Seated on the step leading to the station's control center, Gordon fidgeted. Rotations on Five had never ranked high on his favorite-things-to-do list. Being stuck on Five as a hostage–with two armed maniacs waiting for God-knows-what, and a seriously injured brother–definitely hit an all-time record low, at least in his book. And the stress of forced inaction was beginning to get to him, like a really bad, inaccessible itch.
About the only thing he could count as a positive in this situation was that these guys hadn't decided to tie them up. Between Brains and John, with some help from Dad and Virgil, Five's computer systems were unique enough that even the most sophisticated hacker would have trouble, provided one managed to get in the system. And since he'd managed to set a few of Five's automatic tasks back to manual, minor alarms had gone off on a regular basis. These guys would have gone nuts tying and untying him each time.
An insistent beep sounded from the board. Instinctively, Gordon scrambled up, heading toward the controls to lock onto the signal. He hesitated when Brad stepped out to block him
Five's comm speakers hissed, the static garbling the caller's voice. "Calling International Rescue."
Oh, crap, thought Gordon, this is not the time for a real emergency.
"Brad? Rob?" The static increased, then faded slightly, and Gordon felt the tiniest spark of relief. "Are you there?"
Rob searched the control board, then activated the communications systems. "What's up, Oden?" He glanced at Brad, intrigued, then returned his attention to the screen.
Usually so composed, Oden's voice sounded worried, which for him was positively frantic. "I've lost contact with ASP." The static on the view screen resolved into his image, but it continually flickered and spat, as if something were wrong with the signal.
Gordon watched the proceedings with interest. The transmission's reception was highly unusual for Five. She could pick up the faintest of distress signals and enhance them so you'd swear the caller was right there on Five. This particular call was not like her. And he didn't think IWN's equipment was that shabby, either. It was almost as if someone were jamming the signal, and a very sophisticated jamming at that. But Five should be able to handle that too.
"Shit!" Brad swore, "Hell of a time for that to happen." He looked at the screen in disbelief. "We've got International Rescue on the way."
"What?" Distracted from his own concerns, Oden's expression mirrored Brad's. "Why?" His image fractured briefly, then steadied. "Who authorized that?" he demanded.
"Vicky did," Rob responded. He tapped unsuccessfully at the panel, trying to improve the connection. "They're taking out the guy who got shot." He peered at the screen curiously. "She didn't tell you?"
Oden ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. "Why did she do that?" he said, "We agreed that no concessions would be made. Not until the conditions were met."
"PMS?" Brad offered snidely.
Oden snorted. "Use that private network," he said preemptively. "See if you can contact ASP. If International Rescue is indeed coming, we need that weaponry to control the situation. The last thing we need is the military riding in their slipstream."
"No shit."
"All right," Rob said, making a shut-up motion at his partner. He turned back to the screen. "What about ISS? Are they still in the loop?"
"I spoke with Jorge minutes ago," said Oden, beginning to sound annoyed, "That station depends on ASP for its defenses. It's ASP that we need to be concerned about. Contact them." His image flickered again. "Now." The transmission ceased.
break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
Aside from his questions about the layout of Thunderbird Five, Lieutenant MacAndrew had been mostly silent during Three's takeoff and establishment of orbit. Five wasn't quite in the optimal position for rendevous she'd been in earlier, and this trip would be cutting their timetable a little close. Then again, the longer trip gave them more time to plan.
"They've agreed to release your injured operative," he mused, watching as Five began her egress from behind the planet, "Securing him should be fairly straightforward. But the other . . . ." He paused, then confirmed, "They're allowing two of you on board?"
"That's right," Jeff said. He had to hand it to Erin. These Special Ops guys she'd picked were fairly poised about the situation. Situations, he corrected silently. Except for a brief flash of something close torelief when they'd met him–and later, Scott and Virgil–their reactions to International Rescue had been carefully controlled. They'd stayed focused on the problem of extracting John and Gordon from the situation on Five.
"So if we get you on, one of you has to draw attention. . . ." the lieutenant's voice trailed off as he turned the problem over in his mind. He shifted in the jump seat, causing it to squeak.
"I still say one of us should go in," said Sergeant Oro.
MacAndrew shook his head. "We can't trust that their"–he nodded at Jeff–"operatives won't react," he said. "And once the cover is blown, those guys could kill everyone in there." He looked thoughtfully at the man seated in front of him, perceptive of his contained tension. And I'd be itching the same way, if it were my team. "No," he concluded, "it has to be them. And we can't dismiss the possibility that they'll search this vehicle before they'll release your man."
Sergeant Cody glanced around Three's interior. "Not much ambush opportunity," he noted.
"Still," said MacAndrew, "If we can draw one of them in here, secure him, then storm the area." He addressed his words to Jeff, granting him commander's privilege, "Maybe you can draw off your operative, if they haven't secured him elsewhere. Or," he added, "whoever's going in with you."
"I'll go," said Scott and Virgil simultaneously. They exchanged contending glances.
Scott flipped his mike switch to an alternate frequency. He rested three fingers on the panel, waiting for Virgil to switch his own headset. "You're the pilot," he said, sotto voc.
"You can't pull rank," Virgil retorted.
"Flip you for it," Scott challenged. After a quick search of his pockets, he asked sheepishly, "Got a coin?"
Virgil checked his pockets, also coming up empty-handed. "Nope." He grinned briefly. "No Alan either."
"Paper, rock, scissors?"
"We're flying," Virgil pointed out, "and we have company."
"Verbally, then," said Scott. "Five seconds . . . mark." The chronograph ticked the seconds away, then. . . .
"Paper," said Scott.
"Roc-ah, scissors."
"Ah-ah." Ignoring his brother's glower, Scott switched back to the common frequency. "I'll go."
TBC
Author's apology: Sorry this took so long. These next two chapters took some rearranging to make the story flow properly, and I actually resorted to Laura Ingalls Wilder's method of editing–snippets of paper scattered all over the floor. And I've been repainting my house. While painting makes for great story creation time, falling asleep at the computer doesn't get the words recorded. :)