John came back to consciousness slowly, initially convinced that a) he'd slept wrong on his shoulder, and b) someone had been messing with the thermostat on Five. He shifted, intending to get off the bunk and fix both those situations, but managed only a seated position before his confusion was replaced with excruciating awareness.
Stars appeared in his vision and brightened to a white glare, while the room turned in an orbit all its own. "Not supposed to do that," he muttered, trying to steady both himself and his breathing. John shifted, supporting himself against the bulkhead, and waited for the whiteness to fade. But even that maneuver intensified the pain radiating from his shoulder. Touching the area in question, he felt the bulk of the bandage there, and remembered.
Gordon wasn't in the room. Good, he thought. He drew his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his good arm around them, his head resting against the bulkhead. His eyes closed, as he breathed slowly and carefully through each movement. Holding himself as though he would shatter in an instance, he gave in to the feeling he'd been denying ever since the two men had come through Five's airlock.
He was scared. First class, grade A, one-hundred-freaking-percent scared.
Not since the Hood had sent the missile–was that only a year ago?–that had torn through Thunderbird Five, had he felt this frightened. Only then there had been hope. Granted, it had been snatched away again, but by then he'd been unconscious. But things had worked out eventually, even though it had cost both him and Five a couple weeks of downtime.
This time was different. There was no way anyone could approach Five without setting off her alarms. No chance of rescue at all. Neither from Earth nor from any of the other stations in orbit. These . . . terrorists had made sure of that. It was just him and Gordon. Period.
Unlike Gordon, he'd paid enough attention in Ohana's classes to know that he was in trouble. And he knew, better than any of them, the limitations of Five's medical kit and–he smiled ruefully–Gordon's abilities in that area. It was a sure bet that the terrorists wouldn't allow any outside medical attention to reach Five. Not until their demands where met, and he wouldn't put it past them to renege on any deal afterward.
The idea of dying on his Thunderbird seemed like a bad cosmic joke, before it just plain made him angry. He had to hold on–for Gordon's sake, if nothing else.
"John?"
Startled, he gathered his scattered feelings and thoughts, hurriedly burying them in the facade he normally presented. He opened his eyes, but found it difficult to focus on his brother's face.
Kneeling there next to the bunk, Gordon looked guilty. Normally that would have set off proverbial alarm bells in John's head, a warning that his younger brother was up to something. But his brain seemed to be functioning in slow motion, and although he knew he'd object to whatever Gordon was up to, it was just too difficult to actually make the protest.
"John?" The question came again, and he could hear a change in Gordon's voice.
Fear hit Gordon, acutely palpable fear. Had he waited too long? John was pale, with a sheen of sweat visible on his face. He looked at Gordon, then looked through him, as if John had moved onto some other plane of existence. Gordon shivered, feeling suddenly cold in spite of Five's comfortable temperature.
"They're letting you go," Gordon said. Anything to break through that . . . barrier.
"What?" Sure that it was some fever-induced hallucination he'd heard, John stared uncomprehendingly at his brother.
"I've talked to . . . to Dad," Gordon said, stumbling over his words. He glanced back toward the doorway. "They've agreed to let you go, and Three should be here pretty soon."
The concept finally penetrated John's brain. Concerned, he looked at Gordon. "What about you?"
Gordon smiled, but it didn't work any better on John than it had earlier with the others. "I'm staying."
"No!" John protested, "Gord, you can't."
"I have to," Gordon said. God, this conversation sounded familiar. "Or they won't let you go." He hadn't expected identical reactions from John and Scott–they'd always seemed like polar opposites.
He stood, and reached across the bunk. "Lie down," he urged, grasping John's shoulders, and easing him back on the bunk. John winced, and Gordon immediately released his grip, penitent at having forgotten again. The lack of resistance from his brother only goaded his fears.
Maybe Three won't get here in time. Maybe those guys would take them all hostage, instead of letting John go. Maybe–
He quashed the thoughts, and knelt by the bunk, busying himself with rechecking the dressing. John's eyes had closed again; whether he was again unconscious, or just resting, Gordon wasn't sure.
"Hey, Junior. Get back out here."
Fists clenched, Gordon stood, and headed for the door. He paused, glanced back at the bunk, then walked into the control room.
Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
Major Erin Jaimesen waited impatiently on the tarmac at Hickam Air Force Base. Beside her stood three Army Rangers, a lieutenant and two sergeants, specially selected for this mission. It wasn't every day that one had to plan a raid on a space station, let alone a secret space station. Only extenuating circumstances such as these had even made the concept possible. But when Dr. Hackenbacker had broached the idea, she had jumped on the opportunity to assist an organization that had helped so many others.
She shaded her eyes, scanning the sky, and spotted the sleek blue-and-silver craft approaching the base. As it came closer, the words "Thunderbird 1" were displayed prominently on its undercarriage. It hovered above the secured runway, two of its boosters rotating until they pointed at the ground. Its landing gear extended and it settled smoothly on the tarmac. Half again as long as a standard fighter, and looking half plane and half spaceship, it was an impressive vehicle
Behind its red nose cone, the lower front of Thunderbird One dropped, displaying two seats. Its pilot disengaged himself from one on the left, sliding to the ground in a not-quite dignified manner. She smiled, and heard the snickers beside her. The pilot collected himself, and glanced around. He headed in her direction, straightening his blue-trimmed jumpsuit as he walked.
"Major Jaimesen?" he asked, extending his hand politely. "I'm from International Rescue."
My God! He's just a kid! She clenched her jaw, to keep it from dropping in astonishment. And if he's sixteen, I'll eat my beret! Flustered momentarily, she didn't respond.
"Ma'am," said a voice from behind her.
Collecting herself, she responded, "Yes, of course. And you are?"
He hesitated, then said, "My name's Alan." Gesturing at his craft, he added, "Um, if your people are ready, we can go."
She could feel the disbelief from the three Rangers–and probably reluctance to get in that vehicle with this kid–and a brief flash of resentment toward Jeff Tracy flashed over her. Does he know this organization is using kids as pilots? she thought in exasperation, I wouldn't let this boy drive my car, let alone a vehicle like that!
Suppressing her qualms, she turned to the men behind her. "Lieutenant MacAndrew," she said, with a rueful smile, "you have your orders."
"Yes, ma'am." His skeptical gaze met hers, then he snapped a salute. Turning to the two men beside him, he ordered, "Move out!" The three of them proceeded toward Thunderbird One.
"Oh." The boy–Alan–paused, as if suddenly remembering. "Jeff Tracy sends his regards." He turned, and headed back into the Thunderbird. The cockpit closed and the engines rumbled into life.
Nonplused, Erin watched as Thunderbird One rose from the runway. Once sufficiently above the surface, its VTOLs rotated so that they pointed away from the craft. There was a roar and the vehicle climbed into the atmosphere.
Erin's gaze followed the craft until it was no longer visible, more than slightly envious of the men inside. Shaking her head, she returned to her vehicle. She had a lot of questions for Jeff Tracy, the next time she saw him.