Triple Jeopardy – Chapter 29

John and Alan felt the grit under their feet crunch when they touched down on what had formerly been the roof of Saint Michael's thoracic department.

John looked at the bed, squashed beneath a multitude of roofing materials. "I think you're right. He did want revenge."

"I heard that."

After allowing himself a brief chuckle as he adjusted his combined hearing protection and communications headset, Alan approached the door that led from the medical room to what had been his bedroom for some of the longest weeks of his life. With John close on his heels, and both of them keeping a watchful gaze out for any signs of life – at least of the simulated android variety – they walked through to the door to the anteroom.

"Wonder if I can still do this?" Alan pushed the blue button and the door from his former sleeping quarters opened.

"Guess Lady Luck's on our side," John said.

He was right… Until an angry red button was pressed.

-F-A-B-

A figure stirred on the bed. At once their attendant carer was at their side. "Take it slowly."

The patient groaned and looked up into an unfamiliar pair of framed blue eyes and was treated to a reassuring smile. "Wh-where am I?"

"Y-You are in Thunderbird Two of the International Rescue fleet," Brains told the president of Erikeep.

"Thunderbird Two?" Essmour Heeron frowned.

"It is a long story," he explained, as her two bodyguards hovered at the end of her bed and another lady brought a wheelchair over.

No. Not a wheelchair. A chair that floated in mid-air. A hoverchair?

"And we thought that you, ah, might like to hear the story outside in the fresh air," Brains finished. "If you are feeling well enough to sit up."

"Please." Essmour was still feeling a little groggy, and she accepted the help of the blue-spectacled man and her bodyguard.

"How are you feeling, Ms Heeron?" Kiskki asked.

"Ah…" Essmour took a moment to evaluate all the sensations that were swamping her. "I'm not in any pain," she admitted. "It's the first time in years."

Brains treated her to a bright smile. "Saint Michael's will be pleased to hear that their t-treatment has been successful."

Tin-Tin had raised the hoverchair so that its seat was level with the top of the bed. "If you would care to slide across onto this, Ms Heeron, we will ensure that you have a smooth ride outside."

Accepting the help of the two other women present, Essmour Heeron obeyed. "Why am I in a Thunderbird, Lorlyn?"

"There was an emergency at Saint Michael's, Ms Heeron," her female bodyguard informed her. "International Rescue was called in to help evacuate you, so you wouldn't have to endure any stress."

"Oh." Essmour smiled at the female International Rescue operative. "Thank you."

Her seat was lowered down into a more acceptable seating arrangement, and with a gentle touch on the back of the chair, Tin-Tin sent it wafting forwards.

If the citizens of Erikeep had hoped to see more of the interior of the fabled Thunderbird Two, all three were disappointed when, after a descent in a lift, and a short journey along a corridor as featureless as any at Saint Michael's, they emerged from beneath Thunderbird Two's nose into bright sunshine, blue skies, palm trees, and sandy soils.

Essmour frowned. "I don't understand."

"You were taking us to a hospital capable of caring for the president!" Kiskki's hand automatically went to his hip. He looked frustrated when his fingers fell on his empty holster.

Gordon had been setting up a table and six chairs, along with some refreshments, in the shade of Thunderbird Two. He fixed the president with his most charming smile as Tin-Tin guided the hoverchair to the end of the table. "We had to make an unexpected detour. But don't worry, our people have contacted your people to send a helijet to take you home. In the meantime," he extended his hand over the food, "we may as well relax while we wait for them to arrive. Sit down, everyone."

Both bodyguards claimed the seats on either side of their leader, and Gordon had to suppress a smile when Kiskki looked relieved that Tin-Tin chose the seat next to bodyguard Lorlyn.

Once everyone was seated and had selected their choice of refreshment from International Rescue's limited range, Essmour Heeron eyed her subordinates. "Now. Will someone please tell me what happened? Why have we landed…" She looked around her at what appeared to be a tropical paradise. "Here?"

"All we know is that there was a fire at the complex," Lorlyn told her. "Saint Michael's wanted to ensure that you were evacuated safely, so they called in International Rescue. Saint Michael's sedated you to ensure you weren't exposed to any stress."

"They drugged all of us," Kiskki growled.

"Drugged you too?"

"It made our job a lot easier," Gordon admitted, deciding to omit a certain withdrawal event to spare Kiskki the embarrassment.

"Why did," President Heeron looked upwards at the large, green, sunshade, "Thunderbird Two have to make an unexpected detour?"

His two associates let Gordon do the talking. He'd already decided that, whilst some facts needed to be kept secret, some kind of explanation was in order. One that didn't leave the leader of one of the world's powers believing that International Rescue as a less than professional organisation with faulty equipment, whilst also preventing an international incident. "I don't have all the facts.."

"You are not the pilot of Thunderbird Two?"

"No." Gordon glanced at Brains. "He's recharging a few systems. He may join us later when he's done. Everyone here's," he indicated those sitting around him, "focus was on you. Your associates will confirm that I was in our infirmary with you and your team throughout the flight, and I haven't had the opportunity to get the full story yet. But I believe that landing on this island was a compromise." Between this and landing on the sea.

"And what is the reason why you've had to 'compromise'?"

Gordon decided to be honest. "There was another reason why Saint Michael's called in International Rescue," he admitted. "There was a visitor to the island who, shall we say, is less than charitable to the country of Erikeep. Saint Michael's thought we could evacuate you without this visitor realising who you were and that you were there."

Lorlyn looked at him sharply. "Who was this person?"

"International Rescue is non-political, so I'm not going to say; just as Saint Michael's didn't tell us who you were. We weren't going to intervene, but when we realised that the fire was genuine, we knew that we were the patient's, whoever they were, best chance of being evacuated safely and with no stress."

Essmour Heeron was a shrewd analyst of most situations; it was what had helped keep her in power and her country peaceful and prosperous. "So 'the visitor' is someone who knows me or knows of me. Had 'the visitor' realised that I was being evacuated by Thunderbird Two?

Gordon tried another winning smile. "And this, I'm afraid, is where I'm going to be become very boring. Because sometimes I won't know the answer, and because sometimes a little secrecy will be in everyone's best interests, my answer to every question from here on will be 'no comment'."

The man from International Rescue's stated commitment to not answer any further questions didn't stop President Heeron from asking them. "Do I know 'the visitor'?"

"No comment."

"Is the country this person belongs to, governed by the World Government?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"You know well as I do that not every nation looks favourably on having their place in the world stage constrained by international agreements."

Gordon gave an "I do know, but I'm still not commenting" shrug.

"Did they fire upon Thunderbird Two?"

"No comment."

"Knowing that I have few enemies who would stoop so low as to shoot an International Rescue craft out of the sky to get me; was this visitor Generalar Villallobona?"

"No comment."

"It was." Whether Essmour had seen something in his expression, or she was just a good judge of Villallobona's character, Gordon didn't know. "Did he attack Thunderbird Two?"

"And…" Gordon gave a wicked, but non-threatening grin. "No comment."

"You said you are not Thunderbird Two's pilot."

"And, just to add some variety to proceedings: correct."

"Was your pilot injured in the attack?" Recognising that Brains was the medical expert of the team, Essmour fixed him with a stare that dared him to lie.

Brains felt his face burn. "I-I-I have s-seen no evidence of this," he stammered. "And you can, ah, rest assured that I-I would be caring for him if he was unwell."

"He's right." Tin-Tin nodded her agreement. "One of us would not leave him."

"We have met the pilot, Ms Heeron," Lorlyn admitted. "He appeared tired, but otherwise uninjured."

Gordon set down his drink. "As I said, we made it here safely. Thunderbird Two's not an easy craft to fly when you're less than one hundred percent. She did suffer interference from outside sources, but I can't say if it was an attack or not. Your associates have as much information about that as I do."

"Was Thunderbird Two damaged?"

"We made it here safely."

"To a deserted location, not a hospital." Essmour Heeron looked up at the unblemished green under-surface of the aircraft. "Whether or not your pilot was injured, Villallobona deserves to be held accountable in the world court."

"True, but I can't see it happening this time," Gordon told her. "Saint Michael's is even more secretive than International Rescue; and we're not going to stand up in a court of law and reveal who we are to the world. You think Villallobona's bad? There are villains out there who would give their eye teeth for the smallest piece of information about us. We'd be shut down permanently and we'd all have to go into hiding. Too many lives could be lost if we did that."

The president of Erikeep clenched her fists in frustration. "Too many lives are lost in Villallobona's country now. That man needs to be stopped."

"No comment," Gordon told her. And winked.

-F-A-B-

Lady Penelope checked her holographic map. "It appears that we may have reached our destination." Turning the stretcher until it was at right angles to the corridor, she pushed it through a door that opened before them.

"A way out of here?" So long as he was with this strange and threatening woman, Terrance Whitney felt that his future didn't look too promising. But, he reasoned, if they left Saint Michael's, at least he'd have a chance to escape her clutches and be free.

Freedom. He'd all but forgotten what that was like during his months in the company of Generalar Villallobona, but now he felt hope surge through him.

"No." That single word dashed his hopes. "This is only a place where you and Mr Satin can remain in hiding until I ascertain how we will all escape."

Dejected, Whitney followed her into the room.

Its décor lifted his spirits a bit. It was an office; brightly lit and opulently decorated; so different from the dark world he'd been living in since he'd offered to sell his invention to Villallobona.

The nurse swung the hover stretcher around and locked it into position. She looked down onto Mitch Satin with a worried express. "I do wish that he would awaken. I am sure that this continuing unconsciousness is not a good sign."

"Can't you run tests on him?"

The blonde woman looked at Terrance Whitney. "I am not a nurse and I do not know how to use their equipment." She gazed around the room and he had the impression that she was taking in and remembering every detail, no matter how small and insignificant. Then she went to a computer. "Are you hungry, Mr Whitney? We may have to run at some point in the future, and it would not do for you to not have the energy to keep up."

Whitney had to admit that he was feeling a bit peckish. In fact, more than peckish. One of Villallobona's methods of keeping him under his control was to limit the amount of food given to him – whilst taunting him with his own large and opulent meals. More than once Terrance Whitney had wished that Generalar Villallobona would do something useful for the world… Like choke on a chicken bone.

The menu appeared on the computer screen and the pseudo-nurse stepped back. "Please, make your selection, Mr Whitney, and wait for your meal to be served to you through here." She indicated a hatch. "Not as personal as a butler, but it does ensure that one has full privacy. Now, I must leave you and try to ascertain the safest route off this island. I would advise you to keep your hearing protection on at all times…" She checked that Mitch Satin's protection hadn't been dislodged and then turned back. "Do not leave this room until I return, for I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these walls…" She appeared to consider something as she donned her surgical mask again. "I also cannot guarantee your safety in here, but at least in here you are not sharing the halls with Villallobona's men."

As the 'nurse' replaced her own hearing protection, opened the door, checked the hallway, and then slipped into the corridor, Whitney had to agree that that wasn't a bad thing.

He turned to the computer and began flicking through page after page of mouth-watering dishes. He could have ordered a six-course meal out for himself, the unconscious Mitch Satin, and the departed woman, eaten every portion himself, and he still would be hungry.

Finally, he made his decision and was pleasurably surprised when the piping hot meal arrived within minutes. He had thought that with all that was going on, the kitchens may have been out of action. He sat down to gorge himself on the first meal that he'd been able to enjoy in months.

When he was sated, he sat back and contemplated his next move. How long did that nurse, or whatever she was, expect him to wait here? What if something happened to her? What if something didn't happen to her and she came back to exact her revenge on him? What if he disobeyed her final instruction and got out of here before she came back?

But that would be foolhardy. Nothing in this place held any distinguishing features. How would he know where he was going? He might be heading for freedom, but he could equally be following in her footsteps, or worse(?) walking straight back into Villallobona's clutches.

But staying here like a sitting duck didn't feel right either.

Ignoring the unconscious Mitch Satin, Whitney approached the desk and began to shuffle through its contents. It contained the expected office computer, videophone, files on Saint Michael's and…

Was that a map?

Picking up the folded piece of electronic paper, Whitney flattened it. A plan was revealed to him, made more interesting by the pulsing red dot constrained within one of the many irregular shaped boxes. Was that where the map was? And, by extension, was that where he was?

And was that a potential emergency exit?

Folding the map back up again and shoving it into his pocket, Terrance Whitney approached the exit. Not giving the invalid a second thought, he opened the door, peered through to check that the corridor was clear, and slipped out…

-F-A-B-

Scott had done just what Virgil had, turned away from Saint Michael's landing strip in preparation for making a speedy exit away from the danger zone.

He was too slow.

He didn't see Generalar Villallobona's malicious grin as the dictator pressed down on the red button… But Thunderbird One registered the oncoming pressure wave that resulted from the press.

Scott, aware that such an event could happen, and most probably would, was wearing an oxygen mask and had already programmed his aeroplane to go rocketing forward at Mach 4 the instant that it received such a warning. The force of acceleration was such that his head was slammed back against his headrest and his arms flew off the controls; his right hand hitting him on the nose with a stinging blow. As his chest struggled to expand against the gravitational forces, he gulped, dragging the mask's oxygen down into his lungs.

In the ocean below, but slowly losing energy, the tsunami generated by Whitney's weapon raced level with him.

They were one hundred kilometres away from the epicentre of the soundwave when Thunderbird One finally slowed down to a more bearable and breathable speed.

"Th…bir.. W…" Scott took another deep breath, told his body to get into line, and tried again. "Thunder…bird… One… to base."

"Go ahead, Scott."

"Villallobona's… used th' pressure wave… generator ag'n." Scott gasped, trying to bring his breathing under control. "Can you… check… on…?"

"I'll get right on it." Scott heard his father initiate the call and waited impatiently for the response.

There was none.

"Were your brothers wearing hearing protection?"

"Yes."

"Then their hearing shouldn't be compromised. They may be in a situation where it's not feasible to respond."

Scott hoped so.

"How are you?"

"Okay."

"Did you get clear?"

"Mach 4."

"Are you sure you're okay? You've only just recovered from a serious lung injury."

"I'm okay… I should go back and see… how they are."

"You're not to do that, Scott. Not until I know that you're one hundred percent and we know your assistance is needed. Villallobona's already fired on two Thunderbirds. He's going to have no qualms about using that weapon against you again."

The order was galling, but reasonable. "I'll head over to the island and… see how Thunderbird Two is."

"Good. Get Brains to check you over and report back to me. And I'll call you if you're needed back at Saint Michael's."

This was even more galling, but Scott accepted it. "F-A-B."

-F-A-B-

Alan and John had no sooner stepped into the corridor when they were both slammed by what felt like a mediaeval battering ram.

Dropping to the floor, John gasped for breath. Through the oxygen deprivation, he could dimly make out his youngest brother lying on the floor next to him, sucking in air just as greedily. John wanted to pass comment that they both should have been wearing breathing apparatus, but breathing was so problematic, and the statement so redundant, that he decided against it.

Eventually, Alan rolled onto his back. "John…"

"Yeah…"

"All… right…?"

"Yeah…"

"What…?"

"Dunno… Two…?"

"Yeah…" Alan levered himself onto his elbows.

John managed to roll over and push himself up onto his hands. A further thrust and his torso made it upright before he fell backwards, his headset falling clear. "Turn… off… gravity…"

Alan let himself flop back. "Yeah…"

"You… all… right?

Alan managed to get back onto his elbows and his headset fell around his neck. Without thinking he pulled it free. "Think… so."

Having unfolded his legs from beneath him, John did the same. "Hope… Scott… got… clear…"

"Programmed… One… Automatic… Mach 4."

"I remember… S'pose we… should be… seeing if… anyone…" John managed to get into, and stay in a, sitting position. "Needs… our help."

Not willing to let his elder brother show more resilience and strength than himself, Alan followed suit. "Can you… stand?"

"If gravity… will let me." Steading himself against the wall, John managed to slide upwards. "Your turn," he said, his back braced against the building.

Alan took a deep breath. "Right." Copying John's upwards slide, he managed to regain his feet. "Guess we're both upright… That's got to be positive."

"But which way do we go?" Wanting to pick up his headset, but not willing to risk doing anything tricky like bending over or moving away from the stabilising wall just yet, John attempted to hook his foot beneath it.

Keeping his head upright and his torso straight, Alan slid back down the wall until he felt confident that he could reach out for his own headset. But his fingers couldn't feel it. "Could you kick it closer to me?"

John contemplated the situation. Then, with a sideways shuffle, he moved closer and nudged the headset towards his brother's hand.

Alan's fingers closed around his communications device. "Kick yours over to me and I'll pick it up for you."

"Nope. Gotta learn to stand on my own two feet. Or at least not to do a nosedive onto the floor." John attempted to bend over and was pleasantly surprised that his body didn't complain. "I think I'm ready to move on. You?"

Moving more freely, Alan stood. "Yeah. I'm glad I can breathe again."

"Me too." John put his headset on and immediately heard an urgent message. "Base to Saint Michael's. Come in, please!"

"This is Saint Michael's," John responded. "We're okay. A little breathless, but okay."

"Both of you?" Jeff sounded relieved.

"Both of us," Alan told his father. "How's Thunderbird One?"

"Survived Mach 4 by all accounts, but he's gone to check on Thunderbird Two, and I've told him that while he's there, Brains has got to check him out. Are you both in a fit state to continue?"

John adjusted his microphone. "We are. Not that we have much choice. Do you have any further intel for us?"

"Negative. Just be careful. And keep your hearing protection on."

"F-A-B."

-F-A-B-

Lady Penelope slowly picked herself up off the floor. "Really," she mused. "That is most tiresome."

Assuming that everyone else on the island, at least everyone human, would have experienced the same level of discomfort, she had given herself a moment to regain her breath and her equilibrium. "Now… How do we get out of here?"

Consulting her holographic map supplied her with limited options. Any evacuation would have to include an incapacitated Mitch Satin, and his stretcher was seriously cramping her style. The landing strip, while Generalar Villallobona was there, was out of the question. As was her secret way on and off the island.

From what she could tell, she only had one option…

-F-A-B-

It took Terrance Whitney longer to recover from the effects of his weapon than it had the others. His emaciated, weakened body, despite its recent energy boost, was not strong enough to rebound quickly. He was therefore unprepared for when there was an intrusion into his section of corridor…

-F-A-B-

That latest firing had been a mistake. Not only had Thunderbird One escaped, presumably without damage, but it had exacerbated all that was already going wrong. Buildings that were on the point of collapsing had collapsed, and those that weren't were now ready to do so. The fake fire that had so upset Mitch Satin had been extinguished by the pressure wave from the blast, leaving the walls of the hangar largely unblemished – aside from the guttering that had been thrust against the building and then stripped from its brackets – and the gas issuing from the hoses that had produced the flames.

But the worst thing was the water that was pounding against the cliffs and pouring out of the buildings. Generalar Villallobona's feet were almost washed out from underneath him. "Evacuate!" he screamed. "Bring the Generalar Wass alongside!"

The captain of the Generalar Wass heard the order and wondered if he dared risk refusing. The superstructure of the ship was already weakened by the force of the weapon's firing, along with the hurried and haphazard way that it had been affixed to the ship. Bringing an already less than shipshape boat alongside a rocky shore with no wharf nor mooring was tricky at the least and foolhardy at the most.

But so was denying an order from Generalar Villallobona.

With his insides turning to liquid, and offering up a prayer to his God and any others that happened to be listening, the captain gave the order to moor the ship…

-F-A-B-

Lady Penelope looked around her. The floor appeared to have an unnatural sheen. Saint Michael's was a hospital and accordingly its corridors were kept spotless, but this was something different.

She raised a delicate foot and examined the sole of her shoe.

It was wet.

Somewhere, there was a leak. Lady Penelope tried not to consider where it could be coming from…

-F-A-B-

Alan and John reached a junction in the corridor.

"Well?" John queried, looking at the scanner in his hand. Both directions held the possibility of leading them towards human life. But both directions also held the possibility of leading them straight to Generalar Villallobona. "Which way?"

"Like I'd know? I was only in the corridors twice, and both times I was guided by an android." Alan examined his own scanner. "Why don't we split up? I'll go this way until I find someone or something of interest, or the corridor diverges, and you do the same? Then we'll meet back here in ten minutes and make a decision based on what we've found."

This was a suggestion that made sense, and John nodded. "Just make sure you don't go too far. This place is a maze and we don't want to lose each other."

"I'll leave a trail of breadcrumbs."

John looked down. "Soggy breadcrumbs."

"There's a leak somewhere."

"We should have brought Gordon. He would have felt right at home."

Alan chuckled. "Best we got moving. Meet you back here."

"F-A-B."

-F-A-B-

The ANT didn't look friendly.

Its eyes weren't glowing red, as popularised by media trying to visually signify technology gone rogue, but its frown showed that it wasn't impressed by meeting a human; face to digital face.

What made it look even less friendly was the way that it was waving a multitude of black arms around.

Three of those arms pointed at Terrance Whitney. "Who. Are. You?"

"Uh…" Not sure if androids understood the surrender gesture, Whitney nonetheless held his hands high. "I'm a visitor."

The white spherical body rolled closer. According to its stencilling this one was a SEC 5. "Vis-i-tor."

"Yes." Not sure if this would improve the android's opinion of him, Whitney added: "I'm with Generalar Villallobona."

"Gen-er-a-lar. Vi-la-lo-bo-na."

"Yes."

"Does. Not. Compute."

Lucky you. "Ah… He has stayed here before. He had an ing… I-I mean. He had an operation on his foot."

"There. Are. No. Pay-tients. In. the. Pod-i-a-try. De-part-ment."

"Not now. A few months ago."

The android checked its memory banks. "Does. Not. Compute."

"He wanted to talk to your boss. Mitch Satin."

"Mitch. Sa-tin… Does. Not. Compute… Are. You. An. In-vade-or?"

Whitney wondered if the machine was really dumb enough to expect him to reply in the affirmative. "No. I was brought here by Generalar Villallobona. I had no choice."

"You. Are. Hew-man?"

"Yes."

"Then. You. Had. A. Choice."

"I wish."

A black mechanical arm rushed past close to Whitney's nose, and he shrunk back.

"You. Are. An. In-vade-or."

"No. No, I'm not. I don't want to be here."

The frown deepened. "In-vade-or."

"No."

The voice rose to a shriek. "In-vade-or!"

Whitney's repeated "No," stuck in his throat when other white spherical androids appeared.

"In-vade-or," his original inquisitor repeated.

"Not willingly," Whitney repeated. "Please… Believe me. I don't want to be here."

A black projectile imbedded in the wall next to him, and he involuntarily ducked in the other direction. In doing so his feet slipped on the wet floor and he found himself rolling away from the horde of androids. Taking this to be his only chance to escape his most immediate threat, he regained his feet and, dripping, ran…

To be continued…