Triple Jeopardy – Chapter 35
His fire extinguisher was empty.
With a growl of frustration, Gordon threw it against what remained of a wall. It bounced off and landed on the floor with a splash.
On the other side of the room, Alan's extinguisher spluttered and expired. After one last hopeful, but ineffectual, squeeze of the trigger he let it drop to the floor.
They had achieved nothing. Neither had the remains of the sprinkler system raining down from the ceiling above them. The tacky gel that formed the flamethrower's accelerant was adhering to everything and running into nooks and crannies. Any flames that were extinguished were almost immediately reignited by a neighbouring heat source.
Still fighting the fire with his dripping wet blanket, even though it felt like he was as effective as if he'd been trying to suck up the entire Pacific Ocean with a sponge, John glanced across to the hazy shapes that were his younger brothers. "Where's Whitney?"
"I'll check out here." Not keen to get too close to the subsidence that had nearly claimed his life, Gordon peered through the door to the corridor. "Negative."
"He's in here," Alan announced, looking into the bedroom suite.
"Of course, I'm in here…" Whitney coughed. "I'm trying to find some breathable air. You've all got masks on."
"And they're not going to last too much longer," Gordon reminded them all.
"Here!" Pulling a soaking pillowcase off a sodden pillow, Alan held it out to the whining inventor. "Wrap this around your face. It'll give you some protection. And get down onto the floor where the air's fresher."
"For how long?" Whitney accepted the pillowcase and got onto his knees. "When are you going to get us out of here? We're all going to be burnt to a crisp!"
"We'll probably die of smoke inhalation before that."
"Love your bedside manner," Gordon chuckled as he felt his way to the back wall. "Hey, Fellas. I've found the bathroom. We could hunker down in here. We'll have towels and water to slow down the smoke when it seeps under the door."
Accepting that this was the best that a bad situation had to offer, the three Tracys and a muttering Terrance Whitney pushed their way into what was a reasonably sized room for its purpose - only to find a flaw in their plan.
"Doesn't the guy believe in towels?" Alan grumbled as he scoured the room for some form of absorbent material.
"Not when you're full of hot air." Gordon indicated a hand dryer on the wall.
John tapped on the wall on the far side of the room, away from the plumbing. "I wonder what's on the other side of this?"
His brothers joined him in his inspection.
Gordon tapped the panelling experimentally. "Thinking of blasting an exit door?"
"This place seems to be efficient at stopping the spread of fire. If it wasn't fuelled by napalm it would be out by now, and if the building wasn't made of fire-retardant materials we'd already be cooked. If the fire's concentrated in Satin's office, where there's a hole to let in the napalm and act as a chimney, it may not be affecting other parts of the building. We could, conceivably, be rescued from elsewhere."
"Or we could be destroying our only haven," Alan reminded him. "This wall could be on the seaward side of the complex and we'd be trapped, almost literally, between the devil and the deep blue sea. And how would we escape then? Thunderbird One's on fire. The Epiprocta is miles away. And Thunderbird Two's out of action."
"Or…" Gordon added. "We might be walking straight into the arms of Villallobona's men."
"No!" Raising his hands as if to ward off the very idea, Whitney stepped backwards away from the wall.
The Tracys ignored him.
"So, what are our options?" John asked. "Stay here and hope for a miracle? Go back into the office and hope for the impossible? Or try to escape?" He looked at his brothers.
Gordon looked at Alan.
Alan looked at Gordon.
Whitney curled up in a corner and whimpered.
Smoke seeped in under the door.
Gordon pulled an explosive out of his pocket. "Where are we sheltering when it goes off?"
"If it goes off." Alan's hand went to the wound on his head.
"How're you feeling?" John checked.
"So long as I don't stand up too quickly: Fine."
"Good." Gordon indicated a door off to the side. "I'm guessing that our only option for shelter is in there."
John slid the door open. "It'll be a squeeze, but it'll do."
Whitney screwed up his nose in distaste. "But that's a toilet!"
"And you win first prize for observation," John told him. "Now get in there."
"But it's be unhygienic!"
"Then stay out here and either our explosive or the napalm will sterilise you."
Whitney blanched, but he allowed Alan to push him into the small cubicle.
"Are you all in there?" Gordon checked.
"Yep," John told him.
"Enough room for me?"
"Just."
"Thanks for the reassurance… Setting the timer for ten seconds." Gordon obeyed his own instructions. "Ignition in… Ten…!" He dashed for the door. "Nine!" He squeezed with the others into the room.
The door slid shut behind him.
"Eight…"
The door opened again.
"Gordon! What are you doing?!"
Seven…
"Nothing! The lock's pressure sensitive and there's not enough room in here!"
"Then sit down."
"You sit." Gordon pushed Whitney onto the toilet seat.
"Hey! This is disgusting!"
"Three… Make sure your headsets have a good seal… Two…"
Their backs to the ignition source, Whitney not quite making it because of his seating arrangement; their hands pressing their hearing protectors against their heads; they all held their breaths and waited.
One…
The explosion was loud and shook the suite, sending dust raining down onto the four men and mixing with the water that coated them. It formed a mushy slurry in their hair and on their clothes.
But they were unharmed.
"Shall we go and see what the damage is?" Gordon's fingers found the plate and opened the door.
A partially demolished bathroom and a gaping hole in the wall greeted them.
Eager to find out what their next plan of action was, but mindful of Gordon's narrow escape earlier, they approached the hole with caution.
Like Gordon's narrow escape earlier, the Pacific Ocean lapped at their feet metres down the cliff below them.
They were trapped.
A shadow loomed over them as their collective hearts sank…
-F-A-B-
"Base to Thunderbird One."
"Thunderbird One receiving you."
"Awaiting your report."
Scott had known that that was why his father had called him. Jeff Tracy was trapped on Tracy Island while all five of his sons were in danger. It must have been frustrating beyond measure. "One's surface temperature is reading as being normal. I think I've managed to put the fire out. There is no sign of any complications nor compromises to flight processes. I'm returning to Saint Michael's."
"Understood, Thunderbird One. Be careful."
"F-A-B."
-F-A-B-
Lady Penelope had ignored Scott's instruction to stay away from Saint Michael's and was drawing closer. She may not have been in a craft that had the speed nor practicality of a Thunderbird, but that didn't mean that she couldn't offer some assistance or support to International Rescue.
So long as nothing drastic happened in the hour between now and when she would arrive.
Her radio had been tuned into their communications, and she'd heard all their little dramas – Gordon's near fatal plunge, John's 'discussion' with the tiresome Terrance, and the flamethrower's attack. And she could hear what everyone on the network could hear – that the Tracys trapped on Saint Michael's were tired and stressed…
And running out of solutions to guarantee their survival…
-F-A-B-
"Thunderbird Two calling Saint Michael's."
"Saint Michael's," John responded, wondering why Virgil had called up to make idle chitchat when their lives were hanging in the balance. "What can we do for you, Thunderbird Two?"
"Climb on board the passenger car as soon as it reaches you. I don't want to wait around."
"What!?"
"No need to shout, I can hear you perfectly well. I've got the radio's volume turned up."
Mirrored by Gordon, John, gingerly, stuck his head through the hole in the wall and looked up at the craft silhouetted by the sun. "But we thought Thunderbird Two was out of action." He pulled his head back in as the passenger car slid downwards into view.
"She's not one hundred percent and I'm not asking any more of her than I need to. Don't waste any time boarding."
"We won't."
"Thunderbird One to Saint Michael's. Am I seeing things?"
"If you're seeing a great, green, getaway vehicle," Gordon told him, "then you're seeing the same illusion we are."
"Is your craft airworthy, Thunderbird Two?"
"She's in the air, which is worth something. And we've emptied her pod, so she should float if we need to make an unscheduled landing on the sea."
All listening, at least the members of International Rescue, knew that "an unscheduled landing" was a morale boosting, positive, completely inappropriate way of saying "emergency crash-landing."
"I'm not prepared to gain much height and we can't go anywhere near top speed. Plus, the plan is that, once we've completed the evacuations, we return to the deserted island for further repairs. It's closest."
The passenger car was slowing and stopping as Virgil completed his explanation, and the three Tracys had to hold an overeager Terrance Whitney back from making a premature bid for freedom.
A floor panel slid out and created a bridge between the lightly swaying car and the relatively secure floor of Mitch Satin's bathroom. At the same time, two simultaneous, overlapping, conversations were heard over the airwaves.
"How's Thunderbird One?"
"How's the bridge look, Gordon?"
"Scorched, but airworthy… Which is just as well as that ship's turning to face you."
"Secure on this side, John. You?"
"I don't have the speed to outrun it."
"All F-A-B. Let's get on board."
"I'll see if I can draw their attention away from you."
"Me first!"
"Whitney!"
"Be careful, Thunderbird One."
"Always."
"Saint Michael's to Thunderbird Two. We're on board. Retract the passenger car."
"Retracting…"
The human cargo-filled box was slowly lifted away from Saint Michael's and dragged upwards towards Thunderbird Two's undercarriage.
Scott, keeping a wary eye on the flamethrower – which appeared to be in the process of being refuelled – swung around until Thunderbird One was facing down the Generalar Wass. He'd done this so often that it was possible that the controllers of Whitney's weapon would realise that he had no intention of harming them and would ignore him. And if this was the case, he was sure that it would be to the detriment of those currently escaping the island.
And if this was the case, he'd have to show that he wasn't bluffing.
"Tell him to hurry up!" Whitney snapped, glaring upwards at Thunderbird Two when the Generalar Wass and hordes of black-clad people came into view beyond the remains of the hospital complex. "I want to get out here!"
"We all want to get out of here," Alan reminded him. "Except that we could be being pulled out of the literal fire and dunked into a pot of boiling water."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Thunderbird Two's not operating at full capacity."
"What else would you expect from obsolete technology."
Three sets of shoulders stiffened, three backs tensed, and three pair of eyes shot daggers at Terrance Whitney; but even then he didn't realise that he was a hair's breadth away from an accidental-on purpose nudge into the Pacific.
Probably closer than a hair's breadth if Virgil had been with them.
Gordon, Thunderbird Two's co-pilot, (who would never have admitted that he had an emotional attachment to any of the Thunderbirds, aside from his own Thunderbird Four; and then only in a moment of brain fatigue) was almost incensed at the inventor's cavalier approach to the aeroplane that was about to save their lives. "She's NOT obsolete technology. She was damaged by your weapon!"
"What do you mean my weapon? All I did was design it. I didn't build or use it. That's Villallobona's doing."
"And if you hadn't invented it, it would never have been built, and we, including you, wouldn't be in the trouble we're in now!"
Whitney's frown deepened. "But this…" His hand waved dismissively in the general direction of Thunderbird Two. "…plane is saving our lives, isn't it? That what International Rescue's known for, isn't it? Saving lives?" He sneered at John. "You're supposed to be 'miracle workers', aren't you?"
"If we were operating at full capacity. Your weapon damaged Thunderbird Two, and she hasn't been repaired yet."
The passenger car crested the vehicle in question and emerged into a kind of sorting room, revealing two disguised figures. However, despite the opaque visors that hid their features, it was easy to see that beneath their identical lab coats, one was a man and one was a woman.
With a: "I-Is anyone hurt?" the man stepped forward, as the woman took the youngest Tracy by the arm and led him to a chair.
Trying not to limp, John stepped out of the passenger car. "Not seriously." Glad to finally take the weight off his leg, he collapsed into a seat.
Conversely, Alan stood tall. "I'm all right."
"Shhhh," Tin-Tin told him from behind her mask, "and sit down. Let me look at that head wound."
Gordon pointed his scarred finger in the general direction of the pilot's cabin. "Does he need assistance?"
"I do not think so…" Tin-Tin was carefully peeling Alan's hair away from his wound. "But, if you do decide to help, I would not advise going up there without hearing protection. He has the radio turned up to full volume."
"No thanks. I've already risked being deafened more than once today."
Whitney, getting his first clear view of a craft of the International Rescue fleet, was making no secret of the fact that he was looking about him. He made a disapproving tutting noise. "I knew it. Outdated technology."
If Thunderbird Two's pilot had been in the room with them, all three Tracys were sure that they would have been holding Virgil back from defending his craft's honour against the slanderous statement. As it was, the two fair-headed brothers cast wary looks in the direction of the red-head.
Gordon was glaring at the inventor.
However, none of them were expecting an attack to come from another quarter.
"O-O-Outdated technology?!" Brains exploded, angered by the insinuation. "I-I'll have you know that Th-Th-Thunderbird T-T-Two…" He swallowed and tried to martial his speech processes together. "…that ALL the Th-Thunderbirds are updated regularly. There is t-technology in here that you've n-never dreamed of."
"H-H-Haven't I?" Whitney mocked. "Then sh-sh-show me."
Up till now, these members of International Rescue had looked on Terrance Clementine Whitney and his selfish attitude with a kind of resigned revulsion. They'd come to the conclusion that they'd put up with him until he could be handed over to the appropriate people, and then forget about him forever. But openly teasing someone over an impediment, especially when that someone was Brains, was unforgivable.
As one, John, Gordon, and Alan (brushing aside Tin-Tin's protestations) stood and advanced; towering over the inventor.
"I think you should apologise," John growled.
"Wh-Wh-Wh…" Whitney gulped, and this time his stutter was for real. He swallowed. "Why?" he managed, desperate not to lose the upper hand that he'd never really held.
"Because it's the right thing to do."
"Because it will acknowledge a greater inventor than you," Gordon added.
"Because, if you don't, you'll find out what we do to people who don't show our friends respect." Alan ground his fist into his palm.
Whitney gulped again. All of these men were bruised, bloodied and clearly not at full strength, but they still exuded a masculinity and assuredness that made him feel vulnerable. "I-I'm sorry." His eyes briefly reached the bottom of Brains' mask and there veered away to the floor.
John pointed at a chair behind him. "Sit down and do up your safety harness."
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Whitney obeyed.
Virgil's voice filled the cabin. "What's happening down there?"
Pulling his headphones from around his neck, Gordon headed for the door. "I'd better head up there in case he needs a hand or an interpreter. Be ready, 'cos as soon as I get to the flight deck, I'll be telling him to get out of here."
"F-A-B." John strapped himself into his seat, Brains choosing to sit next to him so that he could ask discreet questions about his health, along with offering heartfelt thanks for sticking up for him.
Unsurprisingly, Tin-Tin claimed the seat next to Alan.
All were well clear of Whitney.
Gordon made sure that he put his headphones on before he slid the door open on Thunderbird Two's flight deck.
Seeing that there was no reaction from the pilot's seat, he spoke into the headset's microphone. "Need a hand?"
Virgil didn't look back. "No. I just need to know when everyone's wearing their safety harnesses."
This time Gordon stepped up to the seat and laid his hand on Virgil's shoulder. "I'm here, Virgil."
If their situation hadn't been so serious, he would have laughed at his brother's startled reaction. "I didn't hear you come in."
Gordon's "I know," was said with obvious sympathy. "Can I help with anything?"
Virgil shook his head. "No. Just sit down and strap up."
"Give me five seconds." Gordon retreated to his seat. "Everyone else is ready to move out."
"Good. Thunderbird One said Whitney's weapon is taking an unhealthy interest in us. Not to mention that the flamethrower's charging up again."
"I'm ready. Let's get out of here."
"Gaining height."
But the height Thunderbird Two gained was only enough to give a good margin between the craft's undercarriage and Saint Michael's roof.
It wasn't enough to be clear of the DAMP's range.
It was Scott who received warning of the immediate threat first. "Thunderbird Two! DAMP is armed and about to fire. Get out of there!"
"I can't. Two's operating at ten percent capacity. I daren't push her any harder."
"Turn to starboard! Now!" Knowing that he had less than seconds to save his family from destruction, Scott was determined to draw the DAMP away from Thunderbird Two. Keeping her nose pointing at the Generalar Wass, he rotated Thunderbird One through the vertical until she was behind the ship and the weapon. Then, to maintain the illusion that he wasn't bluffing, he fired up a low powered laser. Its red dot of a light tracked across the ship's transom and beamed in through the window into the pilot's cabin. It came to rest next to the ship's captain.
Deciding that this ominous sign from above was more serious than even the wrath of Generalar Villallobona, the captain did the only thing he could do. Knowing that there was no way of stopping the DAMP, he turned the boat hard to port.
Unaware of the little drama that was happening offshore, Generalar Villallobona was in full apoplectic rage. "Shoot them! Shoot the Thunderbird! I want to see it consumed by fire! I want to hear the thunder when it hits the water!"
His minion gave a subservient bow. "Yes, my Generalar." He raised the flamethrower to his shoulder…
The DAMP unleashed its low frequency amplified sound. The pressure wave pulsed out, jolting the Generalar Wass and smothering Saint Michael's medical wing as it extinguished the residue of the flamethrower's earlier assault.
On the ground, those who were no longer wearing their protective earmuffs fell, clutching their heads in agony. Screaming, the flamethrower henchman dropped his weapon.
Scott had his back to much of the action but knew the DAMP had fired. "Thunderbird Two! Report!"
"We're okay, Scott. We were clear. Circling Saint Michael's before we head for the island."
Scott allowed himself the briefest of moments to relax. Then he realised that there was another disaster looming.
The Generalar Wass was taking on water.
Her crew were clambering onto the deck and reaching out towards land in a futile plea for assistance.
But no one had the tools to help.
Except…
"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One." Virgil had seen what Scott had. "Is the ship sinking?"
"Affirmative. And there are people on board."
"Moving in." Virgil manoeuvred his aeroplane so the nose was jutting over Satin Michael's. "Have we got time to get the crew into the passenger car?"
"Don't know. Can you maintain height long enough to effect a rescue?"
"I've got to. Gordon! Can you operate the controls?"
Gordon already had his hands full doing just that. With a "F-A-B," he lowered the compartment down towards the Generalar Wass' bow. "Looks like she's splitting in two."
She was. The ship was tearing in half; her bow and stern both nosediving into the deep water surrounding the seamount. At the rear of the boat, four men clambered onto the deck railing in their futile effort to delay the inevitable dunking. They yelled up at Thunderbird Two, begging for rescue.
Scott saw them. "There are people on the stern! They can't reach the passenger car."
Virgil heard the urgency in his brother's voice. "We haven't time to change position."
"I'll send down the four-way line. Can you gain height, Thunderbird Two?"
"Negative. At maximum safe hovering height."
"Understood. I'll have to work underneath you."
"F-A-B."
Sneaking beneath Thunderbird Two's port wing, Thunderbird One went into a low hover and Scott sent down the cable that he'd intended to use to lift his brothers and Whitney out of Satin's office. At the bow of the boat, Virgil keeping an iron grip on Two's controls, Gordon watched as people, desperate to escape the sinking ship, fell over one another in their efforts to board the rescue car.
"What'll we do with them?" the latter asked. "The fire's out, so should we let them go on Saint Michael's? I don't fancy releasing Villallobona's cronies into Thunderbird Two's hold."
"Me neither," Virgil agreed. "The authorities can take care of them. If there are any complaints, it's because we don't want to endanger any more lives."
"Is Two really that bad?" Gordon analysed a series of graphs his brother displayed on a computer screen. "Ah…" He absorbed the data. "Yeah. She is. Better not tell Whitney. He's already had the screaming heebie-jeebies over having to climb down a drop shorter than John."
"Whitney?"
"Yep.
"You mean 'Shot down Scott', Terrance Whitney?!"
"Yep."
"He's on board Thunderbird Two?"
"Yep. But don't worry. He's already had John explode all over him. As in gone nuclear: 'explode'?"
"I remember. I'd extend my sympathies; except I don't feel any."
"No. Me neither."
-F-A-B-
Beneath Thunderbird Two's port wing, the captain of the Generalar Wass and his subordinates looked up at the rocket that maintained position above them. Somehow, almost miraculously, the Thunderbird was hovering below the giant green aeroplane that was saving their associates. Unable to reconcile everything they were seeing, they watched as a cable snaked down towards them.
The cable split into four. Each of the four strands was tipped by a loop. The four loops stopped descending just about their heads.
"Put your hands through the loops!" Scott's disembodied voice told them. "Tighten them. And hang on!"
Not being a fan of the "captain goes down with the ship" adage, the captain joined his subordinates in putting his hands through the loops, tightening them, and hanging on for their lives…
-F-A-B-
"Burn the Thunderbirds!" Villallobona raged. "Shoot them!"
But no one obeyed him.
"I want International Rescue dead! Kill them!"
Unbelieving, those henchmen who still had the ability to hear him felt their jaws drop. Despite all that they'd done to them, International Rescue were saving their countrymen's lives and this madman wanted to destroy their saviours?
Villallobona didn't care about International Rescue, or his countrymen, or anyone. He picked up the flamethrower from where the marksman had dropped it and cocked the gun. He sighted along the barrel. "Say goodbye, International Rescue…"
The flamethrower was ripped out of his hands.
It was Olver. "No one is shooting International Rescue again today."
"Give me that!" Villallobona spluttered, incensed by the insubordination.
"No."
"You will pay! Give that to me!"
"The only one who will pay…" Olver gave a sardonic grin. "…is you, my Generalar," he mocked, and the gun's orientation was reversed until it was pointed at the dictator.
Villallobona pulled himself up to his full, formerly impressive height, and glared at his subordinate. "When we get back to…"
"When we get back you will discover that you are no longer rule our proud country. Someone revealed to opposition leaders that you were on the other side of the world and…"
"Who!? Who was this traitor?" Villallobona glared at those standing and lying around him.
"We don't know. But what we do know is that we have received word that the opposition decided to make the most of your absence and take over."
"How!" Villallobona raged, spittle going everywhere. "Who did this!"
Olver gave an unknowing shrug. "We don't know, and we don't care. All that we know is that there was a bloodless coup and that you are no longer in control of parliament…" He grinned again. "And your palace has been ransacked… The military is under orders to place you under arrest as soon as you step foot on home soil."
"But, but, but it is MY country. I made it great! I made it powerful!"
"You mean you made yourself powerful as you brought the country to its knees, while your people starved and lived in fear. Now we have the opportunity to be truly great once again; just like the old days… Before you took power…"
-F-A-B-
"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One."
"Thunderbird One. Go ahead Thunderbird Two."
"Everyone's been evacuated, but I'm not bringing them on board. We're leaving them on Saint Michael's."
"Good idea. Can you maintain a hover until I'm clear? We don't want to risk cooking my victims with your VTOLs."
"F-A-B."
Sandwiched between Thunderbird Two and a sinking ship, Scott finished reeling in the four-way line until the four men from the stern of the Generalar Wass were dangling just beneath Thunderbird One's hull. Then he descended a few metres to give his craft more breathing space and did a slow pirouette. Finally, he allowed Thunderbird One to slide forward a few metres until she was no longer the meat in the sandwich of two crippled ships. Not that he let her gain more speed once he was clear. Instead he made a slow and careful journey until he was above the landing strip…
-F-A-B-
"Help them," Olver ordered, when it became obvious that the four-way line was lowering its rescuees onto the island. Somehow, at some point, without any discussion about the situation, the rest of Villallobona's former henchmen had decided that he was in charge, and they sprang into action. As the four men, dangling like puppets beneath the aeroplane that less than an hour earlier had been on fire, came within reach, they were supported and gently released from the cable.
It wasn't until all four were safely on the ground and rubbing their wrists that Scott finally ignited Thunderbird One's jets and cleared the way for Thunderbird Two to make an equally gentle deposit of its shipwreck victims on Saint Michael's. Then the great craft made a low, slow loop as it turned its back on the hospital and flew away from the ruins of the island and Generalar Villallobona's life.
Olver looked down at the man who snivelled and moaned at his feet. "Put Villallobona somewhere where he won't be able to hurt himself," he instructed. "He'll have to answer to our courts… And then see what parts of this complex are still liveable. We won't be able to leave here until someone can fly us out."
-F-A-B-
The voyage from Saint Michael's to the unnamed island was long and slow; Thunderbird One keeping a watchful eye over her sister ship.
Finally, the island appeared; first on the radar and then as a shape on the horizon that steadily grew bigger. Landing, despite the descent only being a few metres, was every bit as careful as the flight had been.
Finally, Virgil was able to shut down his Thunderbird's engines and relax. Taking his time to unglue his fingers from the control yoke, he looked up when Gordon clapped him on the shoulder.
"Well done," the younger man grinned.
Virgil grinned back.
"Epiprocta to Thunderbirds One and Two."
"This is Thunderbird Two," Virgil responded. "Thunderbird One is coming into land."
"It is good to hear your voice, dear boy."
"Good to hear yours too. What can we do for you?"
"I am approaching the island. Please ensure that there is enough room for me to make a landing. I daresay that the people of Erikeep would rather that I didn't scratch this delightful craft."
Gordon checked the video screens that showed their surroundings. "Plenty of room."
"You've got plenty of room," Virgil informed his fellow pilot.
"Thank you. Ah… Is Terrance Whitney with you?"
It was Gordon who answered this time, jumping in quickly before Virgil had a chance to respond. "It was a toss-up whether we'd let him board Thunderbird Two or push him into the Pacific. Unfortunately, the coin came up heads, so we had to save his."
"Wonderful. I have plans for our Mr Whitney. I shall meet you all outside."
There was an audible click that signified the end of the conversation, and the brothers looked at each other.
Gordon was the first to speak. "I'm glad I'm not in Whitney's shoes."
Virgil had to agree.
-F-A-B-
The day was bright, sunny, and seemed to be far removed from fires, tsunamis, collapsing islands, and crazed despots. After stepping from their craft everyone took a moment to allow the sun to warm their faces and backs, and calm their frazzled and aching nerves.
"When are we going home?"
The wattage of the combined glares burning Terrance Whitney was enough to remind him what it was like to be under flamethrower attack.
He was glad when a smaller craft approached the island, diverting everyone's attention as they cleared the area that had been set aside for it to land.
His relief was short-lived when he realised that the nurse was still piloting it.
Conversely, the rest of the group seemed pleased to see her.
And she them. "I trust that I find you all in good health."
Scott shrugged. "As good as can be expected."
"And the Thunderbirds?"
There was another shrug. "Thunderbird One's okay. Two…?"
"Needs more, ah, work before we will risk flying her again," Brains said from behind his mask, and Scott nodded his understanding.
"And what, pray tell, has become of the weapon?" Lady Penelope enquired.
"Became a DAMP squib," John informed her. "The ship sunk."
"This is wonderful news… Now, I refuelled after I'd deposited the poor Mr Satin in the care of what I am sure is a more than adequate hospital, so I am available to assist as needed."
"Thanks, but I think we only need you to do one thing," Scott told her. "Get Whitney out of here."
"I bet it's the first time she's had to take out the trash in her life," Gordon quipped not so quietly to Alan, and received a baleful glare from the "trash" in question.
"I could assist with the repairs," Whitney offered, and glanced up at the green bulk that towered above them. "I'm sure that it will not take me long to come up to speed with this antiqua…" He saw three blue uniforms take a threatening step forward. "…interesting design."
The three blue uniforms took a step back as everyone else decided that Virgil either hadn't heard the comment or had figured that he must have misunderstood it.
Brains drew himself up to his full height – about level with John's shoulder. "We will not need your assistance," he enunciated.
Whitney stared at him and Tin-Tin. "Why don't you take those masks off?"
It was Gordon who provided a response. "There's a bad odour around here," he said, fixing the inventor with a pointed stare, "and they don't want to risk breathing it in in case it's toxic. The rest of us have been inhaling it for so long that we're immune to it."
"Almost," Alan chimed in. "It still stinks."
"Guys…" Scott warned, and his younger brothers fell silent. "We've got more important things to concern us." He turned so he was square-on to Terrance Clementine Whitney. "Like: what is to be done with you?"
"Let me go?"
"Not an option." Scott stood firm as his brothers fell into place behind him, finding their positions as easily as if they had been premeditated. When they stilled, the eldest Tracy was at the tip of the formation, with Virgil and John to his right, Gordon and Alan to his left, and Brains and Tin-Tin in their white lab coats capping the base.
And Whitney realised that International Rescue had formed an arrow and that he was the target. With nowhere to run and no one he could call on for rescue, he was trapped.
"Any sharks out there?" Alan asked, pointing past Gordon towards the shore and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
"Bound to be," his brother replied. "But they are very picky about what they eat. They don't like the taste of humans. After two mouthfuls to test the flavour they usually spit them out."
"Ah. So not an option then."
"No. Don't want to give the sharks indigestion."
Whitney gulped. And jumped when he heard the next word uttered by the man at the point of the arrow. "Lavinia."
Lady Penelope glided closer, her footsteps barely leaving marks in the sand. "Yes, Malcolm?"
"Are your plans for Whitney ready?"
"They are…" Lady Penelope walked slowly around the quivering inventor; her expression almost predatory. "I have been waiting for this moment for months, my dear Mr Whitney. Ever since the first day we met."
"W-W-We've met?"
"Many times, and I shall always regret that I did not neutralise the threat that I knew you were then, for I would have prevented much pain and sorrow to my friends. Still, the passage of time has given me more than enough hours to make the appropriate preparations."
Scott, his blue eyes as cold, hard, and unfeeling as diamonds, was staring Whitney down. "And we'll never hear of him again?"
"Never. As far anyone will be concerned, Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney will be an insignificant blip in the history of the world."
"And the universe," John added.
Terrance Whitney began to think that facing the sharks might be an easier prospect. "Now hang on! It sounds like judgment has been passed without a fair trial. When was I given the chance to conduct a defence on my behalf? There aren't even twelve people present to be the jury!"
"You were given the chance to state your case at our first meeting," Lady Penelope informed him. "And you were found to be sadly wanting. Your trial, however, was conducted a short time after you caused the most distress. And you can rest assured that there were twelve men and women present to, ah, pass judgement on you. The determination of the court was unanimous. You must be, and will be, stopped from producing any more death creations."
"And you can guarantee this?" Scott checked.
"I can," Lady Penelope purred. "I have been very thorough."
"I'm sure you have. Will you require any assistance?"
"No. I believe that it will be better for all if International Rescue is not connected in any way, shape, nor form with my denouement. It is unfortunate that I shall have to use the Epiprocta of the state of Erikeep, as I have nothing against President Heeron and her people, but I can neutralise that too."
Scott continued staring, his gaze not leaving Whitney for a second. Then he gave a decisive nod. "Do it." He turned and walked away, disappearing into Thunderbird Two.
He was closely followed by the rest of his team – none of them giving Whitney a second glance.
The only remaining member of International Rescue, Lady Penelope, took Whitney's arm, but there was nothing affectionate about her grip. "It appears that your sentence will not be commuted. You will come with me."
"But…"
Whitney had no choice other than to let himself be led across to the Epiprocta and an unknown future.
To be continued…
