Re-hi, more newly edited... Thanks ED, Tikatu, Cath, Agent Five and Sam (for everything).

68: Esc

Thunderbird 3-

They'd been hustled aboard the International Rescue spacecraft by Jeff Tracy and one of his younger sons, a blond teenager they'd encountered once or twice before at NASA get-togethers.

Thunderbird 3 was on the lunar surface, docked to the old Explorer moon base airlock. All they'd had to do, under the crushing force of lunar gravity, was walk a few hundred yards and then climb two short metal access ladders; an Olympic track-and-field event to four people long accustomed to zero-g.

The baby cried quietly around her thumb, despite all the comfort that mother, two worried uncles and a solicitous aunt had to offer. And, no wonder. The sleek Thunderbird ship struck them all as weirdly high-tech and stripped-down. Where Endurance's every available surface had been covered with instruments, switches or padding, Thunderbird 3 looked more like a fancy corporate jet; especially back in her red and silver 'passenger lounge'.

There were strap-in couches, of course, but also a projection view screen, game system, deep-pile carpet and stereo. Amidst all this elegant glitz and slickery, the Ares III crew felt rather grubby and out-of-place... Like the Wright Brothers aboard a high powered space plane.

Worse, the ship had artificial gravity, set to Earth normal. Cho and Linda seemed about to collapse, and the baby, too, was suffering.

Leaving Roger to guard the ladies, Pete started forward. (While he'd never before ridden an International Rescue craft, he knew how Jeff Tracy's mind worked… how his former pilot would likely design a rocket.)

McCord was halfway through the hatch when he noticed Janey extending both small hands at full stretch, trying to catch him. She was in her mother's arms and clearly desperate to reach the mission commander. Since coming aboard, all she'd done was sign, and now kept repeating 'Ask/Please' with chubby-handed, baby clumsiness; almost praying to him.

So he finger-spelled 'OK', adding aloud,

"Let's go, Peanut. I may need backup on this one."

The small girl tried to push free of her mother's grip and soar across the cabin to Pete, but her space-weakened muscles permitted little more than a brief wriggle. Alan would have carried her over had she not turned away, signing vehemently, 'No!'

So, Pete went back for her, tiring though all this activity was for a slowly dying man. The toddler transferred into his arms, determined not to let anyone else go off without her.

A short passage connected the lounge and cockpit, where Jeff and two more of John's brothers were preparing for launch. Before they arrived, Janey tugged at McCord's sandy hair and whispered,

"Unca Pete, I know! I know, Unca Pete! Us gotsa tell them… go back to 'Durance, then get daddy. Daddy gots twelve-hour tank, Unca Pete! We gotsa get him before he runs outta air!" And, emphatically signed,

'I don't like (what?)Moon!'

She'd set up the noun 'daddy' over her left shoulder, and pointed to the spot repeatedly while verbalizing and signing, both.

Funny… you could be sore, tired, sick and cranky as hell… but something about a little one's earnest logic pushed everything else aside. Settling the toddler against the crook of one arm, McCord paused long enough to sign back,

'Daddy-you OK. Soon daddy-you join back. Now no Endurance. Now no Moon. Now home. Peanut quiet now.'

She didn't understand, and she didn't like it, but Janey obeyed; once more jamming a thumb in her mouth.

Pete rubbed the tiny girl's back, recalling Stephanie, his now-grown daughter.

"It's going to be okay, Junior," he told the little girl, who clung like a wide-eyed baby monkey. "Your daddy's going to make it back. We didn't come all this way just to trip at the damn finish line."

She sniffled against his neck, nodding acceptance. Then they stepped into the unfamiliar cockpit, and Janey shut her eyes.

Scott and Gordon Tracy stopped their preflight bustling at the first real glimpse of their baby niece. They'd have rushed over, both of them; but Jeff had already warned her uncles of the child's shyness. To put it mildly, she was unaccustomed to strangers.

Both young men craned around as best they could for a better look, though, trying to see John in the wispy blonde hair and delicate profile.

"Listen," Commander McCord informed the cockpit crew in general, "We've got a couple of females and an injured Marine below deck who'd sure appreciate it if you folks could cycle back the artificial gravity."

Truth to tell, the 'trash-compactor' effect wasn't doing much for him or Junior's heart, either.

"How about giving them a little relief, back there?"

His old crewmate, Jeff Tracy, gave the weakened man a single, brusque nod. Interrupting comm with Genine, back at the Island Base desk, Jeff replied,

"Will do, Pete, just as soon as we're off the ground and under way. I need everyone in their places and strapped in, though, so you're going to have to…"

'Negative on that, Flyboy.'

McCord raised a hand, cutting off his erstwhile command module pilot in mid-sentence.

"Jeff, I've traveled 90 million miles, been to Mars, nearly fried my ass off in deep space, and dodged three separate hostile actions. Appreciate the advice, but I know where to go during a goddamn launch. Now,"

He turned, giving quick nods to Gordon and Scott.

"…Shut up and fly. I've got a hot date with the student nurses back at White Sands oncology clinic."

Jeff Tracy might have snapped back, but he, too, was worried, and he understood the source of Pete's irritation.

"Right. Pass the word, below: gravity is being cut to 1/10th after launch, and we'll be touching down at White Sands Missile Base in 18 hours, if all goes well."

Satisfied, every inch the stiff and grizzled alpha male, Pete McCord headed for the hatch. Catching sight of the gold US Navy dolphins pinned to Gordon's uniform sash, Pete halted long enough to give the red-haired teenager a quick shoulder clasp and grin.

"Submarine Service, huh?" he mused. "Well, at least one of you's seen the light… sort of. Carry on, Sailor."

To which Gordon replied, with feeling,

"Aye, Sir,"

…earning himself a brief, slit-eyed peek from the tiny girl. Evidently, he'd used a correct form of address, because the babe was at least willing to admit he existed.

Gordon caught a swift glimpse of deep blue eyes and puckered worry before Janey buried her face again in Commander McCord's neck. Her clothing of stitched-together tee-shirt material figured all over with Marine Corps, Navy and NASA symbols (with the odd flower and heart tossed in, here and about) made it obvious why 'Aye, Sir,' had caught the wee lass' attention. Worth remembering, that. Hopefully, given time, his niece would stop seeing him as some sort of vicious, child-devouring ogre.

"Hullo, Janeling," he whispered very quietly, touching the soft blonde hair, "And welcome aboard."

This got a slight shoulder twitch from the lass, and a partly re-opened eye. Progress, of sorts, but no words; just a kind of stuttering hand gesture.

There was work to do, though, as Jeff Tracy's sharply cleared throat reminded them all. Pete trudged aft, Janey still fast in his arms. He rubbed her tiny back again for comfort and luck. Signed,

'Soon home. Daddy-you safe come.'

Janey nodded a clenched little fist in reply, believing him. After all, in the junior crewman's entire experience, Uncle Pete had never yet been wrong, norargued withby anyone but Mommy.

Less than five minutes later, they were off the moon; back to freedom and near-weightlessness, and headed 'home'.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Washington, D.C., an underground bunker complex-

There was a thunderous storm of loud noise, snapping locks and many sharp, fiery muzzle-flashes. The mirror blew apart, fractured outward in a hail of long, hissing slivers and razor shards.

The computer disintegrated in front of him, destroyed by the same hollow-point slugs that nailed John. Weird burst of… too startling to be called pain, yet… but he felt two powerful impacts and a stinging near-miss. A fountaining blossom of scarlet appeared on his right arm, then the upper edge of one hip, as John lunged to his feet.

Someone vaulted through the broken observation mirror. A man; dark hair, big gun. Not Stennis. 'Mr. Black', possibly?

As the pistol (a Colt 45 semi-auto) swung about to center on John's chest, he seized hold of the computer table and tipped it over onto the half-braced gunman. There was a resounding crash, followed by a pair of distinct, dry 'cracks'.

Difficult to move about while shackled to a metal chair, but John dove forward and seized the trapped man's weapon.

(Wasted a bullet struggling for the thing, but no one got hit, and better leverage soon won out. He acquired the pistol.)

The 45's brutal recoil threw him backward, the heavy chair his ankles were fastened to preventing recovery. John crashed to the ground; dazed and bleeding. Kept hold of the gun, though.

A reek of concrete dust, electrical fire and spent powder twisted and clawed at lungs accustomed to several years of filtered air. John began coughing, wracked so violently that he couldn't aim the damn pistol, much less kick the chair over and regain his footing.

Then Stennis was before him, holding a small ceramic gun braced in both hands. Calm in the midst of ruin, the Red Path leader took aim, meaning to kill John Tracy as helay there coughing blood. Didn't happen.

The man hadn't expected Genovese'… Penny's… sudden attack. She came from behind and just to the right, knocking the senator's gun hand aside with a swift, numbing chop. The pistol clattered to the ground, going off in the process. Mr. Black gave a single, choked cry; dead, again, at the hand of his master.

But Penny was overmatched. Stennis was wily, quick and ruthless, with nothing left to lose and two people he very much wanted to drag down along with him. She fought well, but he managed to land two solid body blows and a stunning punch to the side of her head, driving her into the wall.

"Double-crossing…whore," Stennis grunted, doubling Penelope over with another vicious jab. "Never again… trusting… a damn… woman!"

"Ought to keep an eye on her partner, too, jackass."

Stennis, his left shoulder seized from behind, was whipped suddenly around to face John, who added simply,

"Later,"

…and then emptied the 45's entire clip into the startled older man, sending him jerking and flailing across the room.

(Stupid thing to do, actually; he got a hairline wrist fracture, and could have used those bullets, a little further on… but it felt pretty good at the time.)

He wanted the sight… wanted a very dead Stennis… to make up for Denice (broken and smashed, a set of mangled brass knuckles tossed onto her corpse) and Rick (literally torn apart). But it didn't. If he'd had more bullets, John would have shot the terrorist leader again. Instead his ears rang and his head pounded as he slumped, coughing, against an upended computer table in the smoky, dim little room.

Penny crept aside. Like Drew had done, she was crying. But females had trouble taking a beating; he already knew that. Okay… on to phase 2: patch up and get the hell out of Dodge.

Searching Mr. Black's body, John found the key to his leg irons and freed himself from the chair. He was bare-footed, and had to be careful stepping across broken glass, hot shell casings and bits of shattered computer, but he made it to Penny's side without too much further damage.

Reaching down, he drew the operative (his partner and… he supposed… friend) to her feet. She didn't want to look at him, apparently ashamed of the black eye, bruised cheek bone and cut lip.

But… hell, he'd seen worse, and at least she was alive. He pulled her close and patted her quivering back. Females picked the damndest moments to break down.

"This isn't… a really good time to stand around crying and bleeding, Penelope. The other... Red Path jerk-offs are probably running too fast to care what we do, but some of those… um… renewed hacking exploits may have alerted the FBI to my whereabouts. Time to mop up and go."

She nodded, pulling herself together with a few last, watery hiccups. They both looked like hell, but she stroked the blond hair aside and kissed his face, anyhow, saying,

"Of c- course, Dear. Parker shall… shall by this time have brought the car 'round to another exit. All we need do is f- find him."

Then she fiddled with one of her earrings, evidently tuning in a signal from the driver. Not really the best idea (over-reliance on gadgetry could get you killed when the batteries died, or after a particularly thorough search) but John hadn't expected to get this far, and so had nothing better to offer by way of escape plans.

"Somewhere… in this warren… there's got to be a first aid kit," he muttered, after they'd bandaged the injuries to arm and hip with strips of torn shirt, and he'd traded out weapons. Nothing critical had been hit, thanks to an intervening window and computer monitor, but the messy wounds were certainly beginning to hurt. Bled anew with each cough and pained motion, too; quickly soaking the bandages. He'd lose consciousness, soon, if they didn't turn up some gauze and Quik-Clot. After that... well, they were in D.C., home to Gallaudet University, and Stephanie McCord. Hedid have a few allies in town.

A small light began flashing repeatedly above the room's single door. The electronic lock clicked over, allowing John (standing to one side, Stennis' confiscated pistol in his good hand) to very gently push it open. Nothing beyond but a darkened hallway, though, with another blinking LED further on. Like a beacon, almost. Good enough. He'd follow the dancing marsh-light.

They left the interrogation room together; John Tracy with a small ceramic pistol, Penelope Creighton-Ward with a glitchy transceiver earring, both of them battered, shaken and torn. Moving off after the first hall lamp, they clasped hands, turned left and started walking.