All righty... first time I'm trying myself at review answers ;)
Agent Five: I keep putting the disclaimer concerning the language ahead of each story because there might just be one reader in the future who starts bitching about grammar, so it's a kind of security measure. If someone flames or complains concerning the language, I can always point toward the disclaimer. Go, read, it's all explained there.
nebula2: well, I hope I can make Scott likeable for you. This story is a bit Scott-centric, I'm afraid. There will be a lot of John later on. Sowwy... /shuffles feet/
ctymose: I was thinking of doing a multiple point of view story, but Scott stuck to me. And when he does, he's really hard to get rid of. Persistent little bugger... I'm already thinking about some of the others, but except for Alan, no one really had a lot of exposure character-wise. Then again, there's still Jeff, and Bill Paxton makes a nice Jeff at that...
ladc: I hate nothing more than a quick ending when the story was so wonderfully laden with characters suffering. Especially John. Well, I did that story already and now it's time to look at what happens throughout their first rescue.
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I was hoping to get my DVD today to check some of the tech quotes I've used, but alas, no mail. I'll probably get it tomorrow -- AFTER posting this chapter. Figures. :P You have to live with what garbled things I could hear... Some of those guys really do mumble in certain situations...
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Now, on to part 2...
"... terrible explosion this morning at around 4 a.m..."
"... people were shocked out of their sleep by windows shattering to pieces as an explosion of tremendous proportions rocked the small town of Daranta this early morning..."
"... a freight train passing through the sleepy little town..."
"...Rescue. Can you hear us? We request help. Please, respond. International Rescue..."
"... hazardous material... chemical spill... fire... catastrophe..."
"Officials have called International Rescue, hoping to receive aide from the unknown heroes who were so very nearly killed not two weeks ago when a mad man..."
"... and we're hoping that the Thunderbirds can help the shaken town prevent the worst disaster in the history of the Daranta area as the fire eats away at crops and forests, coming closer and closer, encircling the town and its inhabitants."
"This is International Rescue. We read you loud and clear, Daranta. We are on our way. ETA is twenty minutes. Please stand by. This is International Rescue. We're on our way. I repeat, we are on our way."
Thunderbird 1 streaked over the ocean, briefly skimming over the coast line and then heading inland, the landscape a blur. Going full speed was normally an adrenaline high, only tempered by the knowledge that he wasn't flying for fun, that he was going toward a serious, dangerous situation involving people needing their help.
Scott had never been afraid of a rescue. Never in all his life as a member of the secret organization his father had founded. He had flown into storms, blizzards, hurricanes, into earthquake centers, volcano outbreaks, explosions and avalanches. He had been under fire, literally, before, and he knew his job meant he would always be in danger, one way or the other.
He had never been afraid.
He had been worried, sure. He had felt apprehension and excitement, tension and exhilaration, all mixing together into that emotional cocktail that let him think so sharply and within seconds to handle the job as the first man on the scene, assess everything, and guide his brothers in their rescue attempts.
No, he had never been truly afraid...
Now he was close to terrified.
It was an alien feeling, something he wasn't used to. Fear was one thing, terror another. Terror was only associated with one situation -- the rescue aboard Thunderbird 5.
Data streamed across his screen, telling him his flight speed, the power output of the engines, his height, the aviation weather, and the conditions up ahead. He didn't really need any sensors to see the thick column of black smoke rising at the horizon.
This was where he was going.
This was where they were needed.
The first rescue after the disaster, after The Hood had nearly destroyed them.
-- Docking procedure complete --
-- Airlock pressure equalized --
And they were in, running through the hatch and the tunnel leading to the heart of Thunderbird 5.
The badly damaged and charred heart.
Dim lights, emergency lamps flickering, fires burning inside the station. He ran into the darkness, his helmet lights the only source of illumination before he reached the control center.
There was smoke everywhere.
Charred consoles, instrument panels and exploded screens. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning wires.
And there was a slumped figure, bright blond hair streaked with black and a color that could only be associated with blood. There were burn marks and smudges all over the uniform.
"Scott! Tackle that fire!"
His body reacted to the order without asking his mind whether or not there was an objection. He grabbed a fire extinguisher and aimed it at the fire burning not far away, leeching away precious oxygen.
"Thunderbird 2 to Thunderbird 1. I'm right behind you, Scott."
Virgil's voice made him jump a little and Scott blinked at the displays, showing him that he was quickly approaching the accident site. A small dot not far from him indicated the behemoth transport ship.
"Roger that, Thunderbird 2. I have visual."
He looked at his screen where the onboard cameras were showing him the site of a train crash. Not just a simple train. That probably wouldn't have warranted the arrival of IR. No, a freight train, loaded with flammables, had been derailed by unknown causes, and wagons had overturned. The flammable liquids had spilled and finally part of the freight had exploded, creating a sea of fire that was quickly spreading. There was a small town near-by, which was currently being evacuated, and the shockwave of the first explosion had flattened and uprooted whatever vegetation there had been.
Scott was looking at a hellish fire, moving fast, feeding on the gasoline and other flammable liquids, trees and grass. No one knew where the driver and the train's crew was, but at least the engine seemed to be okay. They would have to look.
A soft groan escaped the injured man as he was moved by their father and Scott winced in sympathy. John's face was covered in soot and grime, and he was barely conscious.
"Am I glad to see you, guys," he rasped.
"Easy, John, you're hurt," his father soothed him, helping John sit up, though it took a visible effort for the blond to stay upright. "Virgil, take care of your brother! Gordon, give me a damage assessment!"
Scott's eyes strayed over to where his father was barking orders and his brothers immediately followed them, not questioning him for a single second.
He tried not to think how badly John could be hurt, but the pain-filled voice filtering through the audio receptors of his helmet told him enough.
Virgil knelt next to the injured Tracy, starting emergency treatment, while Scott and Jeff put out the small fires burning here or there. Gordon was trying to access the damage protocols, fighting the smoldering and burning consoles.
Scott had Thunderbird 1 in a holding pattern over the accident site, the VTOL engines easily keeping the massive ship in place, peering down, trying to determine the next course of action while his mind was flashing wildly to another fire, to another crisis, and he was feeling his muscles freeze.
He was the point man, the one-man-reconnaissance team, the first at the site, the man to make the decisions on how to proceed. It was his job to assess everything...
with the help of John.
John, who was up in Thunderbird 5, having the bird's eye view, had all the satellite data, who had a broader spectrum of information. Where Scott only saw a fraction, he would have the whole picture.
But John was injured. Thunderbird 5 was out of commission.
Scott was alone.
He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his feelings.
It was the first time he was alone, the first time he had no second opinion, the first time he had to monitor and guide and assess himself. Sure, he usually did it anyway, but the knowledge of John keeping an eye on things had helped a great deal. It was a subconscious thing, but a very calming one.
Panic crept along his peripheral vision.
He was alone.
Thunderbird 2 with Virgil and Gordon and his father was still a good fifteen minutes away and they needed his guidance to start on the rescue mission. He had to find a good landing spot, look for the safest way to proceed
Scott's fingers clenched around the steering controls.
He was looking at the display without seeing anything.
Scott stared at the flashing red lights in growing panic. "We've got a red light on our EPS system!" he shouted.
"Attempt manual override!" his father ordered from where he knelt next to John, holding the oxygen mask over his son's nose and mouth
Scott flipped a switch and felt the panic multiply.
"No, that's negative!" he reported, trying to stem the flow of hysteria.
Goddamnit, he was a Thunderbird!
Get a grip on yourself! he yelled silently. You're supposed to be in control, calm and on top of things.
Right now, he was far from any of those things.
Thunderbird 5 was close to dead in the water and things were growing worse and worse. Losing the station would be a heavy blow, but nothing that could be replaced. Losing a brother he shut that thought down.
His father's expression tightened and he shot up, leaving John in Virgil's care, then checked the read-outs himself.
"Back to Thunderbird 3!" he ordered. "John," he addressed the injured young man, "we gotta move."
Just standing up, more or less pulled to his feet, made John gasp in pain.
"The locking mechanism's jammed!" Gordon yelled, immediately having their attention.
The world came to a screeching halt, his insides clenching in terror.
Trapped.
Like rats.
Why?
And then that voice filtered over the system. That smooth as silk voice.
"Attention Thunderbird 5. As you can see I've taken over your facilities. You no longer control your operation systems."
"Thunderbird 1, this is base," a calm voice suddenly reached his ears and Scott felt himself flinch, jolted out of his memories.
"John?" he blurted.
He could almost hear the smile.
"Affirmative. Thunderbird 1, there's a wide unaffected area south of your position. I believe it would be the best base of operations. The fire is heading toward Daranta. I talked to the chief of police and he says evacuation is in full flow, but the speed of the fire and its unpredictable course make it hard for everyone to leave."
Scott stared at the com console. John? But John wasn't in Thunderbird 5! He couldn't be there, looking down at the scene, calmly relaying information from other outposts or the people they had to rescue. He couldn't be because Thunderbird 5 was still non-operational, a lump of metal in space that needed more than a new paint job.
"Thunderbird 1, do you copy?"
The voice was a little sharper now, cutting through his confusion.
"FAB," he stammered.
"Thunderbird 2 can take care of the fire and the train. Scott, you head over to the town and take care of coordinating the rescue efforts. I'm in contact with the Rangers and they're about thirty minutes away, ready to coordinate with us."
The professional took over, the pilot, the trained man. Scott shoved everything aside, aware that he would have to deal with it later again.
"Understood. Heading over to Daranta."
"Roger that, Thunderbird 1. I'm in contact with Thunderbird 2 and they're almost with you. You should be able to see her in a few."
And Scott did. An ever-bigger growing shadow in the distance, quickly coming toward the catastrophe. He swung Thunderbird 1 around and banked to the right, heading over to Daranta while listening to John's so calm and anchoring voice relaying instructions, talking to Thunderbird 2 and keeping him informed of whatever he couldn't see.
How he could do that was beyond Scott. His mind was blanking again and again, and whenever he didn't concentrate on what he was doing, it flashed back to the disastrous day aboard Thunderbird 5.
The fires.
The heat.
The thickening air.
Scott felt himself tense up and tried to distract himself by talking to John. It was the first time they upheld conversation on such a level throughout a rescue.
He was calm impersonate on the outside. He acted with his usual professionalism, helped evacuate the small town of Daranta, talked to the police, the fire fighters, the special units coming in one after another to assist Thunderbird 2 in the task of dousing the flames, keep the sea of fire from the evacuees, and securing the still damaged wagons and engine.
Explosions rattled the Thunderbirds as a few more wagons gave up to heat and pressure, but except for a few shook up men and women, a few bruises and cuts, nothing serious occurred. Daranta was mostly saved, except for two houses outside the town borders, which fell victim to the flames.
And throughout it all, Scott heard John's even voice, listened to the data coming in, adjusted his actions to it. His brother was like the eye of a vicious storm, keeping the freezing panic from clutching at his mind again, keeping the pilot from thinking about the possibilities. Scott clung to the sound of Johns tenor like a drowning man.
One wrong move, one wrong decision and he might trap himself and his family in that fire. They might all be in danger again, unable to escape, victim to another mad scheme of revenge.
Like before.
Just a few days ago...
"Thunderbird 1," he heard his father over the open communications channel. "Good job. I think the local rescue can take care of things from here on. We're leaving. Let's go home, boys."
"FAB," Scott replied automatically and took off smoothly.
Thunderbird 1 briefly hovered over the town, then he adjusted the flaps and opened the valves. The engines howled with power and the rocket ship shot off. He was soon joined by Thunderbird 2. She dwarfed her sister ship, and Virgil, steering the green titan, gave him a thumbs up. Scott replied likewise.
A rescue well done.
The first after the mind-numbing experience with The Hood.
It had felt like his very first one ever.
tbc...