"That sucks stagnant swamp water," Brad griped. He glanced at Rob, already working on the request. Brad watched him for a while, then his gaze moved over to where Gordon stood. "This thing got any weapons?" he scowled.
"Not that I can see," Rob said absently, concentrating on his task. "Unless they're well disguised." He paused, recognizing the error message on the monitor. "Damn, that system's off-line again." Rob looked at Brad, then accusingly at Gordon.
Gordon held his hands up. I didn't do it. Resentfully, he eyed Five's communications board, wondering why the stupid glitch didn't show up when those guys used it.
Brad scowled at the board, but the console made little sense to him. In his opinion–compared with the straightforward systems on both their shuttles and ASP–this thing was designed by a demented chipmunk. He strode over to Gordon, grabbed him by the shoulder, and shoved him toward the control panel in frustration. "Fix it!"
Gordon staggered, catching himself against the panel, before regaining his balance. "I can't reset it," he said, turning back to face Brad, "Like we told you earlier, you can only do that from ASP headquarters."
"Son-of-a-bitch," Rob interrupted, his attention zeroed on one particular communications channel. "This isn't good." He turned up the volume on Five's speakers.
"–abandon ship. Repeat. This is the International Space Station. Abandon ship. This is the International–"
"All right, already," Brad snarled, "Shut it off."
Rob cut the speakers. "Automatic distress signal," he murmured, "First ASP, now ISS." He looked at Brad worriedly, brushing his hair from his eyes. "This isn't good."
"You think?" Brad sniped. He looked at Gordon, and something in his expression caused Gordon to step back in defense. "Hey, Junior," he said ominously, "This thing got any weapons?" There was a soft sound as he drew the knife from its sheath, Gordon's silence having given him the answer. "Fire 'em up," he said softly.
"No," said Gordon emphatically, shaking his head. Further retreat was barred by the console, and his opponent moved closer. The oscillating knife paused in front of his face, then traced a path downward, stopping at the hollow of his throat.
Gordon's patience frayed quickly. "Get that thing out of my face," he snapped, grabbing for the knife.
Brad flicked the weapon downward, and Gordon's hand wrapped around the blade. With a hiss of pain, he released it immediately, curling his hand into a protective fist.
Their acrimonious gazes locked. "Sure," said Brad, amiably. He stepped back, his expression inscrutable. Gordon remained at the console, watching the other man warily. Moments passed, then Brad smiled. He turned and sauntered toward the personnel quarters.
"No!" Gordon started after him.
"Ah-ah," cautioned Rob. Guessing what Brad had in mind, he pulled Gordon back. "You made your choice."
Brad emerged from the personnel area, with John in his custody. He shoved the elder Tracy toward the console, causing John to stumble and clutch for the nearest support. Gordon grabbed for him, steadying and settling him in the chair. The cuts on his hand left smeared stains on the uniform, causing John to look speculatively at him.
Brad eyed the brothers. "One of you," he said, as if announcing they'd won the lottery, "is going to fire up this bucket's weapons, so your buddies don't pull any surprises." He pulled a challenge coin from his pocket, tossing it casually in the air.
Activate Five's weapons with Thunderbird Three inbound? Concerned, Gordon glanced at his brother, watching as that same emotion replaced the brief flash of resentment and amusement in John's expression. "Why?" John asked softly.
"Something went down at ASP," Gordon said, presuming the question was directed at him. "I'm guessing they. . . ."
"Call it," Brad said suddenly. He ceased flipping the coin and looked at them, an uncanny cast in his eyes. "One of you, right now. Or fire up the weapons."
An equally fey light danced in John's eyes–whether fever or something else, Gordon couldn't tell. The older Tracy held out his hand. Brad tossed the coin at him, smirking as he aimed it at John's uninjured side.
He looked surprised, though, as John deftly caught the coin with his uninjured left hand. Gordon couldn't help a smirk of his own, for John was the lone southpaw in the family.
John examined the coin, its obverse displaying an eagle crest, and winged parachute and helicopter on the reverse. He flipped the coin back to Brad. "Heads," he said, regarding the man levelly.
Brad smiled, holding John's gaze with his own. "Heads, I kill you," he said, as if caressing the thought, "Tails, it's Junior." He tossed the coin in the air.
"What!" Startled, Gordon couldn't help gaping at his brother. "No, wait!" Surrendering to the immediate threat, he turned back to the console. The coin landed on the floor, its gyrations slowing in a ominous knell.
It was conscious effort for him to not look, either at the coin or John. Instead, he glanced at the monitors, then reluctantly began setting Five's weapons to manual control. Working as slowly as he dared, Gordon hoped that someone on Tracy Island was monitoring this. Not that they could do anything about it, but there was a chance someone could at least warn Three.
Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
"Ah, Base to Thunderbird Three," the radio interrupted, "What's your ETA?"
There was a snort from the direction of the pilot's seat. Scott glanced at his brother, who mouthed "Sound familiar?" at him. He scowled back, muttering, "Not funny," and returned his attention to the controls in front of him.
Jeff refrained from commenting as he reached for the communications switch. Alan did sound like Scott–on certain occasions. "ETA approximately twenty minutes."
"Situation update," Alan said, "There's some kind of problem at ISS. The station is being abandoned. Don't know yet why, oh, wait a minute. . . ." The transmission broke.
"Who's the nearest station for ISS to evacuate to?" asked MacAndrew.
Jeff's fingers flew across his board in calculation. "They'll have to head for ASP," he said in satisfaction. "IWN is closer, but I doubt that it's big enough."
"No." The lieutenant nodded in agreement with Jeff's assessment. "Safety in numbers. They'll head for ASP. Unless," he added thoughtfully, "your station is big enough to accommodate them."
"It is," Jeff said grimly.
"Would they know that?" interjected Oro.
"The system between ASP and Thunderbird Five had to be reset," Jeff pointed out "They're probably running a communication protocol of their own." Good luck, he added silently. Thunderbird Five had damn good security on her computers, and he'd be willing to bet that the terrorists would have a difficult time keeping any foreign program running on her systems. "They've had the opportunity."
"But ASP is closer than your station," MacAndrew persisted. The seat squeaked again–the jump seat was not the most comfortable spot in Thunderbird Three, nor was the lieutenant a small man.
"Yes."
Contact resumed, with repressed excitement in Alan's voice. "ASP's crew has retaken that station. They just sent out a message. Repeat, ASP had been secured."
The tension in Three lessened somewhat. "Damn," grinned Cody, glancing over at his fellow sergeant. "There goes half our job, Ryan."
"Perhaps," said MacAndrew, "If–and it's a big if–they didn't get a warning out to their remaining buddies. Those guys could figure they've nothing to lose."
"Still, the threat to Earth itself is neutralized," said Oro, "Except, of course, for Jim, here." His partner made a rude gesture in response.
Unless . . . thought Jeff. As if reading his thoughts, Alan's voice broke in again, the excitement replaced by apprehension. "Thunderbird Three, she's powering up weapons. Repeat. Thunderbird Five is powering up weapons."
Scott and Virgil exchanged looks, and Scott's hand dropped to the bottom of his panel. He glanced back at his father, but Jeff shook his head. They were about ten minutes from Five. "Prepare for immediate docking," Jeff ordered. His attention shifted back to the radio. "Alan, Brains, see if you can contact Five. . . ."
"Brains is already on it," Alan said.
"Good. Get Gordon to stall, if you can," said Jeff. He turned his attention back to the immediate situation. "Okay, boys. Let's see if we can beat her to the punch."
break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break
Both men had moved forward, shadowing their hostages. Rob stood behind John, and Brad–after retrieving his coin–insinuated himself between the brothers, looming over Gordon as he worked.
Gordon tried to ignore him, concentrating on his task. John probably could have done this blindfolded, but speed wasn't his goal. He just hoped these guys didn't get too impatient.
The screen blinked. An image showed briefly on it, and Gordon bit hard on his lip in order not to react. A string of nonsensical symbols flashed across the screen, and he watched them avidly.
He couldn't help a sharp intake of breath as the monitor's information abruptly changed, interrupting the scroll. While Five was blind to Three's approach, she was still able to sense that a ship was in the process of docking, and take appropriate action. A soft thump reverberated, followed by the familiar whirr of the airlock clamps.
"Damn," said Rob, having caught the last screen change and made the appropriate conclusion. "Too late." He looked sullenly at Brad. "They're here."
Author's note - Ever notice in the series, Scott's always saying, "Virgil, what's your ETA?" and other variations of Virgil-why-aren't-you-here-yet? I'll bet young Scott was the one bouncing in the back seat of the car and saying–every five minutes–"Are we there yet?" Don't you?
Advanced apology - The new semester has started for me. While this story has been plotted and written out, the remaining chapters do need polishing yet. I will publish them as soon as possible, but–since graduation is this December–school has to, regretfully, take precedence. My apologies, especially since I'm leaving all you readers hanging.