Guess this is as good a time as any for a disclaimer. I don't own a dang thing, here... but you already knew that. ;) Thanks for reading and reviewing!

11: Burn Out

Thunderbird 5, in high orbit-

Finally, John Tracy had found a combination of carrier wave and broadcast location that actually worked. Finally… and maybe too late… he got through.

"Scott," he said quickly, leaning close to the comm screen, "just shut up and listen. There's a massive pyroclastic eruption taking place, and fluid dynamics says you're about to get nailed. Five, maybe seven minutes. Get as close as you can to Thunderbird 2. Remember that time in the Alps? When we covered those hikers with broadcast shielding, all the way through an avalanche? I'm going to try the same trick, but the closer you are, the better our chances. Drive, dammit! Now."

He could only see his brother's blue eyes and a short slice of face over the helmet comm pickup, but those eyes were narrowed and bleak.

"Gordon's outside," his brother replied. "I can't exactly punch the throttle. Not without losing him."

"Outside of Firefly? Why?" That was a game-changer, and no mistake.

"Because we're packed to the gills, and there's no more room in the hold or the cockpit, John. We're three-deep in here, and people are sitting on top of each other. He's riding outside to make room, along with a kid we picked up coming back."

John sat back in his chair, thinking fast.

"Copy that, Scott. Make the best speed you can, and give me a second to adjust the parameters. I've got to talk dad through the shield-broadcast process, but personnel stuck on the hull sort of changes things."

Scott nodded. At least, his face-slice moved down and then up again, most likely in affirmation. He said,

"Do what you have to, buddy. If anyone can get us through this, it's you. I'll be waiting for further instructions and breaking every law on the traffic books in the meantime."

That was a joke, John realized. His brother was trying to be funny, rather than boasting of lawlessness. He smiled a little by way of acknowledgement, but most of his genius-caliber mind was already occupied elsewhere.

Down in the lowered cargo pod, meanwhile, Alan was shouting instructions and waving his arms like a NASCAR crew chief at an emergency pit stop.

"Keep moving, folks! Head for the back! And watch the edge of that ramp; it's a long fall, people! Believe me, I know."

It was weird, how that soot-and-ash wall roiled and streamed at the edge of Thunderbird 2's environment shield, blocked from quite getting within. Only the stuff that got tracked in on shoes or bare feet… the wisps that shook off of the refugees' clothing… made it into the pod.

Already, the noise and smell were indescribable. Coughing and groans, people calling out the names of those they hoped to find safe, animal sounds and the massed stench of sulfur, sweat, blood and fear made the pod's atmosphere thicker than refugee soup. Alan's helmet filter could only accomplish so much.

Then he got a sharp click and crackle over its mike, meaning that someone was trying for contact.

"Alan…?" Dad's voice, far from happy. Like, three laps down, running on fumes and worn tires, not happy.

"Right here, dad. What's up?"

"I'm closing the pod door. Get everyone to the center, as far from the walls as you can."

"Huh…? But…" Alan swung around to look at the ramp and smoggy dark opening. "There might be still people outside! They might be almost here, dad… running, or something! You've gotta give them more time! Plus, Firefly's not back, yet. You can't shut the door while Scott and Gordon are out there!"

"Son," his father's voice snapped and stung like a whip-crack. "I'm well aware of the situation, and a plan's in effect to deal with it. According to John, there's a 3000-degree gas cloud racing this way, that the pod and max-setting shields just might save you from… and Firefly, too. Now, move those people to the center of the pod. Off the floor, if at all possible."

"Yes, sir."

Alan felt utterly numb. Calling orders in a brisk, calm voice, he somehow got everyone packed up tighter together. Most of them, anyhow. Al (with a few of the Royal Marines and police who were strong enough to assist him) stayed by the end of the ramp, helping stragglers in, even as the pod door began slowly rumbling upward.

It got pretty steep towards the end, but Alan and… Burke, that was her name, Corporal Burke… managed to get the last guy inside when he cried for help and jumped with both arms up. They caught him and hauled; fighting for that one last, precious life, helped by those who were near enough to race over and grab hold of some shirt cloth or a survival suit sleeve. For the rest of his days, Alan would never forget the look on that rescued guy's ash-covered face.

The pod door kept ratcheting higher, slamming shut at last with a thundering CLANG. Inside, somebody's baby was crying, and Alan wanted to join the poor, frightened kid. He managed to squash his emotions, though, calling,

"Guys, you've got to pack in as close as you can to the middle. Put the kids up on Firefly's track-way. Get 'em off the floor. Hurry!"

Maybe it was the helmet comm's amplifier making his voice sound so cool and authoritative, because deep within, Alan Tracy was falling apart.

Elsewhere, Firefly raced along at a rough and dangerous speed, clipping buildings and smashing the dusty hummocks of buried, abandoned cars. Even so, they were still pretty far out. Too far.

Gordon couldn't see what John saw from orbit: that a dense and smoldering, white-hot cloud of gases and ash, was racing at jet-speed over the half-buried city. He knew it was coming, though, from the first plik and rattle of debris on his helmet and suit. From increased lightning and violent, sulfurous wind.

"Sam from Ohio," he shouted, working the catch on Firefly's boarding hatch, "You're climbing inside and holding on to the ladder, tight as you can!"

"You too, right?" The boy pled, looking up at him with red-rimmed dark eyes. "You're coming, too? I can scrunch up real small!"

Gordon reached over to tousle the boy's matted hair with one gloved hand, flinging the hatch open with his left.

"I've got a suit on, you don't… and I promised your mum you'd be safe. Go on, get in there!"

It was a long shot, anyhow. The best he could do in the face of volcanic disaster. Already, the temperature had risen to pretty near blister level.

"Move!"

Bracing against the hurtling vehicle's sway, he crammed the kid and limp puppy down through the hatch and then slammed it shut, refastening its heavy steel latches. Even balled-up, Sam's grubby sneakers hung a scant quarter inch over Scott's helmet. He had to hook an arm over the ladder rungs to keep from sliding down onto the startled driver.

Senseless… stupid… Gordon should have moved immediately to Firefly's rear and hunkered down out of the way, but he had to look, first. Curiosity, you know?

It glowed, this onrushing, unleashed demon; a thing of smoke and char and intense, searing heat. Towering out of sight, roaring like a freight train, it came.

Something else happened first, though. A bubble of pale green force flared into being around Firefly, projected from Thunderbird 2 at the farthest stretch she could manage. Looked like a soap bubble.

Gordon ducked down near the back end of Firefly's cockpit, taking hold of a steel pod-transport clamp. Then… there weren't words. This was hell, and he was stuck for it.

Noise like nothing imaginable. Heat that cracked his faceplate and boiled the paint on Firefly's hull. Fumes of corrosive, acidic force. Shuddering ground and wildly expanding metal.

Wanted to say a "Hail Mary", but could only get the first line off, over and over again. Had the wind been able to reach him, it would surely have smashed Gordon off and away like a crumpling bit of black char, but the transmitted force shield held on. Somehow, it held.