A bit of awkwardness, and trouble at sea.
Many thanks to Barb from Utah (and daughter!), Opal Girl, Tikatu and Orangutangal for their kind comments.
7
Tracy Island:
Just a little hesitantly, Gennine pushed open the double doors, and entered her former husband's grandly furnished office. TinTin was seated at a console by the far wall, interpreting a long stream of ever-changing data, and occasionally typing at a portable keyboard. Jeff was at his desk.
Adjusting her hair band, Gennine squared her slim shoulders and walked on in.
"Jeff...?" She began, when he didn't immediately react to her presence. He looked up from his comm screen, frowning. Clearly, the distraction was unwelcome.
Gennine cleared her throat, focusing on maintaining her positive energy flow. Couldn't quite bring herself to smile, though.
"Gennie, I'm busy," he snapped. "Another time, please."
She shook her head, saying,
"If you don't mind, Jeff..., I'll be very quiet. But, our s... I mean, my... Alan and Gordon! They're out there, and... and I'd like to listen in."
He leaned away from the desk a bit, the big leather chair creaking beneath him. Then,
"Very well. Pull up a chair, Gennie, but stay quiet and let the boys and I do our jobs."
Nodding, Gennine went over to the fireplace and found a chair that didn't look too heavy. As she wrestled it over toward Jeff, who once again had his head down over the comm screen, she couldn't help thinking of Gordon showing off with the arm chair, and of Alan; defiant, disrespectful and immature, but still her son, and precious beyond words.
Biting her lip, she wondered how Jeff could stand to sit back at his desk, half a world away, and let his sons place themselves between certain death and its terrified victims. Despite everything Victoria Tracy had said, she would never, did a thousand years go by, ever understand. All she could do was wring her hands and wait.
London:
The evacuation was underway. Starting from the outermost regions of the city (those with the most realistic chance of getting to safety), and proceeding toward the point of highest danger, Londoners pulled together under the directives of their monarch, and queued up for the transports. By themselves, the bobbies and Armed Forces might have been overwhelmed, but there were veterans aplenty stepping up to the pitch, as well as shaven-headed soccer thugs with "F— WorldGov" tattooed on their scalps. Everyone did their bit.
The atmosphere between John and Penelope, on the other hand, was considerably less agreeable.
"Happy to see me?" She'd inquired ironically, her voice a barbed whisper.
"That depends," he'd responded quietly, eyes on his data screen. "Are you here as a teammate, or a woman?"
A faint, bitter smile touched her shapely mouth.
"The former, Dear, as you seem quite unable to deal with the latter."
Jaw muscles standing out, still not looking at her, he said,
"Penny, I..."
"Lady Penelope, if you please."
He split the comm screen, displaying an image of Scott and Gordon's progress toward the wreck, as well as that of the on-going evacuation. The fog was beginning to clear, he noted, lifted by a breeze from the sea. Before long, the sun would be up.
"Right. Lady Penelope. I've enjoyed being with you. It's been... very pleasant."
She assumed a composed, professional expression when a pair of heli-jet pilots strode by, then returned like a striking snake to the matter at hand, burying poisoned fangs in herself, and in him.
"But not love. It's never been love, with you, has it?"
John honestly didn't know what to say. She couldn't have chosen a worse time or place to attack him about what sort of relationship, if any, they actually had. There was something.., he simply couldn't put a name to it. Not under pressure, anyway. Then, a distraction arrived in the form of Alan.
"Hey!" He called brightly, jogging up from the direction of the royal entourage. "Did you know there's an actual, honest-to-gosh princess here? Her name's 'Alais', or something, and she's hot."
Alan wasn't the most observant of people, but a cement block could've sensed the electric tension between his brother and the lovely British operative. Alan paused, open-mouthed, looking from John to Penny, and back again.
"Whoa!" He gasped. "You guys are, like, together, aren't you? That is SO wild! What d'you do, rub noses like the Eskimos? 'Cause I can't picture either of you warming up enough to..."
John got suddenly to his feet, pivoting to stare at his youngest brother.
"Alan. Shut up, and go away. Now."
"Right, fine, sure...! This is me, shutting up... And leaving!"
For, something about the look in John's eyes had threatened the beat-down of his short life. Once out of easy reach, he called out teasingly, "Now, kiss and make up, you two! Even icicles gotta have a love life!" Then he darted off again, snickering at his own joke.
"I am acquainted with a number of discreet and highly qualified assassins," Penelope said at last, in a laudably even tone.
"Thanks," John replied, unbending enough to smile a little. "I may just take you up on that."
At sea:
The foam tanks were slung beneath the water sleds, with their long hoses at the front, coiled fire-truck fashion. The dark energy generator was aboard Thunderbird 2, still hovering overhead. Brains would deploy the force field, but only if absolutely necessary, for it mightn't absorb all of the blast, and was likely to wind up trapping Scott and Gordon, as well as the explosion.
Driving a water sled was a matter of clinging to the steering handles and letting the thing pull you through the sea. It felt sluggish to Gordon, and difficult to steer, probably because the foam tank marred the sled's hydrodynamics. Scott slid through the water beside him, driving a sled of his own. Thunderbird 4's lights had long since faded in the murky distance, but the tactile girdle had cut in, turning his brother into a flickering, monochrome shadow at the edge of Gordon's enhanced 'vision'. The wreck he located using a sort of mental "dead reckoning", with his dive watch, and a memorized plot of its position.
At their nearest safe operating distance from Vindicator, the brothers cut off the sleds, anchoring them to the limestone sea bed with tethers. Gordon unfastened the security clip on his hose, then began swimming for the wreck, unreeling meter after meter of flattened, carbon-polymer tubing behind him. About five minutes into this, he realized that he'd lost Scott.
