Black was not his color. He preferred the bright, clear blue of a cloudless sky–okay, a few clouds would be acceptable–and a nice heavy troposphere. As well as being a few thousand miles closer to ground in case of trouble. Not that there was that much difference, falling from 22,000 miles or 2 miles. The end result was the same.
Scott shook the thought off. The elliptical orbit, with its illusion of the station moving out from behind the Earth, brought them in full view of Thunderbird Five. Set like a jewel against the backdrop of the galaxy, she circled the planet in her stately pirouette. Five looked innocent, with no sign of the troubles within her. And from outside at least, no damage was evident.
"Keep her back, Virg," Scott said, "Don't set off any alarms." In addition to sensors that warned Five about nearby craft, she was also able to sense when Three approached, on the off chance that her pilot would be asleep when that happened. And he didn't want to sound any kind of alarm aboard her just yet.
Virgil rolled Thunderbird Three from her sister craft's orbit. The rocket spun away reluctantly and Scott smiled to himself. She knew Five was in trouble.
"Nobody at the docking arm, " Alan reported.
Scott glanced at the monitors, confirming his brother's report. Switching his attention to the windows above, he continued watching as Virgil swung Three smoothly about in a slingshot motion, bringing her under Five.
"She's in one piece," Virgil commented.
"Small favors," Scott responded.
Eagerly, Alan turned to his eldest brother. "So we dock?" he asked.
God, I want to. Reluctantly, Scott shook his head. One hand curled into a fist as he reminded Alan, "We don't know how many of them are aboard her." He paused, biding for time. "This is just a recon. We need to know what they want."
"But. . . ." Alan protested.
"Alan," Scott warned.
"But what about-"
"No!" he snapped. His fist slammed into the armrest, causing both his brothers to look at him in surprise. "Head for ISS," he said, refusing to look at either of them at the moment, "and keep an eye on ASP's orbit."
Virgil looked at him a moment longer, then turned back to the controls, his face carefully neutral. Alan scowled, opened his mouth in protest, then–at Scott's acrid expression–closed it, and sullenly faced his own controls.
Sorry, Alan, Scott thought, you don't know how bad I want to go in there and pound those jerks. But John and Gordon weren't the only hostages they had to consider. He glanced up at the view screen, watched Five's image slid from it, and fervently wished that he could hit something else.
Three circled her sister once more, a little too close for his comfort. "Virgil," he warned, irritated. He would've expected something like that from Alan, but Virgil?In his mind, he could hear Five's sensors sounding.
"Sorry," muttered Virgil. Chagrined at being caught distracted, he corrected their course. He glanced at the controls, where a panel light–or rather, the lack of one–caught his attention. "Scott," he said, his voice both puzzled and triumphant. "Her sensors aren't responding."
"What?" Scott looked down at his own control panel.
Virgil's observation was confirmed. Thunderbird Five was programmed to recognize Three's approach, and prepare for docking. But the display showed that–for all intents and purposes–Five was asleep on her watch. At least as far as Three was concerned.
His brothers looked at him expectantly. Struggling against his first instinct–to storm the station and rescue his brothers–he forced himself to respond otherwise. "Let's finish the recon," he said, "We'll report it when we get back, if Brains hasn't noticed it already."
"F.A.B.," Virgil said. He looked at Alan, slower to comprehend the situation and ordered, "Plot it out, Sprout."
Dad, we've got something, Scott thought. He only hoped that it would be enough.
Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
Maintaining their communications system on International Rescue's computers had kept Rob both busy and frustrated. The systems on this craft constantly rejected the programs he and the others had concocted, and seemed to be doing their best to shut down the foreign program. In addition, random alarms from the station itself kept interrupting him. Much as he resented doing so, he'd had to have that International Rescue guy–the one Brad kept calling "Junior"–help him maintain the connections. And even "Junior" was having trouble with some of them, reminding Rob that it was the other guy who was the expert.
He wondered why Brad had even bothered to name the kid. It was easier to leave hostages nameless. Once they had names, they became more people, rather than things-to-be-controlled and bargaining chips. And that just made the final job that much harder.
But then, Brad liked to push people's buttons. And he'd hit a few of the kid's. Although the kid was giving as good as he got. Rob grinned reflectively. Funny thing, too. Brothers serving together? Wasn't there a law against that?
The object of his thoughts interrupted them. "Contact established."
Rob nodded curtly, then leaned over the kid's shoulder, and spoke into the console microphone. "Vicky, this is Rob. Do you read?"
"Go ahead, Rob," Mustaf responded, his image flickering on the screen. He moved aside, allowing Vicky full access to the viewer.
"Right," said Rob, puffing his cheeks and blowing out suddenly, another of his irritating habits. "Uh, that guy who got shot over here. He isn't looking too good."
"How is this is our concern?" Vicky asked.
"His buddy, ah, proposed that we let International Rescue take him out."
Vicky scowled. "Impossible," she said, "We cannot release any of the hostages until the conditions are met."
"I don't know, Vicky," Rob said peevishly, "What if he dies? They'll pin it on us, somehow."
"He's right," Mustaf broke in, "Even though we did not fire the shot, it is possible that we will be blamed for not getting assistance. All of us." He regarded Vicky astutely. "You did tell them that there would be repercussions."
Vicky looked at him defensively. "We did not create the situation." And while Rob had a tendency to exaggerate a situation to its worst, Mustaf was their legal expert, and she was forced to concede his point. She straightened, thinking the situation over.
The other person on their view screen spoke. "Let him go."
He drew her attention for the first time during the transmission. He is so young! was her first thought, just a schoolboy. She studied him intently. Dark, reddish hair, set off by the white jumpsuit he wore. Dark eyes, too, but such a serious expression, and– Get hold of yourself! she scolded silently. He is a bargaining tool, nothing more.
She hardened her expression, and along with it, her soul. "And allow your people to regain control of your station?" she asked imperiously, " I don't think so."
"We're not like that," he protested, "We help people. We're not policemen, or, or soldiers." Sensing no quarter, he tried again. "At least transfer him over there. They've got medical people and. . ." his hand made a abstract gesture ". . . stuff." His voice caught. "Look, I'll stay. Just let John go."
Something in his voice diffused her resolve, loosing a long-suppression emotion. To her surprise, she found herself agreeing to the request. "Very well. Minimal staff on your rescue vehicle," she said abruptly, ignoring Mustaf's surprised expression. She composed herself, angry for relenting, but unwilling to retract her statement. "If they are not at your station within-," she glanced at her watch, "-two hours, there will be no evacuation. Understood?" The boy sighed and leaned back in the chair. Her attention shifted. "Rob?"
"Yes?" said Rob, surprise evident in both intonation and expression.
Vicky ignored both. "Allow contact with International Rescue. Inform them of the conditions for the evacuation." She paused, then added, "You may add any other conditions you deem necessary."
"Understood."
"Thank you," added the boy softly.
She didn't respond, indicating instead for Mustaf to sever the connection. He did so, then turned to her, one eyebrow raised in query. "Why not bring him here?"
The question, along with the scrutiny of Gaia and Elnoo, chafed. It added to her own irritation about the momentary weakness. Because, she thought, it will stretch us even thinner if we have to release a medic and assign one of you to watch them. And she was thoroughly aware that acquisition of International Rescue's vehicle–under her orders–had stretched them in the first place. It would be better this way, a goodwill offering, as well as a warning.
"It will serve us as well," Vicky said, the rationalization more for herself than for the others. "We will not have death on our conscience." And hopefully the General will not hear about this.
Author's note:
No, there is no law (in the United States, anyway) against brothers, or any other family members serving together in the same unit/ship, at least at this time. Contrary to popular opinion, the incident in WWII with the Sullivan brothers on the USS Juneau did not result in such a law (although obviously Rob is one of those who believes it did). International Rescue would have a very hard time operating if that were true grin.