Thunderbird Two was back at the scene of the rescue in less than ten minutes. Long before that, Scott had changed into a waterproof survival suit and was immediately on the comlink to Gordon. "Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Two. What's the situation, Gordon?
"Not good, Scott. One of the yachts – I think it's the Snowbird – is almost submerged. I don't know if anyone's still alive in there – they might have already run out of air."
Scott swore under his breath. He hated being behind the eight ball like this. Shit happens, Tracy, he told himself, as he had done many times before, on many other rescues. You can't foresee everything. "Okay, Gordon, then that's the one we start with. Stand by – we might need you to submerge and keep that yacht from sinking."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two."
"Rescue zone directly below us now, Scott," Virgil announced. When there was no immediate response, he glanced around, seeing the worry etched on his brother's dark features. "She'll be fine. The Navy will take care of her for you."
Scott flicked a glance in his direction, making a face. Virgil knew him too well. "I know. I just hated leaving her there without one of us nearby. But I didn't see any other choice, under the circumstances."
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "It'll be all right," Virgil reassured him. "I'll tell John to keep on top of the Colin Powell's captain. He'll make sure they keep a guard on her."
"Scott, are you ready?" Alan appeared from the depths of Thunderbird Two's cockpit, also now clad in a survival suit, over which he wore a safety harness. He tossed a second harness to Scott and began to pull on his gloves.
Scott caught the harness and stepped into it swiftly, snapping it into place. He and Alan headed for the passenger slide that would take them down to Thunderbird Two's forward hold, directly underneath the cockpit floor. "Okay, Virgil, take us down as close as you can."
"F.A.B., Scott. Good luck." Virgil heard the slide start downwards, and said a silent prayer for his brothers' safety. For what we are about to do…
Thunderbird Two's forward hold was a large area where she stored rescue equipment such as the grabs and the escape pod. Scott's plan involved the use of both. It was going to be difficult and very dangerous, but it was also the only way he could see to make this rescue possible. Under normal conditions, they would simply have lowered the four-man escape pod to bring people up. But with winds gusting past 150 knots, the pod would become a lethal weapon, whipping around at the end of its steel cable. They needed a way to anchor the other end, and for this they needed the grabs.
Alan climbed on to the T-bar above the massive grabs, clipping his harness to the thick reinforced steel cable. Scott reached up, securing his own harness to a metal stanchion embedded in the roof, and both men pulled on their goggles. Scott opened the panel that concealed the manual hatch controls and hit the green button, stepping back as the two sides of the hatch slid open below him.
The wind was so fierce it sucked their breath away. True to his word, Virgil had lowered Thunderbird Two until she was only a little more than a hundred feet above the capsized yachts – any lower and she ran the risk of being hit by a rogue wave. Scott pulled his headset mike around. He had to raise his voice above the shrieking gale. "Okay, Virgil, lowering the grabs!"
"F.A.B., Scott. I'll hold her steady."
Scott looked up at Alan. His brother nodded, taking a firm grip of the cable. "Let's do it!"
Scott gave him the thumbs-up and reached back to the controls. With a lurch, the cable winch began to wind out, and in seconds his brother was gone into the howling winds below the hovering Thunderbird.
Despite everything, Alan wasn't prepared for the sheer fury of the storm. The only way he could hold on was to lie prone on the T-bar at the top of the grabs, arms and legs wrapped around the heavy steel. Making it worse, as soon as the grabs were clear of the protection of Thunderbird Two, the fierce winds caught them and dragged them out at an angle. He could feel the cold even through his suit, although the thermal protection made it bearable. Despite the odds, this stood a good chance of working, he thought – provided he didn't fall off, freeze or drown.
He stared downwards at the mountainous grey seas as he descended, the bobbing hulls of the two yachts coming closer and closer. He spotted Thunderbird Four, waiting about ten yards away from them. He wondered if Gordon could see him, and waved anyway – grinning as Thunderbird Four's headlights blinked off and on again in acknowledgement. The submarine was moving now, taking up position beside what was obviously the sinking Snowbird, guiding them in.
Alan glanced upward toward the Thunderbird's open hatch. He couldn't see Scott, but he knew his brother was directing the lowering of the winch with every ounce of skill he possessed, calling out continuous, minute course adjustments to Virgil in the cockpit. Not for the first time, Alan was grateful for the almost telepathic relationship between his two eldest brothers – they really were something to behold when they were working as a team like this. He felt the wind shift as Thunderbird Two came slowly about, positioning the grabs until they were directly above the Snowbird.
Okay, Alan, showtime. With an effort that made the muscles in his arms and legs crack with strain, Alan pulled himself to an upright position on top of the grabs. Ten feet. Nine. Eight. Seven. "Okay, Scott, open her up!" he shouted into his headset mike.
The grabs spread out below him, like an immense robot hand opening its fingers. Four. Three. Two. Thunk. The metal fingers slid down either side of the yacht's white hull. "Now, Scott!"
The grabs clamped down. For a second it looked good. Then Alan saw the hull begin to split. "Too much!" he yelled. "She's breaking up!"
The grabs relaxed their grip just a little. Alan waited, holding his breath – then let it out again in a rush as he saw it was going to work. She was holding steady, and the hull wasn't splitting any further. "F.A.B., Scott – good job!"
Now he just had to hang on and wait.
Up in Thunderbird Two's hold, Scott was putting phase two of his plan into operation. Working swiftly, he cannibalized several different pieces of equipment to make one jury-rigged rescue device. Dragging the suspended escape pod over to the hatch, he attached a set of powerful robot winches on to one side, clamping them in turn over the heavy steel cable attached to the grabs. This would enable him to use a remote to guide the pod down to the Snowbird and back up again to the safety of Thunderbird Two. The pod would retain its own secondary cable attached to the roof, as a fail-safe. Even though it meant operating both sets of winches at the same time, a nightmare of coordination under any circumstances, it was the only way to be sure their backup systems were adequate for the job. It wouldn't do any good to get those people out of the capsized yacht, only to lose them because of a winch failure.
Scott grabbed harnesses and cutting gear and threw them into the pod, closing its door again tightly behind them. He tested the remote by signaling the pod to climb down the cable three feet, then back up again. Perfect. "Okay, Virgil, here we go. Hold her as steady as you can."
"F.A.B., Scott."
Scott hit the switch and the pod started the long descent towards the yacht below. He just hoped they still had enough time to get those people out.
Fifteen minutes later, Alan had cut through the hull of the Snowbird and was hauling out survivors. Most of the crew were in bad shape, either from injuries or hypothermia or both, and just getting some of them into the pod was a slow, hideously difficult job. He could have done without the impatient voice of his brother in his ear, too – even though he knew that Scott's brusque manner in an emergency situation was only his way of masking very real concern. "I'm moving as fast as I can, Scott," he said into his headset mike for the fourth time. "There's only one of me."
"I know, Alan…I know." Scott stared down at the rescue in progress, frustrated at his inability to help his brother. But somebody had to get the pod back up into Thunderbird Two, and with Virgil flying the ship, that only left him. If it broke down at the top of the cable and there was nobody there to get the people out safely…
The pod was on its way up now with its first load of evacuees. It climbed slowly up the cable, the robot winches performing their duty perfectly. Not for the first time, Scott silently blessed the unparalleled, seemingly inexhaustible inventive talents of the man who was responsible for every one of the fantastic engineering marvels in the International Rescue arsenal. The man he and the rest of the Tracy family called Brains.
The pod arrived at the top and Scott caught it, swinging it over beside the open hatch. Four shivering people tumbled out, three men and one woman. Scott shepherded them quickly into a corner where he had stacked a pile of blankets and supplies. "Is anyone in urgent need of medical attention?" he asked.
They shook their heads. "Okay," he nodded, handing out blankets. "There's food and hot drinks and emergency medical supplies here. Help yourself to whatever you need, and just try to keep warm while we get to the others."
And then the pod was on its way back down for the second run.
Dawn was finally breaking above the horizon as the pod made its last run up for the crew of the Snowbird. It was funny, Scott thought, that although the storm had not lessened very much in severity, and not much light was really visible through the heavy clouds, somehow the coming of day always made a situation seem less desperate. "Okay, Alan," he said into his headset mike. "Get ready – I'm going to release the grabs."
"F.A.B., Scott." Alan clambered back up on to the t-bar atop the grabs, getting ready for the transfer to the remaining yacht, the Spirit of Nantucket. "Ready," he said at last, breathing hard.
"Okay, Alan. Virgil?"
"Ready when you are, Scott."
"F.A.B." Scott gazed down through the open hatch toward the water. "Releasing grabs…now!"
He could see Alan clinging on tightly as the great metal fingers opened up, letting go their hold of the Snowbird. "Virgil, left two degrees."
Thunderbird Two shifted her heading slightly. Trailing behind her now, just brushing the water's surface, the grabs swung over in the direction of the second yacht. Easy does it…Not too fast…
"Alan!" Scott's stomach lurched as he heard Virgil's frantic shout from the cockpit. "Look out for that wave!"
They stared in horror as a rogue swell sixty feet high crashed into the free-floating grabs, hurling them sideways toward the Spirit of Nantucket. Ripped away from his grip on the t-bar, Alan slipped to the end of his harness tether, right between the heavy steel fingers. "Pull him up, Scott!" Virgil yelled. "Get him out of there!"
But there wasn't enough time. Scott had shoved the winch lever hard over the second he heard Virgil's first warning, but the motor couldn't move fast enough to pull Alan clear of the Spirit of Nantucket. They both heard the sickening crunch and their brother's cry of pain as the grabs slammed him into the yacht's capsized hull. "Alan!" Scott shouted. "Alan, can you hear me? Alan!"
Nothing. "Gordon, can you see him?" Virgil asked frantically. "Is he…"
Don't say it, Virgil, please… Scott begged silently. It was his own private superstition – if you never said the word out loud, it wouldn't come true.
"I…I think he's…" Gordon's voice sounded shaken. "He's not moving, but...
Then Scott heard it – a faint groan. "Alan! Alan, can you hear me?"
But his brother wasn't coherent. All Scott could hear now was harsh breathing. "Get him up here now, Scott," Virgil said, in a tone that didn't encourage any discussion.
"I don't know how bad he's hurt, Virg. I've got to go and get him."
"Scott!" But the protest fell on deaf ears. Scott was already rappelling down the steel cable towards his youngest brother.
When the side of the hull split open directly above her, the splintering crash jerked Tally up out of the semi-conscious state she'd slipped into a half-hour before. This is it, she thought at first. This is how it ends. She stared upwards at the stormy sky, bracing herself for the wave that would flood the interior of the crippled yacht and send them all to watery oblivion. She would try not to hold her breath. She'd heard it was worse if you tried to hold your breath.
Then she realized with a start that she could hear the sound of engines again, above them. They came back for us…
She dragged Michael's limp form over to the only other remotely conscious crew member, Mitch Robertson. "Mitch, they're here to get us! They're here!"
Mitch stared at her through glassy, uncomprehending eyes. "Mitch," she said urgently, "Can you hold Mike for me? I've got to let them know we're alive in here!"
At last, she saw a spark in his eyes. He managed a nod, and she wedged Mike into his arms. "Hold on to him," she said. "Keep his head above the water. I'll be right back."
Forcing her frozen limbs into action, she swam back to the hole in the ship's hull. Now if she could only get to the opening…
A swell hit the ship and rolled it sideways. As the Spirit of Nantucket righted herself again, the water rushing back gave her the boost she needed to catch hold of the splintered hull material at the edge of the hole. Ignoring the blood, mostly unable to feel the damage she was doing to her hands anyway, she hauled herself up until she could see through the opening.
She wasn't prepared for what she saw. Hovering above them was an enormous green aircraft of a type she had never seen before, trailing a long steel cable down toward the yacht. Following the cable down, she discovered what had caused the gaping hole. Some kind of immense steel grabbing device was caught on the wreckage of the yacht's hull, and there was a man pinned between them, obviously hurt.
Tally forced herself up higher, getting first one knee on to the edge of the opening, then slowly and painfully dragging herself to her feet. Pushing the stabbing pain to the back of her mind, she managed to make it across the opening to the side of the injured man, holding on to the grabs for support. He was breathing in shallow gasps. "Can you hear me?" she shouted over the wind.
"Why…does everyone…keep asking…that…?" Alan managed between short, panting breaths. "I didn't…get hit…in the ears…"
Tally grinned. This one would be all right – he was a fighter. "Where are you hurt?" she asked.
"I think…my ribs…are broken…" he grunted. "Can't…breathe…"
He broke off with a gasp as the hull moved, sending waves of crippling pain through his body. Tally grabbed his hand in both her own, overcome with the need to help this man who had risked so much for her and her friends. "It's going to be all right," she said firmly. "You hear me? You're going to be all right."
Alan managed a smile, eyes closing as he slid into unconsciousness. No, Tally thought angrily. It isn't fair… "Who are you?" she demanded out loud.
"International Rescue, ma'am." Tally jumped as another man in a survival suit slid into view down the steel cable attached to the grabs.
International Rescue? Tally was stunned. She'd heard about this legendary organization – everybody had. But she'd never seen them in action. They almost seemed more legend than reality, and she'd often wondered if the stories people told about them were true...that they would come out of nowhere, no matter what the risk, and save people who had no other hope of survival...only to disappear again like ghosts before anyone could learn who they were or where they came from.
These two were awfully solid for ghosts, she thought.
Before she could ask him any questions, though, the newcomer had turned his attention to the injured man. "Alan," he said urgently. "Alan!"
"I talked to him a moment ago, before he passed out," Tally offered, knowing he would need the information. "He said he thought his ribs were broken. He was having trouble breathing."
She was rewarded with a quick, appraising glance. "Thanks. How many of you are in there?"
"We had a crew of eleven, but two are…" She couldn't say the word, but he seemed to understand, nodding.
He struggled to free the grabs from where they were caught on the shattered hull. She helped him, and together they pulled the metal fingers clear. "I have to get him up to the ship," he said. "Then I'll be back down for you. Can you hang on?"
"Yes," she said. "We can hang on."
She thought she saw him smile. Then he glanced upward at the great craft hovering above them. "Okay, Virgil, pull us up," he said. "And easy does it."
"F.A.B., Scott." She was close enough to him to hear the radio response.
The winch started up and the grabs rose into the air, taking the two men with them. "Don't worry," the one called Scott shouted to her as he went. "I'll be back."
Tally believed him. She clung to the side of the opening, shivering in the freezing rain, watching them until they disappeared up through the opening in the bottom of the ship.
When she looked back on it afterward, Tally had trouble remembering all the details of what followed. True to his word, Scott had come back down to the Spirit of Nantucket in just a few minutes, and the crew were winched one by one aboard the rescue craft, which she now knew as Thunderbird Two. She insisted on staying down with the crippled yacht until the last, making sure everyone else was off before she would finally allow Scott to harness her to the cable. He wrapped his arms securely around her from behind and told the one called Virgil to pull them up.
After the incredible strain of the past twelve hours, she felt a strange calm seep through her as the hoist lifted them high up into the air. The shattered hull of the Spirit of Nantucket below her seemed remote and unfamiliar now, as if this had all happened to someone else. "Are you okay?" Scott shouted in her ear. She nodded her head yes. Everything was going to be okay now. She could even see, far away on the horizon, the signs of the storm finally clearing.
Then they were up inside the forward hold of the vast ship, and Scott was swinging them clear of the hatch. He unclipped their harnesses and turned, doing something on a panel against the wall. The hatch slid closed, leaving the wind and rain behind.
Tally walked unsteadily over toward the little group of survivors, muscles aching with exhaustion, a little unsteady on firm ground after being out on that heaving sea for so long. Someone put a blanket around her shoulders, someone else pressed a plastic cup of hot liquid into her hand. Hot coffee. God, it tasted good.
She spotted her brother, lying on an inflatable pallet, his headwound dressed. One of the other survivors was attending to him, a first aid kit open beside him. She didn't see the injured International Rescue man anywhere.
She glanced back over at Scott, who had taken off the hood of his survival suit, revealing tousled dark brown hair. He was taller than she had realized, at least six-two, and even in her exhausted state she couldn't help noticing that he was very good-looking. She smiled wryly – it was a phenomenon she'd seen before, in other areas of the rescue business. For some reason, there seemed to be a high concentration of handsome men in the ranks of firemen and paramedics.
Scott saw her looking at him and crossed the hold toward her. "I have to go up to the cockpit now," he said. "We have to pick up our submarine before we take you to the aircraft carrier."
She smiled at his tone. This man had just saved their lives, and now he was apologizing for having to leave them alone for a few minutes. "Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "Go and do what you need to do."
"It might get a little bumpy," he said. "The sea's still pretty rough down there."
"I'll warn them," she said. "We'll be fine, Scott."
For a moment she wondered if the use of his name had been a mistake – there was a brief narrowing of his cobalt blue eyes. "How is your friend?" she said, pushing past it. "Is he going to be all right?"
She saw him relax slightly. "Yes, I think so. And thank you, by the way. Knowing what his injuries were before he passed out was very important to transporting him safely up here."
She nodded. "It was the least I could do. After all, he got hurt trying to get to us."
He started to move away, then hesitated, half-turning back toward her. "I just want you to know…you handled yourself very well down there."
The corners of her mouth twitched. "You got any openings?"
She was rewarded with the briefest flash of a grin. Then he was gone, striding across the hold to an elevator at the far side. "Get someone to look at those hands," he called, before the doors closed behind him.
Surprised, she looked down, remembering that the palms of her hands were torn and bloody from the shattered hull of the Spirit of Nantucket. She hadn't realized that he'd noticed.
As Scott had promised, the maneuvers to pick up the pod were rough and bumpy – but they were prepared for it and protected the injured, and everyone came through fine. On the short ride to the Colin Powell, Tally busied herself checking on the other survivors, helping to treat the wounded. Before she knew it, they had landed on the carrier and US Navy personnel with utility vehicles and stretchers were helping her and the others out of the Thunderbird – which now had a solid midsection, she noted. As she climbed into one of the vehicles, she glanced across the deck and saw another craft that clearly wasn't US Navy – a silvery rocket ship with TB1 painted on its tail section. Thunderbird One, she thought.
She looked for Scott as the Navy organized them for transport, but she didn't see him again. The International Rescue man who came down into the hold to organize their departure was one she hadn't seen before, younger than Scott, with red-gold hair and eyes the color of amber. She didn't get a chance to speak to him before she left Thunderbird Two, and even as the utility vehicle that carried her and her brother sped away across the runway of the carrier, she heard the ear-splitting roar of rocket engines. She turned just in time to see an amazing sight – the two Thunderbird craft igniting their horizontal jets and lifting straight up, together, off the deck of the Colin Powell.
She lifted her hand in a wave, not knowing if they could see her. She watched as Thunderbirds One and Two turned in the air in perfect unison, then, with a twin blast of their powerful rear thrusters, disappeared into the morning sky.
As soon as Tally and her escorts reached the aircraft carrier's infirmary and she was sure her brother was being taken care of, she asked to be shown the nearest bank of satellite phones. Other survivors with similar ideas had begun to crowd around, but she managed to find a free phone, lifting one of the receivers and dialled a number she knew by heart. A man answered after the third ring. "Joss Kowalski."
"Joss, it's Tally."
"Oh, my God, Tally – we've been watching the news! We thought you were all dead for sure!"
"Not quite. There were a few bad moments there, but get this – International Rescue showed up and got us out! They took us to an aircraft carrier – the Colin Powell. Mike's got some kind of head injury – the medics are looking at him now. I'll fill you in on all the details later."
"International Rescue!" he said, obviously impressed. "Well, you got what you wanted. This is going to be one hell of a story. I don't see how Mason can keep you off the vidscreen now."
"Forget the story," Tally said impatiently.
"Forget the story?" he sounded incredulous. "Tally, you and your brother almost died out there – along with thirty other people! The whole world was watching, for God's sake!"
Tally smiled. She could barely contain her excitement. "Oh, Joss, trust me – the piece I have in mind is so much bigger than one little boat race disaster. We're talking a Peabody and a whole shelf of Emmys."
"I hate when you talk crazy," he said. "What could possibly be bigger than this?"
"You'll see, Joss. You'll see. Oh, and Joss…be a pal and call my mother, will you?" And with that she hung up, leaving him spluttering at a dial tone as she went back to see how Michael was doing.