Last editand profoundest apologies for the messy first draft.
56: Let It Go
Mt. Everest, the North Face; a shattered space plane-
Gordon Tracy had worked himself numb (or perhaps it was simply the sparse air and raking cold). The torn fuselage in which he labored gave occasional shuddering groans, jolted this way and that by a gradually settling, unstable slope.
Gordon did his precarious best to ignore this, trusting that the jutting boulders and ice-daggers Fireflash had fetched up against would bear the plane's weight a bit longer. Distractions there were, aplenty. Beyond the force dome, a truly horrific gale roared, spat and howled; seeming alive, almost. Within, beneath slow rainbows of flexing light, two fragile centers of warmth and life lay connected by a flickering umbilical, like plastic figures in a snow globe.
In Thunderbird 1's storage area, Scott folded the crew seats back into their bulkhead mounts and moved a few crates around. He was back in his climbing gear again, slowed by bulky clothing and sore muscles as he rushed to clear space for the crash survivors. Should have done it earlier, but a great deal had happened in the last two hours, most of it bad.
Keeping a weather eye on his remote status lights, Scott struggled to keep the force shield up, cutting power to one system after another for forty-five moreminutes of continuing shelter. Wincing, he even shut down heating and life support. This was going to have to be quick…
Striding to the outer hatch, Scott peered up-slope at a maimed aircraft. The flares had long since guttered out, but there was light enough to see with, cast by the escape tube and shimmering dome. No movement from the plane yet, though. Scott triggered the comm unit in his high-altitude climbing suit.
"Gordon," he called out, grimacing as Thunderbird 1's landing gear slid on the rocky surface. "Ready when you are. Start sending them down."
Two-hundred yards away, inside the curtained nest that 'his' survivors had fashioned for themselves, Gordon nodded. At this altitude, even with supplemental oxygen and the crashed plane's emergency heater, every breath was a stinging ice-pick and his head a throbbing mess. He was simultaneously hungry and nauseous, with vivid cravings for peppermint tea and a double-handful of snow.
In this mildly addled state, with harness in hand, Gordon approached the flight attendant. She'd been crouched beside the space heater, watching as he returned from rigging a line and pulley. Like the others, she'd been given a baggy, all weather survival suit to put on (bright orange, one-size-does-for-all).
"Ma'am," the swimmer gasped, holding out a blue nylon safety harness, "as you're… most fit among th' survivors… an' I must remain behind t' see t' the others…"
She took his meaning at once and shook her bandaged head, eyes huge and serious.
"No," the battered young woman told him firmly. A long, wet cough interrupted her statement, which she resumed as soon as she was able to breathe again. "In the absence of… our captain and first officer, it is my… duty to assist the surviving… passengers, Sir."
Despite her own best efforts,she began to tear up. The cabin crew (Captain Walter Petty and First Officer Jae Benning) were still in the plane's smashed cockpit, having lost their lives in the crash, together with an elderly businessman in the first row.
Gordon's headache extended several meters past the confines of his actual skull. In fact, he'd have taken oath that he could feel those frost-furred bolts and rivets cracking…
"Assist them y' shall. My word on it, Ma'am. But you c'n… help best by seein' to their placement… within th' hold… as my mate brings them through. Please trust me, Ma'am, that with… just th' two of us 'ere… we're very much needin' your efforts, not tryin' t' brush you aside. I'd not lie t' you."
Although she couldn't see the young man's face, the sincerity of his tone convinced her. Angel Martinez struggled to her feet (and an uncertain business it was, in a commuter plane that had come to rest onone crumpled side). After her latest coughing spell had run its course, Gordon buckled the harness about her body, tightening the straps as gently as possible around cracked ribs and wrenched back. A snap-link carabiner was then attached to the harness ring, and made secure.
"Right, then…" he told her, indicating the survival suit's top zipper, "this hood closes t' keep air and… warmth trapped within. Y'll not… have much of a view, I'm afraid… till y've touched bottom, but a short ride, it is; ten seconds at most."
Once again, the flight attendant nodded.
"Ten seconds, only," she repeated.
"Yes, Ma'am. I promise you."
He got the privacy curtain opened up, bade the others to keep courage, and escorted Ms. Martinez back through the plane. Much colder beyond the curtain, with poor visibility and worse footing, but they managed to reach the plane's raggedly truncated end, a few meters from which lay thestart of Scott's "off-ramp". Gently curved and subtle of descent, it cast rippling bands of light and flickering shadows upon the snow and rock below. Beautiful, insubstantial-seeming thing… like aurora borealis, almost; a pale and silent flame.
Bracing the flight attendant, Gordon helped her off the plane and into position, fastening a line to the harness as he spoke. Boots crunching through snow and loose stone, they approached the force tube.
"Mind the sharp bits… step down now, love… that's it. See the silver rocket, away down there? That's where you're bound… Thunderbird 1. Into the end, now… doesn't look like much, but it will hold… though all the static does rather make one's hair stand… Right. I'll close y'r suit now… and you'll be seein' my teammate next… at th' other side."
Once she was oriented properly (as though about to plunge down a water slide on her back, though with rather more clothing) Gordon zipped the woman's hood shut, leaving just her dark eyes showing through a square of clear plastic. She did not protest. Like the others, Ms. Martinez trusted him utterly; a precious and frightening thing for one so young to deal with.
Giving the top of her head a slight pat (and pausing for his own sudden coughing fit) Gordon released the rope's safety catch and began lowering his first survivor. Just about precisely ten seconds later, she reached the safety of Thunderbird 1.
Peering anxiously down-slope, Gordon made out the small figure of Scott raising the flight attendant to her feet. His brother, no more from this vantage than a snow-suited manikin, gave him a brief wave, then helped Ms. Martinez into the storage compartment. Score…
Though he earned no wage for all this, sometimes the job paid quite handsomely, indeed. Beneath his goggles and air mask, Gordon smiled (coughed again, too, but never mind that; work to be done, and so forth). Much warmer inside than out, he executed a ponderous about-face and headed back into the wreck. Fourteen more to go, beneath a glimmering, will-o-the-wisp barrier and a homicidally raging storm.
"Gordon," came Scott's voice, about halfway along his over-the-seat scramble, "two things. I've picked up a signal from the flight data recorder, and something's headed this way; no transponder or replies-to-hail, so I'm figuring it isn't the Avon lady. We've got to speed this up. Two at a time, if you and they are up to it."
He had one hand upon the overhead luggage rack, was pushing off against a dented head rest at the time. Still felt wretched about that business with the videophone, and all the time lost refastening his line from rocket plane to wreckage, so…
"Right. Hurryin' along, Scott. What are… th' coordinates, then? For the black box? Might, um… swing about an' retrieve 'er… if th' opportunity presents itself."
His foot slipped and he stumbled, catching an armrest to the (not-well-enough-padded) groin. In the few minutes before he could see and breathe again, Gordon decided that presenting his brother with Flight 211's black box would more than recoup his earlier blunders.
Scott rattled off the pertinent figures, adding,
"…But it's outside the dome, and we're in a hurry. Airbus may have to hire some Sherpas and go after it themselves, once climbing season comes around."
After this, the brothers fell into almost an assembly-line pattern of hook-up, push-off and lower, retrieve, stow and begin all over (but Gordon didn't forget his earlier notion; like the snowboarding idea, it made perfect sense at the time).
He had a sore arm and bruised groin, and Scott a number of cuts from his fall, but motivation, adrenaline and bottled oxygen kept them moving.
Four… five… and then all of the simple transports were done. The remainder were rather badly injured, and most would have to be lowered upon stretchers.
Six, seven and eight had sustained broken limbs. They were sedated, and required as gentle as possible a ride. Gordon hoisted them one at a time into a fireman's carry and began a slow, grunting traverse of the downed plane. Sweat began running into his eyes despite the cold, and he had to stop increasingly often to cough. …But over they went, and safely so.
Nine and ten were concussed and unconscious, and by now every muscle in his back and arms seemed outlined in fire.
"Gordon," his brother spoke again, the transmitted voice betraying deep tension. "We've got maybe twenty minutes remaining on that shield. Less, if it has to deflect another avalanche or a laser burst… which I count on our circling friends to figure out, soon. Listen: contingency for dome failure is, you grab everyone you can, I launch and hover above, and we execute a direct airlift. Harness up, just in case. Understood?"
"…'Stood, Scott…"
Athletes learn to push themselves beyond normal limits, and Olympic gold medalists further than that… but Gordon was close to the edge, even so. Once again, he was facing a lactic-acid-drenched, no-oxygen nightmare, sucking air so fast that he emptied his bottle. Was at once freezing-clammy and hot as hell's toaster oven. Naturally, pulled up lame with a bloody cramp, too, but managed to limp along.
Eleven and twelve were close to death from internal injury, clinging to life on a trauma patch and muttered 'Hail Mary'.
He vomited, cleaned the mess out of his air mask and carried on, because that's what one did. Thirteen…
"Gordon? Five minutes. Grab the other survivors and take them through, yourself. Never mind the line. Our 'friends' have got a target lock, they're above the clouds, and close enough to send another love note. Gordon…? Answer me!"
Well… bit of a problem with that, wasn't there? Couldn't seem to catch a solid breath… but he did tap at his wrist comm; Morse code 'A-OK'.
Survivors fourteen and fifteen, the skull fracture and final-stage shock, he dragged over the dented arm rests on a makeshift double stretcher. Lashed down with elastic cord and slashed safety belts, they were, to a section of torn interior panel.
Outside the plane, again, where snow and wind swept against the faltering dome in great sheets, like driving rain on quivering tent fabric. Wouldn't hold up to much more…
He pushed the stretchered pair into the force tunnel and stood there playing the line out, gasping at knife's-edge 'air' that was no more than a bitter lie.
Then,
"Gordon, where the hell are you? We've got to lift off!"
Not yet. Something to get, first…
"Data… recorder…" he coughed out, reddening the snow at his boots. "Get it… and back in… two… two…"
"Screw the recorder! Gordon, listen to me: you're hypoxic. You're not thinking straight, and if you do this, you're going to die! Let it go!"
Stubbornly,
"Not so… bad as all that… Scott. Two minutes… all 't will take…"
(Scott was already moving. He should have made ready to launch instead, but that was his brother out there, altitude-drunk and about to kill himself.)
"Mister, get your ass in the boarding tube. The black box isn't worth it… it isn't worth you. Understood?"
For just a moment, Gordon saw himself handing Scott the flight data recorder; mission accomplished, to cheers and accolades… like a medal ceremony. But then his older brother's odd words… "It isn't worth you"… cut through the hypoxic fantasy.
He stumbled into the transport tube, rode a flashing, sparking undulant slide, face down and utterly spent. Scott was waiting for him at the bottom, with a second oxygen bottle and a hand up.
Gordon avoided looking at his brother while they thudded up the cargo ramp and back into Thunderbird 1. As his head cleared, the swimmer felt increasingly stupid. Nearly killed the lot of them, he had.
Scott closed and locked the outer compartment hatch, shutting away thin air and deadly cold. As it slammed into place, some of the rescued victims began to cry; relieved, maybe, or sorry for lost others.Scott handed his brother a stack of blankets, saying,
"I'll repressurize… in a minute," (the oxygen bottle he'd given Gordon was his own) "But I want to… get airborne, first. Too vulnerable… down here. Strap in and hang tight, folks. Going… for a ride."
And with that, Scott ducked through another hatch to head forward, pausing just long enough to add,
"You, uh… did more work up there… than a team of horses, Gordon. Probably saved my life, too. Thanks."
Credit where credit was due. The pilot gave his younger brother a somewhat weak and gingerly backslap. (He was hurt, himself.)
"Now… what d' you say… we get these people to Lhasa?"
Scott's compliment was rewarded by an almost visible lessening of tension. Funny, what a little acknowledgement could do, at the right moment. Just like his father, Scott Tracy was learning.
A final quick nod and he raced forward, leaving Gordon to finish strapping in the fifteen survivors of Flight 211. Back in the cockpit, he cut off the shield generator. The force dome evaporated at once, blinking out in a fast-widening circle. Released, the blizzard closed around them like a bone-white fist, blinding, shaking and battering.
A glance to the main scanner revealed that the high-circling 'blip' had spotted its chance. Their friends were about to close in for a second go. Thunderbird 1's target lock indicator went off, again, painfully shrill.
Yeah, he got it; they were sitting ducks, plastered to the mountainside in somebody else's sights. Not for long, though.
Scott initiated the rocket plane's launch sequence, feeling her snarl to life around him. Strapping in with one hand, jamming stick and throttle with the other, he lifted off; a meteoric flare that vaporized ice and powdered rock, shaking the north face like another avalanche.
Landing gear up… weapons armed… hard starboard roll…
And the intruding aircraft all at once altered course. Shocking.
"Attention, assholes," Scott muttered, eyes hard on the targeting screen. "Allow me to introduce Thunderbird 1, when she isn't stuck in the ice, rescuing helpless civilians."
Couldn't say he was a bit surprised when the other plane (some form of fast, foreign-makescout craft) beat a swift and undignified retreat.
"Guess not, huh?"
He'd have given chase, but there were victims to drop off, anda situation brewing out in Siberia.
"Maybe next time," he said, pushing forward on the stick. Everest, wreathed in cloud, faded away behind him. Three bodies and a space plane she'd claimed. The rest had leave to depart and (if they were wise) return no more.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Washington, D.C.; Dirksen Senate Office Building-
Senator Stennis sat at his old desk, watching news reports from Chile, Siberia and Tibet. More private, here. Beside him stood Vicente Vargas… perfectly, blankly calm.
"Not a total failure," the senator mused, hitching up his red tie in preparation for a meeting of the ethics committee.
"No, Senor," Vargas agreed carefully, watching his employer's eyes. Better than most, he knew what Lamar Stennis was capable of, and how the man thought.
"…But not a real success, either. All that effort and no major kills. With our 'CEO' still in deep cover on that island, of his. Let's see…"
Stennis switched off the view screen and got briskly to his feet. Committee meetings and voting sessions were invaluable networking tools. The chance to be seen… to drop inflammatory words in the right ear… could not be wasted. On the other hand, his 'real' obligation needed attending to.
"…We'll make another public statement, something cryptic, hitting on the links between WorldGov, Tracy Aerospace and all those foreign rescue missions. Raise a few questions."
Vargas bowed his assent.
"And then, Senor, another 'operation'?"
Stennis looked thoughtful, but shook his head. Reaching his suit jacket off the brass coat rack, he said,
"No. Not yet. The trick to luring Jeff Tracy into the open is knowing what bait to use. And that'll be handed right to us in just about a week. Gives us time enough to prepare something that'll stick."
For a moment, the senator's eyes narrowed, heralding a burst of icy cunning.
"Let Pretty-boy get back from Mars… his daddy won't be able to resist all the corporate photo ops and free publicity. He'll show. Then…"
Dangerous to discuss his business so openly, but a good scrambler hid a multitude of plots, and sometimes the best of plans had to be altered.
"…we move in. Keep Genovese on target. I want Pretty-boy brought in for questioning before you take on his daddy. No public reveal, until after we've wrung out whatever pertinent information he's got, and the organization is leaderless."
"And Stirling?" Vargas inquired, head and voice carefully lowered.
Stennis shrugged into his jacket. With a single, contemptuous head-shake, he said,
"Useless, now. If he gets himself patched up, we'll renegotiate. Otherwise, he's so much worthless junk. Keep an ear to the usual channels, though. If it looks like he's about to go public with this, pull the plug. Hard."
Vargas smiled thinly. He'd rather wondered what would happen, should he and the cyborg ever square off. Now it seemed he'd have an officially sanctioned opportunity to find out.
Nor was this the end. Almost as an aside, headed out the door and into the valuable business of shaping political will, the senator added,
"...And I believe that we'll be visiting our guest this afternoon, to do a little... 'fine tuning'."
All things considered, Vicente Vargas was in a business that he quite enjoyed.
"Si, Senor. As you say."