He made his way through the docking arm and into Thunderbird Three. A right turn at the T-shaped junction brought him to the entrance of Three's cockpit, blocked by two of its occupants. Sensing his presence, the taller of the two looked in his direction.
"Gordon!"
His apprehension dissolving into relief, Jeff stepped forward and grasped his son by the shoulders. After a brief inspection, he enfolded his son in an intense hug, then set him back for a more thorough examination. Jeff frowned as he noted the cuts on his son's neck, the bruise on the side of his face, and the stains on the front of Gordon's uniform. He glanced at John, then back at Gordon.
"Not his," Gordon reassured him. He curled his right hand again into a fist, unwilling for anyone to see that injury. John was enough to worry about. His father nodded in acknowledgment, and released him, turning back toward his two other sons. Gordon risked a glance at his brother.
He looks like something bleached out in the wash. Sweat had darkened John's hair, and caused it to curl into locks, a trait that had always annoyed John. His eyes were again closed, as he relinquished his struggle for consciousness. Virgil brought the safety harness down, inadvertently hitting the injured shoulder. John winced, eliciting a soft apology from his brother.
Having finished his assessment, Virgil rose and headed toward his younger brother. "Hey, Splash," he said. He reached up, as if to ruffle Gordon's hair, then dropped to his brother's shoulder instead, gripping it tightly. Their eyes met briefly, then looked away, embarrassed by mutual emotion. Virgil released his grip, and headed toward the pilot's seat, carefully skirting the jump seat.
In protest, Gordon looked at his father, as Virgil settled in position. Jeff indicated the second passenger seat, but Gordon shook his head obstinately. "Dad," he complained
"Don't get him mad," said a faint voice from behind them. John's grin was substantially subdued, but still present as he quipped, "He gets violent when you-" A spasm of shivering interrupted him.
Pressed for time, and mildly exasperated, Jeff shrugged. He nodded at the copilot's seat. Gordon was not only as stubborn as any Tracy, but also–as Jeff's mother-in-law had pointed out many times–as mulish as his maternal grandfather. And this was not the moment to be arguing with him.
"But. . . ." Gordon protested. .
Jeff raised one eyebrow, and Gordon subsided. The young man moved to the copilot's seat, his mutinous expression as clear as if he were speaking. Jeff smiled and flicked on the communications switch. "Thunderbird Five, we are initiating separation."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird Three," Scott responded.
Thunderbird Three rumbled as her main engine ignited. The airlock gave a final click of disengagement, and the rocket shuddered slightly. For a moment she drifted, suspended in the exosphere. Then the starboard retros fired, the boosters kicked in, and Three pulled away from her sister. Her nose pointed toward Earth, she settled into her parabolic orbit, moving just under her top speed. Virgil wasn't wasting any time getting home.
He looked for the course adjustments, since they were not running the optimal orbit for rendevous with Tracy Island, but there were none.That was the copilot's job, unless Three was running with a single pilot. Irritated, he glanced over at Gordon, ready to tell him off.
Gordon was staring at the display in front of them, but Virgil was willing to bet his next paycheck that his brother wasn't seeing it. His right hand curled loosely around the control stick, as if it hurt to hold the thing, and he just seemed . . . well, out of it.
Virgil bit back the remonstration, and did the calculations himself. As concerned as he was for John, Gordon must be twice as wired, considering. Cut him some slack, he reminded himself It was easy to forget that Gordon was still pretty new to International Rescue himself, that he'd only been actively involved for just under two years. And then to get something like this thrown at him, with all the what-if possibilities. If I'd been up there . . . he didn'twant to think about that.
He searched for something to say, something to snap Gordon back into the moment. Seizing the first thought that popped into his head, he said, "That was pretty good, using Morse to tell us what to expect," he said, "But Brains couldn't make out the rest of your code."
"My code?" Startled back into the present, Gordon stared at his brother.
"Yeah. You sent a message that there was one knife, and one gun on board."
"I. . . oh." Gordon's confusion turned to embarrassment. "Oh, that. I was, uh, just . . . just, uh. . . ." He looked down at his board and muttered something inaudible.
"What?" Virgil gaped at him, then burst out laughing, drawing a quizzical look from their father.
Gordon managed a sheepish smile, and focused his attention on the course adjustments. Halfway through his calculations, he realized that Three was already on the course he was plotting. He glanced guiltily at Virgil, who returned the look smugly.
He refocused his attention on the board in front of him. Concentrating on the task of co-flying Three somewhat lessened the persistent urge to turn around and check on John. He barely heard his father contacting the island, instructing Alan to prepare Thunderbird One for the flight to Queen's. Then his mind wandered, and Virgil had to repeat several requests for information.
Something hit the side of his head, startling him from his wool-gathering. A red-and-white glove fell into his lap, its fingers curled, leaving the thumb to point accusingly at him. Gordon stared at it, then looked up at the culprit.
"Earth to Splash Gordon," Virgil said, a hint of impatience in his expression, "Retros, bro."
Gordon opened his mouth to retort, then–lacking an appropriate rejoinder–shut it. He tossed the glove back at its owner, and resolutely turned back to his controls, setting up the landing sequence for the retros.
"Boys," Jeff warned. Landing was no time for horseplay.
Virgil grinned as he caught the glove and shook it out, laying it aside while he guided Three toward her silo. Then, noting marks on the glove that hadn't been there before, he frowned and looked at his brother in concern.
"You're clear," his father said, "Take her in. Easy does it."
"F.A.B." Virgil responded, turning his attention back to the task at hand. "And cool the backseat driving, okay?"
Jeff smiled. After-action banter was sorely missing on this run. Most of it came from Scott, anyway. He glanced at the seat behind him, but John had ceded his fight for consciousness. His scrutiny moved forward–Gordon was looking a bit shell-shocked. The sooner we get to Queen's, the better.
The reverberations from her engines layered upon themselves, increasing in volume as Three slid into her silo. Her interior dimmed during her descent, and she rocked slightly as she settled into position. Their surroundings darkened further as the roundhouse slid back into position, then brightened as the silo lights came on.
"Good job," Jeff said automatically, flipping the safety harness behind him. "Let's get him into Thunderbird One."
It was a struggle, getting John from Three–via the narrow catwalks of its silo–into International Rescue's hanger, then over to One's equally narrow catwalks. Jeff cursed himself for the design flaw, and for failing to envision this possibility. Thankfully, Brains and Kyrano had provided a stretcher from the infirmary, easing their movement across the hanger.
They paused at the personnel elevator just inside One's silo. Given its limited capacity, Gordon and Alan elected to take their brother up first. Seizing the opportunity, Virgil motioned his father aside. He pulled the glove from his pocket, and handed it over.
Jeff examined the glove, then looked up at the silo catwalks where Gordon and Alan were moving John into One. A grim expression settled over his face, and he handed the glove back to Virgil. "Virgil, you and Alan will have to take one of the jets, and meet us there."
"F.A.B.,"said Virgil. As he headed for the tunnel to the civilian hanger, he yelled up at his brother, "C'mon, Sprout. Move it."
The two youngest Tracys scrambled down from the catwalk. Alan shot a quick glance at his father, then raced after Virgil. Gordon made as if to follow, but a gesture from his father stayed him.
Jeff turned to his fourth son. "Gordon. . . ."
The mutinous look returned to Gordon's eyes, the only spark in an otherwise expressionless face. He looked at Jeff, and said quietly, "I'll go with them."
"No, you're with me," Jeff told him firmly. The lack of emotion bothered him, and he hesitated, not wanting to push too hard. But Gordon needed to be checked out as well. He'd hidden one injury from them already. And Jeff was well aware of how far the boys would push themselves for a mission. His voice softened slightly. "I need you to keep an eye on John," he said, hoping the appeal would sway Gordon.
Slowly, reluctantly, Gordon nodded. "Let's go," Jeff said. They entered the elevator, heading up to One's cockpit..
Brains had remained there, keeping watch over John. "He's still unconscious," Brains stuttered, "and he-"
"Thanks, Brains," Jeff interrupted. He felt sure that Gordon was already castigating himself for the limited medical services, and didn't need reminding.
"Ah, understood." The engineer watched as Gordon navigated his way to the far passenger seat and settled in. He looked knowingly at Jeff, and added, "Good luck."
Jeff nodded, and eased himself into the pilot's seat, pulling the safety restraint over him. The canopy slowly closed, its sections locking in sequence. He waited until Brains had moved into the silo elevator, before activating One's engine startup.
The visibility in the silo shifted, as the lights dimmed and the diving pool began its retreat. Echoes resonated from the quintet of engines, shaking the narrow area with vibrations. A shadow streaked across the opening–Virgil and Alan, with one of the family jets, trying to get a head start on them. The catwalks and bracings pulled back from the ship, and Thunderbird One blasted from her silo.