So far, if you've been nipping in and out, Scott got himself shot during a faked mining emergency, and Virgil is missing,condition unknown. The rest of the family has gathered at the island to formulate a plan of action. Once again, extremely AU, for which I tender my sincerest apologies, but that's the way it wrote itself... I lay no claim to the characters or situations, but aknowledge the help and suggestions of many good friends, with whom I share a love of the Tracy boys.
6
Kyrano was waiting at the airstrip to pick them up, standing by the door of Virgil's green humvee with an expression that somehow telegraphed compassion, welcome and concern at one and the same time.
"Mr. Gordon, Mr. Alan," he greeted the boys, bowing as they cut off the engines and sprang to the tarmac. "Welcome home. Mr. Hackenbacker is expecting you."
"Thanks, Kyrano," Gordon replied, briefly shaking the manservant's hand. "Any word yet from Dad?"
"Non, Mr. Gordon. I am most sorry, Sir. Your father remains, with the other corporate and military heads, within the secure confines of the New York City meeting room. The contracts being settled are of great importance to the business, and there has been much fear of espionage."
In other words, no luck. Nodding glumly, Gordon climbed into the passenger's seat. It had been worth asking, anyway. As the humvee snaked up the twisting access road toward the mansion, Gordon turned round in his seat, caught Alan's eye, and tugged discreetly at his own left earlobe.
"Oh, yeah, right! Almost forgot...!" Alan muttered, fumbling at the back of his diamond earring. Father might not be home, but obvious jewelry on one of his sons was never permitted, no matter the circumstances, and somehow or other, he would have found out. Relieved to have dodged a major bullet, Alan removed the earring and dropped it into his pocket.
Back at the house, TinTin greeted them both with tight hugs and quick, nervous kisses.
"Oh, Alan, Gordon, I'm so glad you've come home! Now we can do something to save them! I've been so worried...! I thought... what if someone attacked you, as well?" Her fingernails were ragged and bloody, bitten down to the quick, and her pretty face streaked with tears.
The boys did their best to comfort their friend, trying to seem stronger than they felt, for her sake.
"No panic, Angel," Gordon told her, giving TinTin's trembling shoulder a little squeeze. "We've got this."
"Yeah," Alan added, slipping an arm around her waist. "With the three of us together again, Scott and Virgil are as good as home. "Count on it."
Reunion completed, they hurried upstairs to the office, talking a hundred miles an hour. When they got there, Brains was clicking his way through map after computerized map, pausing now and again to make notes, or address a comment to John, still as far away as the space station, and as close as his comm portrait.
"I... ah, I think your p-plan has... ah, a real chance of suc-success," Brains was saying to John, as Gordon, Alan, TinTin and Kyrano entered the room. Then, "They... ah, they're h-here! G-glad you..., ah... you could make it. I'm... I'm very sorry about wh-what's happened, um... t-to the others, but I th-think w-we may now be able t- to ah... pull off a r-rescue."
Brains was clearly agitated again, fiddling with his glasses, his collar, his pen and anything else that his nervous hands came into contact with.
"Sorry t' take so long, Brains," Gordon responded, venturing a handshake. Not necessarily a safe proposition, as Brains always seemed to be breaking pens; permanent markers, usually. Still, like TinTin, Kyrano, Parker and Lady Penelope, Brains was considered family, and worth the risk of ink-spotted hands. This time, though, Gordon escaped unscathed. "What's the plan?" He asked.
"W- well...,"
A sudden noise cut Brains off in mid-sentence. The wide screen TV, tuned still to WNN, gave a long, loud, wavering beep. An attention signal. Everyone whipped around and stared, puzzled by the strangely dark screen. At first nothing happened, which was more surprising still. In that day and age, there was no such thing as dead air time, ever. Then, with burst of harsh static, an image formed. A man's face stared out of the screen at them; arrogant, cold and hard. He seemed neither old nor young, with a powerful body, a clean-shaven scalp and an expression suggestive of twisted, predatory cruelty. He seemed to be wearing some sort of ornate, brocaded robe although, as only his head and torso were in the picture, most of his costume remained unseen.
With all eyes focused on the television, nobody noticed when Kyrano went suddenly pale and anguished. Hugging himself, the old servant retreated to the far corner of the room, as though seeking shelter from the televised image before him.
The figure smiled thinly, made an amused little half-bow, and began speaking in a low, rumbling voice.
"Ladies and Gentlemen... International Rescue... if you will indulge a brief interruption? This broadcast is occurring simultaneously on all channels, in all nations the world over, so do not bother reaching for the remote. What I have to say is important, and will not occupy much of your time."
Shifting his stance slightly, the brocade-draped figure continued.
"I am a man of business. My name doesn't matter, but if labels bring you comfort, you may refer to me as 'The Hood'. A small... venture ... of mine has met with success this day, and I am ready to offer up several items to those buyers with the resources to purchase them." His smile widened slowly, as though he knew the impact that his words were having, and savored every blow. "I am in possession now of Thunderbirds 1 and 2. They have been rigged, inside and out, with powerful explosives triggered to instantly incinerate anyone who attempts to tamper with them, destroying, of course, the craft themselves. This would be a pity, as I am offering the Thunderbird craft for sale to the highest bidder, be it nation or individual. Also, lest you think me a poor merchant, with so little to display...,"
On a sudden, horrible notion, Gordon seized Alan's arm and whispered urgently,
"Grandmother! Alan, she's always watchin' TV! F'r the love of Heaven, distract her before...," He didn't... couldn't... finish the thought. Alan nodded wildly and bolted from the room, shouting,
"Grandma! Hey, Grandma! Where are you?! I need something to eat! I'm starving!"
Behind him, TinTin, Gordon, Brains and Kyrano went very still; frozen with apprehension. Gloatingly, The Hood proceeded.
"For International Rescue, a special offering..." At a slight gesture from the speaker, the camera pulled back, revealing something... someone... on the ground before him. With a muffled cry, TinTin turned and buried her face against Gordon's shoulder.
Virgil lay there, broken and bloody, his arms bound savagely tight behind his back. The Hood prodded his unconscious captive with a booted foot, still smiling.
"One of your pilots has come into my possession, as well. A bit damaged, perhaps, but not yet beyond repair. He may be redeemed for the sum of $500 billion, American, to be deposited by 12:00 PM, Greenwich Mean Time, tomorrow. Note the following account number, as I shall not repeat it."
A long string of numbers followed, which Brains instantly memorized. Looking deeply pleased with himself, The Hood added,
"I cannot promise my prospective buyers that he will remain on the market past 12pm tomorrow. He is in rather poor condition, and my patience is not endless. So, then, I look forward shortly to receiving bids on the aircraft, and a ransom for the remaining pilot. Good day."
An instant later, their enemy vanished from the screen. Nobody spoke for several minutes. Gordon, breathing as though he'd just finished the 400-meter free style, had had to fight the mad urge to hurl himself at the TV. TinTin was sobbing silently, clutching at him as though he had some kind of power to make everything right again.
"Gordon...," she almost begged, "pourquoi?! Why would anyone do this?"
"Don't know," her friend growled. "Money, I guess. Not that it matters. The only thing the bastard's getting from me is a broken neck!"
Pulling away just a bit, TinTin said hesitantly, "I didn't... I couldn't see S-Scott, Gordon. Do you think...?" She'd begun crying again in great hiccuping sobs, her shoulders shaking.
Forcing himself out of a truly murderous mood, Gordon patted the girl's back, murmured into her hair,
"There now. Calm down, Angel. Knowin' Scott, he's probably out in the forest somewhere, buildin' himself an assault vehicle out of rocks n' wood. By the time we get there, he'll have saved Virgil himself, and be wonderin' what kept us. Bet on it."
Alan wandered into the room, eyes like dinner plates. He said, his voice cracking slightly,
"Grandma was asleep in her chair. I watched on her TV with the sound turned down. What... what're we gonna do?"
John's portrait comm had faded back into an ordinary picture during the broadcast. Now it came to life again, at about the same time that Lady Penelope's portrait began glowing. He surprised everyone, himself included, probably, by taking charge immediately.
"Brains, prepare Thunderbird 3 for a wilderness landing. You'll need the electronic bomb diffusing unit, a dark van or SUV of some sort, and a portable medical set-up. Also, weapons, ammunition and cold-weather cammo gear. Put together some kind of protective lotion for Gordon, while you're at it. It'll be your job to defuse and retake Thunderbirds 1 and 2."
"Ah..., understood, John. I'll, ah..., I'll... get s-started right away."
"Right. Gordon, get your dive gear together; whatever you've got that's damn well insulated. You're getting wet, and the water's toxic. You'll need an underwater light with a couple of spare batteries, a laminated map of the mine and river system, your side arm, a uniform and some cutting tools. You're going in from the river. Straight up recon and rescue. Avoid all hostile contacts and stay out of sight until you find Virgil and Scott. Then be prepared to defend them, with deadly force if necessary, until help arrives."
"Got it, John. Will do."
Now John's attention shifted, his expression going from matter-of-fact to uncomfortable in seconds.
"Alan, TinTin, I wish I had another choice, but you're desperately needed, and..."
"John," Alan told him firmly, speaking for both himself and the girl, "we can handle it. Tell us what to do."
"Good man. Brains will provide your kit; weapons, clothing and transportation. I'll arrange all the diversions I can, but I'll need you to infiltrate the mining complex from the landward side and reinforce Gordon. Your job is the same as his: find Scott and Virgil, and stay alive until help gets there. You'll have to move fast, because Gordon will probably get to them first, but can't carry much in the way of weaponry. He's going to need back up, ASAP."
Giving TinTin's hand a little squeeze, Alan replied stoutly, "Piece of cake, Dude. They'll never know what hit 'em."
Another voice broke in then..., cool, refined and elegantly British.
"Good evening, John, Darling..., Everyone."
It was Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, exquisitely beautiful, as always, in a mint-green couture ensemble and a sleek up-do. Her calm, pleasant manner gave not the slightest hint of concern or trouble. Anyone would have thought that she'd called to arrange an afternoon of cards and conversation back at the estate. Blonde and blue-eyed, with a porcelain complexion and a perfect figure, she seemed the exact, delicate opposite of what she actually was; a highly trained and deadly dangerous secret operative. With swan-like serenity she continued,
"I'm afraid I couldn't help overhearing your conversation (I do hope you'll forgive my curiosity... there's a dear...), and I had wondered if perhaps, as I'll be traveling through the region on ski holiday, you'd like me to reroute? Just nip down, shall I, join the rest, and make a bit of a foreign excursion?"
John was well accustomed to Penelope's airy speech patterns, and had no difficulty divining her actual intent.
"Thanks, Penny," he replied with a very faint smile. " I'd really appreciate that. I'll be back in touch to discuss the specifics in a moment, but first I have to call in a few favors. With your permission...?"
"F.A.B., John. Always a pleasure chatting with you, and I do hope we see one another again, soon."