Triple Jeopardy – Chapter 13

Sleep was proving elusive as the horrible, gasping sound permeated their camp, turning their waking moments into an inescapable nightmare.

Virgil had finally fallen into a light doze when he was suddenly awoken by something hard flailing against him. "Wha…?" He struggled to his knees. "Scott? … Alan!"

But Alan was already sitting up by Scott's side, appalled by the spectacle. As John and Gordon crawled closer to help, they all saw what could have been an animal fighting for survival as their big brother sucked greedily for air, arching his back as he tried, desperately, to drag in the oxygen he needed to live.

Alan attempted to pull free, but Scott, an expression of pure terror on his face, had a tight grasp of both his and Virgil's shirts as if he was fighting to keep hold of a life preserver.

Or fighting to keep hold of life.

"Get the oxygen tank." Alan pointed to the wooden base of the pilot's chair.

John, unencumbered by someone hanging onto his shirt front, reached into the wooden framework and withdrew the cylinder. With no further request for advice, he pulled the mask over Scott's face and opened the valve. "How much have we got left?"

"Not enough. Go get that stuff I left inside Thunderbird One… Gordon!" Alan pulled out his pocketknife and opened it, before pulling Scott's from out of his brother's pocket and handing them both over. "Get the fire as hot as you can and put these into it!"

"Right!" Shouldering aside the panel that kept Thunderbird One's lights out of the bivouac, Gordon dashed over to what remained of the fire and prodded it to provide fuel. He shoved both blades into the red-hot embers.

John came running back, the panel clanging as stormed across it. "Here!" he pushed the small pile of equipment into Alan's hands. "What else can I do?"

Alan had already formulated his plan. "I've put a pile of the usable first aid equipment inside storage compartment two. Bring me a bag of bandages, syringe, some spare plastic bags and sanitiser…"

John ran back to Thunderbird One.

"Gordon!" Alan held out the metal microphone boom that John had just given him. "Sterilise this in the fire!"

"F-A-B." Gordon grabbed the boom and pushed it into the embers next to the two blades.

"Okay, Scott," Alan said, and wondered why his voice wasn't trembling. "We're going to help you, but you're going to have to trust us." He wondered if his words had got through until he saw a tiny nod. "Good. But before I can help you, you're going to have to let go of my shirt." He gently attempted to release the tightly clamped fingers. "Can you do that?"

"Here..." Virgil reached across. "Hold my hands, Scott. Hold them as tightly as you want. Okay? You're not going to hurt me and I'm not going to leave you." The second "Okay?" was said to Alan.

Finally released from the death grip, Alan grabbed the valve that John had brought from Thunderbird One and dashed over to the fire. "Everything sterilised yet?"

"Close," Gordon informed him. "Are you going to drain his chest?"

Alan nodded.

"Oh…" Gordon didn't know what else to say. "Right..."

Squatting on the ground, Alan looked up at two of his brothers. "Can you bring the stuff over, John? I need a syringe, some tape and some plastic bags. Any other first aid equipment we've got can go into the bivouac."

"F-A-B."

"Take up the boom, Gordon," Alan instructed, "but don't burn yourself!" he added when he saw his impatient brother reach out for the glowing length of metal tubing. "Hold it still while I slip the nipple inside..."

Pulling the sleeve of Scott's shirt down over his hand as barrier against the metal's heat, Gordon obeyed. He grimaced as the heat permeated the cloth but didn't complain.

The valve was long, cylindrical, and with two conical ends. The central section was open on one side and contained a hollow sphere with holes on its north, east, and south faces. Twisting the tap that adjusted the sphere's orientation meant that one cone was blocked, but air or liquid could flow freely into the valve before making a right angle turn and exiting out of the side hole; while another twist would close the side opening off and allow the unimpeded flow to continue along the length of the valve.

With Gordon bracing himself against the radiating heat and the force of his brother's thrusts, Alan rammed one of the valve's conical sections into the end of the boom. "Shove that back into the fire."

Gordon obeyed.

Alan removed the syringe from its protective packaging and picked a red-hot knife from out of the embers. As he cut off the needle-housing end of the syringe, he instructed Gordon to release a length of tape. "And get that boom out of the fire."

"Ready when you are."

Alan made sure that the plunger on the syringe was depressed as far as he could go, then, trying not to touch the sterilised end of the microphone boom, he taped it to the free end of the valve. "The syringe's melted to the nipple. That, with the tape, should form an airtight seal… I hope..."

"Put it back in the fire?"

"No. I need more tape." Slipping the syringe end of the microphone boom into a plastic bag, and trying to keep the valve's opening clear, Alan sealed the bag tight around the cylindrical section. "Trying to keep everything as sterile as possible," he explained as he pushed the end of the boom that wasn't constrained by the plastic bag back into the fading embers. "Don't let the plastic melt."

Gordon saw the embers glow red. "I've got an idea! Be right back!" He dashed away into the darkness.

When he returned, he was holding what appeared to be a coconut with its top chopped off. "This should help."

"What is it?"

"Tunicate."

"What?"

"A type of sea squirt. This species; at least I hope it's this species; releases a compound that Pacific Islanders use as an anaesthetic. Once we've finished with it, it can go back into the sea."

"Does it work?"

"I think so." Gordon stared into the coconut. "At least, I hope so."

Alan pulled a knife from out of the embers, looked at its glowing blade, and then returned it back to the sterilising heat. His hands were shaking. His face, glistening with nervous sweat in the flickering firelight, was a mixture of apprehension, fear, and insecurity.

Gordon saw the expression the moment before Alan buried his face into his shaking arms. "Alan?" He reached out to his brother.

"I don't know if I-I can do this."

"Of course, you can. I have faith in you. We all do. Including Scott."

"B-B-But what if I make it worse? What if I...?" His face ashen in the moonlight and the harsh glow from Thunderbird One, Alan looked at Gordon. "How could I face Dad?"

"You'd never be able to face him if you did nothing." Gordon squeezed his sibling's shoulder. "You're giving Scott a chance, Alan, and that's all we're asking of you. Give him a chance."

"I can't do this…"

"You can." Getting to his feet, and pulling his little brother with him, Gordon turned Alan so he could look him in the eye. "As unpleasant as it is, you're doing the right thing. It's what Scott would do if it was one of us in trouble."

Alan nodded.

"And we'll help. We all know what needs to be done. Give the order and we'll snap to it without question."

Alan nodded again. "Right!" He bent down and then straightened, looking at the open pocketknives resting in his hand. He took a deep breath. "They should be sterile enough. Bring the boom."

Back in the bivouac things were worse. Scott was still gasping, his face an oxygen-deprived tint of blue. The oxygen cylinder was discarded to the side of the bivouac, where it looked like someone had thrown it.

"It's empty," John explained.

Scott looked from one brother to the next, begging mutely for each of them to help him. It was a look that chilled them to the bone.

Scott Tracy had always been the one that his brothers had gone to for help when their father wasn't available; and, occasionally, when he was. Even when Scott had been away, furthering his education or in the Air Force, he'd always been seen as a rock; strong; sure; and a reassuring, permanent, source of support. To see him pleading for their help was disconcerting at the least and distressing at the most.

Crouching down, Alan pulled back the silver blanket and the remains of the shirt, and readied the sanitiser. To those who didn't know them, he and his brothers were in full International Rescue mode: calm, confident, and in control. But, to someone who knew them like Scott knew them, he could see the near panic, fear, and uncertainty in their eyes.

And he was feeling the same.

"Wait!"

"Wait?" John looked over at Gordon. "He can't wait."

"He can for this. Where are you going to operate, Alan?"

Alan pointed to the right side of Scott's chest, several ribs below his armpit. "There."

"Right... Come on, Darling," Gordon purred, removing the sea squirt from its coconut tank. "This acts as an anaesthetic," he explained, as a strange clear liquid dripped from the creature and down Scott's side.

"It does what?" John stared at the strange spectacle. "Does it work?"

"Of course, it does. Gordon bluffed, returning the sea squirt back into the coconut. "My fingers have gone numb."

Wishing they could do the same for his emotions, Alan poured the sanitiser over the operation site. Then he weighed the first knife in his hands, overcome by another moment of indecision.

"You've got to, Alan." It was Virgil who spoke, his voice hoarse with concern. He looked back down at his elder brother. "Don't look there!" he ordered when the frantic eyes turned to where the stained skin was exposed, and moved so that he formed a human screen in front of the operation that was about to take place.

"You're in the way, Virgil," Alan told him. "You'll have to shift."

Releasing one of the grasping hands, Virgil did an awkward dance around the head of the chair. "Look at me, Scott," he commanded, as he renewed his hold of the hand. "No, look at me!" he repeated when the pain-filled blue eyes strayed. "Look and listen. This is for your own good, right?"

"Ready, Virg?"

"Almost." Looking down, Virgil found a rock that may have been the hypnostone, and returned it to its terrified owner. "Squeeze this and my hand. Squeeze them both as tightly as you need to. You won't hurt either of us. Now… Scott... I'm sorry..." He placed his free hand over his brother's eyes, blocking out the horror that was about to occur. "Just relax. This won't take long." He didn't know if the patient understood or not as he glanced over his shoulder. "We're ready."

Alan wasn't sure that he was. "Right. Thanks..." He looked down at the stained skin that he held taut between two fingers, and again at the knife. Then, with a "I'm sorry, Scott," he plunged the blade between two ribs.

Scott's instinctive reaction was to defend himself against his attacker. Not having the breath to be able to make a sound, let alone cry out, it registered on his face in a terrible grimace of agony, as he reared away, kicking his legs and flinging his arms as he tried to repel the source of his pain. The "hypnostone" fell to the ground.

The knife was pulled out of Alan's hands; spinning away into the darkness to be lost until daylight. Applying pressure to the recently created wound in an attempt to prevent unwanted blood loss, he could do little more than gasp: "Hold him down!"

"We're trying!" John had thrown his full body weight against the shaking thighs and pelvis, trying to keep them still whilst Gordon strapped Scott's lower limbs down using the pilot's seat's leg safety harness.

Virgil grabbed both of Scott's hands and, unwilling to apply any force to the abused ribcage, leant across the seat, pressed his brother's flailing arms against the red cushioning and used his own body as a sightscreen. "Ready when you are, Alan."

"I can't do anything!" Unwilling to release the pressure on where he was stemming the flow of blood, Alan felt helpless. "I've dropped one of the knives."

"Gordon! Take mine!" Virgil adjusted his position so his brother was able to reach his pocket. "I sharpened it."

"I remember." Gordon pulled the pocketknife out of his brother's trousers and rammed both blades into the fire.

It seemed to take forever for him to return. "Careful. They're red hot." Unwilling to add first degree burns to Scott's list of injuries, he waved the first blade in the air in an attempt to cool it down.

Alan accepted the newly cooled knife. "Everyone ready?"

No.

"Yes."

"Wait!"

"Wait?"

Gordon dashed around his younger brother until he was next to the patient's head. "Listen to me, Scott," he began, trying to sound calm and soothing. "Listen to my voice. You can only hear my voice… Mine and Virgil's."

Virgil looked wildly at his brother.

Gordon, not having any better ideas, shrugged. Seeing a likely candidate, he pounced on the hypnostone. "Can you hear me, Scott?"

There was no response. Nothing to show that the words were getting through.

Gordon would have to hope that they were. "Hold this and don't let go!" he commanded, wrapping the almost lifeless fingers around the rock. "Can you feel it?" He softened his voice again. "This is your hypnostone, remember, Scott? When you squeeze it, your pain passes out of your body and into the hypnostone. When Virgil tells you to squeeze: squeeze. Each time you squeeze the hypnostone your pain will disappear, just as each time you squeeze Virgil's hand the pain will disappear. The pain will lessen with each squeeze and you will feel better. Do you understand?"

There was no acknowledgement from the patient.

"Now, I want you to listen to Virgil's voice," Gordon commanded. "Don't listen to anyone else unless I say your name and lay my hand on your forehead like this…" He placed his hand on his brother's forehead. "Scott…"

No reaction.

Carry on. Now's not the time to question whether or not this is going to work. "From now on you will only be able to hear Virgil's voice. Do what he says, and he will help you. Listen to Virgil's voice and only Virgil's voice until I next say your name and touch you on the forehead."

After a second demonstration, Gordon drew back. "Tell him to keep calm, Virgil. And keep your voice calm, and steady, and, and hypnotic, and keep talking to him. Don't stop."

"Hypnotic…? Ah…" Virgil took a deep breath and made himself sound calm and in control. "Listen to me, Scott… Listen to my voice. Squeeze my hand… That's good. Can you feel the pain passing from you to your hypnostone? Squeeze it as hard as you like. It can take it and so can I..." He glanced back at Gordon and received a reassuring nod. "Now I want you to look at me, Scott... Don't look anywhere else..." He was surprised when the panic-filled blue eyes fixed firmly on him. "Good... Now, I won't let you let go of the hypnostone again, because I'm here to help you… I'm going to hold onto your hands and together we're going to squeeze the hypnostone. Together we're going to squeeze the pain out of your body." He hung onto the invalid's hands with a force that alone seemed to possess all the strength required to push the pain into the rock. "That's good... Squeeze hard. Squeeze the pain away…"

Gordon took a deep breath. "We're ready, Alan."

This time there was no hesitation and the blade slid through the earlier cut past resisting flesh and bone.

Scott, his face contorting with agony, squirmed against his brothers' restraining bodies. His gasping became louder.

"Squeeze hard. Squeeze my hand. Squeeze the pain out of your body and into the hypnostone. We can take it…"

"Keep him still..." Sweat was pouring off Alan's face as he pushed, frightened that he'd go too far and puncture the lung or that the blade would break off beneath the skin. A bead of sweat dripped off his nose.

Gordon used his sleeve to dab his brother's face dry.

Alan barely noticed as, with another push, the resistance lessened. "Where's the other knife?"

"Here!" Gordon handed it to him.

Alan slipped the second knife, blade against blade, in beside the first. "Give me the drain!"

"Here!" Gordon handed over the boom/valve contraption.

Scott stopped struggling: too exhausted and weak to do anything except gasp.

All his brothers, except for Virgil, released their grip on him and sat back.

Alan permitted himself a split second to catch his breath. "Okay," he cuffed his forehead on his sleeve. "Can you pull the two blades apart from each other, Gordon? Not too hard, I don't want to hurt him more than I have to, and I don't want them snapping off. Just enough so I can slip the drain in between them."

"Right," Gordon agreed. Taking a tight grip on each knife he pulled.

"Squeeze hard… You're doing well…"

Neither blade moved.

"I can't do it! John! Help me!"

"Listen to my voice. You're not feeling any pain. You're forcing it all out of your body… Squeeze my hand. Squeeze hard…"

John didn't hesitate. Trying to slip his fingers between the two handles that seems almost glued together, he pulled upwards, feeling the resistance of the ribs. Knowing that he was going to need more leverage, he stood, using his leg muscles to exert maximum force. Sweat dripped off his forehead and down his nose; as much a consequence of the stress he was under as the effort his was putting into his task.

Gordon, doing his best to drag the lower blade away from its twin, was feeling the same stress. Their knives were all made to International Rescue's specifications and normally he would have trusted anything Brains designed with his life; but, now that he was trusting it with Scott's, he was terrified that it would fail. Gently at first and then with more and more effort until his full weight was on the lower hilt, he pushed as hard as he could on the handle. "Hurry up, Alan. We're not going to be able to hold this for long." His sweat soaked the sandy ground and he felt a bead of John's fall onto his neck from above.

Virgil looked into blue eyes that seemed to be growing dull, felt the clinging hands lessen their grip, and looked back over his shoulder. "He's getting weaker," he whispered.

When there was no response from his straining brothers, he turned back. "You'll be all right, Scott," he announced." You know you will, and I know you will. Remember International Rescue's motto and don't give up. Just listen to me and my voice and hang in there..."

Trying to reach between two men straining against the force of two healthy ribs, Alan realised that he had twin obstacles in his path. "Can you move your shoulder a little, Gordon? I can't get in." His brother, grunting with the effort, obeyed and Alan slipped the narrower, sterile end of the boom in between the two blades. "You're doing great… Not – long – now..." He pushed the drain through the incision he'd just made. "Don't – want – it – too far into – the chest – cavity," he panted as he pushed. "Don't – want – it – to – irritate – his – lung."

With a final thrust the drain slid home, and Alan rewarded himself with a breath. "Remove the knives one at a time. Try not to cut him any further."

"You go first, Gordon," John suggested. "I'll try and keep the pressure off."

"F-A-B." The lower blade was slid free. "Your turn, John."

"Right. Keep pushing on that drain, Alan, we don't want to have to start this all over again."

Even once the second blade was clear, none of the Tracys stopped for congratulations. Instead Alan double-checked that the valve was closed to the world and, careful not to damage the plastic bag he was working through, started sliding the plunger slowly out of the syringe. "Please work… please work…" he muttered under his breath. "Please work…"

A vile looking liquid started filling the syringe.

Gordon gave out a whoop of joy. "It's worked! Nice one, Alan!"

"Is it enough?" Alan wondered to himself. "Come on, Scott. Breathe!"

But there was no noticeable change in Scott's shallow breathing patterns.

"Breathe in, Scott!" Alan insisted. "Fill your lungs up!"

"Breathe in, Scott!" Virgil echoed. "Listen to me! Breathe in!" He took a deep breath to demonstrate the process.

The order seemed to sink into Scott's pain-filled brain. A deeper breath was attempted.

Still pulling on the plunger Alan watched as the level of liquid grew in the syringe. The plunger popped free and the gunk from Scott's chest cavity flowed out to be collected in the bag.

"You're doing well, Scott!" Gordon cheered. "Breathe again."

The level of foul liquid grew higher in the bag.

And stopped flowing.

A disappointingly small amount lay in the bottom of the bag.

"What?" Alan stared at the syringe in his hand. "What's happened? Why's it stopped?" He twisted the valve so that the wound was separate from the world and pushed the plunger back into the syringe.

"Try again," John urged.

"I am..." Alan opened the valve a second time and started withdrawing the contents of Scott's chest cavity.

The syringe didn't appear to be sucking anything.

Alan felt almost panicked. He must have done what he'd feared and punctured his brother's lung. He was withdrawing precious, life-giving air instead of literally giving Scott breathing space. Rather than making things better he'd made them worse. Sliding Thunderbird One's boom a millimetre back towards him, he started withdrawing the plunger again, silently begging for more liquid to appear.

But all he was sucking out was air.

He felt something touch his forehead. It was Gordon, wiping away the sweat that was beading there. He looked at his brother and saw his own fear mirrored in Gordon's eyes.

Gordon, not wanting to see the hopelessness that Alan felt, turned to John. But there was no escape from the sense of overriding fear and helplessness.

"It's working!"

"What...!?"

"He's breathing easier!"

Alan looked back at the bag, needing to double-check his own diagnosis, so different from Virgil's excited shout. "But..."

John crawled up to Scott's head to try to make his own eyes see what he wanted desperately to believe. "Virgil's right! He is breathing easier! His colour's better." He grabbed the makeshift stethoscope and placed it lightly on the patient, moving it about Scott's chest to listen to the various sounds. "What I think's happened, is that his rib's punctured his right lung. I can hear the air leaking out and filling his chest cavity, stopping both his lungs from expanding. If you can remove leaking air, he'll be able to breathe... With the left lung anyway."

"What?" Alan frowned at his elder brother, trying to make sense of what he was being told. Then he snapped into life. "Gordon! Cut that bag clear!" He closed the valve, shutting off the opening into Scott's chest.

Gordon, trying not to jog anything, twisted the top of the plastic bag and removed it and its liquid contents.

Alan sent home the plunger so all the air in the syringe was forced down its right-angled path and out. Then he twisted the valve until the opening was straight and obstruction free, and withdrew the plunger again. When it had reached its zenith, before it popped out of the syringe, he closed the valve a second time and forced the expelled air down and out.

He'd done this extraction process ten times before he became aware of minute signs that his treatment was working.

"He's breathing!" John exclaimed. "He's finding it easier! Keep it up, Alan! ... Come on, Scott."

Finally, the patient's breathing, although still noisy and inefficient, settled down into a reasonable, life preserving, pattern.

Alan allowed himself his own, steadying, breath before, trying to keep the area clean and stem any blood flow from the wound, he wrapped the bandages around where the drain entered the skin and secured them in place with duct tape.

Sitting back, he eyed his patient speculatively.

John watched him. "What?"

"I was just wondering about your coconut hack."

"You're thinking of giving him extra fluids?"

"I'm thinking that, if what you said was true, it won't hurt. He's been dehydrated more than once today."

"You could be right." John got to his feet. "Where's your stash, Gordon?"

"I'll find an appropriate coconut in mine. You see if you can find a sterile cannula and IV in yours."

"Okay. We'll be back in a moment."

Gordon returned within a minute, but John arrived five minutes later. "I took a detour to sterilise the cannula in the fire," he explained. "It was in the 'usable in an emergency' pile. And I've lashed a crosspiece onto a drill bit and sterilised that too. With any luck, we'll be able to use it like a corkscrew to drill a hole in the coconut. I just hope it's the correct diameter for the IV line."

"There are other coconuts if it's not," Gordon reassured him, and John began the task of drilling through the coconut's husk.

"See if you can sterilise that IV line, Gordon," Alan instructed. "But make sure that you leave some sterilising agent for his skin when we insert the cannula."

"Understood." Gordon did he was told before making sure he'd drained the residue from the line. "How's the coconut looking, John?"

"Nearly... finished..." John felt the drill penetrate into the coconut's watery cavity, and withdrew it. "Where's the IV?"

"Do we need to soften it, or will it fit into the hole?"

"Let's see..." John claimed the hollow tube, and, doing his best not to touch and contaminate the end, forced it into the coconut. "Nope. It's a perfect fit." He tipped it up and allowed the water to flow down the IV. "Can you see any air bubbles?"

"No." Gordon held the cannula out to Alan. "Do you want to do the honours, or do you need a break?"

"I'll do it." Alan accepted the cannula. Then, trying not to inflict even more pain on the patient, he inserted the needle-like syringe under the skin.

The coconut water began to flow into Scott's vein.

Alan sat back to survey his handiwork.

Gordon grinned as he gave his kid brother a congratulatory thump on the back. "Well done, Bro."

After rubbing his sleeve over his face to remove the sweat that soaked it, Alan crawled across until he was level with his invalid brother's head. "Still with us, Scott?"

There was no response.

"Hold on..." Gordon placed his hand on Scott's forehead. "Scott..." He intoned. "You can hear us all now. You can still pass the pain into the hypnostone, but you will also understand all that we say." He stood back. "Try again, Alan."

"Can you hear me, Scott?"

Scott twitched his lips and his hand gave a gentle jerk in an approximation of a thumbs-up signal.

Alan patted him on the shoulder. "Good." He managed a dry chuckle. "I always knew you were as tough as old boots, but you didn't have to make me prove it."

Again, the ghost of a smile crossed his patient's lips.

Alan patted him again and then noticed his blood-stained hands. "I'd better have a wash."

Gordon examined his own discoloured hands. "I'll come with you."

"Me too," John agreed. "I want to try contacting Brains again."

With some effort, Alan pushed himself to his feet, giving the engineer of the team a wink. "Do you know how to clear his chest, Virgil?"

"I think I can manage it."

"Back in a moment." Alan followed his brothers out of the bivouac, where he stood, stretched, and allowed the cool night breeze to caress his face.

"Well done, Alan." John gave his youngest brother a congratulatory pat on the back. "That was impressive."

"It was a team effort." Together, the three brothers began walking down to where a silver moon reflected on the water's edge. "I would have lost it if you hadn't worked out what was wrong."

"Lost it?" Looking into the coconut, Gordon checked that the sea squirt was unaffected by its role in the medical drama. "Why would you lose it? You were that calm and efficient that I'd almost let you drill a hole into my side." He released the animal back into its natural environment.

"Calm!" Alan held up shaking hands. "I'm a bundle of nerves! I'll tell you one thing those mannequins didn't do, and that's kick back."

"Maybe you should let your tutors know. It'll add an extra level of realism for my lessons in six months."

There was silence as the three of them washed their hands in the warm waters of the sea.

"We're going to have to keep clearing his chest so he can breathe, and I don't really want to leave that drain in there." Alan rubbed his nose on his sleeve. "It might aggravate his lungs even more than the broken ribs. And we've got no way of clearing it if he bleeds into it and we can't suck air out again. Plus, whatever happens, he's guaranteed to get an infection and I've got no idea what to do to combat that. Got anything in your aquatic medicine cabinet, Gordon?"

"No. Sorry." Gordon saw his younger brother's downcast face in the moonlight. "Don't let it worry you, Alan. As you said, Scott's tough. He's not going to just roll over and give up."

"True," John agreed. "But waiting for rescue isn't an option anymore. I'm going to go and see if I can contact Brains. I may not be able to hear him, but hopefully he'll be able to hear me."

-F-A-B-

Scott was trying to get comfortable. His left arm was free to hang down at his side, but his right was proving to be a problem. He couldn't rest it across his chest and the drain would get in the way if he tried to let it fall towards the ground.

Virgil saw his dilemma. "Here," he said, taking the hand up again. "I'll sit here and hold it. Okay?" Blue eyes looked at him and weak fingers squeezed gently. "You're welcome."

There was an almost imperceptible change in expression, and Virgil nodded. "I'll tell Alan you said thanks." The fingers squeezed again, and the blue eyes closed.

Two figures entered the bivouac and Virgil held a finger to his lips. "He's sleeping," he whispered. "Where's John?"

Gordon flicked his head towards the bright light beaming in through the door. "He's trying to contact Brains again."

"Good."

"Any problems?" Alan asked, flopping onto the ground.

"Aside from wondering where to put his arm..." Virgil shook his head. "He said to say thanks."

Alan frowned. "He said…?" Then he shrugged. "He's welcome."

Gordon chuckled. "Just not 'any time', huh?"

"No." Alan shook his head. "Definitely not." He rubbed his face with his hand, feeling the tell-tale roughness of a growing beard. "There's nothing more we can do now. We may as well try to get some sleep."

"There's something I can do," Virgil amended. "I'm going to make him a couple of armrests so he'll be comfortable – relatively speaking. Can someone hold his hand?"

"I'll do it." Alan supported the arm and allowed Virgil to get to his feet. "It'll make it easier to keep an eye on things." He frowned at Scott's wrist monitor. "His temperature's up slightly and his pulse is down."

"Maybe John and I should make the armrests, Virgil?" Gordon glanced towards the glare of the rocket plane. "And you think about if it's possible to get Thunderbird One airborne."

His brother shook his head. "Not enough light at the tail unit for a full inspection."

"I guess not."

"What I think we really need to think about is what we're going to do if the hijacker comes back in Thunderbird Two."

"Any suggestions?"

A speculative expression crossed Virgil's face. "A couple. But I'm guessing that you will be the man with the plan."

There was a half snore, half gasp from the chair.

John, who'd just returned with his radio, crouched down. "I've got it." He removed a couple of syringes of air.

"Looks like sleep's not going to be much of an option for someone," Virgil suggested.

John looked at the invalid's pale, closed, eyelids. "We'll take it in turns."

"Yeah… And, until it's my turn, I'm going make a start on the armrests." Virgil got to his feet, standing awkwardly because of the bivouac's roof. "You three get your heads together and see what plans you can come up with to deal with unwanted visitors. We don't want to be caught napping."

"We don't want Scott to be caught at all," Alan reminded him. "Do you think that, as a last resort, if we threaded a couple of long branches through the base..." He laid his hand on the shoulder of the chair next to him. "...the four of us could carry him to some hideout? The seat's heavy enough without his weight as well."

"I don't think the four of us would have an option, but to carry him. And he'll be more comfortable if we don't have to get him out of his seat."

"In that case, Gordon and I can take care of the branches," John began, "you work on the armrests, and Alan can stay here to keep an eye on him. Once we've got all those puzzles solved, we can start thinking about what we're going to do to reclaim Thunderbird Two. And then as soon as it's daylight, we can start looking for a safe refuge."

All four went their separate ways on their various tasks. Virgil; using a couple of triangular bandages, more strands of the survival bracelet, and some duct tape; fashioned a couple of armrests that had the minimum number pressure points, were easy to move out of the way, and could support the hypnostone as well as an arm. John and Gordon found a couple of long sturdy branches of similar length and slid them beneath the higher crossbeams of the wooden base, ready to carry the seat and occupant high.

And Alan kept a wary eye on the patient; withdrawing the air that was leaking into Scott's chest cavity every fifteen minutes or so.

Finally, the four of them collapsed to the ground in the shelter of the bivouac. But none of them contemplated sleep. They had plans to make.

Plans that were finalised by the time the sun was cresting the horizon.

To be continued...