Edits are here. Thanks for your patience.
14: Bound and Determined
Disturbed by things below, the Earth continued to stir. Subtly, though; more twitch and shrug than definite quake. A chain of dormant volcanoes had meanwhile shuddered awake, brought to life again by shifting stone, seeping water and hissing gas. Bad enough news, but last of all in that long-silent, southward sweeping arc lay Tracy Island.
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Thunderbird 1, in a noisy, blinking cockpit-
His brother was a genius, and Scott silently promised him a case of beer and whole mountains of pizza, once all this was over. The remote fix had worked beautifully, not just repairing Thunderbird 1, but improving her, modifying the rocket plane's forward shields to screen fine particulate matter like smoke and ash. Had John been present in the cockpit, Scott would have hugged him.
Instead, the one-time fighter pilot cut on his impellers and guided the Bird upward through many layers of grey-black, roiling cloud. Wind direction was hardest to deal with, for a sudden torrent of air could come from literally anywhere, slapping the laden rocket plane around like a metallic ping-pong ball. On the bright side, no one was shooting at him. You had to keep these things in perspective.
Scott Tracy relied on his instruments and occasional GPS spot checks to direct his course. He stayed in the air, but progress was slow until he topped the ash layer and burst into night, heading for dawn and South America. Here, at last, he could pour on the speed… though maybe not soon enough for the folks left behind on St. Martin.
As concerned as he was pressed for time, Scott flicked a virtual switch on his heads-up display to boost the comm signal. Then, he called in to Island Base. Didn't get much of a connection, though.
"Dad…? John…? You there? Base from Thunderbird 1, how do you read?"
The response was weak and broken, but Scott thought he detected the words 'Go ahead', amidst all that hissing static, so he said,
"Base, there are at least five people still present on St. Martin. Repeat… at least five remaining refugees at the island's eastern harbor. They're going to need pick up and medical care faster than I can drop this load off and turn around. Is anyone available to get in there and lift them out?"
Back in his ornately-decorated office, Jeff Tracy took the call. His head hurt, and his thinking was fuzzier than it should have been. Dealing with WASP was especially draining, as Scorpion's captain was a by-the-book hardass with less flexibility than a perma-crete block. Now, this.
Jeff grunted and set down his barely-touched coffee cup, positioning it precisely on the previous damp ring. Placing Captain Iron-Pants on hold, he then switched full attention back to son number one.
"Thank you for the update, Scott. Proceed with your part of the evacuation. I'll see what we can do, from this end."
While the folk about him rushed to collect and cushion fragile bric-a-brac, Jeff Tracy moved with deliberation; carefully planning each head-turn and gesture. On top of everything else, he was nauseous, possibly more affected by his recent wave-drubbing and 'mild concussion' than he wanted to believe. Still, International Rescue was Jeff's show, and he was one-hundred-percent in charge. Discomfort or no, he called up Thunderbird 3 and got back to work.
"Brains," he snapped, "I'm altering your mission. Thunderbird 1 was unable to collect all of the victims from St. Martin, so Thunderbird 3 will have to move in for second-stage pick up. Do you read?"
There was no immediate response, so Jeff prodded,
"Thunderbird 3 from Base. Do you copy?"
This time, he got another brief tremor and a reply, from Alan rather than Hackenbacker.
"Hey, da… Brains… right back… Indisposed and junk."
Naturally. Meanwhile, the line from Scorpion went dark, indicating that his WASP contact had grown tired of waiting and rung off. It was precisely then that Jeff's youngest son fired his bomb about the care package and note to the crew on St. Martin.
"Maybe not such... idea, dad. I kind of sent... pictures and food to... Survival chicks."
"You did… what?" Jeff demanded, disbelieving his comm and ears, both.He would have throttled the boy, if he could have reached him.
"Okay, see, I figured… hungry, so I sent candy and… only a couple…signed pictures, just for laughs…Bambi… them out to all her hot friends and…"
(He'd packed six pictures, in fact, each signed: "Love, A. R. T., your secret island hero… Model, actor, racecar enthusiast and billionaire playboy.")
Furious, Jeff stabbed a button to sever contact. The entire room fell silent. Fermat and TinTin grew especially still, for they'd helped their friend plan and deliver the package. Now he was unable to assist on St. Martin for fear of being recognized. Worse, Virgil, Jeff and TinTin were out of the picture as well, having been to the island and talked with its cast and crew.
"Damn it!" Jeff snarled, feeling like one giant, swollen aneurysm, "What the hell was he thinking?"
An answer of sorts came from John, who'd returned to the office with news and an offer.
"I'd say he's welded to the faint possibility of sex," the astronaut commented, shrugging slightly. "Males that age usually are."
(Like things improved much, with time. Still, Alan was in real trouble with dad, so…)
"I understand that the trouser-snake phase passes, eventually."
Grandma snorted and resumed her quake-proofing efforts. TinTin blushed scarlet, while Fermat merely looked confused. Once more playing the proper manservant, Kyrano pretended not to have heard… unlike Parker, who grinned like a shark. Penny was out of the room, still, or she'd have said something sarcastic. But she was weird, like that. The important thing was that John had diverted some of his father's wrath.
Rubbing at his temples with both hands, Jeff muttered,
"That's entirely beside the point, son. Endangering security because he hoped to impress a gaggle of actresses was inexcusably stupid. At that age, I had more sense."
Here, Jeff paused; squinting up at John as though weighing in his mind whether the family's other blond was any less foolish. Hung jury, apparently, because the older man went grumpily back to the problem at hand.
"I'll straighten him out in debrief, later. In the meantime, we've got WASP and several rescues to deal with, plus refugees on St. Martin in need of rapid pick up. Thunderbird 2 is out of the question, because they've already seen Virgil and heard his voice. Scott's busy… and Alan's gotten himself compromised. Thunderbird 4 can't hold that many people," Jeff continued, while hunting for a functional television news channel, "…which leaves us with Scorpion, or a NASA-style quick fix. And that reminds me,"
The former astronaut gave his tall son a sudden sharp glance.
"I assume you've called in to Houston already, and reported your status?"
John nodded.
"Yeah. I told them that the situation is stable so far, but that we've got evac on the way, just in case. They requested regular updates and wished us well."
(Because,
A: A trained astronaut was tough to replace, and…
B: Maybe he had a few friends over there, or something.)
The offer sprang naturally enough, given the situation, and despite the risk to NASA's cherished property. After all, no one on St. Martin had yet seen or heard John.
"I could go," the young man volunteered. "There are still a few of Brains' working prototypes down in the sea hangar. I, um… I could take one of his drawing-board rescue boats and head for St. Martin."
Jeff frowned, and then gave his quiet son a reluctant nod.
"All right, but be careful. The Barracudas are fast, but hardly field-tested. You'll have to adapt and repair on the fly, in extremely hazardous conditions. God speed, and keep in close touch."
John wasn't at all sure how to reply, but it didn't matter, because dad was already back on the comm with WASP. In any case, he managed to get the hell off of his father's island, with Penelope Creighton-Ward and Aloysius Parker along for the ride, always a major plus.
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Thunderbirds 2 and 4-
Gordon was suited up and out of his sub's lower airlock in less than five minutes. He cut corners, yes, but no one out there had time for strict procedure. So, with a swift 'Hail, Mary', he plunged through the hatch and began stroking hard for the surface. Broke out moments later into noise and chaos and battering wind.
The floodlights' hot glare illuminated bobbing heads, upraised arms, the rescue basket and floating debris. Above them, Thunderbird 2's engines pulsed and growled, but the wind was louder still.
Gordon swam with difficulty through a gummy, heaving ocean, dodging bits of spinning luggage and torn aircraft as best he could. It was exhausting work; a far cry from competition swimming. He found it hard to see what he was doing, as a mud-like mixture of blown ash and warm water persisted in coating his facemask. Frequent pauses were necessary to clear the glass, slowing Gordon's progress.
The first victim he came to was a semiconscious woman. She lacked the strength to reach for his hand, much less climb into a dangling rescue basket. Gordon timed his approach for a trough between waves, so that he wouldn't simply plow into her like a careening rugby player. Almost, she spun out of reach, but the determined rescue swimmer took hold of her life jacket and hauled the woman back. When he'd got her pulled in, he unclenched his regulator long enough to gasp,
"Evenin' miss... I'm with International Rescue... an' I'm here t' help."
Inside his protective headgear, Virgil's transmitted voice said,
"Okay, Kiddo. Up and to your left. The basket's about two-and-a-half feet above you."
Gordon nodded, wheezing,
"Right."
He'd got his right arm wrapped around the stunned woman and rolled to a side-back swimming position. Couldn't very well see, but a tall wave crest finally raised him within reach of the blinking, beeping rescue basket. Gordon's free hand slid blindly along wet, rubberized metal, seeking a firmer grip.
There were rings and brackets spaced evenly along the basket's hard sides, and Gordon found purchase on one of the lower handholds. As the rescue basket swung and spun, he reoriented to pull himself halfway out of that greyish and stinking mud soup. Not much elegance to the manner in which he heaved the woman up and over the side, but there was one safely delivered, at least.
"She's in," Virgil confirmed, as Gordon held to the swaying basket and scraped anew at his smudged faceplate. "Sit tight, champ. I'll put you as close as I can to the next one."
Once more, he spat out the regulator, saying,
"Right, Virgil. Thanks."
Gordon hadn't time or energy to expend in conversation, but he was deeply grateful for his brother's help, nonetheless. Thunderbird 2 shifted position slightly, dragging him about ten meters through rank, murky water and clinging ash. Saved him a bit of effort, though he got rather knocked about by all the floating debris. Then it was off the basket and over to the next crash survivors, a pair of terrified men with a gradually sinking debris pile between them.
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St. Martin, inside Jason Vann's crumpled yacht-
Slowly (using crowbars, wrenches and whatever else came to hand) four erstwhile contestants began prying their way to the trapped victims. They couldn't scatter to search the wreckage, as only Shane Poston had a light. Being a cameraman, he had a steady hand, and held the flashlight's beam wherever it was most needed. Not that matters went particularly well, even so.
Grant cut himself on a piece of ragged fiberglass, turning too quickly in response to a sudden noise. He managed to smile, though, even when the bandage that Peyton rigged for his arm soaked through with blood.
"A mere flesh wound!" he teased, shooing the worried girl aside with a bit of Monty Python. "I've 'ad worse!"
Peyton bit her lip, but smiled back.
"Keep an eye on it, Grant, and if the bleeding worsens, or you start to feel faint, for God's sake, tell someone! Got it?"
Grant Bryce had blondish-brown hair and mischievous blue eyes. He looked like a kid, proud of his scar and too hyped with adrenaline to back down.
"Yes, mommy!" he joked, while the ash fell, the ocean thundered and his bandage dripped.
Because she was needed elsewhere, Peyton tightened the bandage a little, then clasped her friend's shoulder and got back to business. Brick and Bambi needed help digging the ship's captain free of his wrecked bridge. His right leg was broken along with the hip, but he could move and speak somewhat. It took all four remaining contestants and Shane the cameraman to haul him loose. All that amateur tugging had to hurt like anything, but the captain stayed white-faced and quiet until they worked him out from under an instrument panel. Then, he thanked them and passed out.
The cabin steward was next, and fortunately not much injured beyond a fractured wrist. He'd been in the galley with the ship's cook, waiting for Vann to call for dinner clean-up and a fresh drink. On the other hand, the cook was unconscious, his broad forehead striped by a large, ugly welt. The jut of his left arm looked strange, but the big man didn't flinch or cry out when touched, so no one could tell if it was broken, or just dislocated.
"We've got to hurry," Brick said to the others, as they bore the man's limp form to their staging area, the now weirdly-angled bridge. "Those aftershocks are coming faster, and I don't want to be here if another wave hits."
Beside him, helping to support the cook's left arm and shoulder, Bambi Laughlin nodded.
"Me either…" she gasped (for the injured man was quite heavy and their footing uncertain). "But… what if… there's someone left... who needs help?"
Brick gave her a little half-shrug in reply, subtly shifting his grip to take more of the cook's weight.
"I dunno. We'll make another trip through the wreck and call for attention, but there's only so much blind digging we can do, Hon."
'Hon'… as in honey. He'd called her 'honey'! Bambi almost collapsed, only just not dropping her share of the poor cook.
As luck would have it, there was another survivor: Jason Vann, himself. His cabin had folded in on him, but left the frightened host largely untouched, except for some bruising and scrapes.
"HELP!" he screamed, upon waking up to shuddering darkness and choking stench. "Rico! Captain Lockhart! Get me out of here, immediately! What the hell's the matter with you people? What am I paying you for?"
Forty feet away, Bambi, Peyton, Shane and Grant looked to Brick Sampson, who heaved an exhausted sigh.
"We've got to try," he told them. "Do any of you want to run for safety and spend the rest of your lives knowing that you left a man to die?" Even a man like that.
Bambi touched his hand, and forced a tight little smile.
"I'll help," she announced, "unless it gets too dangerous in here. Then I think we should go, Brick."
"My name's Paul," he replied, turning to head deeper into the wreck. "Paul Floyd Sampson. Brick is… I dunno… I guess I was trying to sound all Hollywood, or something, but now it just seems…"
"As fake as 'Bambi'?" she asked, grabbing for the solid strength of his arm when another small quake jolted the derelict yacht.
"Yeah," he admitted, without time to say more. They were too busy for small talk; too busy following the noise of Vann's strident shouts, their path through carnage and ruin illuminated by the narrow beam of a flashlight.