Okay. A further re-edit, to match up with later stories. Penultimate chapter, so if nothing else, I'm close.
63
Departing Tracy Island, prior to the 'Lab Incident'-
Scott Tracy had been forced to delay the island's mail run for nearly a month. What with being short-staffed and long-tasked (Gordon was in Madrid, and John still farther), flying to Tahiti for snail mail seemed somehow less than vital. Everything really important came to them over the internet, anyhow.
They might have paid for regular air mail service, had Tracy Island not held such a dangerous secret. But it did, and, to protect the location of International Rescue, all such traffic had to be discouraged. No airmail, no cruise ships, and damn few visitors. Only the closest family and a few chosen operatives were allowed.
Usually, Scott enjoyed the flight to Papeete and back. This time, things were different. He flew the doctored Learjet 45 with one hand and half his mind, drumming his fingers and worrying with the rest of it.
He was cruising along at 20,000 feet, doing nearly 500 knots. It was late afternoon, and the sun was slowly ripening in the west; getting bigger and redder by the minute. Engine whine and vibration were communicated through his leather seat and steering yoke and the filtered, whispering air. Orange-y soft light painted the pilot and his restless small passenger a uniform shade of gold. Very pretty, had he taken the time to appreciate it.
Scott wanted to hurry. He'd have called in for Shadowbot coverage, and converted the Lear to something a good deal faster, if he could have. With John on Mars and Brains pulling double duty, though, such subterfuges had to be saved for the really critical flights.
John on Mars… Scott shook his head, adjusting the trim of his plane's control surfaces. He remembered when the space shot had seemed heroic and manageable; an historic adventure in the proud tradition of Jeff Tracy's Apollo missions. The reality was much closer to nightmare than glory, however. Day and night, Scott struggled with the ice-water knowledge that his brother was in constant danger, and far out of reach.
Scott frowned, switching IFR channels to bring in Tahiti Center. Brains was doing his level best to create a fast interplanetary drive for Thunderbird 7, but there had so far been many more explosions than launches. Though Scott didn't like to admit it, the situation was tense as hell.
International Rescue had to watch, right along with ten billion other helpless bystanders, as the Ares III crew dodged one bullet after another. Question was, how many rounds had been chambered, and how long could John, and Pete and the rest keep jumping?
Scott made a low, frustrated noise, far removed from his usual, droning calm. His grunt alerted the dog, who turned away from the window and bounded across the cockpit in a musical jingle of tags, landing squarely on Scott's lap.
The pilot rubbed the animal's hairy little head. After all, there was no one around to say, 'I told you so.'
It was a white and black-spotted Jack Russell Terrier. Sort of cute, in a useless, small animal kind of way, with a pointed face, quizzical eyes and mobile, lopped-over ears.
Gordon's, of course; rescued from the World Unity Complex disaster, and brought to the island for 'temporary safe keeping'. Right.
Scott had ended up baby-sitting the hyperactive little creature, even though he'd vowed not to. Over-developed sense of responsibility, no doubt. Not that there weren't rewards…
The little dog put two paws upon his shoulders, rearing high enough to lick his face, and Scott began to wonder how Cindy felt about pets. She had a plant… 'Frank', 'Phil', 'Frondy' or some-such… but he had no idea what her stance was on more animate companions.
Hell, for that matter, he was starting to wonder about Cindy, herself. Other than a brief phone message from Houston (she'd quit her job, again) and a second from her father's new nursing home in San Diego, she'd been out of touch for almost a week.
Might have been just a female thing. Didn't they have to run off and 'find themselves', periodically?
Maybe, Scott decided, after chewing on the matter for a bit, he ought to buy a few issues of Cosmopolitan in Papeete, and do some research. A woman in his old squadron had once suggested Cosmo as the ultimate field guide to the double-X chromosome set. Couldn't hurt to try, he supposed…
Tahiti announced itself through comm chatter, and a long, back-end wave shadow. From above, you could see a tear-drop shaped smooth patch in the waters 'behind' the big island, and a misty halo of clouds. Even without instruments, he'd have known there was something there. Not that anyone flew that way, these days, not really; but tricks like those could save your life in a shot-up, dead-stick plane.
Tahiti Center took over about eighty miles out, guiding him through a rapid slalom course of turns and descents. They handed him over to Temae Approach, like something extremely hot they were trying to juggle to the ground without dropping.
Thirty miles out, Scott called in for landing clearance, smiling at the familiar, accented tones of the Faa'a air traffic controller.
"TAF, this is Lear Foxtrot Alpha Bravo 1-2-1, coming in 30 miles northwest, at 18,000 feet. Requesting clearance to land runway 1-8."
The response was a swift and cheerful,
"Lear Foxtrot Alpha Bravo, this is TAF. Tune squawk to 5-6-7-0, and reduce altitude to 10,000 feet. Turn left on heading 1-8-0. You are cleared for landing. Come on in, and welcome to Tahiti."
Scott's smile broadened, despite all the worry. Whether it was a fighter jet, the Lear, or Thunderbird 1, flying felt good. He couldn't imagine life without wings.
"Roger that, TAF, and thank you. Reducing altitude to 10,000 feet. Coming about left on heading 1-8-0."
Further guidance followed. He banked the Lear, barely seeing the distorted, window-shaped patches of light that slid across the cockpit, over instruments, pilot and dog. Dog…!
As Scott lowered flaps and landing gear, losing speed and altitude with familiar, stomach-grabbing suddenness, he muttered,
"Scout, get in your house."
The terrier yipped once, and then dove into his strapped-down pet carrier. The little fellow was extremely intelligent, for a dog, and already well accustomed to landing and takeoff procedures.
Scott closed and latched the carrier's wire gate with one hand, adding,
"Sorry, Pal. No unsecured passengers allowed on approach."
The dog responded with a brief, high-pitched bark, pushing his pointed nose as far between the bars as he could, to see and to sniff.
Scott lined her up with the runway, throttling further back. On his instruments, and in his mind, the plane slid along the beacon like a flashing silver bead on a wire of glimmering data. Better still, he had a good head wind to fly into, giving him just the right amount of pillow-y air resistance. Three in the green… landing gear down… twenty-five percent flaps…
The Lear's twin jet engines deepened their pitch, while her small flap and rudder motors hummed along. Wind poured past, playing counterpoint. Surrounded by the sort of music he understood, Scott whistled a scrap of something, and came in on short final. The ground… velvety-green mountains, blue corduroy ocean, toy city and long, sleek runway… grew vastly bigger as it swept past. The closer you got, the faster it seemed to move. His heart rate increased, as well. This was joy, something he could liken only to being with Cindy, on a different sort of 'short final'.
Under Scott's expert touch, the Lear flared up, nose lifting, tail assembly dropping. The rear wheels touched, with a noise like a bank-robber's escape car peeling away from the curb. They bounced once, barely, then settled into a fast roll. Next the nose dropped, smooth as 100 year-old whiskey.
Nose wheel down… and just like that, he was taxiing; buildings and palm trees shooting past, gradually slowing to their accustomed stillness and dignity. Mission accomplished.
Scott crossed the 'hold short' line and turned off the main runway, tugging out his flight log.
"Clear of main runway," he announced, unnecessarily. Faa'a had a tower, and could perfectly well observe his 'driving'.
"Clear of main runway, Foxtrot Alpha Bravo. Use taxiway November, and enjoy your stay, Sir."
Scott double-clicked the mike by way of response, still smiling. To the dog, he boasted,
"Pretty good, huh?"
The terrier yipped excitedly, licking his hand and pawing at the bars as Scott opened the carrier door.
"Yup. Best co-pilot I've ever flown with. Looks like Alan's out of a job."
After he'd filled out the log, and post-flighted, putting the Lear to bed in a private hangar, Scott and the dog hurried across the tarmac to the Airport Mail centre. The sun was nothing more than a scarlet arc painted across the western horizon. Scott glanced, but did not linger, his mind already on other business. Mail… the airport newsstand for a few magazines, then home. He had simulator time to log, in a craft that hadn't even been built, yet.
The dog trotted along at the end of its leash, sniffing appreciatively at all the new smells, head cocked and ears lifted, stubby tail going like a frantic little metronome. That was, what…? Four/ four time? Virgil could have said for sure, but it was definitely more 'Entertainer' than 'Wedding March'.
To the sounds of lively celebration, engine-roar and claws clicking across concrete, Scott now added his cell phone ring; the Air Force March. Switching the leash reel to his left hand, he fumbled out his phone, flipping it open and hitting receive.
"Scott Tracy," he announced, bracing himself.
It was Cindy, looking tired and cranky. She'd apparently flopped onto an armchair, calling him from a pitifully bare hotel room.
"Hey, Hollywood."
The fact that she still called him that, and that no one else really understood why, made the word especially warming.
"Hey, yourself, Beautiful."
"Yeah. Right," the former WNN news reporter snorted rudely. Her expression softened a little, though. "Long flight plus no makeup equals something less than glamour, Fella."
When in trouble, fall back on humor, his wingman had said…
"I look that bad?" Scott protested, feigning shock at his own make-up-less state. Then, growing more serious, "How's your dad like the new place?"
Cindy looked down, plucking at a non-existent thread on her gold USC sweat shirt. Shrugging, she said,
"Well, you know. It's not like… Bart doesn't really…"
Scott could have kicked himself.
"Sorry, Hon. Dumb question."
Cindy Taylor's father was suffering through the final stages of senile dementia. He recognized no one, and spoke now only to the shadows in his own head.
Very few things could make Cindy cry. Her adoptive father's slow deterioration was one of those few. Across the tiny screen, far away and out of reach, silent tears escaped dark, reddened eyes. Scott felt like a complete and utter heel.
"Come home, Cin," he ordered. "You've done what you needed to. I'll fly over, if you want."
But she shook her head, short black ponytail whipping the sides of her neck.
"They need you there, and I've got plenty of frequent flier miles saved up." Then, "You sure it wouldn't be a bother? You guys are busy, and I can always…"
Do what? With no job, no home and no family capable of acknowledging her existence, what, exactly, was Cindy planning to do? Scott cut her off.
"You can come home. Pronto. First plane out, Hon. I'll be waiting to pick you up in Honolulu."
She gave him a wet, weary, grateful smile.
"Thanks. Guess you kinda love me, huh?"
He'd stopped walking, and the dog had by now wrapped its leash cord around his legs about fifteen times.
"Yeah. Guess I kind of do. Call with the flight number and time, and I'll be waiting at the gate. Promise."
She nodded, even smiling a little.
"Deal. I'll get you the details as soon as there's anything to report."
The conversation lingered a bit longer. From warm, tropical night on his end, to cold, lonely hotel room on hers; mere words having to stand in for the comfort Scott wished he was there to provide. Their goodbyes were short, and filled with promises. They hadn't set a date yet, but in everyway that mattered, Scott Tracy and Cindy Taylor were already joined.
'Maybe,' he thought, as the little screen went dark, 'I ought to go ahead and buy a ring. Surprise her.'
Full of plans, Scott snapped his phone shut and put it away again, at the same time disentangling himself from the eager terrier. The little animal scampered around as they resumed walking toward the mail centre, sniffing everything, and adding a few scents of its own. Scott should have been annoyed, probably, but instead found all this doggish behavior rather enjoyable.
The Tracys hadn't had a true family dog since Rusty, a female Irish Setter; their friend, playmate and guardian… but that was before. There'd been Harry, a scruffy mutt, but he hadn't lasted long. Scout was an entirely different breed, and much more kinetic than Rusty had been. Still a dog, though, and the pilot was surprised by how good it felt to be barked for and welcomed by even a pint-sized canine.
At the colorfully painted Air Mail Centre, he scooped the little dog up to tuck it beneath one arm. Didn't see a sign reading, 'No Pets', but it couldn't hurt to be careful. Glass doors whooshed open, emitting a burst of cool, perfumed air and fluorescent light.
"Evenin', Sir!" The night manager, a big, dark-skinned woman, greeted him warmly, looking up from her surf magazine. "The Tracy mail?"
She leant upon a short, chromed counter, behind a wall of imbedded Plexiglas, smiling and waggling her fingers at the dog. The terrier licked every part of Scott he could reach, in his frenzy to greet a new person.
"Yeah… thanks…urf… Martha. Quit that! Settle down!"
Martha Machado chuckled, mouthing, 'cute dog' as she eased off her stool and walked back to the storage area, pushing her way through a curtain of heavy, clear-plastic strips. Scout calmed down for a bit, but returned to full-throttle frenzy when Martha reappeared, mail in hand.
"Not very much this time, Sir," the woman mourned, pressing a button on her side of the counter that caused a ghostly, LCD keyboard to appear between them on the glass wall.
"As far as I'm concerned, no news is good news, Martha," Scott quipped, punching in his mail access security code. This way, he never had to show any ID, or have his chip swiped. In fact, he wasn't sure that Martha even knew his name. All that mattered was that he knew the code, and came by often enough to be a familiar sight. Personnel changes had to be OK'd by Jeff Tracy, himself. Otherwise, Scott was the expected courier.
His code was accepted with a brief, musical chime. Then the virtual keypad vanished, leaving behind featureless Plexiglas that now warmed itself enough to destroy his fingerprints.
The mail was sent through a locking, two-door bin. Three letters, a cardboard mailing tube, and a thick manila envelope. Scott set the dog down, collected his mail and gave Martha a last, friendly smile. Then, he left the building. He sorted the post a bit more thoroughly, outside. The letters were for dad, and two of them actually looked important. The mailing tube was addressed to Virgil, from far-off Wyoming.
The twins were studying to be teachers, one of art, the other, Spanish. Every once in awhile, they sent his younger brother things they'd found, or made. Little touches of 'back home'. Scott was a wise enough man to keep his mouth shut about that situation (mostly), though what Virgil intended to do (besides switch religions) was beyond him…
As John had once put it,
"Better you than me."
Speaking of which…
The manila envelope was addressed to Scott, as the coded, 'Scott Aaron'. The postmark was American, via Florida's Space Coast.
He tore it open and shook the contents out onto the palm of one hand. A note, and a set of old-style, metal car keys. Right; the Charger. Scott had almost forgotten John's earlier request, and his own promise.
For just an instant, when the keys jangled onto his hand, Scott had felt a stab of dread, as though the arrival of personal effects this important was the worst of omens. But, Scott Tracy wasn't a fanciful man, or a superstitious one, either. He put the thought firmly away, then glanced at the note.
John was ambidextrous, and Scott knew both of his brother's handwritings quite well. This one was neat, small, and full of backward-leaning flourishes. Left hand, then; the one he used informally. That was something, at least. It said,
'Take care of her for me.'
J.M.T.
Initials. From his own brother. Scott flipped the message over (it had been written on NASA stationary), but there was nothing else. Just the keys to a powerful old car, and a cold, empty note.
Sighing, Scott pocketed the keys, folded the paper into quarters, and tucked that away, too. Seeming to sense his dampened mood, the dog pawed at his trouser leg, and whined. He picked the little animal up again, and resumed walking.
"See," Scott said aloud, to the dog, himself and the breezy Tahitian night, "the thing about John is, everything's okay, until it isn't. And then it's really, really bad. He doesn't have a medium setting, that I've ever seen. Pain in the ass, actually."
The dog nuzzled him, proving once again that there was nothing like a cold nose when one was feeling a little down. Looking up at a star-filled sky (who the hell knew where Mars was?), Scott said,
"I'll keep an eye on her for you, little brother. Just stay out of trouble, up there."
…because it sure didn't seem as if the Thunderbirds would be able to help. Not unless Brains pulled off some kind of miracle.
Madrid-
Failing at his first call (to John), Gordon Tracy next tried getting through to Fermat. There, too, he came up flat. The younger boy must have been at his classes, yet, Gordon decided.
More than a bit vexed, he left a message, then flipped the phone shut, and put it away again. Anika gave his arm another gentle squeeze. All that mattered to her was his immediate safety, and that of her teammates.
Meanwhile, Bela Stepanovic wore a remarkably arch, 'Now what, Genius?' look. He was Anika's coach; dark-haired and ugly, and so massive that he looked prehistoric. Bigger than Virgil, even.
They stood in the main lobby of the Santa Clara women's athletic dormitory, in near total darkness, but for a battery-powered torch. Outside, the sounds of dark-induced fear and chaos were growing louder.
This sudden power failure seemed to have panicked the Madrillenos, still reeling from the Unity Complex attack and its terrible aftermath.
Young gymnasts were being guided down by security guards, a few at a time. Bela shouted at those who remained above to sit still and wait for escort, but they were frightened, nevertheless.
Gordon found it difficult to stay out of things. He'd thought that by calling John or Fermat, he could help reinstate the city's power supply, but neither had proven reachable. Time for Plan B: lie like mad, and find a way past the Neanderthal. (Didn't suppose that a shout of, 'Good Lord, what's that behind you!' had any chance of success…)
Gordon was just about to attempt something truly mental, when the matter was taken out of his hands. From further inside the big building came a young English girl's shrill, terrified scream.
"Fire! There's fire!"
"Sharon!" Anika gasped, taking hold of Gordon's sleeve. Her Britishteammate was just nine years old.
In times of sudden emergency, you could often look at people's eyes and tell who was steady, and who would crack. Bela Stepanovic might have been carved of flint. Something passed between the young swimmer and burly coach, then. An understanding. Together with Anika and a female security guard, they ripped extinguishers off the wall, and pounded up the corridor.
Bela was a big man, with long, powerful strides, but he was heavily built, and Gordon Tracy much younger. The teenager soon outstripped Anika's coach, racing past the bouncing yellow torch beam, out where the darkness swallowed him whole.
Mars-
It was referred to afterwards as 'the picnic', as in:
"Hey, remember at the picnic, when John told that story about the grizzly bear, and Pete laughed so hard that coffee squirted out his nose…?" And then, "I miss him."
Cold and dust and flaring static, yes, but at least they were out of the wind, with plenty to eat and drink. When the storm finally ended, three days later, the supply cylinder had been fully organized and catalogued; edible and ruined stuffs sorted into separate areas.
The wind fell and the dust settled, leaving behind a landscape of low, exhausted hills, and a sullen orange sky. Now, the real work began. The out-of-doors-cursing-and-sweating-variety.
Roger Thorpe set about disinterring the tractor, while John started on the power suits, and the others began shifting supplies. They labored from many hours before dawn, to well after sunset, slotting in two meals a day and doing just about everything while still in their hard suits.
Evenings, they kept to the ship-board night schedule; four sleeping while one stood watch. It was during one such long, boring night watch that the messages came through. John had constructed a temporary comm station (bit like the one he'd set up on San Marco, but with far greater range). He hadn't tested it himself, though, programming the thing in powered-down mode. That which slept in his head was still a source of concern,and after a brief consult Pete had agreed that it would be best if John didn't access any equipment capable of reaching Earth.
He hadn't counted on urgent email addressed to him, however. Not with such a source and packet label. The screen blinked at him repeatedly, displaying something he'd never expected to see again.
What the hell…?
36? He hadn't been referred to that way in years. Not since the close shave at Princeton. That was Drew's nickname for him… like the handle 'Kryptoni3n', given when he couldn't come up with anything on his own. But, why would she…?
Amid the many cold-storage boxes in which John Tracy hid his feelings, something moved; breaking surface briefly, like a broaching dolphin. Knowing better, he opened the first message, anyway. It was chillingly brief.
36: 911: A
She needed help. Concerned, John shot back an encrypted reply, requesting further information. It would have been far smarter not to. He'd long since ensured that there were no active files on Anarchik, or the rest, but something might have been burnt onto disk, and there were humiliated corporate security agents out there with insanely long memories and deep grudges.
A few moments later, another message arrived, far sooner than Drew could have gotten his response. Again, John opened the message, though he should have known better. Turned out to be a repeat of the first, routed differently. Intercepted, maybe? Strange…
He'd coded his response on the fly, embedding its decryption system in the timing and pressure of his keystrokes; sort of an extra-dimensional subtext. Drew would know what to look for.
Twenty minutes later, he received an explanation, dense with hidden information. Someone had dug up her old handle, and Denice's; was using them launch exploits against WorldGov. Someone who evidently wanted to flush the 'group' out of hiding.
This, taken together with the Tahiti and Unity complex attacks, the sabotaged mission, and a few recent hacking attempts, began forming an ugly, shifting pattern in John's mind. Cowardly, hyena-like assaults… all of them somehow linked, he was sure of it.
Damn, and double damn. They were in danger, all of them; his family and comrades, from something that giggled in the shadows, waiting to lunge at an unprotected flank, or a limping straggler.
'Okay,' John nodded to himself, 'time to go hunting.'
Aware that they were probably being monitored, he altered his encryption schema, then sentthe girla plan of action.