"Her sensors are off," Scott argued, swinging slowly in the lone chair of at the center of the command console. The room had been in office mode when they arrived, but he had reset it to the command and control setting. "That would give us the advantage."
"For how long?" Virgil retorted. Curled on the nearby couch, he had positioned himself so that the six portraits covering lifts to the hanger were out of his visual field. "Once we lock on, that advantage is gone. They'll be waiting for us the minute we step out of the airlock."
"They wouldn't know we were coming!" Alan protested. Unable to sit still, he paced the area in front of the portraits.
Virgil glared at Alan, inadvertently glancing at the portraits of John and Gordon in the process. "Been through your commando training already, Sprout?" he said sarcastically, refocusing his concern for into his missing brothers into continuing irritation with his sibling.
Alan's expression sobered, and Virgil continued, "We don't know anything about who's up there. Not how many, nor what they've got. Or what they may have done to Five, or . . . ." He stopped, and abruptly faced away from the lifts.
"Beats sitting here doing nothing," Alan muttered. Virgil pointedly ignored the comment.
"Still," Scott reasoned, "There's four of us, including Dad. With John and Gordon already there, that's six." He looked thoughtfully at Alan, then Virgil. "Throw in Kyrano, and that's got to tip the balance in our favor."
"See?"
"You don't know-"
"We can't just-"
The doors opened, and their father and Brains entered into the office, effectively ending the discussion. Virgil scrambled up from the couch, and Scott vacated the chair. They joined Alan at the edge of the console, watching as their father walked toward the chair and sat down. Brains halted near the brothers, waiting. The atmosphere in the room shifted, as–concerned by their father's expression and silence–the brothers exchanged uneasy glances.
Hesitantly, Scott asked, "Dad?" He looked at his brothers, who remained silent, then to Brains. The man shook his head sympathetically, but didn't answer. This was definitely one of those times when it was a pain in the butt to be the oldest. Scott took a deep breath, and repeated, "Dad?"
Jeff temporized, regarding each of the boys in turn. Scott, with barely concealed anger hiding his fear. Virgil, worried and imagining the worst. And Alan, not as adept at hiding his feelings, and looking much younger than his fifteen years.
"We made contact with Thunderbird Five," he said finally, sensing the boys' growing unease. "As already reported, a group called the 'Earth Liberation Front' is claiming responsibility."
"John and Gordon?" Alan blurted.
Jeff shut his eyes, then opened them, knowing that the gesture told more than he was prepared to. "Gordon's all right," he said, hedging the statement. Even saying that much, Scott's expression hardened, Virgil's grew more concerned, and Alan shook his head, trying to negate the impact of the statement.
There was no softening the blow. "John's injured," he said simply. He raised his hand, forestalling the questions. "I don't have any details. Five's communication problem interrupted the transmission, and the activists are refusing further contact."
"Damn!" Scott was rapidly reaching his boiling point.
"We might have a chance," Virgil interrupted, "Thunderbird Five's sensors are down."
His brothers gaped at him, since Virgil had previously been arguing the negative. He smiled, as the identical expressions on Scott and Alan would have been hilarious under other circumstances.
"What?" The statement had riveted Jeff's attention. He looked at Brains, a silent conversation passing between them. Then his gaze returned to Virgil.
"At least as far as Three's concerned," Virgil added.
Alan chimed in, eager to add to that thought. "And maybe we-"
The speakers interrupted him. "Thunderbird Five to Tr-, ah, International Rescue." The transmission crackled and hissed, unlike normal communications, filling the break and distorting the familiar voice slightly.
"International Rescue, do you copy? This is Thunderbird Five."
With Scott and Virgil on either side of him, Jeff flicked on the communication switch. "This is International Rescue," he said, "Go ahead, Thunderbird Five." Gordon's image resolved on the screen, and a look of relief flashed across his face.
"Gordon!" Scott's exclamation was echoed by Alan.
"Are you okay?" Virgil demanded.
"Boys," Jeff warned softly, then refocused his attention on the screen.
"The, um, activists have agreed to an evacuation," Gordon said, drumming staccato taps on the control panel. He glanced at his watch. "If Thunderbird Three docks within the next two hours, they'll release John. If not, no deal."
"How is he?" An impromptu duet blended the question from both Jeff and Virgil.
Gordon flinched, as if someone had prodded him. "Not good. He's bleeding, and his temperature's going up," he said, mindful of the presence behind him, "He's out–I mean unconscious–right now, and, uh . . . "
"What about transferring him to ASP?" Jeff interrupted. The chair jerked slightly as Scott's fingers dug into it.
"That's a negative." Gordon shook his head. The idea that International Rescue–that Dad–wouldn't evacuate John flitted through his thoughts, and he fought the panic that followed it. He paused, listening to a faint voice behind him, then added, "Minimal crew."
"That's three," Scott interjected.
Good, Jeff thought, keeping his face impassive. That was Three's normal crew, not its minimal. He looked over at Brains, who along with Alan and Kyrano, was watching another monitor. Brains nodded, and moved to yet another console.
"Yeah, I know," said Gordon. He paused again, his attention on the off-screen presence. "Only two of you can come on board."
"What about you?" Virgil broke in, "Are they letting you go?"
Gordon took a deep breath. "I'm staying." He tried a smile, but it didn't have quite the effect he'd hoped for. "Someone has to man the fort," he quipped.
"No way!" protested Scott. His fist hit the chair, sending reverberations through it. "You can't-"
"I have to," Gordon interrupted, "Or they won't let John go."
A look from his father stopped Scott in mid-protest. "Understood," Jeff said evenly, "We'll be there."
"F.A.B.," said Gordon, relieved. "Oh," he added, as if an afterthought, "We're still having random problems with some of the systems."
"We'll adjust," Jeff said calmly. Behind him, Scott and Virgil exchanged glances.
"Okay. Thunderbird Five out."
The image dissolved into static. Jeff closed the channel, then looked over at Brains.
"Thirty minutes, according to Major Jaimesen," said Brains, acknowledging the unspoken question.
"Thank you," said Jeff. Noting the puzzled expressions of his sons, a transient smile appeared. Refraining from immediately resolving their curiosity, he turned instead to the silent figure beside him. "Kyrano, if you would make ready for our visitors. We'll leave as soon as they get here." Kyrano inclined his head, and left the room.
"Visitors?" echoed Alan, "What visitors?"
"Scott, Virgil," Jeff continued, ignoring Alan's question for the moment. "Set up the jump seat in Thunderbird Three." He hesitated, then turned to his youngest son, "Alan, take Thunderbird One and rendevous with Major Jaimesen at Hickam Air Force Base."
None of the boys moved. Belligerently, Scott crossed his arms and waited, his gaze locked on his father. Virgil's position mirrored his brother's, his expression speculative rather than annoyed. Across the room, Alan's mixture of confusion and anticipation caused Jeff to shake his head. His smile reappeared.
"We can only take three crew," he said, patiently, "but we've no restrictions on how many passengers."
Comprehension dawned on the older boys first. Virgil's smile of relief was punctuated by Scott's exuberant "Yes!" It was followed seconds later by a whoop from Alan.
"Okay, okay," Jeff said, raising one hand for silence. He turned back to Alan. "You'll be picking up three Special Operations personnel at Hickam. Major Jaimesen is coordinating their arrival. You'll bring them back here, and they'll transfer to Thunderbird Three. Scott, Virgil, and I will take it from there." He looked at the older boys. "We'll have to play it by ear once we're up there."
"But. . . ." Alan protested, his initial elation at the assignment damped by the realization that he would be left behind on the actual rescue.
Jeff shook his head. "I'm sorry, Alan. With systems down on Five, it's got to be those of us with the experience. You'll stay here, and keep an eye on things with Brains and Kyrano. Since we don't know what systems have been deactivated, assume that Five is still monitoring communications. Security precautions on radio transmissions." He looked steadily at Alan. "I wouldn't put it past them to try and activate her weapons. We may yet need to shut down her completely."
"John wouldn't," Alan argued, "Neither would Gordon."
"Never name the well. . . ." Virgil didn't finish the quote, as both his father and eldest brother turned on him with identical expressions. Alan, however, merely looked puzzled at the quotation. Look it up, Sprout, he thought resentfully.
"Mr. Tracy," Brains interrupted, "I've analyzed the recording. There seems to be an additional message."
"The tapping?" asked Virgil.
Brains nodded. "It appears to be a message in Morse code," he said, his stutter less pronounced. He walked over to the station where Jeff was seated, a piece of paper in his hand, and laid it on the console.
One knive one gun, it read. "There was something else," Brains added apologetically, "but I couldn't make it out."
"Spelling's not his strong point," said Virgil.
"Neither is Morse code," retorted Scott.
"No," said Jeff, "But at least we've got an idea of what we're going into." He looked at his sons. "Let's go."
Author's Note:
For those who are curious, the quote which Virgil does not finish is: "Never name the well from which you will not drink."