Acutely conscious of his role as a representative of International Rescue, Alan was conscientious in his handling of Thunderbird One with passengers. The blatant disbelief of both the major and the Rangers–even though those men seemed no older than Scott or John–had roust old feelings and doubts. He resolved to show them that he was capable of both handling and being a Thunderbird.
Even though in many states, he wasn't even eligible for a driver's license. Alan grinned briefly. Gordon had threatened to put "Student Driver" signs on the various Thunderbirds for him, ever since Alan'd managed to beat his brother's palm tree record. That is, until Scott and Virgil caught him painting it on Two. Alan had actually felt sorry for Gordon at the time, until he found out why his brother was getting pounded. Although I haven't knocked off the diving board, he thought, Yet. Scott's reminder remained intact.
Thinking about Gordon sobered him, enforcing the point that he was on this mission solely because two of his brothers were. . . missing. Although he'd sat in on a few missions over the past year, and spent part of his summer vacation up on Five with John, Alan still felt very much the trainee. The sheer volume of information that had been stuffed into his head since last spring–in addition to the schoolwork at Wharton–was staggering.
He settled One on the runway at Tracy Island, a landing that even Scott couldn't find fault with. Careful not to make the same sort of exit he had in Hawaii, Alan slid cautiously from her cockpit. Kyrano met him there, and they waited for the Rangers to descend from the craft.
"Gentlemen," Kyrano inclined his head. "Master Alan."
Alan winced at the designation. Kyrano took no notice of his discomfort. "If you'd follow me, please," he continued. He led them from the field through the first steel door, into the maze of tunnels and corridors leading to the Thunderbirds hanger. Alan brought up the rear.
They paused at a second metal doorway with its requisite hand pad beside it. Kyrano placed his hand upon the pad, then removed it. A blue light flared from the pad. He turned expectantly to Alan.
Alan nudged his way forward. He'd almost forgotten that two hand "signatures" were needed here to enter the hanger at this door. Unless, of course, there was someone available to open them from the inside. He put his hand on the pad. Once again, the blue light flared, then the handpad changed to green.
The door slid open, displaying the heart of International Rescue. There was a soft whistle behind him, and Alan grinned. He had to admit, the hanger was impressive, at least from this angle.
To their immediate left was a work area, which occasionally was used for non-International Rescue vehicles as well. Beyond it was the cavernous pod area, where the Firefly, the Thunderizer, Thunderbird Four and various other equipment used on Thunderbird Two were kept. Two herself stood watch over it all, her nose barely protruding into the pit area.
A painted walkway led from the pod to Thunderbird One's silo, directly across from their position. Next to it, the doors to Three's silo stood open. He saw neither Scott nor Virgil were nowhere in sight. Probably already in Three, prepping for launch. Alan couldn't help a brief flash of resentment. Although he understood his father's reasoning for the crew selection on this mission, he didn't have to like it.
Kyrano veered to the right, heading for the elevator, as Alan lead the Rangers toward Thunderbird Three's access corridor. His father met the group, just outside the silo doors.
"Sir!" said the lieutenant. "Lt. MacAndrew." He came to attention, but didn't salute. Indicating his companions, he continued, "Sergeant Cody, and Sergeant Oro."
Jeff nodded in acknowledgment. He and the lieutenant conferred as they walked toward Thunderbird Three's silo. Occasionally, one or the other of sergeants interjected a point into the conversation.
Alan watched the four men walked away. It took all his self-control–and there wasn't much of that, he thought, wryly–to not follow them into the silo.
At the silo's doors, his father paused, and looked back at him. Alan met the look, and straightened, barely resisting the sudden urge to salute. The barest trace of a smile touched his father's face, and he nodded. He entered the silo, the Rangers following. The doors closed behind them.
Alan watched until he heard–or thought he had–the faint click of the silo's locking mechanism. Then he hurried for the control center.