On ASP's bridge, Vicky moved from station to station, trying to hide the fact that she was pacing. The situation over at International Rescue had unnerved her, for the General had insisted that there be no errors with this mission. A vague, unidentifiable feeling nagged her, bubbling just under her subconscious. Unable to define the feeling, she buried it instead, and simply refused to deal with it at all.
She leaned over Gaia, watching her subordinate struggle with code-breaking sans computer. Gaia smiled apologetically and shrugged. "Easy, it is not," she apologized, "I did not expect such an archaic means of prevention." She looked down at her calculations, a small frown tugged at her face. It cleared, and she looked speculatively at Vicky. "Perhaps," she suggested, "if you made the reset a part of the initial demands?"
"I will consider it," Vicky promised. Actually, the idea made sense. And it might be a way of covering what had happened on International Rescue's station. "How is our own network doing?"
"Contact was made with ISS," Gaia responded, "I wait on Oden's signal from IWN, then we can broadcast the second message."
"Good," said Vicky. She moved on, leaving Gaia to her problem-solving.
Mustaf monitored communications, both station-to-station and Earth-bound. He smiled at Vicky, and shook his head, indicating no problems there. Oden had reported no problems with IWN's employees since that station was secured. And Jorge and Minette had no difficulties at ISS. That station had been minus one caretaker, leaving only three on the station.
Vicky smiled to herself. The update on International Rescue's presence had provoked much the same reaction from them as it had from those on ASP. Unlike Oden, though, Jorge and Minette had been enthusiastically in favor of adding that station to their holdings.
She moved over to the final station. Like most of ASP's other systems, the weapons system had been easy to break into, and Elnoo monitored them closely. Any attempt from Earth could be quickly dealt with. And the ability to target any of the hostage space stations from orbit, rested in their hands alone.
Vicky had made four circuits of the bridge before realizing what she was doing. She halted, remaining in one position for several moments, then glanced at her chronograph. With twenty minutes to go before they made their announcement, she knew she could not stay motionless. Yet to continue pacing–for that's what it was–would only increase her subordinates' edginess.
"I am going to inspect the prisoners," she announced. Let Chang know that he had not been forgotten, although it was Brad who should have been there. "Mustaf, you are in charge until I return. Contact ISS and inform Jorge and Minette of the change in plans. We send the message as soon as Oden signals from ITW."
Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
He'd spent the morning in his room, "noodling"–as one of his former music teachers would have put it. Satellite radio provided a classical music background, as he was too lazy to search for specific recordings in his collection. And the electronic keyboard in his room provided the means to improvise against the set melodies from the speakers.
The keyboard wasn't as good as the grand piano would have been. But the piano was in the great room, openly accessible to everyone–including Alan. And Virgil'd had enough of his youngest brother's pestering for flight time, especially after yesterday. Let Scott deal with him. He'd retreated behind closed doors, and, a closed door wasn't a thing lightly broached.
There were times he envied John the regular solitude of being on Five. His own rotations had been relatively peaceful, and the down times allowed him to play with his music or art, depending on which he'd brought with him. But a month's–two months total each year–isolation was about all he could handle.
His fingers idly wandered over the keyboard, inventing and embroidering a counter melody to the current piece on the radio, when the recording was interrupted.
"We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin." The announcer–who normally did nothing more than state the composer and name of the current piece–sounded shaken. "We have received word that all the orbital satellites have been taken over by hostile forces. We will bring you updates as we receive them."
The improvisation halted abruptly, his fingers frozen on the keys. No way, he thought, not all of them. He waited for the announcer to continue, but the radio had resumed its interrupted programming. Stunned, Virgil stared at the radio, then turned off the keyboard.He hurried from his room.
Heading for Dad's office, he collided with Alan, who had been lurking purposely outside Virgil's room. "What the he-?"
"Hey, Virgil." Somewhat contrite, yet bent on wheedling more flight time from his brother, Alan hadn't yet mastered the trick of hiding his feelings in his expression. "Look, about yesterday. I didn't-" He broke off as Virgil ignored him and hurried down the hall.
Scrambling after him, Alan caught up to his brother in the dining room near the ramp to their father's office. He grabbed for Virgil's arm, but only succeeded in getting a handful of shirt. It was enough to slow Virgil, though. He turned fluidly, his forearm hitting Alan's with sufficient force to release the hold.
"Virgil?" Surprised at his brother's action, Alan couldn't think of anything to do but follow.
Their father was at his desk, papers related to various Tracy holdings scattered about it. He looked up sharply at them when they burst through the doorway, annoyed at being interrupted by what appeared to be a continuing sibling altercation.
"Dad!" Apprehension caused Virgil's voice to falter, "The radio. A takeover on the stations." He paused, taking a couple of breaths to steady himself, and to pull his report together. "They broke in with an announcement about somebody taking over the space stations."
"What can we do about that?" Alan said, misunderstanding his brother's concern. "It isn't like it's . . ."
Jeff silenced him with a gesture, earning a resentful look from that son. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking intently at Virgil.
They locked gazes for a moment. Then Virgil nodded, answering the question that hadn't been vocalized. "It didn't say much. Just a 'news bulletin'."
Confused, Alan looked from one to the other. Moments passed, and neither spoke.
His father turned to the single monitor on his desk. Leaning forward, he touched a button on the screen. The displayed document vanished, replaced by static framed with the communications systems border. Jeff glanced at the lower right corner of the screen. He frowned and tapped the button again, with the same results.
He glanced back at Virgil, then flipped a second switch. "Brains, Scott," he said firmly, "Come up to the office." He reached under the desk, activating the switch that released the scanner for hand print identification, and laid his hand on the pad.
The transformation of the room from office to control center was complete by the time Brains and Scott arrived. Unsuccessful at contacting Thunderbird Five, Jeff had moved on to examining the transmission log for the station. Brains went immediately to that area.
Scott moved to the monitor where his brothers stood. "What's up?" he asked.
Alan was hanging over Virgil's shoulder, both of them scanning commercial broadcasts for any further news regarding the bulletin. He looked up at Scott. "Possible takeover of the space stations," he said, "Virgil heard something and we're looking for details."
"No way." Scott said in disbelief. He positioned himself so as to read over Virgil's other side. "All of them?"
"Hope not," Virgil said absently, his concentration on the screen in front of him.
Alan looked from one to the other, his mind finally making the connection he hadn't–or wouldn't–made earlier. "You don't think that . . ." His voice trailed off; he definitely didn't want to finish that thought.
"Let's hope not," Scott echoed.
"But we . . . ," Alan sputtered, shaking his head in denial, "we should've heard an alarm or something. Shouldn't we?"
"Yeah," said Scott, glancing at the now-silent monitor. "We should've. Unless-"
Virgil looked up at them sharply, with a don't-say-it expression. Scott grimaced, cutting off both sentence and thought. They continued scanning the video feeds in silence, accompanied only by the hum of the computers and the muffed discussion between Jeff and Brains. Kyrano slipped quietly into the room, moving to a position behind Jeff.
"Got it!" Virgil exclaimed. He keyed up the station he'd found.
The screen displayed a quartered montage of the involved stations, with International Rescue's logo substituting for an image of Thunderbird Five. Obviously, there was no video transmission, only audio. "This is the Earth Liberation Front," the voice–low, accented, and definitely feminine–announced, "We have gained possession of the following manned satellites: the International Space Station, the International World News satellite, the Armed Services Platformand International Rescue's space station. All are now under our control." The speaker paused. "Required from each parent organization is one billion dollars plus-"
"Each?" Alan yelped. Virgil nudged him quiet, ignoring the look Scott shot them. It wasn't directed at them, per se, but the broadcast.
"-one million per operative. In addition, the following nations will turn over. . . ." Her voice went on, listing demands and conditions.
Ignoring that portion of the broadcast, Scott turned from the video feed in frustration. "How'd they get on board?" he demanded. "How'd they even know where to find her?"
"Pure dumb luck?" Virgil offered. He looked up from the console, where he and Alan continued to monitor the broadcast. "Maybe visual contact when they were taking over one of the other stations?"
"It's possible," Jeff said. He glanced at the transmissions log from Five. "John left a partial message early this morning, about someone trying to dock with Five, but it was interrupted. Communications were shut down after that." He glanced again at computer screen which normally monitored Five's communications.
"Thunderbird Five does have the Emergency Code Override in its docking protocol," Brains reminded them, his characteristic stutter more pronounced than usual, "All orbital satellites are required to have it."
"ASP," Jeff mused, "It had to be. They're the only one who monitors her position. And the emergency override is the only way anyone else could've boarded her."
"So what're we gonna do?" Scott asked, bringing the topic back to the salient point.
"Shh," Alan interrupted, directing attention back to the news video. "Listen."
"All stations will be allowed contact with their parent organizations at 2035 Zulu time. Contact will be made at the United Nations Headquarters, and at that site only. This will be the only time any contact will be allowed" The voice stopped, then continued. "Prior to that, the Armed Services Platform will have a certain program reset at its Earth origin. If this is not done by contact time, there will be . . . ." the voice stopped again, " . . .repercussions" The recording stopped, and the news announcer stepped in smoothly. He reminded viewers that commercial flights were grounded because of the situation, then initiated a panel discussion regarding the situation.
Concerned, Jeff exchanged glances with Brains. How did they find that? He gestured for the video to be turned off.
Deliberately, Jeff looked at the group in the control center. "With commercial air traffic grounded, and only us . . ." he paused, ". . . six available, we're short-handed." He considered his options. "Brains, you and I will head to the UN Headquarters. I have a feeling if we fail to check in, it won't be good for Five."
He paused again, his gaze falling on the framed pictures on his desk, then turned his attention back to three in front of him. "Scott, you, Virgil, and. . .," hesitated, debating. But there really wasn't any choice. " . . .Alan, take Thunderbird Three and recon the situation," He looked pointedly them. "Preferably without getting shot down by ASP."
"F.A.B.," Scott said. The three headed for the turbo lifts.
"Scott." Jeff's voice was soft, but it stopped his eldest son, turning him back to face his father. Virgil and Alan were already at the lifts, out of earshot. "Do nothing to endanger any of your brothers."
Resentment flashed briefly across Scott's face. It was followed by acknowledgment, then resolve. "Yes, sir," he said, his answer equally soft, and dangerous. Their gazes locked for a moment. Then Scott dropped his and joined his brothers at the lifts.
Jeff couldn't bring himself to say the words he'd said so often. He merely nodded. The screens dropped into place, and the lifts whined. When they fell silent, he turned to Kyrano. "You'll have to man communications here," he said.
"Of course, Mr. Tracy."
Jeff nodded his thanks. "Brains, I'll meet you at the landing strip." Commercial air flight bans or not, nothing would keep him from that rendevous at the UN.