Prayers and loving thoughts for the Royal Family. He was a wonderful man, and will be very much missed.
32
Venice, or what remained of her-
His jet pack's fuel was not limitless, but Scott wasn't inclined to be cautious. Following the Chancellor's transmission through clouds of billowing dust, he sped to the danger zone; a still-growing, miles-wide crater that lay at the heart of Venice. Water, mud and debris poured into the pit from all sides. Frantic victims clung to whatever they could, trying to climb through that tumbling wreckage.
Needing to hurry, Scott helped out wherever he could; directing robots and newly arrived GDF crews, while racing to locate Chancellor McGill. There was just too much need. Too many people screaming for help, reaching and begging in abject terror.
Thunderbird 2 arrived shortly thereafter, allowing Gordon and Lee to pitch in… but it wasn't enough. Squashing emotion, Scott made himself focus on just one thing, one plea, at a time.
Managed to reach the Chancellor (now chin-deep in water and muck) just as the wide oval shadow of Thunderbird 2 passed overhead. He could sense Captain Taylor jockeying for someplace to drop the rescue pod, but kept his attention on getting to Chancellor McGill. Her craned head and white face were about to be swallowed entirely up. She tried to shout something at him, but her words were drowned out by the noise of creaking and groaning detritus, the thunder of cascading seawater.
"Try to stay calm, Ma'am. I'm coming," the pilot called back. Next, Scott cut off and sealed his jet pack, then plunged right in, dodging snapped girders and tilted stone slabs. Reached the straining, gulping woman just as that blood-frothing water covered her mouth. Infrared scan showed a snagged, injured leg.
"Sh*t" somehow didn't seem adequate. Reacting as trained, Scott slipped a rebreather mask over her face, then switched his helmet lamp on and went fully under. Turbid, murky water made it tough to see, much less work. Had to feel his way down… find the twisted, snapped metal that had the woman's leg pinned.
But McGill kept pulling Scott's arm and pointing to one side, as though her trapped limb didn't matter. Someone else down below, most likely. Well, he had two additional air masks, and her blood loss did not seem severe.
Nodding inside his helmet, Scott used the heads-up display to scan for lifesigns. Too late for most of them, but… there! Smallish, looked like a child. Giving the battered chancellor a quick thumbs-up, Scott Tracy slapped a beacon onto her shoulder, then set off; kicking and sculling through swirling brown seawater, tracking a fading small signal.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
High overhead, in Thunderbird 2-
"Dammit!" snarled Captain Lee Taylor, swinging the big Bird around one more time. "Godfrey, closest I c'n put ya down's right offshore in th' Adriatic. Anywheres else, an y'r pod's gonna crush sumthin', or else wind up tilted too bad ta git out of."
Down in Pod 4, securely strapped in his waiting rescue sub, Gordon Tracy considered their options, then nodded.
"Gotta do what we gotta do, Sir. Put me down as close as possible, and I'll make up the time with my awesome dodging and juking skills."
Taylor's transmitted image grinned at him, briefly.
"Jus' look out f'r snags an' fallin' debris. I'm gettin' a mite "classic" ta jump in there after ya."
As servos and launch motors cut on around him, Gordon smiled back.
"Nah, you've got at least another 150 years in you, Cap."
The main clamps thunked free of their safety position, making ready for drop. Thunderbird 2 slid out of a deep bank, and back into level flight. Gordon ran another quick scan of his Bird and the target zone, checking ocean depth and bottom conditions. Very much not open water. Very much not at all safe.
"Droppin' the pod on three, smart-ass," said his uncle, adding, "Do whut ya can, but play smart. Last thing we need is more casualties."
No kidding. It was likely going to be far less rescue than recovery, but Gordon still burnished his hope. "You can't save them all," he thought to himself, "But you can make a h*ll of a difference for some."
"3… 2… 1… drop!" announced Lee, who never quite got it on three.
The main holdfasts released, like, a half-second later. Pod 4 dropped like a giant green rock; fifteen, maybe twenty yards onto rough, choppy water. Ringing with noise and vibration, the pod sloshed, tilted, wallowed and spun. Business as frickin' usual, right?
"Down in one piece, Mom!" Gordon called up, giving Taylor's image a cheery salute. "Opening pod door for launch."
Brains was back at Island Base, monitoring all facets of the rescue. Surprisingly, he cut in then, with,
"G- Gordon, I have, ah… have in- included an experimental device in Pod 4, which m- may prove useful should, ah… should a- all else fail. It is contained in a r- red steel box marked c- caution, extreme hazard."
"Uh… thanks, I think," said the aquanaut, half his mind on the conversation, half on events. The pod door slammed loudly open, forming a ramp for Thunderbird 4; letting in daylight and swirling grey smoke. "I'll keep that in mind."
...if his pants caught fire, Scott discovered his sensitive side, or Virgil declared himself vegan. He didn't spend very long thinking about the engineer's scary dang box, though. Too busy. The overhead lights dimmed in Pod 4. Twin rows of powerful clamps snapped off all at once, sounding like fireworks.
Gordon throttled forward, goosing the engine and sending his bright yellow submarine hurtling out of her cradle and into rough seas. A definite current took hold at once, pulling Thunderbird 4 toward Venice. Not a good sign.
He dove reflexively, feeling the hull sensors' input translated directly onto his skin. Temperature, pressure waves, even chemical data came through, via his helmet-straw. Gordon Tracy felt and tasted that gritty morass as a shark or a dolphin would. Better, maybe.
Scans placed Scott about two and a half miles away, through rough and debris-choked water. Struggling to free someone, looked like.
"Gotcha," muttered the aquanaut, flashing his lights and extending the submarine's cutting arm. "There before you know it, Bro. Hang on."
XXXXXXXXXXX
Globe Studios Triumph dorm, male quarters-
Alan Tracy studied his own reflection in the mirror, trying out poses and catch-phrases. He'd gotten some serious airtime and audience response (according to Zippy McDrone-Face, who'd buzzed down once or twice to keep learning Morse). Had to build on that, if he wanted a bigger role in the next contest.
Maybe fame and endorsement contracts shouldn't have mattered so much. For sure, they didn't mean crap to Scott and the rest… but Al wasn't Scott and he wasn't Virgil. He wasn't about to be satisfied with a GDF employee-of-the-month certificate and a pat on the back.
Tossing the golden-blond hair from his eyes, Alan pointed both forefingers at the mirror and cocked an eyebrow. Changing his voice, he quipped,
"Alan Tracy, over and outta here!"
Then, turning slightly sideways and flexing a bit,
"Stay fresh, cheese bags!" (A phrase he'd seen printed on a grocery label, and decided right then to adopt.)
Tried about fifteen snappy variations on "Thunderbirds are GO," even.
...but nothing he said sounded cool enough. Yeah, but, so… Alan would have quit a lot sooner and done less embarrassing stuff, if he'd known that his mirror was two-way, with a Globe Studios camera right there in back, recording it all for commercial breaks.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Triumph transport shuttle G-120, incoming-
So, the good news: they didn't break up in midair. On the other hand, that shuttle would never take off again, boosted or not. With only one go at a landing, Virgil put her down ugly and hard, bouncing three times on the ocean, shedding bits of hull the whole way.
"Hold on!" he called back to Kayo, Penny and Max.
The females and robot clung to their scavenged rescue equipment; ready to ditch, just as soon as the pirated aircraft stopped slamming water. H*ll of a bumpy ride, and only a genius like Virgil Tracy could have landed the thing. John was too busy manipulating Brains' force field to offer much advice. Barely looked up from his figures the first time they struck. After the second, he switched the force shield from defending their shuttle to forming a very long, frictionless slide. Enough to get them to the target zone more or less intact, and keep them from sinking.
In the stunned aftermath, with entire sections of hull plate peeling away and frantic alarms sounding off, Virgil glanced over at John.
"Let's, uh… leave this one off of the highlight reel," the pilot suggested.
John merely shrugged.
"Any landing you can swim away from is a winner in my estimation," he said, cutting his repurposed cargo-strap seat belt. "Believe it or not, I've seen worse, and nobody out there cares how we got to the danger zone. Just what we do to save lives."
"Amen to that," replied the big pilot, powering down their badly-fused husk of an engine.
Next, Virgil backed out of the hole they'd sliced in the forward bulkhead. Tight fit, but he got some help from Kayo and Max, behind. Penny wrestled the exterior hatch open, meanwhile. Let in plenty of smoke and rank, muddy water, but no one complained.
"Keep to the flattened water," John advised, as he and Virgil muscled their rescue gear out of the shuttle. "Where it looks like weird, chocolate jelly… that's where the force field is. Step off, and you're taking a drink."
"I should rather like one of those," admitted Penelope, hoisting the shuttle's first aid kit and fire extinguisher. "Preferably something much stronger than sherry."
Virgil looked up from his scanner. Over the noise of floating debris scraping and bumping their hull, he said,
"First round's on me, just as soon as we're home and dry." Then, "I make Scott about seventeen yards off, that way, and straight down. 22.3 degrees, 10 minutes east. Looks like Gordon's already headed that way. John, if your suit can handle the water…"
Worth asking, because the astronaut hadn't brought along a space helmet or exterior air supply. He did have that circuit-pen, though, and Max repurposed some of his own interior parts to help make an ugly (but functional) mask and rebreather.
Thunderbird 2 was out of sight in the smoke and the dust, but they could make out her floodlights, as well as the dark, distant bulk of Pod 4. John was first in the water, followed by Kayo and Max. Visibility sucked, but the weightless freedom of movement was plenty familiar, allowing the astronaut to free drowning people, give them air, then pass them on up to his sister. Up in the shuttle, Lady Penelope triaged victims, while Max held supplies and warmed the air to help fend off shock. Virgil did a little of everything, coordinating the GDF emergency crew and using a transmitter to summon Pod 4. Needed the extra room; a safe place onsite to gather and treat that shivering knot of survivors.
Then Thunderbird 4 broke the surface, shedding muddy water and splintered planks. Inside, head in her hands, was Chancellor McGill. On Gordon's lap, what looked like an unconscious child.