She's in one piece.
Leaving Virgil and Scott to handle the docking procedure, Jeff divided his attention between visual inspection of the space station, and monitoring the weapons protocol data sent from the island. And his thoughts.
Unlike a year ago, when concerns for his son's safety were augmented by the visible damage to Thunderbird Five, this docking was no different from a regular supply run. Except for, of course, the threat she was currently presenting.
He'd rather it were the other way. At least then he'd had some idea of what he was walking into, parameters for what to expect once inside. With Five looking as normal as she did, his imagination had no restraints to work within. And–with two sons involved this time–his personal feelings threatened a rampage.
Soft reverberations throughout the bulkheads announced that the docking process was complete. Scott hurried to the hatch controls, securing Three to the docking arm, while his brother shut down systems no longer needed. The Rangers retreated to the right side of Three, the only place that offered a modicum of concealment, conferring softly among themselves. Virgil moved up to the command post, watching with Jeff as Scott worked on connection to Five.
Three's side of the portal finally opened. Jeff glanced at Virgil–who remained at the command station–then at MacAndrew. The lieutenant met his gaze and nodded. Whatever happened, they would just have to play the cards as they fell.
Jeff and Scott traversed the short distance down the corridor to Five's airlock. Again, they paused, while Scott punched in the access code. The airlock door hesitated–causing a brief moment of concern–then hissed open, and they stepped cautiously into the station.
Their entrance apparently caught Five's occupiers off guard. The larger of the terrorists jerked Gordon back from the console. Shielded by his hostage, he retreated toward the personnel area. Once sufficiently distanced from his partner, he halted, and poised a large army-style knife under Gordon's jaw. The warning hit Jeff like a physical blow.
"John!"
Scott's exclamation drew Jeff's attention to the near side of the control center, where the other players in this drama had moved. His second son stood there, pale and shaky, clinging to the edge of the console for support. Behind John stood another man, with a handgun pointed in their direction. The stain on the shoulder of John's uniform defined both his suspicions and fears. Suddenly, Jeff had doubts that their plan would work.
Impulsively, Scott started toward his injured brother. Jeff snatched at him, catching enough of his uniform to pull him back. Growling, Scott shook off the hold, then froze. The gun's muzzle now rested at the base of John's neck.
"Hold it right there," snapped Brad. His hand had moved to Gordon's neck, forcing his captive's head back. The knife pressed in, scoring, and Gordon winced. "Rob, check 'em."
Jeff's expression was carefully neutral as Rob moved forward. He submitted to the search, focusing his attention on the hostages–his sons. His gaze moved from John to Gordon–assessing the condition of both–then back to John.
Once finished with Jeff, Rob shifted his attention to Scott. Resting one hand on the handle of his gun, he gestured for Jeff to move away from them. Jeff complied, glancing at his eldest.
Scott was furious. Never one to take threats lightly–especially threats to his family–he glared at Rob, silently challenging him. Subsiding only after the admonitory look from Jeff, he yielded to the search without verbal protest.
Jeff watched the man perfunctorily, his attention focused on the pair behind him. Only the tightening of his mouth betrayed his feelings. "'S okay," said Rob, pulling his gun back out. He backed toward Brad and Gordon, stopping just in front of them.
Eschewing permission to move, Jeff hurried toward his nearest son. "John," he said, worry spilling over into his voice. He slung his son's good arm over his shoulder, frowning as a violent shiver descended over the younger man. "Easy, there," he said, as John collapsed against him.
Struggling to stay upright, John looked at his father. "Dad," he protested, "Gordon. . . ."
"Let's go," Jeff urged. When John resisted, he added softly, "Trust me."
Scott moved to his brother's other side, steadying and supporting him. The pyretic heat of his brother's body caused a range of emotions to flash across his face. They coalesced into cold fury, and he glared back at the guilty parties. "Come on, JJ," he said deliberately, ignoring John's grimace of distaste at the nickname.
"Hold it" Brad called, as they headed for the airlock. He gestured to the corridor leading to Three. "Rob, check it out."
Jeff and Scott exchanged collaborative glances. They paused, allowing Rob to move past them and into Thunderbird Three. Moments later, indistinct sounds of protest wafted back from the cockpit. It sounded as though Virgil was not enthralled with the idea.
The attitude of the knife changed, as Brad relaxed, his hand moving to Gordon's shoulder. Gordon shifted, and the two bottles dug into his thigh, reminding him. "Wait," he said, pulling the one from his pocket. He felt the restraint tighten again, and protested, "I have to send this with him."
Brad hesitated, already troubled that Rob was taking so long to check out the rocket.
"Aw, c'mon," Gordon argued, "he might need this before they get back." It's lame, but it's the only stall I can think of, he added, with a mental cross of his fingers.
"All right," said Brad, uncomfortably. He glanced once more at the airlock, but Rob still hadn't returned. "Make it quick." His grip shifted, again forcing Gordon's head back, and the knife settled in. "Just one of you," he said, to the waiting trio.
Seconds slowed, as Jeff looked at Scott, a silent debate passing between them. Acquiescing, the elder Tracy nodded, and touched his earpiece. "Virgil, give us a hand here," said Jeff. He added quietly, "Mark."
Time stretched even further, before Virgil hurried down the corridor, disheveled and surreptitiously nursing a bruised fist. He stopped, taken aback by his brother's condition, then–with a quick nod–collected himself and continued forward. Scott relinquished his aegis of John, steadying him until he was sure that Virgil had hold of their brother. Then he stepped back into Five, waiting by the airlock's hatch.
Brad had moved forward, keeping Gordon in front of him, until they stood even with the access tunnel. He watched the trio in the tunnel, ensuring that none were returning to the station, then looked back at Scott "Move," he said abruptly, absently tightening his grip. Gordon struggled to release it, the bottle falling from his hand. Its solitary tablet rattled as it hit the deck.
Scott's expression darkened. He glanced behind him, confirming that his father and brothers were no longer in the airlock corridor. His gaze remained there for a few seconds, then returned to his adversary. Nodding once, he walked slowly toward the two of them.
"Far enough." Keeping his hold on his hostage, Brad sheathed the knife, and brought out a handgun. Only then did he release Gordon.
The sudden absence of pressure on his throat caused Gordon to stagger. Feeling more than a little light-headed, he shook his head, and unconsciously tugged at his collar. He scooped the bottle from the floor, and walked toward Scott.
"Far enough," Brad repeated.
Gordon handed over the container, and Scott took it, tucking it into his pocket. His earpiece buzzed twice, softly, and he hesitated, as if judging something. He glanced at his brother, an odd expression on his face, then smiled and reached, as if to ruffle Gordon's hair.
The movement confused Gordon, as no one–other than Dad–had done than to him for a couple of years. Not since his height had overshot Virgil's, and matched John's, leaving only Dad and Scott taller than him. Alan, as always, was still fair game.
The gesture caught his captor off guard also, as Scott's arm came down, harder than either of them expected. Gordon ducked–an instinct spawned from being fourth in a line of brothers–and braced for the blow. From somewhere–inside Three?–he heard someone yell, "Go, go, go!" The voice was followed seconds later by Scott himself slamming into Gordon, knocking them both toward the floor.
"Roll with it, Splash," Scott muttered. Relying on his additional leverage to restrain his brother, he let the momentum of his tackle propel both of them across the floor, away from the black blur emerging from the airlock. They tumbled toward the bulkhead, coming to rest in a tangle. Scott held Gordon there, ignoring the muffled protests from him, and listened intently to the sounds from the sortie behind them.
Guessing–hoping–that the other situation was under control when those sounds subsided, Scott released his brother, and rolled away, pushing himself to his knees. He glanced at the Rangers, watching as they finally subdued Brad. A regretful expression crossed his face briefly, and one hand curled furtively into a fist. He looked back at Gordon. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Gordon gasped, more than a little breathless. Grimacing–for Scott had hit him harder than he considered necessary–he sat up. He watched the procedures at the control center, then glanced roguishly at Scott. "You've been working out," he commented.
Scott burst out laughing, drawing curious looks from the Special Ops guys as they secured the remaining terrorist. "Y'think?" he said, then quipped, "Been practicing on Alan." He got to his feet, and extended one hand. Gordon took it, allowing Scott to pull him up and into a one-armed hug.
Releasing Gordon–though not completely–Scott inspected his brother. Noting the scabbed cut under Gordon's jaw, the reddened area on the side of his face, and the blood stains on the uniform, his expression hardened. "You okay?" he asked, his mind flashing back to John's injuries.
"I'm fine," Gordon assured him. He rubbed at the fresh cut on his neck, feeling it itch. "Just a scratch." Brushing futilely at the stains on his uniform, he was dismayed to see fresh streaks of blood mark the white fabric.
Scott reached for Gordon's hand and turned it over, displayed the cuts there. He looked enquiringly at his younger brother, who shrugged. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Scott released the hand, and headed toward the airlock. With his brother's arm still curled protectively around him, Gordon had no choice but to follow.
They paused at the airlock, as Lieutenant MacAndrew exited the tunnel. He escorted a bound Rob, both looking worse for the wear. "Pickup in twenty minutes," he informed his men. He turned to the brothers, asking. "You guys all right?"
"Yeah." Scott met his gaze, nodding in both acknowledgment and thanks.
"What about the other stations?" asked Gordon.
The lieutenant smiled–a hard, satisfied smile. "ASP's personnel broke out of their confinement, and retook the station. They cut contact with the other stations, then sent a team over to ISS to disable it. ISS's crew and terrorists fled back to the nearest station–which just happened to be ASP." He paused momentarily, and grinned. "The guys over there weren't too happy at being locked up."
"Nor at finding out you guys were under the gun, too," added Cody.
"Anyway," MacAndrew continued, relinquishing his prisoner to the sergeants, "the one at IWN will be surrendering . . . " he glanced at his watch in anticipation ". . . any minute now."
"Good," said Scott. He released Gordon, and gave him a slight shove toward the airlock. "Go on," he said, "They're waiting." At Gordon's bewildered look, he added lightly, "I'm staying here. Someone has to man the fort."
"Right," said Gordon, dryly. He started down the corridor to Thunderbird Three, then stopped, and looked back at his brother.
Scott had settled at Five's console. Deep in discussion with the lieutenant, he reset those controls that Gordon had shut down, pausing occasionally in his conversation to concentrate on a given protocol. The two sergeants and their prisoners were out of sight, waiting patiently in the service corridor.
Gordon watched them for a few seconds, then moved slightly forward, pulling the airlock door closed. He fastened it, then turned and headed into Thunderbird Three.