26. Adjustments
Tracy Island, Jeff Tracy's desk, continuing on;
Jefferson Tracy had been quietly cocooned within fine cotton sheets, and rich, silk bed wear when the emergency alarms had sounded. Always an early riser, as business waited for no man's rest these days, what with international time differences and 24-hour running systems, he'd made a special effort this morning to be awake and very much coherent, so as to watch his youngest son's motor race.
It was an important meet, akin to that of his next youngest's Olympic debut, that had business (public and 'family') allowed, he'd have gone to attend in person. But, with situations as precarious as they were, it just hadn't been a feasible idea.
Instead, he'd settled himself on feathered pillows, programmed the broadcast onto the large, wall-mounted plasma screen in his room, and rung for Kyrano to bring a pot of coffee and some French toast up to his rooms.
Jeff could have joined his sons down in the main living area, where no doubt they too had gathered to watch their brother's crucial, end-of-season event, but somehow he'd thought they'd appreciate the moment more without him around; so they didn't feel bound by etiquette and manners, and could 'whoop' and possibly curse at the screen, to their fullest content.
Comfortably positioned within his bed, fed and watered, Jeff had enjoyed the opening stint of the Champion-deciding race, commenting to himself on how efficiently, and apparently effortlessly, his son controlled his race car, travelling at speeds far beyond those of everyday life. Perhaps, it seemed, he'd not been giving Alan enough credit where it was due, with regards to his choice of pastime.
It had come as a shock, as it had to the majority of the millions of people who'd been viewing the race live, when his son's team-mate had careered into the vast, conveyor belted, tire barriers. Knowing Alan was still out there, monotonously navigating the track, had wrapped an ice-cold hand about his heart that had only released the viciously pounding muscle when the race had been called off to allow better medical access to the reportedly, critically injured driver.
With nothing constructive likely to come from continued viewing of the now, very repetitive broadcast, Jeff had at this point removed himself from the warm, silken comfort of his bed, showered and dressed.
Thus, when the broadcast (which he'd left playing, just in case) cut off, and the emergency signal had rendered itself across the expansive screen, flashing and glowing for attention, the Tracy patriarch had been ready, and in a suitable state to immediately attend to the pressing matter down at his desk.
There, in the oak panelled room, with morning sunlight bathing slithers of the flooring in golden warmth through the tall, plexiglass windows, he'd found all four of his remaining sons gathered. John had seated himself at the computer workstation, his intense blue eyes focussed narrowly on the screen before him, no doubt accessing the International Rescue network, and his own 'bird's data stream.
Scott had set up post at his brother's right shoulder, his forehead creased deeply in thought. Every so often the ex-fighter pilot would mutter something to John, who'd nod or shake his head in return. The other two were stood a little further off, giving the eldest pair room to work. It was Virgil, who'd suddenly become acutely conscious of his very casual attire, that noticed Jeff first.
A single word from him brought both Scott and John's heads snapping up. The latter jumped up as quickly as if someone had just poured a cup of frosted ice down his back, stepping away from the console he'd been working at, whilst Scott stood his ground ready to debrief their father. Choosing to ignore the uneasy action, Jeff strode around to the other side of his desk, settling down into the large chair his astronaut-son had just vacated. Looking from the output of information running across his monitor, to his eldest son, he said,
"What's the news, Scott?"
Once a hotshot, Air Force pilot, and one time a substitute parent to his four younger siblings, the now-rescuer took to the fore.
"It's a bit of two-ended stick this one, Father. A chemical tanker's torn a gash in its side a few miles southeast of Southampton, England, and is taking on significant amounts of water. Having alerted the coast guard, the captain had thought he'd make port, but latest news is that's not the case."
Raising a large hand, Jeff halted the explanation mid-flow.
"Surely local rescue services can deal with this, Scott. It's not a problem we need to get involved with. I presume the cargo is currently intact, seeing as there are no reports of a major spillage?"
"Yes, the cargo is holding, sir, but that's only one half of the issue." Scott continued, his eyes set seriously. "There's a cruise ferry nearby to the tanker, that's discovered a serious fire onboard. As we speak they're loading passengers into lifeboats, and launching them free. The local authorities have directed all available personnel to assist there. However, if the chemical ship were to go down, it'd risk releasing its load into the surrounding waters. Extra aid is over two and a half hours away, and the tanker'll sink not long before they reach the scene."
Steepling his hands on the broad desk before him, Jeff looked up and towards the organisation's main engineer. Scrawny, nervous and brilliant, Brains had shuffled into the room half way through Scott's sketch of the facts, listening intently, and now, mind racing, he was beginning to outline solutions to the problems in his head. Almost visibly seeing the cogs turning in the genius' mind, Jeff came to a decision.
"First things first, can we reach the danger zone in time to do any good?"
Virgil, broad, powerful, and incredibly compassionate, glanced up towards the white plastered ceiling briefly, seeing sprawling maps, and diagrams.
"At top speed, Two could be there in one hour and thirty-one minutes."
Quietly, head lowered, John spoke out then.
"The Patra Rose has estimated she's got about two hours, maybe a little more before they go under. Port's about two and three quarter hours away."
Nodding, Jeff glanced back to the still scrolling data, thinking briefly about the annoyance of not having John in space interpreting the stream before it reached his desk. Pushing that aside, he called upon the mastermind behind International Rescue's vast technology.
"Brains, what can we do to help here?"
Fiddling with the hem of his crumpled shirt and blinking heavily (probably the young man hadn't slept much the past night, too occupied and distracted by tinkering around with whatever his latest project was), Brains voiced his ideas.
"U… using the c... composite foam solution, ah, d… developed from the USS Edmonds r…. rescue, Thunderbird, ah, Four could be d… deployed to fill the torn h… hold, and, ah, prevent f… further water intake. F… from there the, ah, s… ship should make port and c… can be properly, ah, fixed once d… docked."
Lining up the edges of papers on his desk, a trademark signal that a decision had been reached, Jeff said,
"Alright. I want you to load up whatever equipment is needed, Brains. I want to be ready to launch in ten minutes."
The angular, slightly gawky scientist left the room immediately, setting about his tasks, leaving Jeff Tracy to survey his remaining sons. Shifting emotions and sentiment aside, the father of five went with his instinct, trusting it to bring his sons home safely.
"John, I want you to remain here, to help run Base Command. You can comprehend all this data much faster than myself, and time is going to be of the essence today. Gordon…" The young aquanaut's head shot up as Jeff paused again, briefly second guessing himself, before going with his original plans. "Gordon, I want you to go with Virgil, and pilot Thunderbird Four. This rescue's going to need to be quick, and that means we need the best man for the job."
Shocked, Gordon immediately looked over towards Scott, who gave a slight shake of his head from beside his father. He'd not had a chance yet to raise the issue of Gordon participating in missions since their discussion the night before; this choice was all their father's. Suddenly unable to smother the grin on his face, Gordon smiled broadly, nodding his acknowledgement. However, Jeff wasn't finished and continued on swiftly.
"Virgil, naturally you'll be piloting Thunderbird Two, but I want you to take Scott along with you also." Immediately sensing his eldest's confusion, and imminent query, Jeff pressed on. "There's not going to be anywhere within a near enough range to land One and set up mobile control, today, so I want to use the increased man-power we have available to cover all bases. You'll be going down with Gordon in Four, Scott, to provide any assistance he needs."
The unspoken command to watch out for his recently recovered brother was clear, but even that wasn't going to be enough to discourage an almost jubilant Gordon.
"As said before, boys, I want you ready to launch in ten minutes, or as soon as Brains is finished. Godspeed."
Dismissed, the young men scattered to fully clothe themselves and wash up before embarking on their latest mission.
The Hess Memorial Hospital, Indianapolis, USA, same kind of time;
The main building was towering tall, milky ivory in colour and, well, just vast; a mega facility providing service to a significant proportion of the city's community.
It was into the Emergency Department here that Tagen Hopkins had been taken, the racetrack's medical helijet touching down on the first floor roof-landing pad, blowing up fallen leaves and loose grit, in a hail of noisy rotary blades and burning engines. His team-mate and fellow driver, Alan Tracy, along with Matt Harshaw, had arrived at the hospital not too long after, searching for the latest information and news.
There'd been little of that to come, beyond a nurse who'd ushered them into a side, waiting room, telling them that Tag's condition was stable, but still critical, and that a doctor would be with them as soon as possible. They'd found the team physician, who'd travelled aboard the helijet to the hospital already seated in the room, flicking mechanically through one of the scattering of magazines provided.
Now, the three sat in an awkward silence, the ever-present hum of a working hospital there in the background, mingled in with the odour of drunk coffee, and worried second-guessing. Crumpling up his emptied paper cup, Alan dropped it on to the low table in the centre of the room, looking up impatiently at the brightly postered walls ('How to protect your family against influenza' and 'STOP Meningitis'). He was just about to speak, if only to break the enclosing quiet around them, when Matt's comm. rang, its shrill tones piercing the hushed room jaggedly open.
Matt stood, and made to excuse himself from the room, but words somehow failed him, beyond a murmured 'Wyke' before he stepped out of the room to answer the call, leaving Alan to sigh and sag back against his chair, waiting for his race engineer's return and hopefully some news.
The young driver didn't have to wait long for his wish, as a scant five minutes passed before Matt re-entered the waiting area, looking graver than before. Wide eyed, Alan stood, fear flashing across his face.
"Tag?"
Matt shook his head, gesturing for Alan to be seated again, before looking over to the other occupant of the room, who was at least pretending to still be reading a journal article.
"I haven't heard anymore about Tag, Alan. That was Wyke on the phone." Naturally occurring charisma seemed to be failing the engineer right now, as he ran a stiff hand across his eyes. "The ASCC's finished its initial investigation to ensure that we'd not cut corners on the car, and they've found something that's frankly very worrying. Tag's crash, it appears, was caused by a severe deficiency of pressure in the brakes."
Frowning, Alan wasn't following quite where this explanation was headed.
"So, there was a leak? I know it's concerning that happened, that something broke, but that's not anyone's fault." Catching the strange look that crossed his friend's face, Alan added, "Is it?"
Glancing downwards heavily, Matt said,
"It wasn't a mechanical fault, Al. There was no leak. The computer systems that adjust your brakes over the course of the race to allow for wear on the pads and the tyres, changed the pressures, and drained fluid off. The ASCC asked to see all of the data from over the race weekend, to find out how this happened. Turns out there's some programming in our system, that no one seems to know anything about."
Grasping the implying message there, what Alan said next was enough to even bring the team doctor's head up from his carefully choreographed position of disinterest.
"You mean the Committee suspect sabotage?"
Tracy Island, just after the boys launch towards England;
With three of his sons enroute to Southampton, with a plan to shore up the leaking chemical vessel, and John thoroughly distracted by incoming transmissions from the organisation's satellite, Jeff Tracy set about fixing up a date he was no longer going to make. Stepping out on to the morning sun-drenched patio, overlooking both pools, and Kyrano's impressive herb garden, he pulled his personal comm. device from his trouser pocket.
Selecting a familiar number, he stood and waited for his call to be accepted. Finally the ringing tone ceased, and on screen a blonde, highly elegant woman appeared. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward.
Smiling broadly, Jeff greeting the sophisticated agent.
"Lady Penelope, how have you been?"
Gently patting her sleekly, pulled up hair, and smiling back in her own delicate manner, she answered.
"I have been very well, thank you, darling Jeff. And yourself? And the boys?"
Gesturing widely with a broad hand, not that the little screen picked up more than the edge of the movement, Jeff sighed.
"Much as the same as I have been recently, unfortunately, Penny." Here, the most favourite of Jeff's operatives gave a little deliberate smile. Indeed, she knew all about recent happenings. "And as for the boys, a few of them have just set out on a little trip. Which, incidentally was just why I was calling. I think we may need to put your visit to the Island on hold for the moment. After all, there would be little point in you coming to stay with so few of the family about."
Never missing a beat, the blonde aristocrat gave an understanding bob of her delicate features.
"Of course, Jeff. I would so hate to miss the boys. Maybe in the meantime I'll take a little excursion elsewhere. You don't have any recommendations for a lovely spot this time of year, do you?"
Allowing a small, deep chuckle to escape, Jeff smiled approving at the young woman on the other end of the connection.
"I've heard Mediterranean Europe is the place to be at the moment. How about I have Brains look up a couple of spots, and get in touch with you?"
"That would be wonderful, Jeff. Thank you so much. Well, I suppose I'll speak to you soon, to arrange a new date to look in on you and the boys."
Inclining his head a little, Jeff Tracy nodded.
"Of course, Penny. I look forward to it."
And then he cut the connection; another piece of his strike-plan slipping quietly into place.