9
The morning was a busy one. There was, indeed, a great deal to do, and John was at the center of most of it, together with Brains. The others filled in with tasks as needed. Jeff Tracy coordinating the reestablishment of International Rescue's listening posts, while buying back as much stock as John admitted owning (or would sell).
Scott stayed on the telecom with a WASP official for three solid hours, explaining, as delicately as possible, how "terrorists" had come to Tracy Island, and what they'd done when they got there. At the same time, (using another line and a powerful encrypter) he warned them again to be extremely cautious transporting the Hood, and sent all the information John had scraped together so far on Clayton Reynolds, and one "Tania Berghofer".
Virgil oversaw upgrade and maintenance of the island's defenses. With at least two of their most powerful enemies knowing exactly where it was located, International Rescue's base was going to need much tighter security. He looked in on Thunderbird 2 as often as possible, watching in tense, ten-minute intervals as the last vestiges of the crash were smoothed away. The time came when she stood there at last, bathed in floodlights, poised above a long row of vehicle pods, on four tall, stilt-like legs.
Walking across a long gantry, Virgil placed a hand on 2's blunt nose. Then, with a pride too deep for words, he buffed away at some invisibly tiny smear with his shirt sleeve. Reaching into a pocket, Virgil fetched out his cigarettes, lit one up, then leaned back against 2's polished hull, staring out the hangar doors and smoking. She was ready, he decided; they both were.
Even the kids were pressed into service, sent about the island on hover sleds to reload some two hundred widely scattered defense masts with engine-smothering foam. A mind numbingly tedious job, which Alan and Gordon soon abandoned in favor of a wild, aerial foam-fight with TinTin. She won handily, leaving the boys covered in shame and red rubber goo. Better yet, after all their boasting, they owed her now; said tasks to be assigned later, after she let them wonder for a bit. All in all, a pleasant, almost normal, morning.
The family gathered for lunch around 2 PM, then drifted over to the pools, genuinely exhausted. (No one but Alan seemed to have gotten much sleep.)
Gordon went off by himself to an outdoor table. For once, not swimming. He had a few sheets of paper and a pencil with him, and seemed very intent on his task, whatever it was. Curious (and desperately needing a 'Let's get back at TinTin' strategy), Alan started over, a couple of root beers in hand. Gordon no sooner caught sight of him, though, than he crumpled up what he'd been working on, hiding the wadded paper beneath one hand.
Alan stopped dead in his tracks; hurt, and unable to hide it. Then his brother relented, smoothing the paper out with both hands. Head lowered, Gordon muttered quietly,
"Just... couldn' remember them all. In order, I mean... so I thought I'd write them up. For practice."
Peering over his brother's shoulder, Alan smiled, then thumped down on the bench at Gordon's side. Setting down their drinks, the younger boy pulled a fresh sheet of paper out of the stack.
"No problem! Hey, I'm good at these. Watch," Taking up the pencil, Alan drew a series of grouped dots, saying. "What you do is... you draw, like, six groups of four, to make a pattern. See, it's four, check out the dots, but there's six of the groups. Six times four, get it? And, if you count 'em up real quick, you can see there's twenty-four, just like the table says. Six times four... is twenty-four."
Gordon nodded, his embarrassment fading as he caught on to the trick.
"Right, I got it. That's clever."
Alan shrugged modestly.
"They tell me I'm a visual learner," he said, with a smile. Then, "Okay, your turn. Do 'six times five'. Draw it out like I showed you, no hurry."
Gordon bent to the task, Alan leaning in like a conspirator, offering hints, suggestions and encouragement. The lessons continued even when TinTin slipped between them on the bench, one arm around each of the brothers' waists. As they'd long since learned, there was safety in numbers.
Sitting at another umbrella table, away across the pool, Scott gazed at the kids and shook his head resignedly. Nudging Cindy, who was seated on his lap, he pointed the trio out to her.
"They're plotting again. Watch your back."
She wriggled luxuriantly.
"That's your job, Mister. I'm watching you."
Virgil, stretched out in a nearby chaise lounge, finished the last of his Heineken, saying pensively,
"Kinda glad they're hooked up again, myself. It's a good sign."
"Sure," Scott snorted, "If you like laughing through your tears. One more practical joke at my expense, and..."
"...And you'll give them their absolutely final, 'this time, goddammit, I mean it', last chance?" John, like the others dressed in little more than swim wear, had joined the lazy, sun-warmed group, beer in hand. He took a seat near Virgil and the ice chest.
Cindy sat up, frowning.
"You stole my laptop," she snapped, jabbing an aggressive forefinger at his chest.
John shrugged. "I left a message."
"A damn post-it note!" Cindy accused, clearly exasperated. "I go back to my room after breakfast, thinking I'll check my e-mail, and, hey, no laptop! I had to look all over the desk, and under it, before I found your ransom note on the floor: 'Got the laptop. JMT' Took me nearly an hour to figure out what the hell 'JMT' meant! Join Me Tonight?"
"John Matthew Tracy... and you'll get it back," he replied, unfazedly finishing his beer, then reaching another one out of the cooler.
"In one piece? My contacts are on that thing, my sources! There's been a huge poisoning scare in congress, and I've got an intern leaking the details to me, that I can't contact now, thanks to you!"
Carefully resting the bottom edge of the metal cap against one side of the table, John brought his fist down hard upon the bottle's top, opening his new beer in one swift, sudden move. The cap flipped end-over-end through the air, was neatly fielded by Virgil, who set it down upon his own growing cap pile. He and Scott were watching the by-play between Cindy and John like bemused spectators at a hand-grenade tennis match.
"Your sources are safe," John told her, glancing at his wrist comm. "I need the extra processing power, not disk space." Then, after downing half the bottle. "Tell you what; I'll upgrade it for you."
She glared at him, then pointed at the beer bottle.
"Not like that, you won't! God knows what I'd get back."
He was distracted again, briefly, by his watch, then returned to their argument, stretched out and sparkling gold in the sun.
"I'm more creative after downing a few, actually." Then he shrugged again, got up, pulled another bottle out of the ice chest, and turned to go, throwing over his shoulder, "You'll like what you get back."
"Yeah, right!" Cindy growled at his retreating form. Then, wriggling closer in against Scott, "That is one scary guy."
Scott wrapped an arm around her, saying, just a touch worriedly,
"Glad to hear you say that. And I'm really glad I saw you first." Those two, in Scott's opinion, enjoyed sparring way too much. Cindy dug an elbow into his rock solid abdomen. Or tried to.
"I'm with you, fella," she told him, "for the duration, or until you throw me out."