Thanks to Tikatu, Opal Girl and Twinkle (hugs back) for the feed back!
25
The Pico de Aneto; Pyrenees Mountains, Spain-
As the 39th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron roared away, Scott Tracy turned his entire attention to facing a mob of angry, frightened, desperate people. They surged and shouted, pushing hard at the ragged line of wounded soldiers fighting to restrain them. All was chaos, heatand noise.
Smoke and rock dust filled the air, blocking the Spanish sun and making for devilishly dry and painful breaths. A little further up the mountain, the wreckage of the Unity Complex reminded Scott of the smouldering remains of a week's trash, crackling and collapsing in its battered oil drum, back in Wyoming.
Taking a firmer grip on the Mobile Control cases, Scott made his way down the ladder from Thunderbird 1. He didn't speak much Spanish, but the words being flung at him from a hundred seared throats didn't sound friendly.
Everyone has their own private concept of hell. John's was a nuclear inferno, filled with dying people whom he somehow wasn't quick or smart enough to save. Gordon's was a small, dark cell; groping hands, smashing fists, taunting whispers... and the needle that brought swift, stinging helplessness. Forever afterward, when Scott Tracy visualized hell, he saw shattered stone and melting girders, felt the reeking-hot, particulate swirl of black smoke.
Rocks clattered and rang against Thunderbird 1's silvery hull, occasionally striking the ladder, or Scott himself, but he kept his grip, and kept descending. When he reached ground at last, a dust-choked policemanhurried up with a plexiglass riot shield, providing relief from the hail of stones and debris.
"Senor," the policeman shouted, tapping at his helmet mike, "we are hearing from El Jefe that there has been an order to say that you are, si, permitted here, but the people, Senor, are past reason with anger. They do not listen! Maybe it is better for you to..."
But Scott shook his head. Any retreat now, any show of weakness or fear, might be taken as an admission of guilt. Someone threw a length of twisted iron, which the officer reflexively blocked with his shield. It struck with a sharp crack, then fell to the blistered pavement at their feet. Heli-jets clattered overhead, ferrying EMT volunteers from all across Spain and France.
"Sir," Scott replied, striving to be heard above the clamor without seeming hostile, "If you have a loud-speaker, I'll talk to them myself..., but to run a rescue, I've got to stay close enough to see what's going on."
The bullhorn was brought forth, and Officer Estevez got the crowd's attention. Most of them were survivors of the attack who'd refused to be packed off. They had friends still trapped in the smoking wreckage, and were prepared to dig them out bare-handed, if necessary.
An uneasy, venomous stillness fell, interspersed with curses and flung rubble. Scott lifted the loud-speaker, hoping like hell that the right words would come. What did you say, in the face of all this? What could you say?
"Folks...," he began, a little uncertainly, "I'm here to..."
Then (slower than Thunderbird 1, but much more massive), Thunderbird 2 arrived upon the scene. She'd been supposed to land below, on a level patch big enough to accommodate aircraft and Mole. But Virgil had decided to switch the play.
Thunderbird 2 broke through thebroiling smoke layer like a boulder parting the waters of a stream. Banking, she circled the mountain top, gleaming a deep emerald where, here and there, a low, slanting beam of light touched her curving hull. Her engines were throttled back to a muted rumble, leaving the visceral throb of impeller beams, and the hiss and pop of steering rockets to fill the awed silence. Wide-eyed people craned and pointed, tiptoingover the heads of their fellows for a better look.
Very much wanting to be seen, Virgil came round for another pass, showing 2's flat, unarmed belly, her stubby wings and distinctive tail assembly. There wasn't another craft like her in all the world, and he needed them to see that.
Sensing the crowd's hesitation (and blessing Virgil's intuition), Scott resumed talking, more firmly this time. His mechanically amplified voice bounced and rang off the broken rocks, stopped every so often by a shrill squeal from the bullhorn.
"Ladies and gentlemen, that is Thunderbird 2. She's a rescue craft and cargo lifter, not a war machine. Aboard her are two of my... closest friends. Like me, they're here to help."
Officer Estevez translated rapidly, speakingthrough Scott'sintermittent, groping pauses. Throughout the massed crowd, others did the same.
"Also aboard is a giant drill called the Mole. She'll be used to tunnel a path to the trapped people... your friends and coworkers. I don't know who did this... we haven't figured that out, yet... but I swear to you that it wasn't International Rescue, and I'm willing to stand trial to prove it. I give you my word, folks. You can arrest me when this is all over. All I ask is that you let my br... teammates go free, and that you let us do our jobs."
Thunderbird 2 made another slow pass before heading off, coming so low that her pressure wave fanned the people's grimy hair and clothing. Almost, they might have counted the rivets, reached out and touched her broad belly. All at once, rocks and metal bars clattered to the buckled ground. The crowd, which moments before had been a giant, ugly animal, reverted to a mass of wounded and tired individuals. Here a secretary, mourning a friend she couldn't find. Over there, a junior defense minister, talking shakily on a cell phone with his relieved family.
Several thousand miles away, Jeff leaned toward the TV screen , his unshaven jaw dropping in disbelief at Scott's offer.
"What the hell does he think he's doing?" The elder Tracy demanded.
Hugging herself, Cindy Taylor responded,
"What he has to." Then, scooping up the tote bag she'd arrived with, "Mr. Tracy, what've you got that's fast? I need to get over there. I've got a recognizable face, I'm persuasive, and if anyone puts a finger on him, I'll kill them, so help me, God."
"Thunderbird 3!" Alan yelped, pushing his way forward, "C'mon Dad, please? I can fly it, you know I can! I can get Cindy over to Spain, and then stick around to help Scott, and the guys. I can do this, Dad!"
Jeff hesitated, torn and reluctant. If the boy went..., then each and every one of his sons would bein mortal peril; Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan in Spain, John on a sabotaged mission to Mars. ...And this was one decision he couldn't make alone. Questioningly, he looked over at the boy's mother, Gennine.
She stopped biting her knuckle long enough to nod, and approached Alan. Stroking the salt-stiffened hair back from his forehead, she whispered,
"Go on, Baby. Help your brothers, and do your job."
"Yes! Whooooo! Thanks, Mom!" Hurriedly, Alan kissed Gennine's cheek, the first time he'd done that in weeks. Then,
"C'mon, Miss Future Sister-lady, we're outta here!"
Fairly vibrating with eagerness, Alan seized Cindy's hand, and dashed for Thunderbird 3's launch bay.