Thanks, ED. Freshly edited.
21: Access Connections
Shock waves and attendant tsunamis rocketed away from the newly emerged island in expanding, devastating circles, forming nested spheres of chaos. Everything in their path was affected, whether on the water or high in the air above. What ash and earthquake had begun, hammer-like air and rampaging water continued.
Always, though, bright-winged hope; last in the box, but not least. Like a trepanning was done to open the skull and release evil spirits, so the cracked crust and gushing magma calmed… for a time… the area's restless grinding. Little by little, the tremors began to subside, ash to clear and the Pacific Rim to recover. Not quickly, however, and not without cost.
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Thunderbird 1-
One job at a time, he thought, after wrestling the silver 'Bird back into level flight. Get these people to safety, then head out and look for more.
Nowhere in this scenario did Scott dwell on his family and friends. Yes, they mattered, but civilians came first, always. Again, straight up was the answer, combined with a great-circle flight path headed more or less east. He had to be quick and careful, though, because Shadowbot was probably down, along with Island Base.
Climbing, Scott Tracy got his breathing back under control, then tested the instruments and steering mechanisms, one at a heart-soothing time. Green across the board, and the handsome pilot had no idea that he'd been talking to himself until Lady Penelope snapped,
"Scott, dear… must you carry on muttering like a dreary, toothless old uncle?"
"Huh…? Muttering? Um… sorry, Penelope. I'm usually alone in here, and maybe I've gotten sort of quirky. I'll work on it."
In the foxfire glow of lightning, instruments and hot ash, she seemed especially beautiful, and tense enough to crack at a touch. At his apology, however, she did smile a little.
"Quirks can be excused as mere charming eccentricities in the dreadfully wealthy, Scott. However, they are not at all reassuring in one's pilot. Do attempt to radiate greater stability, please."
Such small jokes Penny could manage, though her nerves were stretched to the point of rupture. Her alarmingly crass and faithless partner was elsewhere, possibly dead or injured, and she had not even the right to ask whether he'd survived. Unless… perhaps… if phrased very obliquely…
"My bad," Scott had said, or something equally colloquial. She could hardly be bothered to listen, at a time like this. Nevertheless, Penelope forced a smile as she changed the subject.
"Shall I go back and have a peep in at Parker and our passengers? I could assist somewhat, medically, whilst you contact darling Jeff, Virgil and, er… John, too, I suppose. One mustn't forget the dear boy, though he is so frequently absent."
Enough, the young noblewoman chided herself as she unstrapped to rise. That last bit had tumbled forth as nervously as a kiss-wreathed midnight confession.
"Yeah," Scott nodded at her, wrapping up his systems check. "Good idea, Penny. You check on the folks aft. Patch anyone up who's sprung their bandages, if you don't mind, and keep me apprised of the situation. I'll see what I can find out about dad and the rest from here. Tell 'em… tell the refugees it's about an hour and a half to Chile, okay? We'll be there in no time."
"Of course, dear."
She looked good, he had to admit, the black cat-suit delineating a set of curves (fore and aft) that ought to have been illegal. Maybe Penelope wasn't "Ms. Right", but from dad's perspective, Scott could certainly see why she was "Ms. Right Now".
Stuffing that thought rather uncomfortably away (he was engaged, after all), Scott started hitting the comm. It wasn't until he cleared the damn ash layer that anyone responded, though.
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Scorpion-
The WASP cruiser, sheltered by a seamount almost as large as Mt. Rainier, survived her underwater pounding with little more than flickering lights and jounced passengers. Some of them screamed aloud when the double hulls groaned and flexed around them, but Hackenbacker's basic design was sound, and the boat made it through unharmed. About ten minutes after all the shaking subsided, Captain Strangeways' transmitted voice gave the all-clear, and his cruiser's itinerary: WASP Pacific Fleet Command, off Baja, California.
With luck and a hiding place, the boat was fine. Not so, Jeff Tracy's equilibrium. He'd never felt so helpless, so removed from the center of things. Not even when TinTin's soothing touch and voice put that damn little dog to sleep did Jeff's mood lighten. Where were his sons? What was their status? Could a message get through, without revealing his position with International Rescue? (Position, hell! He was International Rescue, and without him, the boys would be leaderless.)
"Fermat," he began carefully, having arrived at a plan. "Is there any way you could, say, patch into Scorpion's comm network and help me make a short call?"
Standing across the cramped cabin from young Mrs. Jenkins and her peacefully snoring bedroom-slipper of a dog, Jeff was acutely aware of the need to be… cautious. Fermat had been clinging to the tiny cabin's bolted-down desk during their shock wave encounter. Now he blinked up at Jeff and nodded thoughtfully.
"I th- think so, sir, if you'd… like to m- make a call to one of… your assoc- associates. B- But it would be best not… to discuss any business s- secrets, because my tap-in c- could be… discovered."
Jeff smiled at him, saying,
"Understood, Fermat, and thanks. See what you can do, please. The matter is urgent."
The still-damp Jenkins pair glanced at each other. Like Jeff, Kyrano and Fermat, blond Albert Murchison Jenkins the Fourth was leaning against a grey bulkhead rather than taking up space on the cabin's lone chair and bunk. That comfort was reserved for the ladies.
"Am I to understand, sir," he began in an anxious tone of voice, "that you have access to a phone? A means of calling the outside world?"
(Other than the cabin comm, he meant. The wall unit only called around ship, and had been deactivated, anyway. Whichever staff officer had been ejected from his quarters to make room for them all did not seem to merit an outside line.)
"Possibly," Jeff allowed, wishing for his office and private comm screen. The Jenkinses had introduced themselves earlier, which gave them a few privileges. "If Fermat, here, is as clever with computers as usual."
Fermat turned pink to the tips of his ears, and TinTin smiled at him. It was terribly nice to be noticed, once in awhile. Still better to be able to help, as Fermat was now determined to do.
"Then…" Albert Jenkins looked across the cabin again at Carolyn, whose eyes had grown wide with bitten-lip hope. "Might I request… when you've concluded your business… to be allowed to make contact with my family and that of my wife? They are no doubt beside themselves with worry, and Carolyn's mum… is rather frail. If you please, Mr. Tracy? It would mean so much to my wife."
Put that way (even in such annoyingly formal terms) Jeff would have felt lumpish and grouchy refusing.
"No problem," he told the grateful young couple, who looked as though they belonged in an all-Harvard issue of Fortune 500 magazine. "If I get through, you'll get your shot, as well."
Albert beamed, square-jawed as a Calvin Klein shirt model.
"Thank you, sir, for myself and Carolyn, both."
Fermat, in the meantime, had already whipped out his small, plastic-bagged PDA and begun scanning for mobile area networks. No telling how long it would take them to reach safety and privacy. Until then, Jeff Tracy absolutely had to have contact with the rest of his team. He had to find out what was going on.
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Thunderbird 3-
Brains' efforts achieved partial success, at any rate. Once Thunderbird 1 popped over that aggravatingly dense ash layer, the engineer was able to contact Scott.
"Anyone at all, from Thunderbird 1. I'm broadcasting unsecured at a frequency of 12,000 megahertz. Thunderbirds 2 or 3… you guys out there?"
He sounded discouraged, as though he'd been trying for awhile with no success. Brains leaned eagerly forward, lank brown hair falling into his narrow face.
"Ah… c- copy that, 1. This is Th- Thunderbird 3. We read you loud and, ah… and clear."
"FAB," came the quick response. "Good to hear from you, 3. The situation's stable over here. What about you? Anyone else called in, yet?"
Brains nodded, darkening Thunderbird 3's view screen to block a little of that broiling white sun. Alan fidgeted madly beside him. Obviously, the boy was desperate to cut in, but not on an unsecured line. No one outside the organization needed to learn that there were teenagers involved, and Brains soon scowled him into stillness.
"Y- Yes, indeed, 1. We're fine. Thunderbird 2 has, ah… has made contact, and we're establishing a link to the, ah… the director."
There was a few moments' crackling emptiness, while Scott digested this. Then,
"Copy you reaching the Director, 3. What about Rocketman?"
Rocketman…? As in 'astronaut'? Under the circumstances, he could only be referring to John. Forgetting that Scott couldn't see him (no video on an open line) Hackenbacker shook his head, adding,
"N- Not yet, 1. But, ah… But he's surely certain t- to call in, soon."
Best not to dwell publicly on silence and absences. A more delicate matter intruded, though: How to tell Scott of Alan's idea, without revealing the contact plan to all those illicit listeners.
"In th- the, ah… the meantime, Thunderbird 1, you m- may get a call to participate in, er… some g- group activities. D- Director's request, of course."
"Oh…" Scott sounded puzzled, as well as distracted. Apparently, he'd gotten through to Virgil. "Hang on, 2… Copy that, 3: the Director wants to run a group activity. Anything further?"
As in… what in God's name was he trying to say? Again, Brains shook his head. Not yet. Not until Jeff, the Director himself, called in.
"Stand by for further details, 1, and use algorithm 4k-3 for the next broadcast frequency."
"FAB. Thunderbird 1 delivering cargo, and standing by."
Brains signed off with a tired sigh. He'd gotten through to Virgil and Scott, if nothing else, and that was half the battle. Question was, how (if at all) was the other half living?
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The much-battered and debugged prototype-
For all of its shortcomings, the Barracuda was a seaworthy little craft. Had she been out in the open, Brains' convertible sub might not have survived. Hidden behind the submerged bulk of St. Martin, though, she squeaked through, and so did John Tracy, whose ID chip was burning like white phosphorous. Evidently, Five wanted an audience.
No. In fact, not just no, but hell no. She'd done something last time, he suddenly remembered. Something to make him cooperate. Well, screw that. He wasn't a puppet, and he damn well refused to heel when called like an effing dog.
The interior of the little rescue sub smelled and felt of stress and fried wiring. The metal-alloy view screen shields had clamped tight, and most of her instruments were blinking like the caution light at a lonely intersection… But he was alive. He'd made it. Now, John supposed, he ought to find out if the prototype was still maneuverable.
"Shut up," he muttered at his wrist (and Five). "Nobody's home."
John reached for the sub's steering yoke, thinking: damn her, anyway. What had she done? What would she continue to do, if he kept letting her deeper into his head? Effing run the place?
With the yoke as a brace, he straightened himself in the pilot's seat and then unstrapped, moving as slowly and rustily as a very old man. He'd taken quite a pounding, evidently; him and Barracuda, both.
"I mean it, back off!"
Messages had appeared in 1337 on all of the prototype's instrument readouts and view screens, but John refused to look at them. Those stupid ribs… the ones he'd injured that time in Antarctica… were giving him trouble, again. Hurting a little, anyhow, but far from his most serious problem. That would be Five, the lovely and powerful thing he'd created, who wanted to put him in a goddam padded cage. And for that problem, John wasn't certain he had an answer.