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10: Shifting Fortunes
Thunderbird 3-
Faced with a wall of rip-saw debris, Scott extended Thunderbird 3's force shield to cover the capsule, as well. This left him terribly vulnerable, but gave John and his crewmate a chance, at least. As the first bits of juggernaut metal and stone began ringing and popping against their shielded spacecraft, he shouted,
"Alan, get your helmet on!"
Then the great wave engulfed them, scraping talons of stone, ice and steel across Thunderbird 3's flickering, overwhelmed shields. Only way out was down and across. All he had to do, as Alan jammed a helmet onto Scott's head and locked the neck ring… as his uniform inflated, making movement stiff and slow… was ignore it all and keep flying.
Tracy Island, the office-
Jeff stared at his giant wall-screen, willing the small, gleaming image of Thunderbird 3 to reappear. But the debris cloud rushed onward, consuming satellites and orbital gun platforms; blinding the Earth below. Bit by bit, source by source, they lost video feed, until the view screen held nothing but darkness and silence.
Thunderbird 2, high above the restless Pacific Ocean-
Gordon had input Scott's last known position, velocity and bearing. Virgil followed up, banking Thunderbird 2 on an intercept course and praying for the best. The massive green cargolifter roared like an active volcano, reaching speeds which nothing that size and shape should have been capable of.
Meanwhile, dozens of WASP and US Navy ships plowed white, flaring wakes in the darkening water below, rushing to offer assistance. Coast Guard rescue choppers lifted in clattering swarms from their ocean-side bases. …But none of that mattered in the slightest if Scott couldn't find his way through the avalanche of ragged and swirling debris.
The World Space Agency's Mission Control Center, in Houston, Texas-
Together with Pete McCord, a roomful of deeply concerned engineers and several reporters, Saul Guthrie watched the capsule telemetry screen. Because when all else failed… when the network of satellite cameras had been destroyed, one after another… Baikonur's robot shuttle continued to faithfully transmit her position. The men and women of Mission Control looked on, swiveling in their seats, as a small, blinking S-10 crossed the long flight board, arcing down toward mid-Pacific.
A tall, lanky man with pale hair and a bony, Midwestern face, Saul had both hands thrust deep in his pockets. Beside him, Pete was much less able to keep still. The short, balding redhead bounced on his toes, crossed and uncrossed his arms, went for coffee (even though he actually hated the stuff), and peered over hunched shoulders at dozens of work stations. Anything at all, to move around and take action.
Rachel Neer was on Capcom that evening, and her clear, slightly accented, voice called repeatedly,
"S-10, Houston. S-10, this is Mission Control. Do you copy…?"
There was extreme tension in the angle of her slim back and the set of her bent, dark-haired head. The entire large room fairly crackled with it.
"S-10, Houston…"
Space, arrowing desperately for the relative safety of Earth's atmosphere-
He might have done a neater bit of flying, but never a more important or tougher one. Scott had faced flak before, in shrieking, fuselage-chewing storms. He'd never had to deal with a hurtling mine field of the stuff, though. Not in space, with a hulled passenger shuttle in tow.
He flew with one hand and plowed the field with the other; firing 3's forward laser cannon at everything crossing their path. Tumbling rocks and cold-weakened metal shattered into further small bits, many of them striking the rocket. Grinding his teeth, Scott kept flying and diverted still more shield power to the captured robot shuttle. He and Alan had space suits, at least. That was something.
A few moments later, they seemed to win free; out of the silent avalanche, with a few shreds of ionized gas painting vivid auroras on Thunderbird 3. Scott took a deep, ragged breath. Almost a sob, really. Then the piece of metal which cracked Alan's helmet and almost killed his older brother came shooting through the hull like a mining laser. Too fast to see, and only just missing Scott's head.
He'd turned for a second, sparing a glance at the staticky comm screen, and that was what saved the pilot's life. He'd wanted to contact John, is all; intending to check on his astronaut brother. But all at once there was a noise of sharp impact, then the rushing scream of escaping air. Alan yelled like he'd been burnt with a branding iron, and alarms went off all over the cockpit.
Somewhere deep inside him, panic was running hysterical laps, but Scott forced it back under and smashed down the lid. Smooth and easy, he flew Thunderbird 3 back into the atmosphere, as a glowing-bright meteor shower blossomed all around the fleeing rocket; long streaks and streamers of disintegrating stone and vaporized metal, lighting the night sky like fireworks.
Beside him, Alan panted madly for a few moments. Then he mastered himself and hit the comm to call John.
"Base, too," Scott reminded him, blue-violet eyes never leaving his instruments. "Let dad and mom know that we made it, Al. All of us."
Because he stubbornly refused to believe that they could come so close, and still fail.
Inside the Russian-made shuttle, descending toward the Pacific-
A headache and shrill whistling noise woke him. That... and the sound of competing, staticky voices. Alan's worried,
"WSA space capsule… there? Anyone… ing? Come in, plea… -10."
And the quiet, terribly strained voice of Rachel Neer, in Houston.
"S-10, Mission Control… this is Hous… ing S-10. Do you… py?"
Took him a minute to work out that he was supposed to respond, and that his fierce headache was actually worsening. Something about the robot shuttle's noise sounded wrong, though… something he wasn't supposed to be hearing or feeling. Wind... That was it. The reentry stage wasn't supposed to be drafty. Which probably meant they'd been hulled, and somehow survived.
Laboriously, John turned his aching boulder of a head, scanning past the view port's image of a fire-streaked sky, to the unconscious woman beside him. Linda Bennett was very pale, her mouth open and chest faintly moving. Something seemed to have lanced clear through the back of her seat and right shoulder, leaving a puffy, charcoal-edged wound. No blood, though, and her pulse, when he fumbled for it, felt strong. There were a number of holes in the hull, any of which would have killed them, had they reentered the atmosphere at a more normal speed.
His right arm felt as awkward and heavy as a telephone pole, but John brought it around, both mashing the comm button and patting Dr. Bennett. As she coughed and began to stir, he said,
"Houston… Thunderbird 3… S-10. Reception's intermittent… but we're receiving you."
From behind, above and all sides, streaks of glowing gold plasma rained through the darkness; bits of Freedom Station, Lunar City and the murderous asteroid, burning up in Earth's atmosphere.
"S' kind of pretty," he said, to no one and everyone.
"I'll bet that it is, John," Rachel responded, smiling with her whole voice. "Can you up… status?"
While Alan whooped,
"John! You won't… of the crack in… helmet! That was… some! Want to… again?"
John got his left hand working, though it felt curiously cold and stiff. Probably, he looked like h3//, too, though right now the capsule mattered much more than his physical state. He managed to punch a few keys with fingers that felt like pieces of petrified wood. Got the gibbering computer to run a systems check and then transmitted the results back to Houston.
Dr. Bennett made a thin, unhappy noise at his side; that of a half-conscious, injured disaster victim. He'd heard it many times before, on a hundred different rescues.
"It's okay, Doctor," he told her. "You're fine. Just a little longer… and then it's all photo ops and talk shows. Promise."
Her hand groped blindly for his. Or so John chose to believe; she could just as easily have been feeling around for aspirin or the mission abort lever… but he took her hand, anyway, and squeezed it. Said another voice, Scott's, this time,
"John, this part's going… be… little tricky. Cleared it… Houston, yet, but…"
Something about slowing to a near hover, just above the Pacific Ocean, and then dropping them into the water. But John shook his head, only after a moment realizing that Scott couldn't see him. Pressing the comm switch with his free hand, he said,
"That's a negative, Thunderbird 3. Too many holes… possibly through the balloon floats, as well. We'll ship water… and sink like a brick. Repeat, negative."
At a modest estimate, his headache had exceeded the physical boundaries of skull and cabin, both. John thought about swimming. Tried to recall whether the seat cushions worked as a floatation device in spacecraft, or not… but all he came up with was fuzzy thoughts and mental static.
Thunderbird 2, banking in above Thunderbird 3 and the robot capsule-
"What about this," Virgil suggested. "You hold position and keep your tractor beam steady, Scott… then I come in, nice and slow, and lower Gordon in the basket. He gets down level with the capsule's escape hatch, knocks politely, and gets the two astronauts out of there. Then, you drop your beam and let the capsule hit the water, while I haul in my catch. What do you think, Scott? Sound like a plan?"
"Works for me," his older brother replied. "John wasn't too happy with the splashdown scenario, anyway; says his crewmate's slightly injured. Let me run it past Dad and Houston, first, but we'll call it a definite maybe."
"Understood. Call me back when you get the go-ahead, Scott."
In the meantime, Gordon was already out of his seat and headed for the rear hatch.
"Full survival gear and a med-kit," Virgil reminded him. "Just in case John's as bad off as he sounds, or you end up in the water."
Gordon Tracy gave his brother the sort of cheeky, confident grin that always made Virgil want to strangle him.
"Relax, Granddad," scoffed the athlete. "This one's wrapped up, tied with a bow and under the tree. I promise you."
He'd been like that during the Olympics, as well; boldly asserting which races he planned to enter and win, and what the eventual medal count would be… and smiling for the cameras when he'd turned out to be right. Virgil sighed and smiled back.
"This isn't a competition or a race, Gordon. You haven't got anything to prove. Just… be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and them, too."
He'd expected a smart-a$$ comeback, but the red-haired swimmer merely nodded, saying,
"Right. Back before there's time to miss me, Virgil. Hold the fort."
Tracy Island-
Hunched over the keyboard at his workstation, Brains punched in the parameters for Virgil Tracy's rescue scenario. In simulation, the capsule hung slightly below and behind Thunderbird 3, caught in the rocket's fuel-costly tractor beam… Thunderbird 2 just above, at full impellers, which would set up a right-angled, harmonic feedback situation… had to figure in the wind, just then blowing from the SE at about 21 knots… but there would be eddies and cross-currents between the two behemoths…
Scowling, Brains plugged another variable into the equation: Gordon Tracy, being lowered in a steel rescue basket… then two passengers, most likely too injured to climb out of their craft unassisted…
"The basket will h- have to be secured, Jeff," he decided, looking up at the worried Tracys. "In the, ah… the event that G- Gordon is called upon to, ah… to enter the S-10 capsule and ph- physically haul out its, ah… its passengers, the b- basket will swing free and, ah… and be almost impossible t- to access."
Jeff inhaled deeply, wishing he was up there on Thunderbird 2 to help his struggling sons. Pulled snug alongside him, meanwhile, Lucy bit her lip and waited.
"Tell Gordon to bring a set of magnetic clamps with him," said her husband. "The capsule's hull is mostly aircraft alloy and heat-shield ceramic, but there might be something the clamps will lock onto. Other than that… see if you can find a way to extend Thunderbird 3's tractor field to include Gordon and the rescue basket, Brains… and map an alternative landing site, in case plans B and C fall through."
"R- Right away, Jeff," the engineer answered, turning back to his keyboard and screen. While Brains clicked and muttered, Jeff said to his trembling wife,
"It's going to be fine, Lucy. They're coming home safe. This is what we do, and that… what you're feeling right now… is the reason we do it. So other families and mothers have a chance to get their loved ones back."
Lucy gave him a brief, crooked smile, but her deep-blue eyes held more concern than real confidence. Nevertheless, she whispered, burying her face against his broad shoulder,
"I understand, Jeff… and I love you for having the strength to do this."
As soon as they received a "go", Virgil Tracy keyed open Thunderbird 2's lower hatch, and triggered the powerful basket winch. Gordon was suited up and already aboard (with a set of magnetic clamps, just in case). Keeping a sharp eye on his instruments and watching for drift, Virgil held his 'Bird steady, keeping the big girl in place over Thunderbird 3 like a hovering rock.
Outside, Gordon stood in the high-sided steel-mesh basket, mentally ticking off what lay ahead. He wore open-water rescue gear and a full-face helmet to protect his identity. News copters were already on their way, after all, and would probably beat WASP to the scene. No sense winding up on the cover of Time. Not without swim trunks and a chest full of medals, anyhow.
Caught by the wind below Thunderbird 2's great, thrumming hulk, his basket began to spin. 3 lay just forward and below, gleaming like a ruby needle in meteor and spotlight glow, but Gordon's real object lay almost directly beneath him; the battered and blackened robot shuttle, with its faintly visible Cyrillic lettering and cracked viewports. The hatch wasn't in a great position from his perspective, being at rather a slant, and facing the eastern horizon.
Be loads of fun getting in, Gordon told himself, looking about for the long, hook-ended gaff that his basket normally contained. There was absolutely nothing like a long stick with a hook at the end for pulling oneself alongside a ship… even one hovering in midair.
About halfway down, Gordon began to feel a tooth-rattling, dissonant vibration, like he'd been caught between rival (and very loud) rock bands. As Brains had warned, the two energy fields were interfering with each other, making it terribly hard to move against either the tractor beam or Thunderbird 2's impellers. So? He'd been hard pressed before, with burning muscles and emptied lungs; pushing it for the win, regardless. He could handle this, too.
Inch by foot by yard, the basket dropped, spinning over black, open water. He smelled salt and fuel and hot metal, heard long, restless waves and powerful engines, along with a gusting wind and the clicking, settling S-10. Made the same noises as a just-parked sports car, funnily enough, while all around them meteor streaks showered down.
Gordon snapped the gaff free of its moorings as his basket swung gently beside the robot shuttle craft. Using the pole like a boat hook, he found something to attach it to (a ragged hull breach) and then pulled himself closer, hand over hand.
"How's it going, Kiddo?" Virgil called over the headset.
"Getting there," the athlete grunted, wasting breath he didn't have to spare. "Give me just a sec…"
"Right. Take your time. No hurry."
Gordon shook his head at the pilot's rather anxious, nursemaid-y tone. Virgil hadn't liked involving his youngest brothers in the "family business", and worried incessantly, still. They'd been lucky so far, though…
Shaking the distracting thought from his mind, Gordon labored to haul himself alongside the burnt capsule, which was about the size of a large passenger van. Once there, he started to reach for those magnetic clamps, but the tightly focused tractor beam got to him, first; snapping Gordon's steel basket tight to the S-10's escape hatch. The basket rang like a church bell, and Gordon was almost knocked sprawling; down on one knee and a hand over raging dark water.
He recovered his composure after a moment and got to his feet, thinking: d*mmit! Furious with himself because there was no other way into the capsule but the hatch that his rescue basket was now half-blocking.
Thunderbird 3-
Stuck. Of all the things they hadn't considered, that the rescue basket might get hauled into the tractor field and jammed against the hatch topped the d*mn heap.
"Okay, listen," Scott told his waiting brother, "I'm going to call John. That hatch opens inward, to take advantage of the pressure difference in space. If there's room enough, and he and his crewmate can get to the airlock, you should still be able to pull them on through."
"Right," said Gordon. "If not, maybe Virgil can hoist me up again for another try, a bit farther up."
Scott nodded seriously, and then switched his comm settings. Since anyone in the world who could access WSA frequencies might be listening, he said,
"S-10, this is Thunderbird 3. If we can get you two to the airlock, we'll collect that fare, now, and put you out on the curb. Figure you owe about five-hundred-fifty-seven dollars… annnd thirty-five cents. Not including tip."
"Bite me," John replied, smiling a little. "Check's in the mail." Then, recalling that Houston, the press, and a mob of school kids were probably listening, he said, "Um… no problem, I mean. Just charge it to Pete McCord, care of the World Space Agency, in Houston."
Scott's staticky reply was sort of hard to understand, being cut through by Pete's… but John was already moving, anyhow. He clicked the mic, then unstrapped from his seat with leaden slow limbs; feeling as though he were swimming through peanut butter. Beside him, Dr. Bennett made bleary effort to release her own safety straps. Couldn't very well move that injured arm, though.
"Here," he panted. "I've got it. We'll be out in just a moment, Doctor. These, um… IR pilots are trained professionals."
More or less. Gordon had started drumming on the hull outside. Impatient, apparently. Sounded like an old Aerosmith drum solo, though it could have been Ice Pick… felt like one, anyway.
John levered the doctor out of her seat, making the most out of this opportunity to embrace her. He'd missed her very much, John realized… which just didn't make any sense. Maybe he shouldn't have kissed her, but she could always have him court-martialed, later. Once… if… they made it to safety.