bay.

"Now, I locked yer hood open before. Remember to do that when yer with those GDF tossers. Check the rudder and the elevators."

Rudder. Elevators. Scott couldn't remember ever being so overwhelmed. His father had taken him into the cockpit so often as a child that flying the jets and rockets that constituted his ordinary flying were second nature to him by the time he began first using simulators, then the real thing. At his pilot's certification for USAF he felt nothing but excitement and supreme confidence.

For the first time in his life, he was swimming with the coelacanths in a cockpit.

"Now. The crank beside you."

"On my - ?"

"On yer left. That's yer rudder bias. Need to crank that fully right for take-off. She's a bitch for swing, is Agnes. She gets a swing up on take-off, the old torque. 'Ave to counter the bias."

"Right. Yes."

"The other crank's yer elevator trim – get the nose down." A thumping beside him made Scott look out to the left, and there was Spider, fitting in a thick hose to the Spitfire's side panel from a trolley. "This is just the ground accumulator. Don't worry about that. I 'ope they got a Coffman in Lossie. Anyhow. You just check yer air pressure in yer brakes."

Brakes. Right. Scott hit the port gauge and it lifted to 40 with a hiss. Another sharp hiss as he lifted a lever on his left, opened it up and latched it and the two lower needles swung up towards a horizontal pitch.

"Brakes on," he said, a flutter of competence tapping at his belly. "Parking catch locked on."

"Right. Fuel cock."

"Yeah, got it." Scott remembered Spider showing him, and reached for the upright lever in a box, lifted it up and over to the right.

"Huh." It was almost impressed. "So the two caps above – "

"Starter and ignition switch booster buttons. Magneto switches on the left – off."

"'Oo knew a Yank could be taught?"

The throttle was on his left, conveniently labelled, and was one of the only things that looked vaguely familiar to him – it was on a rudimentary track, a long distant forebear of the throttle system in TV21.

"Set your throttle at 'alf an inch open."

"Got it. Half an inch." A red handle directly beside the throttle in the same track system was the speed control, and Scott pushed it fully forward. "Speed fully engaged."

"Fully engaged is it? Gawd 'elp us. Right then - idle cut-off's on the right. " A round black control stick with a knob, and Scott grabbed it, feeling it move. "Work that one back and forward till the fuel pressure warning light's off."

It all felt so horribly inexact.

"Now, down by yer knee – yer right knee – that's the gas primer. 'Ave to unscrew that, pull 'er out, work it."

"How much?"

"I dunno. On a day like this, 'bout as long as you Yanks last – maybe four or five pulls?"

Gritting his teeth, Scott did as he was told.

"Two ignition switches on the far left – flip 'em up about now."

Done.

"Now, the two buttons above the cock – press 'em with yer left, and work the fuel pump with yer right."

Painfully, Scott thought of getting into Thunderbird 1 and flipping a switch, easing the throttle.

But suddenly, and startling a swoop of real nervous excitement in his belly, Scott saw the propellers begin to turn lazily over. The engine made a thin sound; then a burst of smoke came from the propellers as the props began spinning freely and the engine started a low burring noise.

"'Allelujia. E's got 'er going. Right. Check yer magnetos are both live and yer oil pressure's comin' up."

Scott felt the vibrations through every part of his body.

"The fuel pressure warning light's off? Then run 'er up slow. And keep that stick hard back or you'll have Aggie's nose in the grass."

Scott peered up and over the control bank in front of him.

"I can't – this nose is so long, I can't see the ground."

"Well, there ain't nothin' to see, is there?"

Landing her was going to be a complete and utter bitch.

"Now, run 'er up to zero boost. Check for magneto drop. Pressure and temp okay? Then take 'er up. And know I'll 'ave yer guts if you treat 'er wrong."

Scott sat there, feeling the energy behind and beneath him. This was it. The last moment before he committed to something that re-defined reckless even by his gold standards. He could stop the engine right now, drop open the pilot door, climb down, and be back on solid land, full of apologies to Spider for wasting his time. They'd find another way, somehow. No one would blame him.

He eased the throttle forward and grabbed the small round wheel, the 'stick', that was all he had to steer with. The revs built and she began trundling forward, slowly, then with more and more power until she was bumping on the grassy runway.

"Pull 'er nose up!" Spider's voice shouted in his ear. He pulled the stick back and she responded at once, lifting so easily he almost missed it. And then the bumpiness was gone and there was nothing but sky, and his stomach was left somewhere behind him as he heard Spider give another shout.

"E's up! Gawd 'elp us, e's up!"

He felt the lift like a giant hand, pushing him upwards. The engine burbled, the tail tried to swing out to the right and he straightened it, the props blurred at the front of the plane, and Scott had never experienced anything like it.

This was flying.

This was carving through sky, vulnerable, powerful, every second of speed squaring the exhilaration until he gave a yell of his own, completely unconscious and totally necessary.

"I love it! Spider! I love her!"

"Yeah, yeah, keep yer shirt on." But he could hear it, in his voice, the pleasure Spider was taking in watching someone else fall in love with his girl.

"Wooo!"

He was only a few hundred feet in the air, and that was thrilling. It was just high enough to feel the kind of dreamlike omnipotence that came with being above and separate but able to see every detail. There was something about being in such a small and skittish craft that gave a sense of height and speed that Thunderbird 1's efficiency had almost smoothed into nothing.

Being so close to the earth was fun, but he knew there was a southern air movement higher up that would carry him more quickly, so he eased the stick back further and watched the altimeter needle climb. At 8,000 feet he levelled off and peered over the side to see London on his left. He wasn't prone to sentimental fantasies, but for just a few minutes he couldn't help but think of those long gone pilots in the desperate days, when a look to his right might have seen banks of JU88s coming across the Channel to bomb the airfields, bomb the capital. It brought a sobering sense of their courage; this little aircraft, as gallantly as she'd lifted into the sky, felt absolutely inadequate when he thought of tracers coming towards him. It felt like going to war in a wind-up toy.

He tapped his sash.

"Thunderbird 1 – er, Scott Tracy to Thunderbird Five. Come in, Five."

To his relief, John's avatar appeared above the comm on his wrist.

"Scott? Where on Earth – "

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yeah. You missed a few pages. Talk to Kayo, she'll fill you in."

"Will do."

Even through the inadequacies of the avatar, John's face looked strained. Scott frowned.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." John's eyes, usually so steady and calm, flickered away to travel the cockpit closed around Scott's body. "So. This is a new look."

It was unsettling to see the brother who seemed to channel the serenity of space looking quite so tense. Even haunted. But clearly, he was not going to talk about it, and Scott already had his hands full with negotiating the sky in an archaic craft, so he chose to put his concern aside for now, and chuckled.

"Yeah. I washed One and she shrunk."

"Scott – "

"Relax. Kayo will fill you in. It's a Spitfire and we're lucky to have it. I'm glad to see you up and looking better."

"Yes." John's tone was as short as his response. Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. We might have to have a chat about that when I'm back on the ground. In the meantime – I have the most basic navigation in this thing. Can you get a fix on me and make sure I'm heading in the right direction?"

"Sure."

"And warn NATS and London and Edinburgh Airport that I'll need clearance, and a Coffman."

"A what now?"

"It's to restart her. Just ask them if they can do that somehow."

"I'm not going to comment on the female pronoun."

It was good to hear a ghost of dry humour. Scott laughed, and even he heard how much excitement was in his voice.

"She's called Agnes, and I am not going to do anything but talk nicely about her. She's our way of looking for the boys."

"Riight."

"And tell Kayo to get fuel to Edinburgh, I don't have the range to get all the way back in one trip."

John frowned.

"Then you're not going to have much of a search radius, either."

"I know. We can talk about putting on a drop tank when I get up there."

"In a Spitfire." John was a little dazed. "Okay. If there's nothing else you need, I am going to talk to Kayo asap. I need to be brought up to speed."

Still chuckling, Scott signed off, then sat back and enjoyed the sensation of skating through the sky.

He took Spider's advice and followed the coast up. The sea was a dull gray beneath him, with patches of brilliant blue off to the east, closer to France. From this height, the waves hitting the coast looked like thin ribbons of white, frozen in motion.

The thought of scouring an expanse like the one beneath him was a sobering one. They'd need a scanner of some sort. On his own, piloting as well as searching, it would be near impossible to see anything in the water.

It was exciting flying, undoubtedly, but it was also more hard work than he'd ever had in an aircraft in his life. He felt the little plane become more wayward as the fuel emptied. By the time Edinburgh came in sight she was swinging out to the right constantly. His hand was aching from working the rudder, his head was aching from concentrating so intently, and his shoulders needed to stretch so badly he almost opened the hood up and just held his arms aloft.

"Thunderbird Five to Spitfire Scott."

"Ha. Receiving you, John."

"I can talk you through to Edinburgh Airport. It's west of the city – you remember when we stopped there after that cruise ship fire in '61?"

"Yeah. I think so."

John might not be a hundred percent himself, but his calmness was, as ever, wonderfully reassuring.

"You'll see the M8 and M9 motorways. Where they join, it's off to the nor-northeast."

"Okay, thanks. I have no clue how they see over the front of this nose to land."

John fixed him with a patented look of his. It held a kind of assurance that went way beyond faith and deeply into certitude. Scott had never needed it more.

"You're the best pilot I know, Scott. You can do this. Right – I'm going to relay tower instructions since they can't get your frequency."

"Sure." He blew out his breath, and gripped the stick a little harder, causing the plane to tilt to one side before he corrected.

"Okay, they have you on radar –you need to veer a little more west, Scott, you've got to come in around from the south."

"Got it." He realised he was sweating profusely, even though the little cockpit was chilly. Below him and to the right he could see Edinburgh Castle, and he drew a sight-line from there directly west, bringing the plane around to find the course.

"That's great, Scott. Can you see the intersection of the freeways down there?"

"Yeah, I've got the airport. Do I have clearance? What runway?"

"Everything's grounded. All flights are down. Take runway 12 – that's the most southerly one as you come from the southwest."

"I see it." His stomach felt as though it had been hollowed out an hour ago and replaced with cold lead. It was hard to drag his eyes from the runway in order to find the landing gear controls and set them to down. There was no indicator to tell him if they were down or not; he had to just rely on the little plane and hope they were.

Or – he could get the control tower to let him know.

"John, can they tell me if my landing gear is down?"

A pause, far too long for Scott's liking, and then John came back.

"Yes, they can see your wheels. They say you're looking good, but coming in a little hot. You need to lose some airspeed."

Scott eased the throttle and watched the revs drop. Slower, slower – it felt impossible that something going this speed could stay in the air, but he had a feel for her now, and he knew she could float her way towards landing if he could help her to it.

Gently, the wings level, nose up slightly, the revs dying, and suddenly he was down, the wheels bumping against macadam, the engine roaring as he dragged the brake lever forward and she wobbled down the runway.

Finally, he came to a halt halfway along the runway, the props spinning until he killed the engine with a flick of the ignition switch.

And noticed John grinning at him, his tired eyes alight.

"You've left yourself a hell of a long walk." He shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me, Scooter."

Scott just dropped his own head back against the cockpit wall.

"I don't think I can walk. There's no feeling in my feet. I don't think I can get out of this damn seat."

"But you can fly a Spitfire." John gave an understanding nod. "You just hang there – I'll get the fuel out to you, and yes, they have a cartridge thing they reckon they can use to start the plane up again." He paused, and the look he gave him was so loaded with meaning that Scott couldn't begin to parse it. "You know, I really think this is doable. Scotty, I think you've found us a way to beat these guys after all."

**** ***** **** ***** **** **** ****
Edinburgh Airport was a surprise.

"Wow. You have fans," said Kayo.

It was a fair comment, if somewhat bizarre in the circumstances; Scott could see people lined up by the cyclone fencing that edged the airport, pointing and waving at him as he sat uncomfortably in his Spitfire and waited for the fuel to be finished loading into the upper tank.

"Here," Kayo continued. She pushed a protein bar and water bottle at him. "You haven't eaten since 0800."

"Thank you," said Scott, sincerely. He hadn't had the chance to be hungry or thirsty; but now that she'd mentioned it, he realised he was ravenous. The bar disappeared in seconds, and then he took a long drink before handing wrapper and bottle back to her. A clunk sounded from beneath the plane as the fuel drum was changed.

"How much of this fuel do you have?" Scott asked her as she lounged on the wing, leaning with her typical insouciance on the pilot door as if she hung off World War Two aircraft all the time and was vaguely bored with the fact.

"Well, there are only two oil refineries in Europe left producing high octane fuel." Kayo watched with interest as the cans were emptied into the craft. Another truck approached from the terminal area. "And we had to do some fast talking to get this. I think Colonel Casey may have had a word or two in an ear or two. Luckily, one of the ones left is in Grangemouth refinery, just down the road a bit in the Firth of Forth, so we could locate and transport it relatively quickly once we got the go ahead. We'll have enough, Scott."

"Great." He took in a deep breath then let it out again, wiggling his shoulders. "I'll get to Lossiemouth as soon as I can, get out there today."

"Today?" She frowned at him. "I'm not sure – "

"Hello!" A tall woman with a friendly face called out as she got out of the second truck, carrying what looked like a heavy metal cylinder with lids at each end. "I'm maintenance. Jen Clachan. Got your Coffie."

For a second, Scott looked for a thermos, before mentally smacking himself upside the head.

She came over to the wing and put the metal object on it before jumping up herself. "There it is. I'll just shift you a bit, hen. I'm kippy-handed, got to get in here wi' this."

Kayo, unceremoniously shunted higher on the wing so the woman could get at the cockpit's side, looked at her with a glacial eye.

"What on earth is that?"

"This?" The woman picked up the object. "This ane's a Coffman starter and some cartridges. As asked for. I'll need to attach it to the engine. It'll get you started again," she added to Scott.

"You need me to get out?"

"Nae, don't flap. It's pure dead easy." She slung a kitbag off her shoulder and pulled out a small drill, and a piece of fire resistant cloth. "Just cover yer baws with that one."

"I- yes. Good idea." Scott put the cloth carefully across his lap as she began drilling into the forward section of the cockpit control panel, just beside the ignition switch. After fixing a bracket, she wedged in the Coffman canister and then drilled through to the starter engine before attaching a wire.

"There. You're done." She brushed the dust off the top lid. "Phew – don't mind the stoor, I don't know where they've been keeping this but it's an old one."

"I hope it still works." Scott looked at it doubtfully. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Here." Jen reached into her kitbag again. "I've got three of these cartridges. They found them all out the back, amazin' what you can find in an airport's maintenance storage. Just put one in there and hit the ignition switch and give the old engine a rev. They're toaty, but they pack a wallap."

"That's – a good thing?"

Jen gave a throaty laugh.

"Aye, it's a good thing, if it works. Something this old, who knows?"

"What's the backup plan if it's faulty?"

"Ah, you need to simmer. It'll start." Jen reached in and gave Scott a hearty handshake. "And if it doesn't, an old Mark Five like this, we can get it started with the propellers. Bit of old rope, bit of muscle, we'll get her going one way or t'other." She gave him a wink and then clomped across the wing to slide unceremoniously back to the tarmac. Kayo watched her go with a bemused expression on her face.

"I never realised how annoying cheerful optimism can be," said Kayo. Scott gave her a wry grin.

"You've lived with Gordon how long, and you've only just realised this?"

"True." She followed Jen in reaching in, but she patted Scott's shoulder instead of shaking his hand. "Just get this crate in one piece to Lossie. I think the people there have got some surprises for you – good ones that you're going to need." She leapt off the wing with a gracefulness that belied the height and sprinted off towards where Thunderbird Shadow was parked a hundred metres away.

From somewhere below, Scott heard another clatter, and then an airport worker appeared.

"All done." The airport worker gave the Spitfire a slap on the wing. "You're good to go."

Scott checked his fuel gauge and saw he now had a full upper tank. He twisted as far as he could – which wasn't much – in order to make eye contact with the man.

"Thank you."

"Ah, nae danger."

"I didn't think there was..?" But the man was gone, climbing into his truck with another cheerful wave. So far the Scots were failing horribly in living up to a reputation for dourness.

Scott was left alone.

A steady wind blew across the runway, rattling the hood as it sat locked in the open position for start-up. He watched as Kayo's plane lifted effortlessly into the dull sky. He felt the envy, but didn't acknowledge it. There was no point in wishing, only in remembering every detail of the complex start-up procedure bequeathed to him by Spider Dawson.
Scott closed his eyes and visualised the first run through in the crowded hangar beneath the mound. It was a memorisation technique his first official flying instructor, old Lakota McNee, had taught him. He recalled the smell of high octane fuel, dampness, the green scents of early spring. He heard Spider's nasal drawl, saw the way his nicotine stained fingers jabbed at a yellowing chart on the wall.

And the first step was there. It came with a rush of relief; with the first step, he knew he could follow the rest, a trail in his mind as clear as footsteps in snow. He made each move, remembering to adjust for a lighter fuel load, and then came to the point when he had to insert the cartridge into the canister on his control panel, press the ignition button, and pump the fuel.

She started like a dream.

"Oh, you good thing," he breathed. Building the revs, letting out the brakes, bringing the nose up – he understood, suddenly, how men could fling themselves into these planes when under fire and get swiftly into the air, because there was a rhythm to it, a logic of its own, and he felt himself absorb it.

The route was almost directly north to Elgin and Lossiemouth.

"Balmoral Castle down below. I had to sweet talk the NATS guys to get air clearance for you. Hey, you look out the window, you could wave to the king," John said through the headset.

"Yeah, I figure George doesn't need a Spitfire zooming his barbecue."

"Do kings have barbecues?"

"Royal barbecues. They throw a peasant on the grill."

"No, that was the old days," John said, seriously. "Nowadays it's just Americans who disturb their deer stalking with antique airplanes."

"Ugh." Scott flexed his shoulders. "I'm so sweaty and cramped. No one would want to eat me."

"I – don't know how to respond to that."

Flying across Aberdeen and reaching Elgin took forty minutes. By the time he approached Lossiemouth airbase, he'd been in the cockpit over three hours, and his body ached to move.

John came through with the runway clearance, and he set her down with far less trepidation on this, his second time at landing a completely unfamiliar aircraft. She swung out a little, but he corrected, and she gentled to a jaunty taxi speed that was smoky and noisy and kind of fun, given the looks on the faces of the aircrew rushing out to watch her come to a stop by the hangars. He gave them a cocky salute. Kayo, standing hipshot by the main hangar door, rolled her eyes.

Killing the engine. Releasing the straps. Unlatching and sliding back the hood. Unlatching the pilot's door.

It was almost automatic, and he felt a flood of affection for the little craft.

And tiredness. Dear god, he was tired.

He couldn't afford to think about that. So much more to be done today. But he needed to get out, stretch his legs and hit the head while they re-fuelled her. Pins and needles rushed into his legs as he tried to pull himself out, and when he finally cleared the cockpit he had to crack his back in order to straighten up. The cockpit size was going to take some getting used to. He dropped down to the tarmac and began a slow jog towards the hangar.

"And where do you think you're going?" Kayo stood in his way as he approached.

"Bathroom break while they re-fuel."

"Uh-huh. You're not thinking of getting back up there today?"

Scott stopped, bewildered and vaguely annoyed.

"Of course I am. There's hours of daylight left."

"I knew you were going to say that. Scott," she said, gently, "it's 1500 hours. By the time you got to the spot in the Atlantic where Thunderbird Two went down, it would be time to turn around and come back, and even then you'd be landing in the dark. Unless you think you could fly Agnes in the night-time?"

"What?" He looked skyward. She was right – he knew it without even looking at his watch. The light, always dull, was gentling further into a late afternoon feel. "But…"

"I know." Kayo's eyes held nothing but sympathy. "Believe me, I know. But you have to wait until first thing tomorrow."

Scott's fists bunched together unconsciously as he turned towards the northwest. Even as his soul yearned to be up there, even as his body urged him to action, his rational commander's brain added it all up and came to the same conclusion. He'd been fooling himself, ignoring everything but the compulsion towards his brothers and the feeling of finally having something that would allow him to meet that.

The disappointment was physical.

Kayo came to stand beside him.

"It won't be time wasted." She nodded towards where a group of engineers were coming forward, men and women carrying tools and odd-looking boxes and containers. "They've cobbled together a scanner. No terellium," she added at Scott's quick look, "all done from old camera parts, old TV broadcasting equipment. The GDF sent out a call - not publicly, no-one knows who might be in touch with these assholes - just through trusted friends and family. Retired personnel, that kind of thing. And they think they've got something that works."

Scott ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to say something appreciative. He wanted to acknowledge the good thinking and hard work that had been done while he flew Agnes to here. But his heart held his mind, and all he could think of was a single image of Gordon and Virgil and their tired but cheerful faces as they waved him off from the research station four days ago, growing smaller and smaller in his sights as he spun up and away, getting lost in the whiteness, in the storm.

Every delay meant they were further from him.

The Lossiemouth engineers were waiting now, in front of him, waiting for some kind of word from the man who was asking them to trust their efforts were worthwhile.

"That's – that's great," he finally managed. "A scanner – that will make all the difference."

A few quick grins and nods.

"And we've got you a drop tank," said a young woman with Andreyovna on her name tag. Her thick Russian accent couldn't hide her pride in the announcement. "It will double your fuel capacity."

"Really?"

"Sure." She gestured to the closest women beside her. "We researched online. This will make such a difference."

"It really will." Scott found the gratitude, and Andreyovna looked pleased.

"You just kill these bastards, yes?"

"Uh – "

"Come on," and Kayo grabbed his arm. "Let's get you showered and fed properly. You've had a busy day."

"Are you patronising me?"

"Constantly."

"Okay. Yeah, okay." He let himself be led back to a jeep that would bring them to their quarters. Behind them they heard a series of clangs and bangs as the engineers swooped on Agnes. Scott looked over his shoulder.

"Be careful with her!"

A vague wave in his direction. The engineers were having too much fun.

"Scott, I know you're disappointed. But you've done a great job. Let these guys do what they can, and tomorrow you'll be able to search so much more effectively, for so much longer."

"Ah." Scott bent down to grab at his left calf, which was cramping painfully. "Ow. Yeah, I know you're right. I just – ow. Ow. Son of a –"

"You know Grandma Tracy's psychic, Scott. She'll hear that."

"Sorry, Grandma," Scott muttered. "Kayo – find me a masseur?"

She smiled, and swung behind the wheel of the jeep.

"You bet. And once we've got you de-pretzelled, you can tell me all about what it's like to fly a Spitfire, ace."

Notes:

This chapter is one we had to have in order to get further along - it's as close as I can get to an accurate description of learning to fly a Spitfire. I am sure that I've fluffed it here and there, but if it conveys just how tricky it would be, and just how brave Scott is for tackling it, then that's as much as I can hope for.

I am indebted to Michael Veitch's 'Flak', particularly for his discussion of what it was really like in a Spitfire cockpit, Bruce Robertson's 'Spitfire: Story of a famous fighter' and Colin Rowe's great Youtube clip. Also to the various websites that held so much archival treasure.
And for the Scots dialogue, my 75 year old neighbour, Annie. 'Toaty' is small, 'stoor' is dust, 'baws' is balls - 'simmer' means calm down, 'nae danger' means 'no worries', as we'd say, or perhaps 'no problem' in the US? Kippy-handed is left handed. 'Hen' is a term of endearment Annie uses all the time, and I love hearing it in her accent. Annie has been in Australia for many years, so the slang may be (probably is) out of date - but if so, I choose to believe there's a hipster-led retro slang revival in the 2060s!