Majorly edited, at last.
35: Crossfire
Thunderbird 3, in the air over Fort Detrick, Maryland-
Rocked by blaring collision alarms and Captain Hart's shouted questions, Jeff flung Shadowbot coverage and a tenuous force field over the hovering fighter-bomber.
"You're about to disappear," he'd said, which the Army pilot took precisely the wrong way. Once Hart had confirmation from Lieutenant Garrity that IR's virus package was safely aboard, he shouted,
"Hang on for evasive!" and jerked the stick hard right. His aircraft broke away from Thunderbird 3, firing a cloud of metallic chaff to confuse that on-rushing missile. Didn't work.
Cockpit alarms grew shriller in both craft, as Hart attempted this way and that to dodge. But the missile, clearly visible now, had regained its deadly lock.
"Damn it!" Jeff snarled. Out of options, the former astronaut did the only thing he could think of; he dropped all coverage from Thunderbird 3, revealing what he hoped would be a larger, more attractive target, just sitting there like a big, red plum.
"Dad, what the hell's going on?" Scott called from below. Jeff didn't answer. Instead, he stared at the rear view screen, muttering,
"Come on… come on… turn! This way, damn you!"
No such luck. The streaking projectile did not veer. Riding its plume of boiling flame, it slashed through the air toward the fleeing Harrier. Forgetting how visible… how vulnerable… he'd left himself, Jeff Tracy throttled wildly forward, sending Thunderbird 3 rocketing after the twisting, darting fighter. Ground and sky switched places a dozen times as Jeff hurtled along, putting the red Bird through maneuvers that would have given Brains heart failure.
Seconds later, with a bass roar and bright flash, the Harrier V erupted, lighting the northern sky like a second, fiery dawn. One parachute… two… where was the other? Where in Heaven's name was the third crewman?
Before Jeff could spot another blossoming chute, he received a pair of simultaneous transmissions. One was public:
"Well done, Thunderbird 3. The decoy and destroy mission has succeeded. Return to base."
The other was private, sent over International Rescue's emergency helpline:
"Never forget that our watchers are everywhere. No matter what you attempt, you shall not divert the coming scythe."
Hearing this, Jeff Tracy was quite literally sick. Had there been anything in his stomach, he'd have thrown it all up. That gloating, familiar voice… the same one who'd threatened to…
Unable to take any more, he switched off 3's receiver, using his wrist comm to find Brains, while still searching the cloud of smoke and debris for signs of a camouflage parachute.
"M- Mr. Tracy?" the engineer inquired after a moment, peering at him through the tiny screen, "What c- can I, ah… can I do for you?"
Jeff tore his eyes away from the front scanner. Three chutes, now; he was sure of it. Had one of them saved the package, though?
"Brains, I need you to have Dr. Kim access whatever notes and journals she wrote on that curing virus, and email every bit to…" Who had he missed, first time around?
"…Have her send a copy to the acting World President."
Hackenbacker nodded; the blue eyes behind his spectacles dark-circled with weariness.
"Will d- do, Mr. Tracy. Shall I also, ah… also send c- copies to Springfield Pharmaceutical?"
"Good thinking. See to it," Jeff agreed, once more punching up a Shadowbot cloak. Godspeed to the drifting parachutes, but Thunderbird 3's continued presence would be more of a risk than a help, possibly drawing further terrorist attacks. He had to wait until Scott was back in the cockpit and strapped in before hitting full speed, so Jeff fired off orders, instead.
"Brains, I want our encryption methods gone over with a damn microscope. Find out if there's any way we could be overheard… any possibility of a traitor… and if so, slam the door. Understood?"
"Y- Yes sir, Mr. Tracy. I'll, ah… I'll get right on it. Is everything okay over there?"
How many operatives had they taken on these last few years? Fifty? A hundred? Any one of them might be a turncoat, or any several. Jeff shook his head.
"No," he said. "3's delivery mission has just been sabotaged by our Red Path admirers, leaving us looking like double-crossers, but unharmed." So far, anyhow.
"H- How did they…?"
Jeff cut him off.
"One thing at a time, Brains. My priority at the moment is damage control. I want you to issue an immediate public statement denying any responsibility for the destruction of Army property. Inform the world that IR was as much a target in all this as USAMRID."
Brains' tiny image frowned, its face taut with unanswered worries. In a low, quiet voice, he said,
"B- Before I can frame an adequate response, s- sir, I'll need more specifics on the, ah… the Red Path assault."
With a few rapid keystrokes, Jeff transmitted 3's log. Then, hoping for better news, he asked,
"How are Virgil and Gordon?"
Brains glanced away from the streaming data.
"B- Both boys are, ah… are conscious and r- recovering, Mr. Tracy, though Gordon remains in g- guarded condition. Oh, and I've received word from operatives in upstate New York that Alan and John have b- been safely retrieved."
Jeff breathed a long, deep sigh. He and God were no longer on speaking terms, but he was grateful, none the less. Scott entered the cockpit. Nodding to his eldest son, the man continued,
"Good to hear, Brains. What about the Springfield boy?"
"A- Also found, Mr. Tracy. On the other hand, there's, ah… there's grim news about a friend of theirs who evidently tried to fend off the kidnapper. He sustained multiple injuries, and is, ah… is hospitalized."
Fort Detrick launched a dark horde of aerial scout craft, but Jeff was already in motion. With a flick to throttle and stick, he sent Thunderbird 3 hurtling upward; vaulting through the filmy blue veil of sky and out into starry space. Safe from pursuit, now, he said,
"Keep tabs on the other boy's condition, please. Brains. Whatever he needs in the way of advanced care or insurance coverage, see that he gets, up to and including a trustworthy medical operative. I'm on my way back. Tracy, out."
It was only then, really looking for the first time since Scott had sat down, that he noticed the young man's bloodied uniform and clumsily bandaged hands.
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In a cloaked and modified jet, racing west across America-
For quite some time (never mind how long) Five had sat by the narrow bed, holding one of his hands in both of her captured 'own'. Penny was in there, as well, once more inadequately squashed.
She was healing him, her energy fields passing through his body like a scanning wave, to warm, repair and align. There wasn't time for much conversation, as Five had to maintain focus to project herself here. She did so using the machinery of another universe; parallel-parked in a slantwise dimension, so to speak. In this way, breath after heartbeat, he got better. Back, at least, to believable shape for a newly returned astronaut.
The light shifted, shadows moved and their plane rumbled onward, heading away from the dawn and back into nighttime. Eventually, Five looked at him with Penny's blue eyes and said,
"John Tracy, the analog life form Penelope Creighton-Ward can no longer be restrained without incurring severe damage to its core programs. This entity must receed, or fatally harm the Creighton-Ward shareware."
Figured. They'd caused more than enough trouble, already; more than he wanted to know about, so...
"You'd better go," he said, giving her borrowed hands a brief squeeze. "Keep an eye on Alan for me. I'll talk to you, later."
Had Parker keyed up the right security monitor, just then, he'd have seen Lady Penelope lean over to kiss her paramour's cheek; not an unusual sight… but further attention would have revealed something surprising. John Tracy retrieved his hand and sat well up by the time the young noblewoman regained control of her mind and body.
She came back to herself like a desperate swimmer breaking the surface. Gasping and wide-eyed, Penelope clutched at the nearest solid object, which in this case was John.
"What has happened?" she demanded, leaping to her feet. "The last thing I clearly recall is receiving your summons, and now…"
Penny darted angry looks around the plane's luxurious sleeping cabin, then back at John.
"I find myself here, having sleep-walked my way through your evident triumph and retrieval. How, pray, did you manage that?"
Not a great beginning, though (as usual) John managed to worsen it. He shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe you're tired."
"Of course, I'm bloody well tired!" Penny exploded at him, blonde hair working loose of its chignon to swing violently free. "All but dropping in harness, actually, as anyone would be who found themselves coping with you! Now… before I summon Parker to heave you through the damned boarding hatch… what happened? What have you done to me, and to Stirling?"
Weirdly, Penelope was about as beautiful, then, as he'd ever seen her. There was a kind of electricity about her, in dangerous situations, that he'd always found deeply attractive. A smarter man would have found some way to express this, but the best John could come up with was,
"Well… your pet cyborg was going to kill me, which is one thing, but Alan was in danger, too. So…" (It seemed very much wiser not to mention Five) "…We defended ourselves, and Stirling was fatally injured in the process. Parker said that you had some kind of fainting spell just about the same time. There's not much else to tell, but I'll say I'm sorry, if that's what you want to hear."
"I see."
Whatever her feelings, Penelope retained most of her composure. After a moment or two of staring at the cream-colored bulkhead, she added,
"It seems that I've lost you both, then… much as I've lost whatever credibility I once had as a free-lance assassin."
Her voice held something that sounded like tears, so John tried his hand at encouragement.
"You couldn't have kept playing both sides against the middle forever, Penny. Sooner or later, it was sure to blow up in your face. On the bright side, at least International Rescue doesn't kill double agents, and…" (Stupid, maybe, but there was still that pull between them.) "…I won't tell what I know, if you promise to stay away from other employers, and not to try for dad, again."
Lady Penelope stiffened.
"What business is it of yours, if I seek to comfort your poor, bereft father? After all, you've quite taken yourself out of the running, with your child and, er…"
"Dr. Bennett," he supplied, helpfully.
Penelope raised a delicate eyebrow, her face lit by the cabin's overhead lamp.
"You know, dear, you might think about referring to the creature by her Christian name, considering that she's succeeded in capturing… that is, wedding… you."
"Linda," he mumbled, pushing the covers off, "and she didn't exactly capture me."
Five had once co-opted the doctor's body as she'd done to Penelope, causing Linda to act on a long-buried attraction to John. He hadn't expected that, or the resulting pregnancy, either, but he damn well intended to do right by woman and baby, both.
Penelope offered him a hand up. Still rather weak, John accepted it and shakily rose to his feet. They faced each other in the gently vibrating sleep cabin; the woman sleek and lovely, the man worn and sore.
"Let us make a pact," Penny whispered. "I shall promise to be civil to this 'Linda' and do nothing deliberate to lure your father, if you will take oath to keep silent about my dealings with Red Path."
Any other time, John might have balked, but things were actually looking up. His knee was a little stiff, but he could stand upright, now, with weight on both feet. For this reason, and because of their past together, John accepted her offer.
"Okay, deal. But if you get too close to dad, I'll have to try warning him off."
(Like his father would listen, even if he said: "Watch out, dad. Penny's a screamer, and sometimes, she bites." Yeah. That'd work.)
Penelope smiled, though, saying,
"At which point I shall sit down to have a nice, long chat with darling Linda. Have we a truce then, my dear?"
"Sure," John grunted, all at once wishing he'd let Five remain where she was, program damage or no. "Truce."
They'd barely shook hands on the matter when Parker's image appeared on the cabin comm screen.
"Beggin' yer pardon, Milady… but y' might wish ter 'ave a look at this."
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Spain, at the desperately crowded Clinico San Isidro-
Sharon and Cindy found what they were looking for in a packed examination room. The clinic administrator was a burly man, but pale and shaken and drenched with sweat. He and one last nurse remained conscious and capable… in a manner of speaking. With fever-bright eyes and cracked lips, they seemed nearly as ill as the folk whose lives they'd shored up and those whose dying they'd eased. Neither sought assistance for themselves, however.
Using her pitiful high school Spanish, Sharon told them that she worked for International Rescue.
"Hola. Soy una doctor de… Trabajo por Rescue Internacional, senor, y estoy aqui para… por ayudarse. Um… por favor."
The doctor managed to nod, but his gaze was as fixed and far-off as a dead man's. Cindy helped him to sit, while behind her the stout, broad-faced nurse said,
"Is not important, us. Help them."
With a vague wave around herself, the staggering woman indicated all of the many people who'd crowded her clinic's halls, labs and offices.
"They have come to this place seeking refuge, but there is none. Help them, please."
Dr. Floyd murmured a comforting response. Fishing through her supply bag, she turned up two last smart patches, supposed to be reserved for herself and Cindy, just in case.
Pulling them out of the bag, Sharon glanced over at the pretty reporter, who nodded, once. The doctor smiled grimly. Her own med patch she'd have given away without a thought, but not Cindy's. For a move like that, she needed permission. Got it, too. People, even media types, picked the damndest times and the oddest ways to become heroes.