39
In dark, swirling water, on the far side of the world-
Back in the long-ago day, he'd heard, men had gone out in small boats to harpoon and slaughter great whales. Often, they'd been dragged for many miles by the skewered and suffering beasts. Sometimes, the boats had been battered to pieces, all hands aboard them, drowned.
Well, this was no Nantucket Sleighride, and that monster croc was no whale. Nor would Thunderbird 4 go down like an open wood boat on the ocean. For one thing, she was far better armed and constructed.
That plasma cutter could slice through reinforced steel like soft cheese. It glowed like a blue-white star; first boiling, then ionizing the fluid around its powerful business end. Gordon Tracy had every reason in the world to survive, and he wasn't playing.
With the harpoon deeply lodged in the creature's throat, Gordon picked his moment and released its line, sending Thunderbird 4 slewing off through that murky, debris-laden water. Narrowly missed a rusted, up-ended bus and a crashing steel girder. Did not miss three-fourths of a crumbling train car, which disintegrated on shrill, grinding contact.
Chip had the physical size of a twelve-year-old boy, by this time, but still kept the mind of a very smart preschooler. At Gordon's urging, he got himself off to the other seat and strapped back down, just as that monster reptile swung around for another pass.
Flexing its muscular tail, the giant marine crocodile opened massive jaws, swinging its head to reorient. Could sense the song of water on metal, just as… through the touch pads on his steering controls… Gordon could 'taste' and feel what the Yellow Bird glided through.
He could see the cutter's brilliant blue glow reflected in the reptile's eyeshine, as that great, mottled head swung around. The plasma glare, or maybe the lightning-like discharge it fired, seemed to give the monster pause.
Again, and again, it darted up and off; slipping between sunken buildings, trying to come at the sub from a different angle. Only, Gordon was faster. No one could handle Thunderbird 4 like the young man she'd been built around.
Now, more than ever before, he sank himself into her systems; less steering that sub than wearing it like a second skin. There in the roiling, mostly dark seawater, gritty with filth and fanged by the stumps of shattered skyscrapers, holding a sun-fire light in one mechanical claw, Gordon fought for his own life, and Charlie's.
Sensors were back online, again. And, while Chip couldn't give coordinates very well, he could sure as h*ll point.
"Over there, Dad!" he'd call out. "Really fast an' tryna be sneaky!"
On the third pass, the crocodile swept through the broken arch of an old bridge; its pale, armoured belly dislodging a storm of decaying vehicles. Playing his steering jets like a master, Gordon shot over and down. Almost got out of the way, but sideswiped the croc with earthquake force. Muttered,
"That's gonna leave a mark," as the creature's head whipped around at them. Its small eyes were closed, this time, sharpening a host of other, more delicate senses. Another touch to the steering jets sent Thunderbird 4 tumbling slightly away. Just far enough that he could use the plasma cutter to slice off three claws and half a front foot.
Immediately, the beast writhed and snapped like a hooked shark, slamming its head right at the sub. They collided once more with a booming, resounding CRASH. The plasma cutter sliced even deeper; this time gashing that dark, armoured hide. No blood from an instantly cauterized wound, but the reptile had finally had enough.
With a powerful lash of its tail, the giant croc vanished, leaving Thunderbird 4 beat to h*ll, but still there. Still in one functional piece. Gordon didn't believe it, at first. Sat there, hunched forward, gripping tight to his steering controls and panting hoarsely. Waiting.
Ten seconds passed… twenty… and still nothing. Then a whole minute, with only turbulent muck and slow-spinning, bubble-tracked wreckage dropping their way. Safe, maybe? Beside him, Charlie was making this thin little part-stifled whimper. Doing his best not to cry.
As the water no longer reeked of burnt crocodile, Gordon cut off the crackling plasma torch, and asked,
"You scared, Kiddo?"
Charlie shook his head violently, lower lip trembling.
"No, Dad," he lied.
"Oh," remarked the sandy-blond aquanaut, releasing one steering rod to reach across and ruffle his boy's pale brown hair. "'Cause I was, a little. Have to be an idiot or a tree stump, not to be."
Charlie sniffled, then giggled at his (braver-than-anyone) father.
"A whole tree would get scared, though?" he wondered aloud, brown eyes shining with love and something like hero-worship. Gordon nodded, taking the question quite seriously.
"If he valued his roots and leaves, then… yeah, Chipper. He sure as h… heck would be. Nothing wrong with that. It's keeping on, anyhow, that makes you a man. Or a tree."
Charlie dashed at his eyes with a hand that was already shrinking back down, again. Turning younger.
"Maybe I was sorta, little bit scared, Dad… but I did my best anyways. Just like you. Right?"
The aquanaut smiled at his son. How had he gotten along, before, Gordon wondered? Back when there'd been nothing to focus on but himself, performing flash rescues, and getting laid? All of that felt weirdly distant, now. Like adopting Charlie had turned him into a totally different guy.
"Right, Kiddo," he said. "You did good, and I'm super proud of you. Now, let's find someplace less busy to surface, and find out where we are. Sit tight, Buddy. I need you on sensors, again. You spot something, you sing out. Teamwork, okay?"
Charlie nodded back at him.
"Okay, Dad," he responded. "Teamwork hunerd percent. I won't even, not even blink of watching so much!"
The swimmer gave his Sea Bird the lightest of nudges, trying to conserve what fuel they had left. Laughed at his son despite it all, saying,
"You've gotta blink sometime, Chip. If not, your eyes 'll fall out."
The brown eyes in question grew very much wider, then.
"Really?" the boy whispered, blinking about fifty times in rapid succession.
"That's what your Uncle Lee told me," admitted Gordon, as he threaded his way through a tangle of rusted and jagged wreckage. "Back when I was your age… 'Course, he might've been pulling my leg."
"Unca Lee pulls your leg?" Charlie repeated uncertainly.
"Figure of speech, Bud," said the aquanaut, steering them past collapsed bridges, choked roadways and desolate, sunken buildings. "Means he was only…"
It was right then that his wrist comm pinged, on just about the most welcome frequency that Gordon Tracy could have been hit with. Because, sometimes, the Universe listens.