Every day was like the day before.
Every day the bellows pumped and hissed and kept Virgil alive.
Every day he endured Timoti Bailey and Bryce Dower examining him minutely and picking off bits of dead tissue.
Every day he would wake with trepidation that today would be the day that his father would declare that International Rescue had been operating at less than full capacity for long enough and that it was time for them all to return to the island.
Every day Jeff Tracy gave no hint that he was prepared to do anything except keep the family at his invalid son's side.
Every day the family tried to remain upbeat and focused on getting Virgil through the day; never letting him retreat into boredom or depression.
Every day Virgil tried to count his blessings and remain positive…
-I-R-
-F-A-B-
-I-R-
Brains straightened and removed his smell-combating respirator. "There is no dead tissue, Virgil."
"No dead tissue?" Virgil risked looking down his torso, but couldn't see anything past the protective covering on his face, the tube in his throat and the silver foil space blankets that kept his body temperature somewhere approaching normal. All he could see was Timoti and Bryce removing their masks and then Brains' hands as his own mask was removed.
He sniffed cautiously. After that first day, the first part of the daily procedure was to dress him in the mask to suppress the smells that decaying tissue produced. The last part of the procedure was to remove the mask; usually to discover that that horrible smell still hung in the air.
But today there was no hint of the stench. "How many days – has that been – now?"
Brains smiled at his friend's stilted question. The tracheotomy was still there, but at least Virgil had gained enough control over his speech to be able to link several words together in one breath. "Five."
"Five days!" Timoti beamed. "I think we can move onto the next stage now."
"The next – stage?"
"We reinstate your skin."
"Then I'll be – able to move?"
"Some movement, yes. We don't want to rush things. Don't forget we're still at the experimental stage."
Virgil resisted groaning in exasperation. It was a bit hard to forget that all this was experimental when none of them had no idea what was going to happen next.
"We'll leave the shell on your legs," Timoti continued. "And your lower arm. Just to prevent any knocks to the generating tissue. But I think we can release your upper torso and right arm."
"Good."
"This is when the hard work will start," Brains advised. "You will need intense physiotherapy to reverse the atrophy of your muscles, increase the movement of your limbs, and improve your cardiovascular fitness."
Virgil decided that it did sound like hard work. Hard work that he'd gladly begin now, if it meant he was closer to walking out of the hospital or playing a piano. There'd been times when the frustration had been so great that he'd almost begged Brains to release his good arm, just so he could experience some movement. At those moments he'd stop, allow the machine to process a few calming breaths, and tell himself that he was lucky. One day the shell would be removed, and the paralysing anaesthetic stopped, and he would move that arm again.
He was lucky.
"Get rid of – the tracheo-tomy?"
Bryce consulted a tablet computer. "I'll think we'll be able to start you breathing on your own." He smiled in delight at his patient. "We'll be able to conceal that tracheotomy scar with the skin we don't use on the rest of your body."
"Talk – properly?"
"Yes." Brains nodded. "You'll be able to talk properly. I've called your family back and you can tell them the good news."
Virgil couldn't wait. Over the intervening days he'd learned what his family had gone through in the hundreds of hours since he'd been trapped at ACE. To be honest he'd also learned what he'd been through. His memories of the days after he'd been released were either hazy or non-existent; especially those relating to International Rescue. So fearful had the family been that John's cloaking device would affect Virgil's breathing apparatus or that someone would overhear any confidential information, that no one had said anything that might compromise the organisation.
But one thing that Virgil knew for sure was that his family had endured too much bad news these past weeks and he was looking forward to giving them something positive.
When they arrived, they did so warily. After the researchers' first examination the Tracys had returned with no concept of what they'd encounter. They'd walked into the room and stopped dead. Jeff and Grandma – who'd never smelt decaying human flesh before – had wondered what that stench was. Virgil's brothers – who had – knew.
It was a shock to them all.
Fortunately, Brains had hurried forward to reassure them all that there was nothing, he hoped, to worry about.
Today they could smell that for themselves. And the relief on their faces was plain for all to see.
"'Scuse me." Bryce pushed passed the Tracys. "I'm just going to book a theatre for this afternoon, so we can proceed with the next stage of the trial. Will you check out that the dermal polymer's ready, Timoti?"
"Already on it." Timoti was tapping into his tablet. He beamed down on Virgil. "By this time tomorrow we'll be able to get rid of the breathing apparatus and you will be able to begin moving that arm. Within a week we should have you sitting up. And your new skin will hopefully help you retain some of your body heat, so we won't need to have this room so hot!" He looked back at the tablet and frowned. "And we'll start getting some real data. Must check on the…" Forgetting that he wasn't alone, he hurried out of the room.
Grandma had seen her middle grandson's disappointed face as his first opportunity to give them good news was snatched from him. She kissed Virgil on the forehead. "So, today's going to be a big day, is it?"
Virgil smiled up at her. "Yes… Finally, I'll – be able to – have a proper – conversation – with you – all… And I'll be – able to do – something – other than – stare at the – ceiling."
"Not immediately," Brains reminded him. "We will take raising you into a sitting position slowly. And you'll need to, ah, exercise that arm to get to back to full strength and flexibility."
Virgil knew full well that he could only take one step at a time. And he was determined that one day that would be literally as well as figuratively.
"What time will the operation be?" Jeff asked.
Brains checked his tablet. "I don't know, M-Mr Tracy. That decision hasn't been made yet. But most of the preparations have already been made. I don't anticipate us having to wait for long."
"Morning? Afternoon?" John sounded as eager as Virgil felt.
"I d-don't know," Brains echoed. "Probably this afternoon to allow time for the final preparations."
"How long with the operation take?" Gordon queried.
"I'm sorry, Gordon, but I, ah, do not have that information. This is an ex…"
"…Experimental procedure," everyone chorused, well aware that they were treading an unknown path.
"But, I don't foresee any u-unforeseen issues. Provided there are no hold-ups – such as there not being an O.R. available. Virgil is in good shape… Relatively speaking." Brains smiled down on his friend. "So long as you behave yourself and don't go giving us any frights like last time."
"Not – part of the – plan."
Scott pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. "Feeling excited?"
"Yes… I'm fed up – with not being – able to do – anything… Just to be able – to scratch my – ear without – having to ask – you to do it – will be fantas–tic…"
Alan claimed his own seat. "And so will being able to tell you everything we haven't been able to tell you."
-I-R-
-F-A-B-
It was late afternoon before the orderlies arrived to wheel the bed away.
Grandma gave Virgil a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, Dear."
"He doesn't need luck," Gordon claimed. "This is going to be a piece of cake… Knock on wood." He rapped his knuckle against the hard shell that protected Virgil's torso.
"We'll be here when you come out of surgery," Scott promised. "We want to see that first movement."
"Is this – the overture?" Virgil's bed was rolled out the door to a refrain of "good lucks" and "see you soons".
The door closed between him and his family.
"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Gordon asked.
"Beats me." Alan shrugged.
"If it was, he must be worried."
"He's not the only one."
No longer needing to put a brave face on things, everyone sagged at the thought of the unknown number of hours of waiting before them.
Jeff looked at his watch. "Guess we've got some spare time. Anyone want to go back to the house?"
No one did.
"Anyone want a game of cards?" John asked, trying to drag everyone's thoughts away from the unknown. He reached into his bag.
Everyone pulled up a chair and settled in for the long haul.
-I-R-
-F-A-B-
They'd been sitting there for an hour in near silence, trying to keep out of the way of the hospital staff who prepared the room for the return of the patient, when they heard a faint buzz.
John pulled his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the screen before raising an eyebrow at his father as he picked up his bag. "I'll just take this outside. 'Scuse me."
Everyone watched him go, wondering what message was being transmitted through Thunderbird Five.
John wasn't really planning on going outside where there was a chance of being overheard and he didn't want to delay answering the call. So, he retreated to the storeroom that had been the Tracys' home for so many hours, weeks ago.
The chairs they'd utilised had gone, replaced with more cartons.
John switched on his cloaking device to mask his voice and any transmissions from the outside world. Then, after making sure that the conversation was relayed to his father's earpiece, he finally spoke into the phone. "This is International Rescue. Go ahead."
"Ah! International Rescue! Good!" the person on the other end of the phone gabbled. "We need your help!"
During idle moments on Thunderbird Five, John had often wondered why people almost invariably greeted him in that way. Surely, they wouldn't have called him if they hadn't needed International Rescue's services?
But such thoughts were a long way when he replied with: "What's your situation?"
"Our company is called Hartzee Foods. There's a fire in the factory."
John declined to point out that they weren't the fire brigade.
"I suppose you're wondering why we've called International Rescue over a fire."
John decided against agreeing with the flustered individual.
"The fire isn't that big, but it could get bigger."
John considered telling the man to take a deep breath and get a grip.
"Y'see it's not the factory we're worried about. It's the dangerous goods store."
Finally, John saw a reason to interject. "Is it in danger of exploding?"
"There's the potential for that to happen."
"And lives are in danger?"
"Yes! Well… One."
"How?"
"Erm…"
"Are they trapped in the dangerous goods store?"
He could hear the relief of his caller when they heard his calm, steadying tones. "Yes."
"What's stored in there?" John ran a quick inventory check of the most likely suspects. "Flammable gases? Propane?"
"No."
"Oils for cooking?"
"No."
"Aerosols?''
"No. Walnuts."
John did a double take. "Walnuts?" He scanned his internal database, searching for any information to explain what made such an unexpected substance as dangerous as his caller suggested. Something niggled at the back of his mind and he pulled his tablet computer out of his bag and started a search.
"Yes." He had an odd feeling of déjà vu when he heard his caller begin to read the words that were printed on the screen before him. "They're classified under Class 4.2. of the International Maritime Dangerous Goods (IMDG) code: Flammable Solids (substances liable to spontaneous combustion)."
John knew of that particular code. He was beginning to share the caller's concern.
"And there are pistachios in a neighbouring bunker," the Hartzee Foods man continued. "They're just as bad. And brazil nuts, peanuts, almonds, hazelnuts, and sunflower seeds. Actually, there are a lot of corn starches, flour, and wheat nearby. But they're each in their own silo. Our guy's in the bunker with the walnuts."
John was beginning to feel that he was back on solid ground. Food energy, in the form of calories and joules (depending on whether you followed imperial or metric measurements), was just the same as any other energy. And could be just as explosive. He remembered an experiment performed by an admired science teacher, where a cloud of corn starch-based custard powder had erupted in a small, but unexpectedly awesome, explosion. During dinner that evening he'd made the mistake of telling his brothers all about the day's exciting lesson. Supper had proven to be Alan, eyebrows singed and blaming John for his misery, bawling for Grandma because he had been splattered by burning hot custard powder.
That evening Gordon had made himself scarce.
"I get the picture. How is the man trapped?"
"The fire tripped the lockdown isolation procedure; as it was supposed to. But instead of giving the standard one-minute warning to give our guys time to escape, which it should have done since the dangerous goods store wasn't in immediate danger, it slammed the doors home and shut off the electricity instantly."
"Is there an emergency evacuation system? Why can't your guy open the door from inside?"
"Ermmm… I don't know. I just know that he can't get out."
"Emergency escape route?"
"No."
"Is your guy in darkness? Can you correspond with him?"
"No, he's got some emergency lighting. He does have a low powered radio with him, but we're limiting its use in case there's a spark."
"Understood. Can you reverse the lockdown?"
"Our IT guru tried, but he says the circuitry's fried in the fire or something and he can't get to the main CPU. Anyway, can you come? It's not only the threat of explosion that's worrying us."
John suddenly felt out of his depth again. "It's not?"
"No. Walnuts, and pistachios and the rest, even after being picked, absorb oxygen and excrete carbon dioxide."
Causing hypercapnia or carbon dioxide poisoning in an enclosed space – like a sealed bunker. "Is the ventilation system still working?"
"No. The computer shut that down when it went into lockdown. It's trying to keep oxygen and heat out of the bunkers to reduce the risk of explosion. It's not programmed to watch out for spontaneous combustion. And if the walnuts get wet…"
"From the trapped man's respiration or if the sprinklers go off?"
The caller sounded relieved that John had grasped the seriousness of the situation. "That's right. Even a small increase in dampness and carbon dioxide will cause self-heating to accelerate."
"How long does the self-heating process take to reach the point of spontaneous combustion?"
"If the walnuts are damp: hours, not days."
"Hence the reason why you've called International Rescue."
"Yes."
"What are the bunker's walls made of?"
"Reinforced concrete."
Triangulating the caller's location, John zeroed in on the danger zone and sent the information through to Scott's phone. "Anything else we need to know?"
"Erm… No?"
"Good. Stay close to the radio and I'll get back to you. International Rescue out." John turned off his phone, the tablet, and the cloaking device.
Upon exiting the storeroom, the first person he saw was an orderly who gave him a very odd look. John responded by showing her his phone with an apologetic shrug. Then he saw his brothers. "I feel like Superman," he admitted quietly, trying to get as much space between himself and the incriminating storeroom as he could. Then he raised his voice. "Going for a walk?"
"Close," Scott responded, sounding casual. "The operation's going to take hours, so we thought we might take the Odonata for a flight."
"Sounds like a plan to me. Mind if I tag along?"
They all headed for the exit, each of them wondering how a group of playboys was supposed to act when hurrying while trying not to appear to be in a hurry.
It wasn't until they were hurrying down their long driveway that they gave up all pretence.
"What's the story?" Scott asked, panting slightly as he jogged towards the house.
Like his brothers, John had had limited opportunities to exercise over the last few weeks and was just as out of breath. "Didn't Dad tell you?"
"He didn't have the opportunity. A nurse was fiddling with the equipment. He must have thought that our services were needed though, because he tipped us the wink."
John gave them a rundown, feeding out the little information he had.
"Walnuts?" Gordon exclaimed. "You're saying that this guy's at risk of being blown up by exploding walnuts?"
"Unless the room fills up with carbon dioxide. In which case, he'll be asphyxiated by them."
They skirted their house and continued jogging past the newly reinstated and fenced swimming pool, unaware that they were being watched through the kitchen windows.
"Ina hurry," Butch mused, and then looked guiltily at his wife when Bruce nudged him.
"Guess they're going to go for a flight somewhere," the latter expanded. "There's not a lot else they can do for Virgil while he's in the operating room." He checked his watch. "Anyone heard the news today?"
"Just the usual bad stuff," Olivia told him. "The earthquakes barely get a mention now."
"It's almost 3 o'clock. I might go and see what's happening in the world."
"Yeah." Butch sounded almost too casual. "I – might – listen – too."
"Want to join us?"
"Oh-kay."
The three of them left the lounge leaving a bemused Lisa, and an unconcerned Ginny, behind.
Lisa Crump picked up her daughter. "Those three are hiding something, aren't they, Honey?"
"They playin' hide'n'seek?"
Lisa chuckled and kissed Ginny on the forehead. "Quite probably. The question is… Who from?"
The Tracy brothers gave the Odonata the briefest of pre-flight checks. Although it wasn't standard practise, each of them had already been allocated a quadrant of the craft and she was ready for flight in quick time.
Scott slid into the pilot's seat, activated the muffling system, and the Odonata lifted off the ground. He barely glanced at John, who was once again in the co-pilot's seat facing the passenger cabin.
"What's the action?" Alan asked, as John got back on the phone to Hartzee Foods to warn them that International Rescue was on the way and to request further information about the layout and construction of the facility.
"We're not going to be able to use ordinary cutters, because of the threat of sparks," Scott admitted. "Similarly, plasma cutters and oxyhydnite are out because of the heat and flame."
"Water jet?" Gordon suggested. "No flame involved there."
There was a snort from his younger brother. "Trust you to think of that one."
"Okay," Gordon rounded on him. "You come up with a solution."
"Easy. The Laser Cutter's in Thunderbird Two."
Scott had to admit that that was a possibility. "Depending on the thickness of the walls and the size of the room. We don't want to give the nuts an ignition source nor risk burning the victim." He remembered the last time he had a similar thought and what had happened afterwards, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Use the Firefly to sheer off the corner of the building?" Alan squirmed under the glare of twin scowls and Scott's dirty look in the mirror looking into the passenger cabin. "It's only a suggestion! And it worked a treat last time. It was the aftershock that caused the problems."
John disconnected the phone call. "Last time the wall wasn't load bearing. I don't think we can count on that this time."
"And if the concrete's reinforced with iron rebar, once again we've got to be aware that we could create sparks," Scott reminded them.
"Flood the room with water?" Gordon offered. "Assuming they're in sacks and not floating free, the guy can sit on the walnuts to stay in the air pocket. Once the nuts…"
"Seeds," John corrected.
Gordon ignored him. "…are neutralised, we can use whatever cutting implement we want."
John wasn't going to be ignored. "Except that dampness accelerates the heating process. Depending on what the walnuts are contained in, capillary action of the water might acerbate the situation, not dampen it down."
Trying to visualise the building that he had yet to see, Alan was running through various access points in his mind. "Lift the roof off to cool the room and ventilate the gas?"
"Again possible," Scott conceded. "If it's not raining. We don't want to give those nuts any…"
"Seeds," John corrected again. "Biologically speaking, walnuts are seeds… Or drupes." He received a dirty look of his own.
"…any excuse to blow. Or, if it's a bunker, the roof's likely to be an integral part of the structure."
"How about using something super cold to create an explosion?" Gordon pulled a tablet out of one of the Odonata's pockets. "Something like liquid nitrogen?"
"Liquid nitrogen displaces oxygen in a sealed environment," Alan reminded him.
"Like a sealed bunker."
"Yep."
Scott thought for a moment as he flew the plane over the coast. "John…?"
"Yes."
"Do you think you could reroute that computer programme to another system to open the door?"
"Unlikely. If their IT guy, who should know the system inside out, can't do it, I doubt I can."
"He may not have thought of it. Or they might only need another power source to get the computer working. Check it out and we'll keep it as an option."
John made the call. The computer technician, believing that the company's computer was fried and that he was at least temporarily redundant, had evacuated himself to the Hartzee Foods rendezvous point over the road from the factory. Someone would be despatched to dig him out of the crowd and ask if Scott's plan was feasible. As soon as this was done Hartzee Foods would let International Rescue know if their services would still be required.
"This is impossible!" Scott thumped the control yoke and the Odonata gave an uncharacteristic lurch. "Under normal circumstances Thunderbird One would be there by now, I'd know exactly what the situation was and what we need to do to rectify it, and, if it was needed, Thunderbird Two would be on its way with the required equipment!"
"We know, Scott," Gordon reminded him quietly. "We'd rather that things were back to normal too. But sometimes we've got to put the family before the lives of others. For our own sanity… And Virgil's."
John pocketed his phone. "This is a compromise. And it's better than not being able to do anything at all. Virgil wouldn't want us to let that guy die if we can help him."
"And it's not as if Virgil needs us at the moment," Alan added. "He won't know where we are, and he won't care what we're doing."
Scott didn't respond; but his knuckles were white on the control yoke.
They flew on in silence for a few seconds more, until John received another missive from the danger zone.
"Is that about the computer?" Scott asked, as his brother read what was on screen.
"No. The plan of the building." John reached under his seat, lifted a lever and swivelled around until he was facing the co-pilot's controls and able to lock his seat back in place. "I've got her." He held his tablet out to Scott.
Relinquishing the main control yoke, Scott accepted the tablet. No one spoke as he scrolled through several screens.
"Well?" Alan leant forward in his seat. "What's the plan?"
Scott gave a hopeless shrug. "I can't see the diagrams well enough to be able to interpret all the squiggles. I can see that the walnut store is the one at the end of a corridor, which is partitioned by five blast doors. I think the entire building's got a blast wall around the exterior and that there are six bunkers within the building. But without Brains' advice, I can't be sure." He let the tablet drop into his lap. "We need the services of a good architect or civil engineer." He ran his fingers through his hair.
"But where are we going to find one of those?" Alan asked. "We can't just check the local telephone directory and ask a stranger to interpret what's on screen. They'd want to know why we're interested."
"You aren't serious, are you?" Gordon stared at him. "We do know a civil engineer we can ask. One of the best."
"Huh?"
Scott face-palmed his forehead. "Of course!" He quickly tapped into John's computer.
-F-A-B-
Back at Bearston General, Jeff Tracy was surprised to feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. The vibrations' Morse code pattern made it clear who was calling him.
Dot-dot-dash-dot dot-dash dash-dot-dot-dot.
F-A-B.
"Who's it from?" his mother asked when he transferred the message to a larger-screened tablet.
"Erm. It's work related," he prevaricated, aware of the cleaners wiping down the windows. He quickly read the message.
Need your help. Attached are the building's plans. What's best way to get in? Can't use heat, flame, or water.
"You sure know how to make life difficult, Scott," Jeff mumbled. He zoomed in on the plans and considered the question. Then he made his decision, drew a circle with his finger on the tablet's screen, made an annotation, and sent it back into the ether.
-I-R-
-F-A-B-
The landing at Barduq was as smooth as the younger Tracys expected. What they didn't expect was for Scott to issue a command. "Alan. You're with me." He leapt out of the cockpit.
"What?" Alan stared through the Odonata's windscreen at his eldest brother's departing back. "Why?"
John and Gordon were equally flummoxed. "Dad did say that he could only fly Thunderbird One if one of us flew with him," John reminded him.
"But that was on the return journey when he had the time to relax and start thinking about everything that had happened on the rescue."
Gordon shrugged. "Virgil's in surgery. Maybe he's worried that he won't be able to maintain concentration and wants you as backup."
Alan pouted. "Or maybe he doesn't trust me and thinks I'll do something as 'stupid' as suspend the Mole in water."
"Alan!"
"Better go!" The youngest Tracy fled the cockpit.
They'd retrieved Thunderbird One at an earlier date, and Scott and Alan (still wondering about the order he'd received) took the lift to the top level.
With the speed borne of years of experience, both brothers were changed and ready for Thunderbird One's launch.
Without a comment to his younger brother, Scott slid into the pilot's seat. A glance at his control panel told him that the younger Tracy had his safety harness fastened and that the hangar was already rotating out of the ground. Above them their exit route was spiralling open.
It had no sooner reached its maximum aperture before Thunderbird One's jets ignited, and she was flying away from the island.
"Okay. Now that we're alone. Why am I here and not in Thunderbird Two?"
Scott checked his controls again. "Because I need to prove that I'm still capable of being part of the team. You're my independent assessor."
Alan frowned, trying to make sense of what had been said. "But I'm the one who stuck up for you. They'll think I'm biased."
"No, they won't. We all know you wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the team or a mission."
Scott didn't see Alan's jaw drop.
-I-R-
-F-A-B-
The computer IT guy had done his best, but had been unable to override the command that had locked the bunker down.
It was over to International Rescue.
Once he was physically face-to-face with the problem, and thanks to his father's input, Scott had a plan of action prepared by the time Thunderbird Two arrived. He and Alan set up Mobile Control in the shadow of a couple of grain silos and a few hundred metres away from the confusion that was the inferno. So massive was the fire that some of the firefighters hadn't even noticed the Thunderbirds arrive. Their focus was on the flames that the Tracys could see leaping skywards behind the pillars of smoke.
Scott, when he was joined by his final two brothers, skipped any greetings. "I'm staying here at Mobile Control as liaison, and because I want one of us keeping an eye on that fire." He indicated the hazard.
"They look like they need a hand." Gordon stared at the conflagration. "Couldn't we put it out with Thunderbird Two?"
"Our priority is the man in dangerous goods. If the fire's still out of control once we've freed him, then we'll help the locals."
"Understood."
"John: You see if you can override that computer programme."
"But didn't you say that IT couldn't do it?"
"He's only been on the job a month and is fresh out of school. He's all theoretical knowledge and no practical skills. I think you've got a better chance of breaking in. Go talk to Alec over there." Scott pointed to a huddle of strangers further back from the raging fire.
"F-A-B." John jogged over to the huddle.
"Alan: Gordon: You're on the Laser Cutter and the Crab. You've got five doors to get through and an unknown amount of time to do it in. Get moving."
"F-A-B."
Alan and Gordon retreated to Thunderbird Two; Gordon selecting the Laser Cutter and Alan the Crab.
The Laser Cutter was little more than a tractor, the cab of which offered the operator protection from his surroundings as the cannon-mounted laser cut through everything before it.
The Crab was a similar configuration, except that at the front and rear two sets of pincers were able to either shear through buildings or wrench them apart.
Both machines and their crews exited Thunderbird Two and headed off on their task.
Scott decided that it was time to report back to his commander. Not knowing if Jeff was alone, he did this by sending a cryptic text message. Arrived safely. Everyone's doing their own thing. Thanks for your help. S.
It wasn't too many minutes later when he received a reply. Good to hear. All well this end. Hand finished.
Scott permitted himself a smile. Great. I'm at MC. Let me know as things progress.
F-A-B.
Keying the radio, Scott looked around to check no one was within earshot. "Mobile Control to Laser Cutter and Crab. Message from base. They've replaced the skin on Virgil's hand."
"Yeah?" It was Gordon. "That's brilliant news. Creepy, but brilliant. It took less time than I expected."
"At that rate," Alan continued, "he'll be out of O.R. before we're back."
Scott would rather that they were home before then. "How much longer do you think you'll need?"
"Gordon's carving up the first door. He'll have that finished in seconds. It's the last door that's going to cause the problems."
"I know. Let me know if you have any issues. Mobile Control out." Scott switched channels. "Mobile Control to IT. How's it going, John?"
"I may be able to do this, Scott."
"Good. It won't take long for Gordon and Alan to cut through to the last door, which is when the fun begins. If you can open it before we need the Crab it'll save us a lot of time and reduce the danger quota… Any mosquitos about?"
"You can speak freely, Scott. Alec's gone to get the computer's schematics."
"The schematics?"
"He was hovering at my shoulder while I was trying to work, making a hissing noise as if he didn't approve of what I was doing. I sent him schematic hunting to get rid of him. What's up?"
Scott could hear how relaxed his brother was sounding – now that the "mosquito" had buzzed away. Reassured that he wasn't interrupting anything that required John's full concentration, he continued the conversation. "They've finished Virgil's hand."
"Great! Now what are they doing? His legs?"
"I assume his legs and lower torso. Aren't they sliding it on in one piece?"
"Like a pair of necropants."
"What-pants?"
"Necropants. A bit of Icelandic witchcraft, or wizardcraft since men wore them. You skin your deceased friend – with his prior permission – and then wear the cured skin…"
"Wear his skin?!"
"It's a spell to magic up loads of money…" There was a brief pause. "Here comes my hissing mosquito, so I'll save all the gory details for the flight home. Let me know when you have more news and I'll swat him away from here."
"F-A-B."
-F-A-B-
Inside the bunker it was cool and dark. Dark except for the laser light that shot out of the cannon and ate through the steel of the 50-centimetre-thick doors, leaving a glowing line of liquid metal fading in its wake.
Stuck for something to do for a few seconds, Alan got on the radio. "How's our victim, Mobile Control?"
Scott answered promptly. "I've just been talking to him. He's in good shape although he said the air's starting to feel a bit stale."
"Carbon dioxide build up?"
"I'd say so. The only positive about that is that without oxygen it should help stop the walnuts from exploding."
"I'm sure he finds that reassuring. Do you really think they'll explode? It all sounds a bit unbelievable to me."
"I've been doing a bit of research while I've been waiting and it's all true. And, I guess that with their shells, the pressure could build up until it gets too much."
"You'd think they'd have natural safety valves, since their shells are already in two halves."
"Except that you've got nut shell shrapnel flying everywhere."
"Seed shell shrapnel," Alan teased.
"Don't you start. One know-it-all in this family is enough."
"Gordon's moving out, so I'd better move in."
"F-A-B, Alan. Mobile Control out."
Gordon finished his task and backed out of Alan's way. The Crab moved in, raised the pincers, opened them wide, placed their flat points against the door and accelerated. The door was nudged forward until it was clear of the hole the Laser Cutter had created. Then Alan changed his angle of attack, pushing the door by degrees, so it rotated clear of the newly created entrance. Finally, it was pressed up against the wall, and no longer an obstacle to their rescue.
They moved forward.
-F-A-B-
"Tzssss."
John ground his teeth together and resisted telling Alec to go play on his calculator and leave him alone. He had other ploys for getting rid of the IT technician, but didn't want to use them until Scott needed to speak to him. That was until a fresh wave of smoke blew in their direction and the tech coughed. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to."
He was disappointed by the reply. "I don't mind staying. You might need my help."
"Okay." John tried to sound pleasant. "In that case, can you hand me the ion-driver?"
"Sure… Tzssss."
John felt his jaw muscles working and concentrated on relaxing them, as he made the necessary adjustments to the open computer before him. "Been in the job long?" he asked, as much to stop that annoying sound as out of any real curiosity.
"Tzsssix weeks. I created the web site for the company during my spare time while I was at Uni. They gave me some spending money and then, when I got my degree, they gave me the job." Alec gave a nervous laugh. "I don't remember the job description saying anything about assisting International Rescue."
John responded with an absent: "I'm sure it didn't."
"How'd you get your job?" Alec asked, and John wasn't sure if the question was asked out of nosiness or because the younger man thought he should observe the social graces… Which he clearly didn't fully understand.
John chose to think it was politeness speaking and decided he'd better reply in kind. "Like you, I guess. I had the skills they needed, so they asked me to join."
"Yeah? Do International Rescue need another computer tech?"
"Only if you are also a pilot, a mechanical engineer, an aquanaut, and an astronaut. And you are prepared to work for 48-plus hours straight in hot, dusty, dirty, dry, cold, wet, uncomfortable, dangerous situations getting covered in mud, blood and other stuff most people don't want to know about."
"Oh…" Alec seemed a little taken aback. "No."
"Probably wise," John agreed, and tightened a micro-screw.
"Tzssss."
-I-R-
-F-A-B-
Skin replaced on legs. Scott read. All proceeding as planned. Nearly finished. He sent a reply of approval and then passed the message onto Gordon and Alan.
"That's all they've got to do, isn't it?" Gordon queried. "They'll be taking him to recovery now."
"They were going to remove the tracheotomy tube and hide the stoma." Alan nudged the door clear. "That might take a little time."
"It sounds awful, but I hope so. I want to be there when he wakes up."
"We all do, Gordon," Scott agreed. "But we can't leave until we've finished the job. How close are you to getting our victim out of there?"
Alan and Gordon faced the final door. "One to go," Alan confirmed. "Any word on how close John is to getting the computer working? Or do you want us to start cutting?"
"Give me a moment and I'll ask him." Scott switched channels. "Mobile Control calling IT."
He heard John's voice. "Receiving you, Mobile Control."
"What's the insect activity like there?"
"Pesky. Hey, Alec. You haven't got any fly spray or mosquito repellent or anything like that, have you?"
"May do."
"Would you mind getting some for me?"
"Sure,back soon."
"Take as long as you like," John grumbled. "What news have you got for me, Scott?"
"Virgil's been fitted with his necropants. He's doing well."
"What an image. Remind me never to call them that in front of him."
Scott managed a chuckle. "I'm with you… Alan and Gordon are at the final door. Are you able to open it or do you want them to move in?"
"Give me one second… Great, the one time that I need an extra pair of hands Alec isn't here."
"Shall I give the order?"
"No, hold on, Scott. I think I've got it…" John made the final adjustment. "There! Sorted!"
"But is it going to work?"
"Only one way to find out. Tell Alan, Gordon and our victim to stand clear of the door. Just in case…"
Scott gave the instruction and waited, nearly as eager for this operation to be a success as he was for Virgil's.
"It's moving, Scott. John's got the computer working!"
"That's good, Alan. Stand clear until it's open wide enough for easy access." Scott had no sooner said that when he thought he heard three curses. "What's wrong?"
"The computer's crashed," John admitted. "I've done all I can in the time we've got. It's over to Gordon and Alan now."
"Receiving you," Gordon admitted. "Alan's moving in with the Crab. I'm gonna evacuate the Laser Cutter to clear the escape route."
"F-A-B," Scott responded, and saw the squat machine lumber out of Dangerous Goods. He then watched as Gordon left the craft and ran back into the building.
He was joined by John just as a beep from Mobile Control claimed his attention. A text message had flashed up on the screen. Breathing on own. Being moved into recovery.
Delighted, Scott showed his brother the message. "He's breathing on his own!"
John, a beaming smile on his face, read the words and then, to make sure he'd read them correctly, read them again. "Fantastic! At least something's going right today."
-F-A-B-
Inside the Crab, Alan rolled closer to the final door. The pincers that gave the vehicle its name had the added trick of being able to change their shape. Both sets morphed from the blunt-nosed shears into needle-nosed pliers.
Pliers strong enough to prise apart two 50-centimetre-thick slabs of metal.
Gordon barrelled back into the final chamber. He was about to join Alan in the Crab's cab, when he thought he heard something. "Alan! Wait!"
Alan leant out of the Crab's window. "What?"
Gordon jogged over to the narrow gap between the doors. "This is International Rescue. Did you say something?"
"International Rescue? Yeah." For the first time, he heard and could understand the voice of the trapped man. "Can you hurry up? The walnuts are going to blow! I can smell smoke!"
"Smoke? Okay! Stand well back from the door. We're going to force it open."
"But just so you know…"
Gordon wondered what was so important that the man was willing to risk his neck telling him. "Yes?"
"There's a bag of corn starch in here. More than one."
"Corn starch? What's that doing in the walnut store?" Gordon realised they didn't have time for explanations. "Are the bags sealed?"
"Yes."
"Good. If the powder isn't airborne it won't be a problem. Anything else?"
"No."
"Move in, Alan! We haven't got much time!"
"F-A-B." Alan gunned the Crab and pushed the "pliers" into the gap. He applied hydraulic pressure and the blades were pushed apart, forcing the door slowly open. There was the screech of metal upon concrete as the two metal slabs were prised away from each other.
Aware that he was in a potentially life-threatening place, should the pliers slip and spring open with a force that would probably guarantee decapitation, Gordon crouched by the slowly opening door, offering reassurance. "Don't try to get through until we give the word," he commanded, knowing that the man was probably desperate to get away from threat promised by the ever-increasing smoke that was seeping through the gap. "There a chance that something could slip. If it does the door may slam shut and we don't want you losing any limbs."
"Hurry!"
"Don't panic, we are… Can you speed it up, Alan?"
"Applying more pressure. Keep clear, Gordon."
"I'm clear. Just keep opening those doors."
"At full pressure. How much smoke is there?"
"Too much."
Now Gordon could see their victim. The man was hovering just inside the ever-widening gap, desperate to make his escape. He was just about to say: "Keep calm. It won't be long now," when he heard a pop and saw a flash of light. "What was that?"
"Walnut exploded. It's started a chain reaction!"
There were more mini-explosions, like the early moments of a firework display, and the air was filled with acrid smoke as walnut after walnut erupted in a flash of light.
Gordon saw the victim duck as he tried to dodge the shrapnel.
"Hurry," the man begged again. "The shells are lethal." He ducked again. "One of them tore right though the bag that holds the corn starch."
"Okay. Five seconds more," Gordon promised against a backdrop of what sounded like giant popcorn reverberating in an echo chamber. "Four… Three… Come on, Alan. Two…"
There was a larger explosion as a cluster of walnuts detonated.
"NOW!" With no thoughts of what it would mean if another member of the family lost an arm, Gordon reached through the gap and grabbed the victim's clothing to pull him to safety.
The room was obliterated in an explosion of white light.
Gordon wasn't about to hang around to check out the damage. He dragged the victim over to the open door of the Crab and with a puffed: "Get in!", and Alan pulling on the latter's hands to assist, he pushed him into the cab.
"Go, Alan!" Gordon launched himself into the vehicle behind the victim, skidding across the floor and slamming into the door on the other side. He jumped to his feet as the machine started moving and sealed the entrance closed.
Alan had swung his seat around 180 degrees and now he gunned the engine. Without the need to turn the Crab, and with those on board in a hurry to leave, he floored it.
All three occupants were slammed forward when there was another, larger, explosion: one powerful enough to shunt the Crab down the corridor. Alan, thrown against the controls, only just failed to gain enough control over the vehicle to stop an unplanned meeting with one of the thick concrete walls. The pencil-thin pliers rammed into the reinforced concrete and stuck.
"Hurry, Alan!" Gordon urged.
"I can't!" Alan leant on the lever that should have withdrawn the pliers from where they were embedded like the tines of a fork into the wall.
"Back up!"
"I'm trying!" Alan had thrown the Crab into reverse even as Gordon had given the command. The machine's engine roared and strained, but the pliers seemed to be welded into place.
"Keep trying!" Gordon directed. "I'll see if I can wiggle the blades free." He reached in front of his brother and tried to manipulate the controls.
Their victim was standing at the front of the cab, peering through the windscreen at the obstacle to their escape. "Something seems to be jammed in the hinge."
"Huh?" Gordon checked for himself. "He's right." There was another mini-explosion behind them. "Keep trying to back up, Alan." He flung open the right-hand door and climbed out onto the Crab's framework. Adrenaline pumping, he kept climbing, up onto the articulated arm that supported the pliers. Standing precariously on the two blades' pivot point, he slammed his foot down on the obstruction.
It didn't move.
"C'mon," he growled and stomped downwards again. "Move you hunk of j…"
His third assault on the obstruction was made at a slightly different angle to the first two and he was relieved to see it slip slightly. "Nearly got it!" He stomped again.
A white light erupted out of the walnut storeroom swallowing up the Crab as walnut shells peppered the vehicle and ricocheted off the walls. Gordon, caught off guard by the severity of the explosion and a jolt that ran through the Crab, lost his balance. Only his lightning reflexes, tuned by years of life and death situations, stopped him from tumbling in an uncontrolled fall onto the hard concrete. He grabbed one of the closing pincers with both arms and hung on.
"Stop the… thing!" the victim yelled, seeing his fall and the imminent danger of amputation.
Alan, his own reflexes as fast and fine-tuned as his brother's, heard the yell and, instinct reacting quicker than conscious thought, obeyed.
Gordon, feeling his arm almost caught in the middle of a metal on metal sandwich, let go and fell to the ground in a more controlled descent. He jumped back into the cab. "Let's get out of here."
"I'm with you," Alan slammed the Crab into reverse, which yet again knocked his passengers off their feet. He corrected the vehicle's direction, pressed down on the accelerator, and the International Rescue machine lurched forward once more.
Gordon picked himself back off the floor. "Everyone all right?"
Their victim sat up, deciding that it was safer to stay on the floor. "Think so," he admitted, and coughed. "Thanks for getting me out of there."
"Save your thanks until we're home free," Alan told him, threading the Crab, like a length of cotton through the eye of a needle, down the corridor and out into smoky, cool, 'fresh' air. He motored clear of the bunker, drew up parallel to Mobile Control, and stopped.
Only then did the three men take a moment to regain their breaths, steady their heartbeats, and let the adrenaline ebb away.
"Are we safe now?" the Hartzee employee asked.
"Unless an asteroid lands on us, we're fine," Gordon told him. He reached down to help the other man to his feet and let out a yelp when their hands made contact.
The victim let go as if he'd been scolded. "Did I hurt you?" He scrambled to his feet unaided.
"No…" Gordon examined the red and blistered back of his hand. "I got nailed by something." As Alan pulled a first aid kit down from its locker, he found a tacky blob of something unidentifiable on his sleeve. Gingerly touching the blob, he sniffed the residue on his fingers. "Corn starch."
"Put this on," Alan was holding one half of a glove. "This'll keep the wound cool until we get you into Thunderbird Two."
Gordon placed his palm on the glove and the other half was placed over the burn. Despite his brother's care he winced.
"Is it sore?" Alan asked, sealing the edges of the glove
"Not now that the air can't get to it." Gordon examined his lurid green gel-like appendage. He grinned, holding it high. "Remind you of anyone?"
"I'm sure he'd rather be wearing that than what he's got at the moment." Alan swung open the door and jumped down, reaching up to give the Hartzee man and his injured brother a hand out.
They were joined by Scott and John, along with a couple of representatives from the corporation. The latter two greeted the rescuee warmly and piled thanks onto the men of International Rescue, before leading their man away.
Scott had spied his brother's injury. "Is that serious?"
"Nah." Gordon gave a careless shrug.
Scott looked at Alan, who made a face.
Based on his encyclopaedic knowledge of his brothers, Scott interpreted the signal to mean something. "I'm going to take Thunderbird Two and put out the fire. While I'm doing that, John, you can fix Gordon up in the sickbay."
"Right."
And both Alan and Scott knew that the latter had interpreted the former's signal correctly when Gordon followed his older brother towards the Thunderbird Two without complaint. "Alan, I'll leave the pod here. You can stow away our equipment."
"F-A-B. Mobile Control too?"
"If you've finished before I put the fire out, yes. The sooner we're home the better." Scott leant closer and lowered his voice. "Virgil's out of surgery and is breathing on his own."
"Yes?!" Alan, whose face had been reflecting some of the concern he had for Gordon's hand, brightened. "That's primo news."
Scott would have liked to have taken the time to share his youngest brother's delight and relief, but he had a job to do. He turned and jogged over to Thunderbird Two.
-F-A-B-
"Sit down," John instructed. "And strap in."
"It's not easy one handed," Gordon reminded him. "Besides, we're in the sickbay, we won't feel a thing."
"It's only a safety precaution, and you know full well that Scott won't lift off until he knows we're both secure."
"I know."
As he made sure that Gordon's harness would hold firm, John wondered at his brother's relaxed attitude. Only days earlier he would have been a mess of jittery nerves at the very idea of someone else – even Scott – flying Thunderbird Two in the middle of a mission. Clearly Virgil's improvement and the knowledge that the next stage of his treatment was underway had relaxed the younger man.
Having claimed an adjacent seat, placed the paraphernalia on a table between them, and done up his own safety harness, John pointed to the table. "Put your hand on there." Having pulled on a pair of latex gloves of his own and donned a mask, he began unsealing Gordon's glove. "We had word before you guys made your escape. Virgil's out of surgery."
A light on the wall told them that Thunderbird Two was airborne.
"Yeah?" Gordon's exclamation of delight was tempered with a hiss of pain as part of the burn tried to stick to the glove. "Careful!"
"I am…" John managed to avoid making a concerned sound as he examined the wound. He picked up a bottle of cooling and healing gel. "He's breathing on his own too." He squirted the gel onto the back of the injured hand.
"Great! So, we'll be able to have a proper conversation with him?"
"Last I heard he was still in recovery, but if everything's gone to plan…"
-F-A-B-
Virgil took his time recovering from surgery.
That was until he heard a familiar voice and felt a familiar touch. "Time to wake up, Honey."
Something in Virgil's sluggish mind reminded him that speech hadn't been that easy and he refrained from making a verbal response. Instead he concentrated on opening his eyes.
The light was bright, and he closed them again.
The soothing fingers running through his hair insisted that he open them again. He did so and saw three reassuringly familiar faces and two less so staring down on him.
He wondered if he could manage a hello.
"'Lo."
His voice sounded rough and he attempted to clear his throat.
It hurt.
"Don't try to rush it," Brains advised. "Take your time. You've been given pain relief for the tracheotomy reversal, so you'll probably feel groggy for a while."
Virgil decided that "groggy" was a good word; one that was an adequate match for the way he was feeling, and concluded that there was no point trying to fight it.
He fell asleep.
When he next awoke it was to the accompaniment of what sounded like an argument. He looked up at his father and grandmother, both of whom appeared to be mildly exasperated.
"Are you with us, Son?" Jeff asked.
Not willing to risk speech just yet, Virgil nodded.
"How are you feeling?"
Virgil tried to analyse how he was feeling. He frowned as he worked his way through the various parts of this body.
Legs: Non-existent.
Lower torso: Ditto.
Left hand: See above.
Right hand…
Virgil became aware that his right hand felt different from the way it had for the last few days, in that it was actually feeling something. The air felt hot on his skin, while the sheet beneath it felt cool. Looking down to double-check that everything was happening as he expected, he attempted to raise it.
Jeff saw the movement, only a few millimetres off the bed, and grinned. "That must be a welcome change." He took his son's hand and held it.
Virgil took a gamble that his speech muscles were also working. "So's tha'."
Jeff's grin broadened. Then it reversed into a frown. Looking over his shoulder to where the argument had grown louder, he spoke. "Don't you want to ask your patient how he is?"
Brains hurried back to the bed, a broad smile spilling across his face when he saw that Virgil was watching him. "How are you feeling?"
Virgil tried analysing his body again. "Ches' sore."
"Your chest's sore?" Brains clarified. "That's understandable, Ana Eden wasn't about to let you die without a f-fight. I-In that respect you're lucky with the treatment you've undergone these last few days. Apart from that, how are you?"
One word sprang to mind. "Rough." Virgil's voice sounded just as rough and he tried to clear his throat again.
The pain was still there. "Throa' sore."
"Your throat's sore?" Bryce Dower pushed Brains out of the way. "How?"
"When I cl'… try t' cle'r i'."
Timoti Bailey edged in front of Jeff. "That shouldn't be happening." He made notes into his tablet PC. "The tracheotomy can't have been sealed properly."
Brains looked annoyed. "The tracheal tissue was rehabilitated perfectly," he stated. "Colin Eden's team do good work."
"Well it can't be the new skin that's causing him pain. It won't have any nerves in it yet."
"Could it just be that his throat muscles haven't had any exercise for days?" Jeff asked, as much to forestall another argument as anything. "He hasn't been able to speak normally, and they've probably lost muscle tone."
Virgil relaxed. His father's explanation may have been total hogwash to anyone with medical knowledge, but it sounded plausible to a layperson and he was prepared to believe it. Especially as that tiny movement he'd made with his arm earlier had been just as taxing. He looked to his left. "Hi, Gran'ma."
She smiled down at him. "Hello, Darling." She glared back at the two researchers and Brains, who'd retreated into another huddle at the foot of the bed and had started another intense discussion. "Don't mind them. They analyse each little piece of information and each of them comes up with a different interpretation for it. But they seem pleased with your progress."
Now Virgil looked around him. "Where's…?"
"They, ah, they won't be long," his father promised. "They, um, thought we were going to be waiting for hours so they went for a flight to kill some time. Your operation didn't take as long as we thought." He looked at his son sympathetically. "They wanted to be here when you woke up."
"When will they ge' here?"
Jeff checked his watch. "Quarter of an hour?" He reached across to the bedside cabinet. "Do you want to do some exercises?" He held up Virgil's stress ball. "The sooner you start; the sooner you'll get full mobility back."
Virgil nodded and felt the soft spherical object slip into his hand.
He only managed about ten insignificant squeezes within that quarter hour and was shocked by how weak his sole good arm had become after what had, to him, been such a short space of time.
He was glad to have the excuse to drop the ball when the door flew open and his brothers burst inside.
He greeted them with a smile, a slightly raised arm, and an almost non-existent wave.
"Virg!" Scott exclaimed. "You raced us back!" He pulled two chairs closer. "Sorry we weren't here, but we couldn't go any faster. You understand."
Virgil nodded.
John accepted one of the chairs. "It's great to see you move again."
"Grea' t' be able t' move."
"You can talk too?"
"Ye'."
Alan had raced around to the side of the bed. He picked up Virgil's hand. "Challenge you to a thumb wrestle."
Virgil chuckled. "Later."
"Thumb wrestling?" Gordon flopped into a chair. "I thought I was the Tracy champion at thumb manoeuvres."
He'd tried not to make it obvious, but no one had missed seeing his bandaged hand. "What happened to you?" Jeff growled.
"This?" Gordon held the hand aloft. "This is nothing. I merely had an argument with something hot and sweet. She won."
Alan snickered. "I call it just desserts."
Keeping the back of his hand out of harm's way, Gordon folded his arms in a pretend huff. "I am dis-custard by that comment."
"You're nuts."
Virgil wasn't reassured and was unable to follow the hidden meanings behind their byplay. "You sure you' okay?"
"Of course, I am." Gordon leant forward to prove it. "Don't worry about me, Virgil," he insisted. "I've got some of Brains' magical miracle medicine on it. I'm fine."
"D-Do you want me to have a look at it?" Brains checked.
Gordon gave a dismissive wave of his good hand. "Nah."
"Yes," Scott amended, a beat before John. "We've already got one of us out of action, we don't need to make it two."
The Australasian researchers decided to go elsewhere to analyse the information collected up to this point, and Gordon and Brains retired to a corner for a quick examination.
The rest of the group clustered around Virgil's bed.
Jeff turned to his second eldest. "Can we use your blocker now, John?"
"He's not on any form of life support?"
Virgil would have said no, but he looked to his father for confirmation. He wasn't 100 percent sure what state he was in yet.
John got out his device and switched it on. "We're right now."
"What does tha' do?" Virgil asked.
"It stops any electronic signal from getting out or eavesdropping mechanism from getting in," John explained. "While that's turned on, no one can overhear us."
"Good," Jeff approved. "Start at the beginning, John."
"The call was from Hartzee Foods. They had a fire in their main factory, which the local authorities were trying to get under control. They needed International Rescue to…"
For the second time in less than ten minutes the door burst open. Bryce and Timoti stood there, dishevelled, red-faced, and panting. "What's happened?!"
At once everyone was on full alert.
Scott was on his feet and ready for action. Just what that action was to be, he wasn't sure. He could only hope that it had nothing to do with the exposure of International Rescue. "What do you mean what's happened?!" he echoed as the researchers pushed past him.
"We were just downloading the latest batch of information when everything turned to custard!" Timoti claimed.
"Custard!?" Gordon pulled his hand away from where Brains was re-bandaging it after his examination. "What's that about custard?"
Bryce dashed over to the console next to Virgil's bed and started feverishly examining it. "We stopped getting a signal." He checked all the connections and read-outs. "Subject seems stable."
His "subject" looked up at him from the pillow. "I'm fine."
John turned off the blocker and shoved it into his pocket, hiding it from the researchers.
"I'm getting a signal." Timoti announced, visibly relaxing. "Must have been a glitch in the system."
"A glitch?!" Bryce snapped. "We shouldn't be getting glitches! There must be something wrong!"
"I, ah, I know a bit about communications equipment," John offered. "Could I take a look?"
"You know?" The Australian still seemed frazzled. "What do you know?"
"J-John set up the communications link between the robot here and you in Australia," Brains reminded him. "Remember? What he doesn't know about communications equipment isn't worth knowing."
"Thanks, Brains." John accepted the compliment. He got to his feet. "Do you want me to check it out?"
Bryce took a step backwards, running a shaky arm across his forehead. "Yeah. Okay."
John pulled a small toolkit out of his bag and swung the unit around, so he could see the connections at the back. "Ah," he said and withdrew a mini-screwdriver out of his kit. "Loose wire." He pretended to use the screwdriver, placed a meter against the various points to check that his deception hadn't created any problems, and then swung the console back into position. "All done." He replaced his tools.
"Thank you!" His arm was almost wrung out of its socket by Bryce Dower. "We can't afford to lose any data. To do so might nullify our research and render the whole experiment void!"
"Right…" John cast a bemused look at his family. "We don't want that… Do we?"
"Come on, Bryce," Timoti gave his associate a companionable pat on the shoulder. "Now we're getting uncontaminated data, let's go back and start the analysis again."
Much relieved, both researchers left the room.
There was a full minute of silence after they left. Then John took the blocker out of his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. "Sorry."
"It's not your fault, John," his father reassured him.
"What do we do now?" Alan asked. "Whisper?"
"Go back to the old tried and true methods." Scott got his phone out of his pocket and switched on the music player. He placed it just inside the door to the room.
Alan pulled back the curtains. "The windows are double-glazed, but it's better to be safe than sorry. He tuned his phone into Scott's frequency and placed the unit on the windowsill.
"And… On the off chance that someone's hiding in here." Gordon placed his next to the doors leading to the ensuite facilities.
"Do we want one on this side? Just in case?" John stood his phone against the wall that ran behind the head of Virgil's bed.
The family were surrounded by a wall of sound.
Jeff leant forward. "Okay, Boys. Tell us exactly what happened…"
To be continued…