"Thunderbird Two, you airborne yet?"
"F.A.B., Thunderbird Five." Virgil couldn't help the snort of amusement. The only thing more impatient than Scott during a rescue was Scott on Five during a rescue. "Keep your shirt on. ETA is about fifteen minutes."
"All right, boys," their father's voice broke in. "Save it for afterwards. Right now, we've got a job to do."
Not quite suppressing the urge to make a rude gesture–which Scott couldn't see anyway–Virgil amended the motion into a stretch of his sore hand. The pain was an odd comfort though, a reminder that he'd landed one for John and Gordon. He smiled in satisfaction, as he scanned the locator screen for Thunderbird One's signal. Come on, Dad. Where are you? He glanced out Two's viewports, searching the canyon walls.
"Got it," exclaimed Alan, "Bearing seven-zero-three."
"Seven-zero-three," Virgil echoed. He banked Two, swinging the leviathan on the new course. Twilight was settling in. The sunset and dimming light would make the rescue tricky at best.
Silence held sway, as they scanned for One's sleek silhouette. At least the canyon formerly spanned by the bridge wasn't unduly narrow, and he didn't have to worry about scraping Two on the canyon walls.
"Got a visual," Gordon reported.
"I see it," Virgil responded. Thunderbird One hovered like a dragonfly, about halfway down the canyon wall. As they drew nearer, they could see the crumpled shape of the school bus, caught on an outcropping of rock. "Jeez," he said softly.
Alan whistled. "How the he-" he stopped, and amended, "How'd they get caught there?"
"Helluva spot," Virgil groused. "Thunderbird One, what's the situation?"
"The bus seems secure for the moment," his father's voice responded, "Looks like you'll need the rescue platform, and safety harnesses as well. Probably need two of you on the platform."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird One." Virgil settled Thunderbird Two so she hovered over the hapless bus, then put her on autopilot. Thunderbird One darted from underneath, giving them room to work. He debated his options, then said, "Gordo, let's go. Alan, you got the con."
"F.A.B.," Alan echoed. Virgil noted that Alan didn't display the satisfied look he'd been showing lately when asked to take over one of the Thunderbirds. Instead, his youngest brother gave him a worried look as he slid into Virgil's vacated seat, as his brothers hurried toward the pod section. Virgil shrugged, dismissing it as mission nerves.
They grabbed their helmets on the way, then stepped within the confines of the rescue platform. Virgil glanced briefly at his brother, then spoke into the mike. "Okay, Alan," he said, "We're good to go."
Two's lower deck split, revealing the awesome drop to the canyon floor. The platform began its descent, swaying slightly. Thankfully, there wasn't much wind, but what there was caused both Tracys to brace themselves against the rescue platform's supports.
"Oh, crap," said Virgil softly. The very position of the bus–its roof against the canyon wall, and the chassis and heavier portions toward the canyon itself–was going to make getting the kids out tenuous at best. Although it looked to be rather solidly set on the ledge, he couldn't tell if it was supported completely, or just barely balanced.
The platform drew level with the bus, and they could see the figures inside, huddled up against the roof of the bus. Virgil glanced back at Thunderbird One, hovering behind them, then took at deep breath. "I'll go on the bus and get the kids out," he told Gordon, sincerely wishing it was Scott on One, and Dad up in Two. And John on Five. "You stabilize it with the rescue lines, then get them on the platform." Gordon nodded, and tapped in the codes that changed the lines to the equivalent of mini grappling hooks.
Clipping his harness to the platform, Virgil opened the gate, and stepped onto the side of the bus. It rocked slightly. He moved toward the roof of the bus, picking the midpoint of the vehicle for his destination. Damn, this would be one of those buses with only one emergency door. And that door–located at the back of the bus–was essentially useless. Gesturing to the adults inside, he steadied himself, waiting for the designated bus window to open. When it did, he asked, "Anybody hurt?".
"Two kids might have broken arms," responded the man who had opened the window. Balanced awkwardly on the backs of the bus seats, he had the sheepish grin of an adult who'd just been reprimanded by a child–probably for swearing. Judging by his uniform, he was probably the bus driver. "One definitely broken leg. The rest got lucky."
"Are they stabilized?"
"Yeah."
"How many are in there?"
The driver glanced back into the bus, as if to recount. "Fifteen, including myself and the teacher." He smiled ruefully, remembering the rebuke. "Third graders."
"Okay." It would be tight on the rescue platform. Two trips for sure. "We're gonna stabilize the bus, then get you guys outta there." Virgil shifted his weight, and the bus shifted with him. Noting that the rescue lines hadn't fired, Virgil glanced back at the platform. "Gordon," he said, mildly annoyed.
There was no response.
"Gor-don," His annoyance level increased. "Stabilize the da-"
Belatedly, the rescue lines fired, causing him to duck as they whistled overhead. The bus rocked vehemently as the lines hit, almost threatening to slide from the ledge. Then the lines buried themselves in the canyon wall. The motion upended Virgil, and he smacked down on the bus windows. Damn, that hurt! The second set fired moments later. The two hits, and subsequent cracking of the windows as he landed, elicited squeals of panic from inside the bus. He didn't blame them. For a moment, he thought they were all going over.
Virgil picked himself up, with a reminder to harm Gordon severely when this was over. "Okay," he told the bus' adult occupants, "Let's get them outta there." He hesitated, judging the situation. A sudden thought–Scott can have this field commander crap. He shook it off, concentrating on the situation at hand.
"Send up the teacher first," he instructed, "Then half the kids. We'll have to take them up in two batches. You come up with the second group."
"Got it." The driver seemed pretty collected, and Virgil was grateful for that. The man moved away from the window momentarily, apparently explaining the situation to the others.
Belatedly, an additional thought occurred to him. They'd have to release the cables in order to raise the rescue platform with the first load of kids. He'd barely processed that when the teacher scrabbled her way through the bus window.
He'd caught hold of her, steadying her as she was pushed and also pulled herself through the bus window. There was barely enough time to direct her toward the rescue platform, before the first kid came through that same window. He lifted each of them–steadying them–then guided each to the gate of the rescue platform. Gordon took it from there, moving them to the calming influence of their teacher.
Eight kids later, the platform was full, as he'd figured it would be. He swung the gate shut, and unclipped his harness from the platform. Securing it on the bus, he waved off his brother. As he turned back to the bus, he vaguely heard Gordon tell Alan to bring up the platform.
The bus rocked violently, upending him once again. Virgil scrambled to his feet, yelling into his mike, "Cut the cables! Cut the fucking cables!" The bus tilted again, sliding closer toward the edge. He staggered, clutching at his harness line to steady himself.
"Gordon." His father's voice–steady and serene–preempted the channel. The cables holding the bus suddenly slackened. The rescue platform hesitated briefly, then continued its ascent into Two's cargo hold.
"Virgil, what's your status?"
He took a deep breath, thinking violent thoughts at his brother. "Fine," he said abruptly, steadying himself. He didn't trust himself to say more, for he didn't want Dad in on this. Although why, he wasn't sure, other than it was between Gordon and him. Looking down at the bus, he added, "It's secure for the moment."
"F.A.B." Thunderbird One hovered momentarily into sight, ready to hold the bus by shear physical force if necessary. Its presence evoked more squeals as the remaining children–distracted from their situation–excitedly strained to see it.
"You're doing that on purpose." In spite of his simmering anger, Virgil smiled and shook his head at One.
"Doing what?" There wasn't even a hint of feigned innocence in his father's voice.
"Yeah, right." A couple more deep breaths–he was beginning to sound like a racehorse–and Virgil turned back to those left in the bus. "Okay," he said, "Next."
The next child to come through the window–a boy with big hazel eyes and bright red hair–didn't improve his mood any. But he was the one with the broken leg, so Virgil braced himself, cradling the boy as they waited for the rescue platform to return. Six left, plus the driver.
His mood fell with the platform's descent. As soon as the gate swung open, Virgil handed the boy up to Gordon. Refusing to meet his brother's gaze, Gordon accepted the child from him, and turned into the platform to find a place to set him.
Six more times, Virgil handed a child over to his brother. And six times, Gordon managed not to look at him, which only increased Virgil's irritation. By the time the bus driver had made it onto the rescue platform, the older Tracy's annoyance had deteriorated into full-blown anger.
Hauling himself onto the platform, Virgil slammed the gate closed behind him. "Bring us up, Alan," he said shortly. This is the point where the bus should fall off the ledge, he thought sourly, steadying himself as the platform began its ascent.
But it didn't. He watched it grow smaller, the black lettering blending into the yellow paint until it was no longer distinguishable. The rescue platform halted–resulting in more squeals from the children–and settled into its position in Two. The doors closed, enfolding them in the security of Two's cargo hold.
"Okay," said Virgil, swinging the gate open, "Let's get them into the infirmary." He stepped off the platform, turning to assist the driver and children. Once the uninjured had disembarked, he glanced back at his younger brother.
Gordon had scooped up the boy with the broken leg, waiting until the rest had left the platform. "I'll take them there," he said flatly. Nodding to the driver, he brushed past Virgil, a Pied Piper with the children filing behind him.
"We're not done yet," Virgil said softly to Gordon's retreating back. Whether his brother had heard him, or was merely ignoring him, he didn't care. And once they'd delivered their passengers. . . .
He pulled off his helmet, and headed for the cockpit. Alan looked at him as he entered, then vacated the pilot's chair with an alacrity that was lost on Virgil. "All secured, Thunderbird One," he announced, settling into position, "Heading for the hospital."
"F.A.B.," his father responded, "Thunderbird Five has already notified them that we're inbound."
The titanic workhorse of International Rescue rose from the canyon, placidly following her smaller sister ship. Leaving the post-rescue chatter to One and Five, Two's crew remained silent during the flight, and the atmosphere in her cockpit grew uncomfortably palpable.
Alan snuck a few glances at his brother, but Virgil ignored him, and concentrated stubbornly on flying Two. Gordon remained in the infirmary with their passengers, and there was no communication between those areas. It was the longest post-rescue flight Alan remembered, and he was glad to see the lights of San Francisco finally sharpen into focus. Sighing with relief, he sagged back into the chair.
Thunderbird Two slowed, casting her mammoth shadow over the hospital's emergency room entrance. As she hovered over the area, Virgil radioed Gordon that they'd arrived, the first communication between the two since the rescue.
"Alan." His brother's voice broke into his respite, cold with suppressed fury. "Go help Gordon unload. You take the platform."
"Me?" Alan squawked, bolting upright, "What about Gor-" The pilot's seat swivelled, revealing an expression on its occupant rarely seen on that brother. Alan swallowed his protest. "F.A.B.," he stuttered, and scrambled for the lockers and his own helmet.
Having disposed of Alan temporarily, Virgil headed toward the pod area. Gordon would have to bring the rescuees back there, and once they were gone, they could settle this between them.
He held his temper through the first run of the rescue platform, neither he nor Gordon acknowledging the other. After it had dropped the second time, he counted to ten, then turned furiously on his younger brother. "What the hell were you doing?" he snapped, "You could have got us all-"
Suddenly, he was flat on the deck, watching the bulkhead walls–or was that the ceiling?–change from blinding white to their familiar green. The blow had taken him completely by surprise, in more ways than one. He shook his head, and winced. Pushing himself to a sitting position, Virgil glanced around for the culprit. Gordon was nowhere in sight.
"Virgil?" Having finished supervising the unloading of the children, Alan returned to the flight deck, only to find his brother propped against the bulkhead, carefully feeling his jaw. "What happened?"
"He hit me." It wasn't the first time in his life that he'd been hit by one of his brothers, but it was certainly the first time on a rescue. "The little shit hit me," he repeated. At least he didn't break my jaw, although that portion of his anatomy was extremely tender at the moment.
"Gordon?"
"No, John," Virgil said sarcastically, "Who d'ya think? What is eating him?"
Alan's expressive face went through a bevy of contortions. Virgil was beginning to feel that he had missed something, somewhere. In lieu of answering, Alan offered a hand to Virgil, pulling him to his feet.
Once vertical, Virgil took a deep breath. His stomach felt as if it had also received a blow or two. Although that may have been from bench-pressing a dozen-odd kids onto the rescue platform. Or maybe smacking down on the bus. Twice. Exhaling vehemently, he started toward the infirmary area, where he suspected Gordon had retreated.
Guessing his intent, Alan grabbed him, hanging on like a dog to a bear. "Don't," he said, grimacing as he was dragged along by his enraged brother, "Virg. . . let Dad handle it." He dug in as best he could on Three's smooth deck. "C'mon, man. . . Vir-gil. . . ."
Virgil turned on him with a murderous glare. Alan quickly released him, not willing to take pounding for Gordon. But he kept a wary eye on his brother, ready to pounce if Virgil again showed signs of going after said brother
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pound the crap outta him," Virgil challenged.
Guilt flooded Alan's face, and Virgil knew that he had missed something–a briefing, a memo–something he should have known about.
"Al-lan." The accented syllable caused an equal drop in Alan's stomach. He glanced about, seeking a means of escape as Virgil stepped toward him.
"Ah." It was the best Alan could manage at the moment. The look on Virgil's face would have been funny, under any other circumstances. As would have been the concept of Virgil–Mr. Zen himself–being this furious. It was definitely one for the record books. But, caught at the moment between protecting one brother, and taking the blame for that brother's behavior, Alan wasn't finding a whole lot of humor in anything.
"Al."
Virgil's patience was thinning quickly, and Alan was painfully aware of that. Self-preservation kicked in. Ducking out from both Virgil's accusatory glare and his reach, he surrendered Gordon's secret. "He shot John."