Twenty minutes into Thunderbird Two's flight home, Alan started to cough up blood. Gordon rushed back to his brother's side in the sleeping quarters as soon as he heard the painful, racking sound come over the monitor. He didn't like what he found. Alan was barely conscious and deathly pale, the skin under his eyes dark and bruised looking, and he was fighting for every labored, wheezing breath. Gordon made his brother look at him. "Alan, it's okay, we've got you," he said, trying to keep his voice level and reassuring. "We're going to get you to a hospital."
Alan managed a nod, but there was the beginning of panic in his eyes as he coughed again, bright red foam spraying from his mouth. Saying a silent prayer of thanks for the EMS training his father had insisted they all keep up, Gordon grabbed the blood pressure collar and wrapped it round Alan's arm. "Virgil, we've got trouble."
Virgil wasted no time after he heard what his brother had to say. "International Rescue from Thunderbird Two. Request immediate steer to hospital facilities."
His father's voice was in his ears immediately. "Virgil, what is it? What's happened?"
"It's Alan, father. He's coughing up blood and Gordon thinks his lung may be punctured."
Virgil could hear a woman's gasp – and realized too late that Tin-Tin must be standing with his father listening to this transmission. He swore softly under this breath – he hadn't wanted her to find out about Alan's injuries like this.
"It'll be all right, Tin-Tin," he said, trying to believe it himself. "Gordon's back there looking after him. We just need to get him to a hospital so they can fix him up."
"Okay, Thunderbird Two," Jeff's voice again. "Reroute immediately to Sydney. I'll arrange for an ambulance with police escort to meet you at the airport, and Penny can fly in from Bonga Bonga to meet Alan at the hospital. Just make sure you get him out of his uniform. Dr. Grant just landed – Tin-Tin and I will bring her with us in the jet. We'll be there as soon as we can."
Virgil was already punching instructions into the navigation computer. The great green Thunderbird began to bank to the right. "F.A.B., father. But what about Thunderbird Two?"
"Take her to Bonga Bonga – there's plenty of room for you to hide her there. I'll have Scott meet you, and the two of you can rendezvous with us at the hospital. Penny'll arrange for a helijet for you."
"Virgil," Gordon said, "His heart rate is rising and his B.P. is 90 over 70. Poor breath sounds on the left side."
"Sounds like a tension pneumo. He needs needle decompression now."
"I know," Gordon said grimly. "Prepping a chest tube."
Moving fast, he grabbed a chest tube and betadine swabs. Swiftly cutting open the side of Alan's uniform, he swabbed the skin between his ribs and tore open the bag that contained the tube. Don't think about it, he told himself, feeling the sweat start on his palms. Just do it.
"I'm sorry, Alan," he said. "This is really going to hurt."
Alan was too far gone to answer, eyes closed, skin now tinged blue from lack of oxygen. His own pulse racing, Gordon took a deep breath and began to insert the chest tube. It was much tougher than he had remembered from his training. Hard as he pushed, it seemed like the damn thing just wouldn't go in.
Alan groaned, his arm flailing toward this new source of agony – trying to push it away. "Easy," Gordon said, biting his own lip with concentration, knowing from past personal experience exactly how bad it was to be on the receiving end of this. "It's gonna be okay…"
Then, at last, a popping feeling – and a rush of air through the tube. Gordon exhaled with relief. Somewhere in the process, Alan had passed out again, but he was breathing easier now.
"Gordon, what's going on?" Virgil demanded.
"I'm in," Gordon said. "He's out of danger for right now. Just get us to that hospital."
"Don't worry," Virgil said. "Dad, you'll have Scott meet us there?"
"Yes, son. Let's get him on the line – he should know what's going on. Thunderbird One from Base."
They all listened to the crackling of static for two or three seconds. Jeff tried again. "Thunderbird One from Base. Come in, Thunderbird One, over."
No answer. "It could be the storm, father," Virgil suggested. "We had trouble with direct communication earlier. Maybe it's worse where he is."
"You could be right. John, can you raise him for us?"
"No problem. Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five, are you receiving me? Over."
But there was still no response. Virgil felt something stir uneasily in the pit of his stomach. "Let me try, father. Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two. Can you hear me, Scott?"
Once again, there was nothing but the soft hiss of static in their ears. "John," Jeff said, "What's his location?"
There was a brief pause, then John came back, sounding confused. "I don't know, father. He's…gone."
"What do you mean, gone?" It came out more sharply than Jeff intended.
"That's exactly what I mean, father. There's no signal from Thunderbird One's GPS. I have no idea where he is."
It took a few seconds for them all to digest this information. Then Virgil said: "Run a check on his last known position, John. I'll take Thunderbird Two and…"
"You'll do no such thing, Virgil," his father broke in. "You have to get Alan to the hospital in Sydney. Don't worry – we'll find Scott."
Realizing there was no choice, Virgil reluctantly acquiesced. But he didn't like it.
Considering his lack of sleep the night before, Scott was weary to the bone by the time Thunderbirds One and Two lifted off together from the deck of the Colin Powell. "Base from Thunderbird One. Mission accomplished. We're coming home."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird One. How is Alan?"
Virgil chimed in from Thunderbird Two. "We've stabilized his ribs – we don't think anything else is broken. He's in a lot of pain, but we can't give him much in the way of painkillers in case they compromise his breathing."
"Right," his father said. "I'll relay that to Dr. Grant – she'll be here by the time you get back. She'll take a look at him and tell us what she thinks. Sounds like he'll be out of action for a while, in any case."
"Yeah," Scott said. "But he did a first class job out there today, dad."
"Of course he did, son. He takes after his brothers."
Scott smiled. "See you when we get home. Thunderbird One out."
He flexed his aching shoulders and settled in for the flight home, glad that he flew a fast ship. His clothes were stiff with dried saltwater and he smelled like day-old fish. He desperately needed a long, hot shower, followed by bed for about twelve hours. Well, you got your wish, he thought. You'll sleep like the dead tonight.
His tired mind drifted back over the rescue, and he found himself thinking about the girl who had been such a help to him during the last part, after Alan was injured and he was left to finish by himself. She'd been a real trouper, getting right in there with him, pushing and pulling and dragging her fellow crew-members to the gap in the stricken yacht's hull so he could haul them out and winch them to safety. She had refused to leave, too, until everyone else was clear. He wished he ran into people like her at every rescue site – it would make his job a lot easier.
It suddenly registered on him that she was pretty, too. He wondered what her name was.
A shadow fell across him from behind. Scott had no chance to react – freezing as something hard and cold dug painfully into the back of his neck. "Don't move. I will kill you, I promise you."
Something about that voice… Scott's mind was racing. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How the hell did you get in here?"
"Never mind who I am. Just do exactly as I tell you. Now reach over, very slowly, and turn off your GPS."
As if for emphasis, the gun barrel dug harder into his neck muscle, making him wince involuntarily. "Now look," Scott started, playing for time. "If it's money you're after, my organization will…"
"I don't want your father's money, Tracy!" the man behind him snapped. "Now turn off your GPS before I run out of patience!"
Memory clicked into place finally, a chill running down Scott's spine as he realized who his hijacker must be. This was going to be bad.
Not seeing any immediate way out of the situation, he reached over obediently and flipped the switch. The display on the GPS went dark.
"Good, Tracy. Now you're listening to reason. Keep doing that, and you might also keep your head attached to your shoulders."
"What do you want, Hood?" Scott said slowly. "I'm not going to tell you anything. You must know that."
The Hood chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "You won't have to, Tracy. When your father finds out I have his precious eldest son, not to mention one of his Thunderbirds, he'll give me whatever I want."
"I think you're underestimating my father," Scott said quietly. But he knew the man behind him was right. Nothing would be worth the loss of one of his sons to Jeff Tracy, not even if it meant risking the exposure of their entire organization.
"We'll see," the Hood grated. "Now I want you to turn right ten degrees and take a heading of…"
Up until that moment, Scott's mind had been racing a mile a minute, trying to come up with a plan to get himself out of this. A detached kind of calm descended over him now as he made his decision. "No," he said, simply.
The Hood broke off in mid sentence. "What did you say?"
"I said no," Scott repeated. "I'm not going to let you use me to hurt my family."
"You fool!" the Hood spat, grabbing a handful of Scott's hair and yanking his head back brutally. He dug the barrel of the gun into the pilot's throat. "I will blow your stupid head off!"
"No, you won't," Scott managed to gasp out. "If you kill me, you have nothing to bargain with. And you don't know how to fly Thunderbird One, let alone land her in one piece."
The Hood roared in fury and lashed out, hitting Scott hard across the face. Scott tried to go with the blow to lessen the damage, tasting blood on the inside of his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that," he grunted, bracing himself for the follow-up he was sure would come.
The Hood moved the gun barrel, jamming it against Scott's right shoulder blade. "This pistol is loaded with hollow point ammunition, Tracy. When I pull this trigger, it will take them a very long time to put what's left of your shoulder back together. Let's see how many people you will be able to rescue without your right arm.
He'd had a good run, Scott thought. If he was going go anyway, he'd sure as hell take this bastard with him. Without warning he shoved the control levers all the way forward, throwing Thunderbird One into a steep dive. Warning lights spattered red at his eyes. "Go ahead, you son of a bitch, shoot me," he ground out through his teeth. "Of course, then I won't be able to pull us out of this dive."
Thrown off balance as the deck suddenly became a steep slope, the Hood staggered sideways, grabbing at the wall struts to keep himself from falling. Sheer fury boiled up inside him, but he knew there was nothing he could do, unless he planned on committing suicide. Thunderbird One was hurtling straight down toward the Pacific Ocean in an insane game of chicken, and Scott Tracy was ready to take her all the way rather than hand her over to his family's arch-enemy.
Scott stared at the altimeter, numbers racing backwards at a crazy speed. "We've got about sixty seconds left before we hit! What's it going to be, Hood?"
There was no answer. Something moved beside him and the sudden rush of wind made him twist around. He saw something he hadn't expected – the Hood had strapped on one of the jetpacks from the equipment locker, and opened the hatch. "Oh, no you don't," Scott shouted, lunging sideways to grab the other man before he could bail out.
The Hood fought him off, clubbing him savagely with the butt of the Magnum. Scott staggered back, momentarily dazed. It was enough for the Hood to swing around and dive head first through the open hatch.
Collision alarms began to blare. Dizzy and nauseous from the blow, Scott fought his way back to the pilot's seat. Twelve hundred feet. Eleven hundred. Got to get her leveled out… He throttled back the thrusters as far as he could without losing all maneuverability, and pulled hard on the control levers. But Thunderbird One had the bit squarely between her teeth now, her screaming death dive generating g-forces so strong that he couldn't shift the levers even an inch. Eight hundred feet. Seven hundred. Six hundred. He wrapped his arms around the levers and hauled back with everything he had, feet braced, shoulders cracking from the strain. Come on, baby, come on… It was like trying to lift a Mack truck. Four hundred. Three hundred. And then, with excruciating slowness, shuddering through her entire frame, the silver Thunderbird finally began to level off.
It was too late. She wasn't going to make it. At the last moment Scott realized the hatch was still open. He kicked out at the hatch control, watching it slide shut with a scant two seconds to spare.
And then there was no more time. Thunderbird One hit the water, her angle of impact throwing her back into the air like a one hundred forty ton flying fish. She smashed down again with tremendous force, hydroplaning across the surface with the speed of a runaway freight train. Trailing chunks of wing and tail section in her wake, she finally slithered to a steaming, shuddering halt.
The last thing Scott remembered was something hitting him very, very hard. Everything after that was black.
The Tracy jet was fifteen minutes into the flight to Sydney when the comlink signal began to flash. Jeff flipped the switch. "Jeff Tracy."
"Dad, it's John." Mindful of his father's extra passenger, Dr. Elizabeth Grant, John had disabled the video link. He kept his words as cryptic as he could while still getting the message across. "I have news about the…lost package."
Jeff could feel Tin-Tin's eyes on him. He said a silent prayer for good news before he answered. "Go ahead, John."
John's voice was very quiet. "It's, uh, been traced to a location two hundred miles south of the Solomon Islands. Package code is ERB.
"Oh, Mr. Tracy," Tin-Tin whispered, her eyes filling with tears. They were both only too well aware that ERB was an acronym for one of Brains' inventions, the Emergency Recovery Beacon. Designed as an automatic fail-safe, it only began transmitting in the event of one of the Thunderbird craft going down. John was trying to tell them that their worst fears had come true – for reasons unknown, Thunderbird One had crashed into the ocean.
Jeff had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could trust his voice to sound normal. "Well, John, at least we know where...the package is. Tell Virgil right away, will you? He'll know what to do."
"Will do, father." Thankfully, the unnatural conversation ended, and Jeff was left alone to try to deal with the fact that the bottom had just dropped out from under his world. Surely there could be nothing more dreadful for a parent than a moment like this. Oh, God, Scott…
"Everything all right, Jeff?" Dr. Grant, perceptive as always, leaned forward in her seat. Tin-Tin turned her head away to conceal her wet eyes, pretending to be very interested in the view from her window.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure it will be," Jeff congratulated himself on the even tone of voice he managed to produce. "We lost an important…package, this morning. But it seems like we've located it now."
"Well, I hope it's in one piece," she smiled.
He didn't trust himself to respond to that one.
"Maybe he's okay," Gordon said, determinedly trying to look on the bright side. "Maybe he had a malfunction and he had to ditch."
"After turning off his GPS?" Virgil asked pointedly. "And if he was having problems, why didn't he tell us?"
Gordon shook his head. "I don't know."
"Okay," Virgil said, getting a hold of himself. "This is what we're going to do. Get on the radio to the hospital. Tell them we need their parking lot, and we're coming in hot. We don't have time to go to the airport – we've got to get to Scott as soon as possible. Anything could be happening out there."
"But, Virg, what if they can't clear the parking lot in time? That's a lot of cars…"
"Well, tell them if they don't, they'll have one hell of a barbecue on their hands when this baby comes down on top of them."
Gordon knew better than to argue with his brother when he got that look on his face. When they were kids, Scott might have been the irresistible force, but Virgil was the immovable object. Not much had changed in that department.
He sighed and opened the comlink to the hospital.
Quite a crowd had gathered at the front entrance to the hospital by the time Thunderbird Two's immense form appeared in the sky. Virgil noted with satisfaction that the staff had taken their request seriously – there wasn't a vehicle in the entire parking lot directly in front of the main building. "See, Gordo, that's what happens when you don't take no for an answer."
Gordon ignored him. He headed back to the sleeping quarters to prepare Alan for transport.
People stared and pointed as Thunderbird Two swung in low over the hospital building and fired her landing jets, settling to the tarmac in a roar of smoke and flame. Even before they could get the hatch open, an ER team with a gurney was running out to meet them, flanked by armed hospital security. Gordon forced himself to let the experts take over, watching anxiously as they transferred Alan to the gurney and started their emergency workup. "Take good care of him."
One of the doctors looked up at him and smiled. "Don't worry, mate. Leave it to us."
Gordon realized he was still hanging on to the gurney. He stepped back reluctantly, and the ER team was gone, racing back across the parking lot toward the hospital. Seriously torn, Gordon stood there for a moment. Then he glanced up at Thunderbird Two's cockpit shields, sixty feet above him, knowing Virgil was watching the departure of his youngest brother and feeling exactly the same. They had to go, he thought. They didn't have any choice. Alan was in good hands now, but Scott…
He'll be all right, Gordon told himself firmly as he ran back into the Thunderbird and closed the hatch. He has to be.