Thanks for reviewing the last one, Sam and Bee, and happy barbecue, Tal. Re-edited. =)

29: Grave Peril

Near midnight, at a roadblock in the Brazilian rainforest-

The trees had been cut… not blown over, nor toppled by rain. Some of them chain-sawed near to their bases, others high up; whatever it took to get them across that narrow clay road. Nor could whoever had done this be very far off, for the splintered, slashed ends were still oozing sap, sharp and fragrant in the humid night air. But then, where had the saboteurs gone, and for how long?

As Cindy played the glow of a red LED keychain on those fallen giants, Virgil felt around for his captured weapon and cell phone. The one, he readied for use (checking to be sure that he had a bullet chambered and that the safety catch didn't stick). The other, he called home with, reaching Jeff after only two rings.

"Tracy speaking," his father snapped tensely.

"Dad, it's me."

"Virgil?!"

"So far, but the night is young, and stuff keeps happening."

"This is a different number than last time. Are you with Interpol, yet?"

"No, sir. I'm at a suspicious-looking roadblock of fallen trees. If GPS was working, I could tell you right where, or… Hold on, can't John track the cell signal? Triangulate, or something?"

Jeff's answer was delayed by muffled noises from the background. It sounded like a hand-over-the-mouthpiece conversation between his father and someone else. Maybe Kyrano or mom.

"…Well, wake him up, then," was the last part; probably meaning that John was about to get rolled out of bed in a quick, fast hurry.

"Dad," Virgil cut in, watching as Cindy and Abe stuffed vital gear into a pair of olive-green backpacks. "The news folks are taking things out of their van. I think they're planning to leave it and go the rest of the way on foot."

"Is the roadblock deliberate?" asked his father.

"Appears to be. I mean, the trees were sawed, not uprooted."

"Recently?"

"Yes, sir. That'd be my guess, but nobody seems to be manning this check point. I figure maybe they don't know what road we're on, so they're moving around a lot."

Another short pause occurred, during which Virgil (nervously sifting his pockets) turned up the cell guard's black notebook. For something to do while Dad snapped orders and the news crew packed, Virgil opened the notebook and flipped through its pages, using aurorae and phone glow to light up the contents.

There were words inside, and pictures; stuff which started out as talented sketching and then, in the last few pages, turned ugly. Almost as though someone else had been moving the artist's pencil. Chillingly, among the final drawings were Thunderbirds 1, 2 and 4… or their shattered wreckage. Itemized notes, too, in a script and language he couldn't decipher.

"Son? Virgil?" His father called through the phone, reclaiming the pilot's attention.

"Right here, Dad."

"I've just been in touch with Agent Lockhart, from the CIA. He suggests that you abandon the vehicle and keep moving forward, close to the road but just out of sight. We'll have a fix on your location in a moment."

"Yes, sir. Will do. And there's something here you're gonna need to have a look at, ASAP."

"One thing at a time, Son. My primary concern right now is getting you to safety."

…And Gordon, too, of course, though he couldn't say so over an unsecured line. Cindy and her cameraman returned to Virgil's side a few seconds later, moving like people with places to be. Neither seemed upset or hysterical. Quite the contrary, in fact.

"Occupational hazard," the reporter explained, once Virgil ended his phone call. Handing the pilot a honey-nut granola bar, she said, "Any news crew that can't handle bribe requests, roadblocks, natural disasters, revolution and dysentery ought to stick to the d*mn county fair and dog show circuit."

He smiled, but didn't say much at first, tearing into the proffered snack like a starving man. Then,

"CIA recommends moving alongside the road…" he mumbled between mouthfuls. "…and says we're a little off-track for Rio. No coordinates, though… Line's unsecured and someone could be listening."

Cindy settled her backpack and started walking, close by the rainforest's edge.

"Okay," she agreed, trudging off. "Government types give me mental and spiritual constipation, but maybe for once they won't screw things up too badly. Just in case, though, I'm keeping the news desk posted. Maybe Jake can arrange alternate transportation."

"Or I can," Virgil suggested, wondering how to whistle up Thunderbird 2 without raising awkward questions. He stepped along through the dim, dripping rainforest, watching for snakes, and thinking hard. But headlights appeared before an answer did; the twin, bobbing slivers of gold just visible round a distant bend in the road.


Thunderbird 2-

Gordon Tracy took over flying their aircraft once they reached the emergency site, leaving foam dispersal and monitor duty to Hackenbacker. Banking over the blaze from one hotspot to the next, spray nozzles hissing and engines rumbling, they began to make headway. Those fighter jets were a genuine problem, though; streaking alongside and close overhead as if International Rescue was planning to steal all their ashes and smoke, or something.

"Brains," Gordon snapped, after their fourth near-collision, "get on the line with someone from the Brazilian Air Force, and tell them to call off their dogs, before somebody out here gets hurt!"

Hackenbacker looked over at Gordon, flame glow and instrument lights flashing from his spectacles.

"I'll, ah… I'll see w- what I can do, Gordon. B- But next time, try, ah… try asking me, rather than ordering."

"Sorry," the athlete grunted, too busy flying to catch much more than Brains' injured tone.

Down below, dodging and weaving amid collapsing fuel tanks and tall, whirling flame-devils, an armed figure ran for the low concrete pump house. This depot (one of the region's largest) serviced river and lumber-industry traffic, receiving high-grade fuel from a Venezuelan refinery, mostly through underground pipes.

Those pipes had been closed when the microwave beam first began tracing its fiery arc. A basic safety feature, easily reversed by an underpaid, low-status worker who'd had one conversation too many with a kind and generous "comrade".

Call him Franco. Maybe that was his name, at one time. Now he'd been scraped to an emptied shell; a living tool for the Hood. Belaghant could handle such matters in one of two ways: exerting light influence over many puppets, or total domination of one.

Now, with so very much at stake, he'd placed his full consciousness in the body of poor, deceived Franco, leaving his own physical substance stretched out on a couch in his Singapore penthouse. There was danger in so doing, but the Hood did not care what became of Franco, and he did not believe the Tracys capable of out-thinking him. Not this time, when he'd prepared so well and so long.

Utterly determined, he ignored a hellscape of screeching, sparking metal and acrid smoke to get to the pump house and scurry within. There, despite the damage to Franco's hands, Belaghant located the pipeline's red-hot steel valve wheel, then took hold and began to loosen it.

He was burnt, and that hurt, but it didn't much matter, as the pain would not long be his. What mattered was a million gallons of high-grade boat and truck fuel, jetting into those damaged and smoldering tanks. That… and the chance to bring down a Thunderbird pilot.


Tracy Island, in Jeff's ornate, high tech office-

John, rousted from whatever it was that served him for sleep, got to the office still barefoot, in a dark-blue WSA tee shirt and shorts. His father was there, with Mom, Kyrano and Tin-Tin.

"John," said his dad, when the astronaut strode through the teak double doors, "I need you to triangulate the location of another cell signal. Your brother's run into a roadblock."

Okay...

"We're sorry to wake you so soon, Sweetie," added his mom, managing to simultaneously pat her newly-arrived son and glare at her husband. But John merely shrugged, saying,

"Not a problem. I was half-awake, anyhow, thinking about fuel loads for the next Moon shot. I've got to get those specs turned in to Saul by Thursday, or risk losing my slot."

Lucy kept her hand on John's shoulder as he sat down at Brains' normal workstation. That felt pretty nice. More… complete, in some way that he didn't have time to analyze.

"Maybe so," his mother replied, "but you're giving up a rest period to help out, and we appreciate that. Don't we, Jeff?"

His grey-haired father looked as surprised as John probably did, being put on the spot that way. But Tracy senior nodded after a moment and said,

"Naturally. And John knows that, already."

Lucy's mouth pursed, slightly.

"People need to hear these things expressed, Jeff. It's important."

(This was sort of puzzling, because she'd got all bent out of shape when he'd expressed himself earlier, to Scott… but females were often strange, like that.)

"Thanks. I feel tremendously valued and accepted in the workplace," John stated a little facetiously, in order to wrap up his parents' debate.

Then, following up the second-to-last call on his father's cell phone, John got to work. On the big wall monitor, meanwhile, Thunderbird 2's cockpit and hull cams were transmitting visions of fiery ruin. Made it tough to concentrate, especially as Gordon was becoming quite vocally bothered by his unwanted escort.

'on vox, mom & tin-tin in room,' John typed out; opening a line to his brother's half of the instrument panel. Just, you know, to prevent pink faces and scathing long lectures.

'thnx,' Gordon came back, an instant later. 'looking fr long-range target practice?'

John smiled at the letters and flashing cursor, which to him meant "Gordon" far more than the figure up front on that wall screen did. Working at Virgil's situation with one hand, he typed back with the other,

'unsure how many strings tied to Brazil's top wing-nuts, but will commence pulling. meantime, fly safe.'

It was just about then that a truly massive explosion occurred, ending the feed from Thunderbird 2 in a snowstorm of hissing white static.

"Oh, sh*t," John breathed, forgetting all about Lucy and pale, worried TinTin.


Thunderbird 2-

The cargolifter's force shield cut on automatically, as an enormous fireball and concussive shockwave engulfed Bird and jets, together. Thunderbird 2 was flung violently upward and back, tipping almost to the point of heeling right over.

The unlucky jet fighters were blasted clean out of the sky, popping ejected pilots like rocketing wine corks. Most would land in the smoldering rainforest, parachutes tangled amid the tall trees. But one drifted helplessly down into chaos.

"What happened?" Gordon shouted, fighting to regain control of Thunderbird 2. "What the h*ll was that?!"

"M- More fuel, probably leaked from, ah… from a burst pipe," said Brains, nervously removing and wiping his glasses. "The fire m- may have gotten intense enough to, ah… to touch off th- that underground refinery p- pipeline."

Gordon nodded, wrestling hard with the Bird's stubborn yoke. It was approximately as easy as trying to steer an angry polar bear with a two-handed grip on its snout. Lots of unforgiving inertia, there.

"Systems check?" he requested, like Virgil would have done.

Hackenbacker probably said something, and it might even have sounded important. Unfortunately, all that Gordon registered was a sudden downed-pilot emergency beacon, coming right from the middle of beautiful, downtown Hades.

"Uh-oh," he said. "Brains…"

"No!" the engineer snapped. "F- For your family's sake, Gordon, I, ah… I can't allow you t- to take such a dangerous risk."

But the young athlete was already unstrapped and rising. Staring hard at Brains, he said,

"I didn't ask. I'm telling you. The guy needs help. Now, grab the yoke, follow that beacon, and get ready to lower the basket."

He strode from the cockpit before Brains could reply. Still, the engineer might simply have turned the Bird round and headed for home… but a burst of frantic, broken English stopped him cold. The voice was a woman's.

"Captain Marina Dos Santos… requesting if possible, please for assist."

"W- We're on our way," Brains radioed in response to the faint SOS. "Stand by for, ah… for a lowered r- rescue basket, Captain."

And then, in a quiet mutter,

"Heaven help all of us."

In the cavernous hold, meanwhile, Gordon struggled into a helmet, air-tank and silvery asbestos fire suit. Difficult for one man to manage, but Brains had his hands full, up front. Still, what Gordon wouldn't have traded for a bit of help donning that d*mned, balky gear. And that was only the start.

His steel-mesh rescue basket was locked into place above Thunderbird 2's lower hatch; held firm against the aircraft's constant, rumbling motion by a set of ratcheted anchors and rods. The cockpit and base chatter were piped into the hold and his helmet, so Gordon heard Captain Dos Santos' mayday and Brains' reply, followed by contact from dad, back home.

His father didn't much care for the situation, but he understood the need. Better, he was able to help coordinate with the Brazilian fire-fighting crew. Captain Dos Santos had ejected into an area too cluttered for the basket and winch. As John explained to her, in much better Portuguese than Brains or Gordon could muster, she was going to have to cross about thirty-five yards of crumbling, hose-dampened wreckage to reach her pick-up spot.

Gordon only half followed the conversation, busy as he was assembling needed equipment, and then clambering into the basket. Funny, the red-head thought, that the last time he'd used it, he'd been rescuing John and that space-doctor friend of his… what's her name… Linda.

"Ready," he announced, as soon as he actually was. Brains replied over the hold's loudspeaker system, saying,

"Un- Understood, Gordon. Be, ah… Be very c- careful out there. It isn't just fire and explosion we're, ah… we're dealing with, here. There's also a m- mental energy field p- present, like the kind that m- manipulated you and, ah… and your brother."

"Which one?" Gordon muttered. (Old family joke.)

Then the locking bars and anchors retracted with a sharp, ringing clatter, allowing his basket perch to swing free. It began to spin and sway, making Gordon regret his earlier roast-beef sandwich. The hold doors opened next; first splitting, then gaping wide upon scorching updrafts, roaring chaos and wild orange flame-glow.

He'd certainly been lowered close to burning buildings before, but never anything so vast or engulfed… and yet somewhere down there, a pilot waited for rescue. So Gordon nodded, crossed himself, and said,

"Lower away, Brains… and have that noise-maker ready, just in case our friend really is behind all this."

"FAB. H- Hold tight, Gordon. Dos Santos will start, ah… start across just as s- soon as the fireboat g- gets those flames down, a little."

Thousands of miles away, Jeff's office was becoming quite crowded. Scott had come into the room, along with Alan and (when the crib monitor picked up his crying) small Ricky.

John was busy with an idea… a way to further boost Hackenbacker's original counter-signal… and Jeff was in close contact with the CIA, Interpol and Brazilian disaster authorities. But everyone else was at nervous loose ends. Thunderbird 1 might have been launched, but her maintenance wasn't complete, making her unsafe to fly. Otherwise, Scott would have been headed for South America. As the situation stood, though, all he could do was watch.

Alan paced and fidgeted, took Ricky from TinTin and then gave him back; never still, never easy. He, too, very much wanted to help, rather than just standing by. Because Gordon, y'know, was a walking disaster; about as safe as Rick with a handful of firecrackers… And TinTin looked like someone had just frickin' stabbed her.

A little clumsily, Alan put his arm around her shoulders, pretending not to notice when the girl's tears began wetting his shirt.

"S'okay, T," he whispered. "We've made it through worse than this, and come up smiling."

In Brazil, at that moment, the basket descended past hammering water cannons and storms of slippery foam. Gordon had on an asbestos survival suit, but all those explosions and wavering fire-devils were nerve-wracking, anyway. He was being lowered into what Brains called a "clear spot". Relative term, obviously, because all that Gordon could see were flame-weakened buildings and glowering coals.

Above him, Thunderbird 2 rumbled and thrummed, looking as big as a displaced mountain. The flood-lit "2" on her underside shone like a beacon, and not just for him. Captain Dos Santos, limping through a landscape of charred, dripping wreckage, had to be thinking the same thing.

He spotted her, jolting along at a wounded hopping pace, just before his basket rattled onto the ground. Just before somebody else opened fire on both of them.

Medium caliber bullets sounded quite strange when ripping past like a swarm of wild bees. They popped and screeched against metal, rather than booming aloud… and when striking flesh, they punctured and burned.


Midworld, by a shattered forest trading post-

The transport spell seized children, horses, mages and warriors, and hurled them wildly through space. The process was deeply wrenching, even without ley-lines to give the travelers a sense of their altered location. Nor was there time to recover.

They'd been dropped in the midst of a nearly-lost battle. Most of the reavers were already dead, along with several captives and traders. Others, still dragging their chains, had formed a tight circle, using whatever they had to defend themselves. Voreig stood among them, whip-scarred and fierce.

He'd managed to rip one hand free of his rusted manacles, and stood whirling the chain over his head like a mace. Not that the improvised weapon did him much good.

For what the prisoners faced, what had reduced most of their number to carbonized lumps, was a fiend. About fifteen feet tall and roughly man-like, it was, with brittle black skin that cracked at each movement, revealing the searing magma within. Its eyes were mere pinholes, its mouth a great, jagged slash. And whenever the wind blew, its scent was like tinder and steel.

Though powerfully built, the giant moved and struck with horrible speed. Its huge hands smashed buildings, wagons and donkeys, and then hurled the torn shreds at the tiny band of survivors. Its cry was a high, shrilling whine, like a dagger blade through the ears. On its stony chest hung one half of a bronze medallion, all that remained of its ancient forbidding. On the blood-spattered ground lay the other half, along with the cavern from which this horror had risen.

It was demonic in origin, drawn to guilt and shame and terrible deeds. Naturally, it had first savaged the reavers, leaving their captives and creatures for last. Then the rescue party arrived, giving the fiend a new target: Drehn.

Sensing the newly-come elf, it pivoted to stalk him; moving through the wreckage as low and fluidly as a cat. Glud leapt immediately into the fight, racing to Voreig's side with a joyous howl. Behind him, Allat transformed into some kind of towering, rubbery tree. Seizing Kel and Laney in his topmost branches, the shape-changer lifted them high out of danger while limbs farther down lashed out like scorpions.

Britte summoned a crop-watering rain shower, raising great clouds of billowing steam from the fiend's cracked, stony hide and blistering magma. It came on, anyhow, tasting the drow's recent death-curse, even through fog and diversion.

Frodle raised his staff, shouting words of banning over the fiend's high-pitched shrieks. But he couldn't stop that relentless advance, any better than Gawain's new squire had.

"Drehn, work no magick!" the scholar called out. "It will draw your soul through the lines of power!"

This meant that the elf could not transport to safety, even if he'd still had the strength. He could lure it away from the captives, though, by constantly backing and dodging; flitting from crushed wagon to splintered tree stump and snowy rock pile like a swift, restless ghost. Not forever, though. Not even for long, given his weary condition.

Bidding the elf to seek cover, Sir Gawain took a deep breath and a firmer grip on shield and spear. Beneath him, Blanchard trembled but stood firm; grunting and raking the earth.

"Brave lad," Gawain murmured, nerving himself and the horse with a quickly sketched sign of protection. It glimmered and sparked, hanging in midair like dust in a shaft of warm sunlight.

Then the knight couched his lance, sat a bit forward in the saddle, angled his boots well down in the stirrups, and put spurs to the horse. Blanchard reared up, and then thundered into a powerful gallop, hurtling corpses and wagon parts; spattering ashes and snow. The fiend chuckled as they rushed toward each other; man, horse and metal on one side, supernatural death on the other.

Binding spells sizzled and cracked overhead, splitting the twilit sky. Rain hissed down and rubbery tree roots shot up to entangle the monster's fiery legs. Glud and Voreig attacked from both sides, shouting in unison. But then, just before Gawain's spear would have smashed upon crackling hide, the thing leapt.

Entirely over his head, it pounced, landing on the other side as lithe as a griffin. Ripping a shattered wagon spar off of the ground, it whirled in place, bringing its weapon around like a spiked club. The spar struck Blanchard's right flank with a horrible crunching sound, gouging it deeply. Screaming wildly, the warhorse floundered.

Gawain lunged clear of Blanchard's collapse, his mind a flurry of white-hot anguish and fury. Just like the battle in Faerie, it felt. Only this time, the knight wasn't alone. He got his sword out and shield up as his companions rushed in from all sides. Meanwhile, still chuckling, the fiend stalked gracefully forward. It was then that Gawain spotted something lying in the mud about a yard in front of him. Half a medallion, bearing part of a high-elven sigil.

Perhaps he'd done stupider things; couldn't recall any, though. With the monster bearing down and a screaming horse at his back, with his companions in danger, Gawain threw down his sword and dashed to pick up the broken medallion. He was seized himself, an instant later, caught in a fiery, smashing-tight grip.