23
Thunderbird 1:
Less than six hundred miles from the coast of Europe, flying into a day that, in Spain,was already well advanced, Scott Tracy unthinkingly hit a certain comm switch.
"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1. John, are you...?" All at once he stopped short, shaking his head. "Damn. I keep forgetting."
...that the half-finished satellite was empty, yet; that John Tracy, their space monitor, computer expert and all-around 'fixer', was probably ten million miles away by now, waist -deep in troubles of his own. But, miraculously, the comm came to life.
Scott wasn't sure when he'd been happier to see a brother (except Gordon, brought home at last by their father; but that was different). John was in uniform, less the lavender sash and fore-and-aft cap, but there was something odd about his posture. He wasn't sitting, exactly. Instead, he seemed to be strapped in a seat that he'd otherwise have floated away from.
"John! How...?"
"Hello, Scott," his ice-blond younger brother remarked, in tones as calm and ironic as ever. "What seems to be the major malfunction?"
"Pick a complication. Shit happens..."
John smiled, just slightly.
"... to us, mostly," he concluded Scott's sentence.
Thunderbird 1 had caught up with the sunset and flown into late afternoon, by then.
"Exactly. I had an idea, though. I thought I might drop Shadowbot, and come into European air space fully visible. It's kind of dumb, I know, but..."
John cut him off with a brief head-shake.
"Sounds like a good idea, actually. I'll let them know to expect a couple of jack-in-the-box radar hits. Fly straight, fast and obvious. In fact, if you had a horn, I'd advise you to lay on it... And be careful. Nothing gets uglier, quicker, than a frightened mob."
"Right. Thanks for the advice, and for stillbeing there."
"Yeah..., thing is, I may be out of touch for a few weeks, Scott. I don't know. I'm trying to set something up, but I'm not sure how well it'll work. If you need me, though, use the exact words you did earlier: 'Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1'. You'll get a response."
"Okay, I'll pass that along, and we'll try not to call any more than we can help. You've got a lot on your plate, already. Good news, though; Dad and Brains are designing a deep-space Thunderbird, for long distance rescues."
That caught his brother's interest.
"Tell them to double the radiation shields," John told him. "Coronal mass ejections can ruin your day... and your genes."
"Extra shielding, got it. Fly safe, and let us know if anything else comes up, or you need an assist. I guarantee, we'll find a way. Hell, we'll make one."
John smiled again, a swift flicker of emotion on an otherwise still face.
"Know what I fantasize about?"
"Actually, John, I'm not sure I want to go there..."
"A perfectly ordinary day. The kind where the toughest decision I have to make is what to have for lunch, and the biggest thing on my agenda is waxing the car. Which reminds me... look in on the Charger for me, would you? I put the keys in an envelope and mailed them to you."
Scott's eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. John's car, a jet-black, '69 Dodge Charger, was utterly sacrosanct. Twelve years earlier, he'd rescued the rusted-out hulk from a junkyard in Laramie, refurbishing it with Grandad's help. It was fast and powerful, and had just about blown the doors off of Scott's Porsche in three extremely humiliating races. Nobody but John drove the Charger. Ever. That John would just about give her away was scary.
"Okay. I'll keep her purring till you get back. Just..."
"Scott, you've got a job to do, and I'm about to take a very long nap. Stop emoting, and say good-bye."
Uh-uh. No good-byes.
"See ya, Little Brother."
One more quick smile, and the screen went dark. Scott thought a few things, leafing through a stack of well-thumbed memories, then got back to work. Hitting a second comm switch, he called out,
"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1. Virge, you there?"
"Thunderbird 2. Go ahead, Scott."
Virgil looked a good deal tenser than normal. Scott had the feeling that, if he could have, Virgil would have gotten out and pushed.
"We're dropping cover. John's calling ahead to tell them we're on the way, so expect a welcoming committee. Just stay cool, and keep to the flight path. Got it?"
Virgil nodded, then turned his head to call,
"Hear that, Hotshot? Keep your finger off the trigger, and think peaceful thoughts. I dunno... visualize flowers and kitty cats."
Gordon said something off camera which the mike failed to quite pick up. Shaking his head, Virgil responded,
"Not if I can help it! Whose big idea was it to arm you, anyway?"
Gordon's reply, whatever it was, had Virgil at once chuckling, and reaching for something to throw.
Brothers. Gotta love 'em.
"All right, guys. It's just about show time. We'll be splitting up at the danger zone. I'll set up on site, while you put down in the valley, and break out the Mole. Defend yourselves only as an absolute last resort, and stay safe."
"Right. You, too. We'll..." Virgil broke off, then, frowning at something on one of his monitors. "Uh..., Scott?"
Thunderbird 1's proximity alarms were going crazy. Something was coming straight at them, fast, ferocious and hot. Fighter planes, according to the computer; a whole squadron of them.
"Yeah. I see 'em, Virge. Looks like they're throwing half of Incirlik at us. Stay calm, and stick to the plan."
By now, they'd flown into broad daylight. The streaking jets arrived well before they crossed the coastline. F-29 Gryphons... about twenty-four of them... plus a couple of Predators, all of them maintaining strict radio silence. Scott's attempted hails went completely unanswered; not a good sign.
Judging by the war paint, they hailed from the 39th fighter-interceptor squadron. United States Air Force.
The squadron broke, half banking off to buzz Thunderbird 2, the remainder slashing past Thunderbird 1 like missiles from a circus-act knife thrower. One guy came so close that Scott could clearly see the striking cobra painted on his tail assembly. It had red eyes, with slitted black pupils, and a forked tongue.
The pilot matched speeds, pacing him for a bit, while halfhis squad mates swooped, crossed, looped and dove, weaving a net of roaring steel around Thunderbird 1.
"Scott...?"
"I know. They're testing us. Nobody's fired anything, yet, and I'd like to keep it that way. Fly straight and level, and don't make any sudden moves."
The lead plane surged forward all at once, executing a half-roll with reverse thrust that left him upside-down over Thunderbird 1, staring at Scott through canopy and view screen.
Show off. Nice cockpit, though. They'd apparently consolidated the instrument displays and simplified the avionics.
Typing a swift message on a data-board, Scott un-clipped it from his instrument panel and held it up for the pilot to read. In big, glowing letters, it said,
'Friend' and below that, 'Wolf Pack'.
As the fighter pilot wore helmet, face shield and air mask, it was impossible to see his expression, but he seemed to nod. All at once, he gave a quick salute, and the comm crackled to life.
"Thunderbird 1, this is Lt. Colonel Day, of the United States Air Force. We've been ordered to provide escort to the strike zone, for yourself, and Thunderbird 2. If anything happens, you are requested to hold fire, keep your shields down, and let us do the talking. You copy?"
"Roger that, Colonel. Lead the way."
As he'd indicated on the data-board, Scott had belonged to the 'Wolf Pack' (8th Fighter Squadron, out of Kunsan Air Force Base). Did him good to see a fellow airman, though, whatever his unit.
The 39th was there both to ensure International Rescue's good intentions, and to defend them, should anyone attempt vengeance. Not that the Thunderbird craft weren't capable of fighting their own battles; but, at this point, it seemed wiser to let someone else wield the axe.
They reached the Bay of Biscay, rocketed over the sun-baked Iberian peninsula, and across the jagged Pyrenees, where it was currently mid-day. The best approach to the Pico de Aneto was from the southern, Spanish side; not as steep, or populous. Thunderbird 1 descended gradually, slanting downward over wrinkled green hills, groves of almond and olive trees, and the occasional small village.
He spotted the smoke plume well before he reached the danger zone. Thick and twisting, black with ash and pulverized rock, it rose far into the gem-blue sky, casting a long, dark scar on the countryside below.
The fighter squadron tightened up, pairs of planes darting off several times to chase away unauthorized aircraft. More than once, they had to shoot down surface-to-air missiles that had been fired at the rescue craft. Through it all, Scott and Virgil kept their shields down and let the 39th take care of business, reaching the fallen Unity Complex some forty minutes after launching, without a scratch to the paint job, or a bullet fired.
"This is as far as we go, Thunderbird 1," Lt. Colonel Day informed him, as Scott lined up the rocket plane with what remained of the UC's airstrip. "Good luck. WorldGov Security and the Army 'll take it from here."
Thunderbird 1 touched down like a phoenix, in a firestorm of jetting flame and tornadic, howling wind. Already stressed by the fall of the Unity Complex, the tarmac bubbled and cracked beneath her, but held. Through the view screen, Scott glimpsed a surging crowd. Injured, dirty and frantic, they were being pushed back by a pitifully small number of battered soldiers, whose torn uniforms were as varied as their nationalities.
"Thank you, Colonel," Scott replied over the comm, as the departing squadron arrowed off. "I appreciate the protection, and the faith."
"You want to thank me, Sir," the fighter pilot's voice came back, cracked and hoarse, "Get those people outta there. You wouldn't believe what we've been picking up on short band."
As he shut down his Bird, Scott took a deep breath, and made a promise.
"Colonel, you have my word. If they're alive, we'll get to them. We won't stop until everyone's out safe. I promise."
And then, fetching his Mobile Command gear, Scott opened the hatch, and made ready to face a lynch mob.