It felt odd–no,actually it felt wrong–to be seated in the command seat of Thunderbird Three. That was his father's position, not his. Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Scott shifted in the chair. He ran through the pre-flight checks automatically, trading questions and responses with Virgil, while his mind worried elsewhere.
Equally wrong was seeing Virgil in the pilot's seat, with Alan as the copilot. Thunderbird Three was Gordon's baby, and had been ever since he had officially joined International Rescue. When he wasn't playing with Four, anyway. Virgil, or John–and he winced at the thought of his missing brothers–normally flew as her copilot. Alan hadn't even finished checking out on Two. And he wasn't qualified on Three at all, having only flown her minimally in simulation.
But neither John nor Gordon were here. Both were hostages to some idiotic group and its outrageous demands.
Scott watched his youngest brother closely, double-checking Alan's work between his own calculations. Alan's moves were hesitant as he went through the checks, knowing that this was not simulation, and–should he make a mistake–there would be no computer stepping in to correct him. He and Virgil conferred softly, Virgil also rechecking Alan's settings when he could.
And while Three was able to fly with a single pilot in an emergency, she did her best with a crew of three. Two-and-a-half is what you get, girl, Scott thought. At a nod from Virgil, he pressed the communications switch. "Thunderbird Three is go," he reported.
"Acknowledged." Even Kyrano's voice on the other end was wrong. It should have been Brains.
"Retros," Scott ordered.
"Retros go," Virgil replied. He glanced over at Alan, grim-faced.
Alan returned the look with a hesitant smile. "Guidance system, green," he reported. Three's computer system echoed that statement a moment later.
"Computer does that one, Sprout." Virgil's smile was brief and humorless, and Alan flushed in embarrassment.
"Fire 'em up," Scott said, "Let's roll." The atmosphere in the 'bird shifted, and he felt, rather than heard, the slow rumble of the boosters. Like cranking up a massive sub-woofer to the max. Thunderbird Three shuddered, and gracefully lifted clear of the launch tube.
Although his body was held back into the seat by the gravitational forces of lift off, Scott's mind was definitely not secured. Recriminations danced through his mind. I should've made John come back with us, he argued to himself. But then Gordon would have been there alone. Maybe we should've stayed. With four of us, there might've been a chance.
"Launch site cleared," Alan reported.
"Max thrust," Scott said, grimly, "Heat 'em up, Virg."
They'd better be all right.
break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
The room allotted at the United Nations Headquarters was crowded with representatives from the companies whose satellites were occupied, as well as families involved. But still, Jeff felt distinctively in the minority. He and Brains moved through the crowd, edging toward a monitor.
"Jeff? Jeff Tracy?" A familiar voice reached across the babble. A female figure in US Army Class A's and gold oak leaves on her epaulets moved toward them. Her nameplate read "Jaimesen."
"Erin," Jeff said, recognizing the woman, a former employee of ISA. He waited until she had reached them
"I'd hug you, but that'd be a PDA," she said, brightly, "It's been a long time, Jeff. How are the boys? What brings you here?"
"I'm here as a representative of International Rescue," he said, the half-lie rising easily. "Erin, let me introduce you to an associate of mine, Hiram Hackenbacker, also from International Rescue. Brains," he turned toward the man, "This is Major Erin Jaimesen, United States Army. We met when I was still working for the ISA."
"Pleased to met you," said Brains.
One eyebrow raised at his speech mannerism, but she quickly recovered. "And you also," she said, formally. She turned back to Jeff. "I'm here as a liaison to the involved companies, as well as to direct representatives to the broadcast area," she explained, "Why don't you both come with me?"
They followed her to a small lounge with a wide-screen video. "We've got additional video screens set up about the outside room," she explained, "but we're allowing only a limited number of representatives in this area. And the families, of course, are in a private area."
"How many hostages are there?" Jeff asked, tensing slightly at the word "families."
"Sixteen that we know of," Erin replied, "We were lucky that the ISS was caught between semesters, and had only a skeleton crew. I presume you heard about their demands, about reestablishing the link between ASP and International Rescue?" She grimaced. "They'd . . . mucked up the code royally. We had a bear of a time getting the program reopen and the connection reestablished."
She hesitated, as if to refine her question as delicately as she could. "I know that International Rescue is a secret organization," she went on, "but would you know how many people were aboard their craft?" She winced at the implication of the sentence, and immediately corrected, "Are aboard?"
He exchanged glances with Brains, then turned back to Erin. "Two," he said.
"Thank you," she responded, "Jeff, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to report that." She studied him for a moment, then reached for his hands, and gave them a squeeze in reassurance. "It'll work out, Jeff," she said, impulsively, " I know it will."
"Of course," he said. He watched her move amidst the crowd, and disappear.
A small number of representatives from each of the affected stations–other than the ASP–were allowed in the small lounge. Jeff recognized the president of the International Space Station Association, and the CEO of International World Televison. The others, he wasn't sure about. The military had sent at least one representative from each of the countries currently stationed on ASP.
One minute before broadcast time, Erin returned to the lounge and shut the door. "Ladies and gentleman," she announced, "There are paper and pens at the tables, should you desire to take notes. The video feed will commence in one minute" She waited by the door.
While other availed themselves of paper and pens, Jeff and Brains waited patiently. Brains' memory was enough for Jeff, and he didn't want waste his time taking notes. He needed to know that his sons were safe.
Thirty seconds before broadcast time, the video screens flickered to life, displaying test patterns. Military personnel circulated about the outside area, weaving through reporters, and checking various screens, but in the lounge, no one moved. The screen buzzed impatiently.
The white noise was abruptly broken. "This is the Earth Liberation Front," the same female voice announced, "At this time, parent organizations will be allowed contact with their satellites." The room hushed, all eyes fixed on the screen. "The Armed Services Platform will be allowed contact."
Military representatives surged forward, eagerly questioning. Jeff leaned over to Brains, murmuring, "We'll probably be last."
"Possibly," Brains agreed, equally as soft, "I don't think they were expecting to find Thunderbird Five." He nodded at the military types gathered around the screen. "I suspect that her presence was discovered via their systems."
"That agreement bit us," Jeff acknowledged, glancing over at Erin Jaimesen, "and I think the military will have a guilty conscience because of it." Not that a guilty conscience would help John and Gordon.
They waited impatiently through the ISS and IWN conferences, before the voice spoke again from the video feed, riveting their attention.
"International Rescue."
The image of his fourth son appeared on screen. Jeff pushed forward, to the front of the room. "Gordon," he breathed. Subjugating his own emotions beneath a professional mask, he requested, "Status report."
"Thunderbird Five is intact," Gordon reported, "No structural damage, Da-, uh, sir," He glanced off screen, his struggle for control obvious–at least to Jeff.
The salutation brought a brief smile. Only at the end of a lecture, did any of the boys ever call him that. "Are you all right?" he asked cautiously.
"I'm fine," Gordon said quickly.
Too quickly. Belatedly, Jeff realized that only one of the boys was onscreen. Fear twisted inside him, threatening an explosive recoil. "Where's John?" he demanded.
Gordon hesitated, looking as though he'd been caught in one of his pranks. "John's hurt."
The statement hit Jeff like a blow. "How?" Repercussions, they'd said. Brains' hand gripped his arm, reminding him of the role he'd assumed. He suppressed his emotions, forcing himself to remain detached.
"He was-" Gordon stopped abruptly, apparently warned by someone off screen, then repeated, "He's hurt. I think he's getting an infection. He's lost some--." He stopped again, and winced.
"Let me talk to John," Jeff said, his subconsciousness substituting anger for fear. He's only nineteen, he thought savagely, watching his son's image on the screen, too young for this. Not for the first time, guilt gnawed at him. Guilt for putting his sons in danger, because of their work. Because of his dream.
Again, Gordon looked off screen, reaching for something. Then the transmission cut, leaving the screen in gray and white "snow."
"No!" Unaware that he had spoken aloud, Jeff stared at the blank screen. That damned computer glitch!
His protest was drowned out by the final announcement, made via IWN's system. "No further contact will be allowed."
The buzz of conversation filled the room, drowning the roar in Jeff's ears. Only Brains' hold on his arm seemed to keep him upright, and the man's eyes were filled with a compassion that he could not speak.
Erin's bright voice sounded through the background babel. "I'm sorry one of your organization's employees is hurt," she said, her face composed, and her tone carefully neutral. "We will try to negotiate medical treatment the next time they contact us, and possibly evacuation. But," she added sorrowfully, "at this point there's not much we can do."
One of my employees? he thought angrily. You mean one of my sons. He pulled his thoughts in line; the situation wasn't Erin's fault. Keeping his own expression neutral, as befitting a mere representative, he responded, "Thank you, Erin. I'd appreciate that." Realizing his slip, he added, "But I think we've got to get back and let everyone at International Rescue know what's up."
"Of course," Erin said, "Give my best to your boys."
"I will." He smiled, and shook her hand, as did Brains. Then they left the area.
Author's note:
PDA–public display of affection. Big no-no while in military uniform.