Hornet's Nest
By Spense
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gordon was in the Command and Control center watching yet another spectacular sunrise when the call came in. The sudden blinking on the vidphone's outside line coincided almost instantly with the line to Five.
"I think this is it," Virgil's voice came through. "Highly scrambled signal with a narrow, priority beam to the island. Way more security than anybody in their right mind would use for a regular call. Go ahead and answer it, Gordon. I'm on it, tracing and recording."
"FAB." Gordon hit the emergency klaxon and answered the vidphone.
The screen was black for a moment, then John came into view. It was a narrow shot of just his blindfolded face and what looked to be wooden beams behind him. It was unmistakably John though. And his voice.
"I, John Glenn Tracy, am to tell you to have ten million American dollars cash in unmarked, non-sequential, random mix of used one hundred, five hundred, and one thousand denomination bills. Have these ready to deliver upon the next transmission. Do not, under any circumstances, contact the authorities."
John finished speaking, and the video remained on his face for a few moments longer, then cut to black and disconnected.
"Did you get it?" Jeff's breathless voice asked from behind Gordon. Gordon had heard him come in but had stayed focused on the image.
"Yes!" Came Virgil's triumphant voice. "Western Washington State in the US. Brains will have it narrowed down even further by the time I get there." He paused, then added aggressively, "Who's coming up to get me?"
Gordon held his breath. He sure hoped his father hadn't changed his mind about Virgil coming down. Virgil didn't lose his temper often, but when he did, it was usually a mighty explosion.
"Scott, go get your brother."
"FAB, Father," came the quick, relieved reply, and Scott was through his portrait before he'd finished speaking.
Gordon exhaled. Bullet dodged. His father's commands continued. "Brains, get on that transmission. Narrow it down to within six feet."
"Yes sir."
"Gordon, go with him. I want to know terrain, population, weather . . . absolutely everything you can dig up."
Gordon nodded acknowledgement and got up to follow Brains.
Jeff continued almost absently. "And I'm going to contact the FBI and get the money ready." He looked up at Virgil on the screen, and at Gordon and Brains who had paused to listen to him. Jeff's intensity narrowed again. "Thunderbirds are go, boys. Let's get on it."
Everybody sprung into action. At last they were able to do something. The waiting was over.
TB TB TB TB TBJohn came awake to the bright light of day. And the sound of voices. Memory came flooding back to him and he realized that he was hidden in a barn with his little brother, trying to escape from kidnappers. His arms tightened reflexively around Alan, still curled up tightly against his chest.
Alan muttered a sleepy, inarticulate protest at the tight grip, and started to wake up. "What . . ."
John quickly clamped a hand over his mouth and Alan began to struggle in resentment. He froze instantly as he woke up enough to register the sound of voices, and lifted his eyes to meet matching blue eyes. As they stared at each other, John removed his hand from Alan's mouth and put a finger to his lips. Alan nodded briefly as the voices floated up to them.
"No, Mike, I didn't, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had relatives visiting. Nephews, you say?"
A voice that both recognized from overhearing the conversation in the house the night before answered as John and Alan's eyes met again, Alan's eyes huge, and John's calculating.
"Yeah, my sister's kids, visiting from Texas. Both blond, blue eyed. One is a young teenager, the other in his mid twenties. Went running mid morning, and seem to have gotten lost."
"Well, that can happen in these parts. I'll keep my eyes open, okay?"
"Sounds great Jeb. I really appreciate it."
The sound of a car driving off echoed to their position, followed by footsteps up a gravel drive and the sound of a door slamming off in the distance.
John and Alan stared at each other for awhile, neither willing to make a move until they were sure they were alone. Finally Alan whispered, "I think they're gone."
"I think you're right." Releasing Alan, he gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and began to straighten up. Muscles protested, having long ago stiffened into a locked position. John's head pounded anew as he moved to an upright position, and his stomach protested. Good thing he hadn't eaten anything. He'd have lost it all over again. From the looks of things, Alan felt the same. His face was a really interesting shade of green, and his movements looked as jerky as John's felt.
John gave a involuntary shiver as a chill ran though him. They'd both slept in wet clothes last night and his still felt slightly damp. He'd just about kill for a hot shower right about now. Adding up the tally, John decided that all this rated pretty high on his misery meter.
As they both did their best to stretch, they gazed around. The ill fitting slats of the ancient barn let in a great deal of light, revealing a dismal, gray day. The heavy overcast threatened rain, but as of yet, hadn't released its moisture.
Alan pulled a crumpled wad of papers from his back pocket. Examining them for a moment, he read, "Dan Wheeler, Concrete Washington." He looked up at John. "Where the hell is Concrete, Washington?"
"Damned if I know," John muttered. "What is that?"
Alan turned it over to see if anything was on the other side. "Car registration I took last night," he muttered absently, handing it to John.
"Didn't you say something about a map as well?" John asked, accepting the crumpled piece of paper.
"Uh-huh. Here." Alan turned it over to his older brother who immediately spread it out on the hay. "Western Washington State," he noted, and proceeded to begin hunting for Concrete.
Alan plopped onto the bale next to the map and looked at the other registrations. "One for Mike Young of Concrete, and the last is for a Les Mathews of Hamilton, Washington." He shrugged and handed those over to John as well.
John took them, distracted, then his attention sharpened. "Here!" He said, pointing to a spot on the map. "Concrete." It was a tiny speck far from any major towns or cities.
Alan's eyes widened. "There?" he squeaked in disbelief. "That's in the middle of nowhere!"
"So," John commented dryly, "Apparently are we."
Alan had to admit to the logic of that.
"And here's Hamilton," he added, pointing to another tiny dot close to the first.
"Man, we are really out there," Alan commented.
"Well, we need to get out of the immediate vicinity," John continued. "Then see if we can contact the island, or just get home."
"Police?" Alan suggested.
"No." John explained his reasoning from the night before.
Alan nodded, agreeing with his thought process.
"Does it occur to you that maybe we're being just a little bit paranoid here?" John asked carefully.
Alan looked surprised, then pensive. "Maybe," he said with a frown, thinking about it some more. "Yeah, I think you're right." He looked at John, puzzled.
"I think it's maybe something to do with the drug they gave us."
"I guess," Alan said thoughtfully, "But you know, I really don't care. I just want to go home."
John couldn't argue with him. He felt the same.
Alan asked, "What about calling Tracy Enterprises?"
John shook his head. "Same problem. They'd contact local law enforcement. Even if she just contacted Dad, he'd probably call the police as well. No, we just don't know friend from foe. For all we know, this Mike Young or one of his bunch may be the sheriff. We only call if we can reach Dad directly. Nope, let's get out of here to someplace in civilization and regroup." Again, he knew something was wrong with his logic, but he just couldn't figure it out. Time to just roll with it. Home was the safest place to be, so that's where they'd go.
Alan agreed. "I'm all for that."