--Warning--
Impact probability... 91...92...93...94...
--Impact imminent--
...95...96...97...
"Thunderbird 5 to Tracy Island!"
...98...99...100...
"Mayday! May.."
And then his words were cut off mid-sentence as the impact occurred, as metal gave way to the powerful missile propelled into the outer hull, as oxygen tanks ruptured, gas exploding into the hostile, oxygen-deprived environment of space.
The console went up in a shower of sparks and debris.
A shockwave coursed through the station, tilting it.
Artificial gravity generators labored under stress.
He was propelled backwards, instinctively raising his arms to protect his face from the flames. He was flung head over heels across the floor, his shoulder impacting with the grid, then his back collided with the wall and for a moment there was only the pain.
Pain everywhere. Blinding and all-encompassing. Spiking through his head, burning into his back, cutting into his arm.
Blackness.
It came, it went, it was fluctuating all around him.
Disoriented he lay on the ground, gasping, feeling nothing. Around him was the sound of stressed metal, of the station groaning and moaning under the distress of the impact.
Where was he?
Aboard Thunderbird 5, of course, but where in relation to the controls was he?
Blinking smoke and tears out of his eyes, John finally managed to find out where he had landed. Down the access tunnel that led to the docking hatch. Not far from the control room.
Miles for him, though.
Miles and miles and miles.
He moved.
Mistake. Big mistake. Tremendous, stupid mistake.
Pain shot through his abused body and he cried out, but there was no one here to hear it. Tears streamed down his soot-marred face as the agony of his injuries lanced through his overtaxed mind. Someone seemed to be burying a red-hot spike into his back and his right arm refused to really work.
Still, he moved. Crawled. Dug his fingers into the twisted metal and pulled himself forward to the communications console. Skin tore around the injuries, more blood flowed. He didn't care. His mind was focused on the console.
Had to reach it.
So badly.
It took long. So painfully, excruciatingly long.
But he made it.
And he managed to pull himself to a sitting position.
Blackness wanted him again, but he refused the invitation. He had to call Tracy Island. He just had to
--Emergency power at ten percent--
Everything was fried. Charred. Broken. Lamps and displays busted, keys of the keyboard melted
And he hurt so badly.
Still, he made himself move, lift his screaming arm, punch in the emergency frequency, praying that at least the rudimentary systems worked.
Please, please, please, he chanted in his head. Oh god, please...
"I'm losing all power!" he managed, voice rough from too much smoke inhalation.
Sparks erupted from the charred console and he averted his face, clinging to the twisted metal to keep himself upright.
--Emergency power at ten percent--
"Repeat: I'm losing all power!"
His strength faded and he had to let go, sliding to the ground, coughing.
His lungs felt raw.
He hurt. He hurt so much.
Around him the world consisted of darkness, the emergency lighting, small fires licking at the walls. It was made up out of the never-ending pain signals his nerves transmitted.
Make it stop, he pleaded silently. Please make it stop--
The dream had been a recurring one. Over and over, with slight variations, but always the same basic contents.
The missile impact.
The station's struggle to survive.
The agony of moving, of just existing, while waiting for rescue.
John watched the sunset, leaning against the support frame of the huge panorama window. His right arm was still in a sling since the doctors had diagnosed tendonitis in his shoulder, which meant it was extremely painful to move it. As if he needed a doctor to tell him that. Then again, what wasn't painful? Sure, the pain had lessened, but it was still there. The burn on his back was covered by a light bandage to keep it from being dirtied, and he had to apply a special salve to help it heal. Onaha was helping him with it. The concussion was mostly gone, but he still had headaches now or then. It was annoying.
Just as annoying as the constant nausea had been right after waking up for the first time. Concussion did that to you. It also did headaches. Lots of them. Some weaker, some like migraines, and John had willingly and very voluntarily taken his pain medication just to escape the pain.
He hadn't been able to escape a few sessions with a bucket held close and food reintroducing itself to him. He had hated every minute of it.
Twenty-four hours in the hospital and finally he had been allowed to go home, much to his relief. He preferred suffering at home to suffering in a hospital room.
Blue eyes rising to the sky, John squinted into the encroaching darkness. Somewhere up there was Thunderbird 5, crippled, wrecked, barely keeping itself together. In the last two days Virgil and Gordon had been flying back and forth with Brains to help repair the basic systems. Fifty percent of the oxygen tanks had exploded when the missile had impacted, and before they weren't replaced, no one could live up there for a prolonged amount of time.
Then there was all the electronics equipment. Brains was repairing it one by one, recruiting help from all family members and his son. John sighed a little.
He was all but useless right now. He tired easily, his arm was his handicap, and even his head felt like a leaky sieve. He couldn't concentrate on anything more complicated than basic multiplication, and it annoyed him.
His brothers either tip-toed around him or awkwardly tried to circumvent mentioning TB 5. It wasn't like he had a problem with it; he had a problem without it, with being down here while his bird was up there and he couldn't do anything to assist.
"You missed dinner."
John turned his head and glanced at his father. Leisurely dressed, white summer pant, short-sleeved t-shirt, sandals. Tanned skin in contrast to the light clothes. They all tanned, even John when he came down from another shift, but no tan could hide the paleness, the shadows.
Jeff Tracy had his hands stuffed in his pant's pockets, head slightly tilted, looking a bit more tired than John remembered him to be. Then again, they were all tired.
The latest events had taken their toll on everyone.
"Wasn't hungry."
"With the pain medication you need to eat, John."
"I know."
He turned back to watching the sun set. By now the dark purple and very dark orange was the only color left. Soon it would be blackish blue, with a few stars out.
Jeff joined him at the window, silently gazing at the ocean, and the room grew ever-darker. Things were cast into shadow, then darkness, and John relaxed as the lights faded. In a way this was like being out in space. Looking at the world outside through the windows, seeing nothing but the stars and Earth, a beautiful planet in the middle of a hostile space. He loved space. He loved the serenity, the peace, the quiet, but he also missed this. His home, his family. He enjoyed being on solid ground every time he came down from a shift.
When the sun's last light had finally disappeared, the room's automatic lights turned on. Low level, thank goodness. John didn't really want to see all that much.
"I was afraid."
The soft voice penetrated his thoughts and John blinked, then turned to look at his father.
Dark eyes met his blue ones and suddenly John looked at the man who almost regularly talked to him via the com lines, who sought his advice now and then, who listened, who gave his own advice. Jeff Tracy had many faces the billionaire, the ex-astronaut, the father, the commander, the supervisor, the company head, the scientist -- but only one man now looked at him-- the human being.
"I was afraid to lose everything," Jeff said quietly. "He was so close to destroying everything dear to me."
"Dad... we won. It's over."
A rueful smile. "No, it's not. It's just beginning, John. The Hood showed me how vulnerable we are. I believed in our safety, your safety up in Thunderbird 5. He showed me it was an illusion."
John tensed briefly, the memories of the missile impact forever lodged in his mind.
"He was after me, a personal vendetta, and he nearly erased my family."
"Dad... let it go."
"I can't."
"Revenge isn't the answer."
Jeff chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm not about to turn on him like he went after me, John."
But he wanted to. Someone had attacked Jeff Tracy's family and the man was out to lash back at him with all his power. But that power and energy was better used to rebuild what had been broken.
"He tried to kill Alan in front of my eyes," the older Tracy went on, staring out of the window. "I keep seeing him choke, held in that invisible grip. I was helpless, John."
And you aren't used to it.
"I was forced to watch it all. There was nothing else I could do."
And you hate watching. You are hands-on, you go out on missions, because watching isn't what you do, Dad.
"I know."
I know the feeling because all I do is watch, Dad. I sit up there, I monitor, I watch them go into dangerous situations.
"But this is over," John went on firmly. "We came out of it alive. We repair the damage, heal the wounds, and we go on."
It's what we do.
It's who we are. Not indestructible, but persistent, resilient -- we are Tracys.
He knew that only too well. He used it to battle his own nightmares. That and talking. He had spent quiet, unobserved moments with Alan and he knew his youngest brother had been plagued by nightmares just like him and his father, those who had been at the front lines of it all. Scott, Virgil and Gordon were dealing with the fiasco differently. They hadn't been nearly blown to pieces or had seen someone get choked close to death in front of their eyes.
Still, they had all suffered.
Alan was dealing with it. John was. Jeff would.
You did a great job, Dad. We are strong. You are strong.
His father looked at him and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
"Yes, we go on. But there will be changes. To the security of the station, to the security of the island. This will never happen again."
John nodded. Brains had already shown him the layout of the new security system for his Thunderbird. There would be no offensive weapons, just defensive ones, but they would engage should a missile or a meteorite threaten it.
Both men stood together in the semi-darkened room in mutual, comfortable silence.
John pondered the future. The immediate future. International Rescue's monitor station was out of commission for a while and world-wide communication was impossible. The Thunderbirds were partially grounded and the world knew it. The press had reported about the hideous crimes against the organization that had helped so many. Things would be haphazard for a while and rescue missions would be monitored from base. It severely shrank down their operations area.
In a week or two, basics would be back, the operating systems functioning again. Another week or two after that he might be able to get back on board the space station.
For now, he was grounded.
And the moment he could think more clearly and stay awake longer, he would also contribute to operations.
"Go to sleep," his father's voice intruded into his thoughts and John ruefully suppressed a yawn.
"Same to you," he said with a smile.
Jeff mirrored the smile. "Will do. Go."
"FAB."
That got him a wider smile and John pushed away from the window. He was exhausted, actually, but he hadn't felt it until now. Walking to his room, he passed by Alan's and automatically peeked inside. His youngest brother was sleeping and there were no nightmares threatening for now. John smiled and quietly closed the door, continuing to his own bed.
He was so tired.
And he wanted to sleep.
With the pain medication dulling the angry pulses from his abused flesh, John dropped off into a comatose sleep.
tbc...