Several hours into the flight, Jeff was kicked back in his seat, his mind on the problem of keeping things going until Gordon was well. His son had been asleep for the entire trip. That, more than anything else, told Jeff just how ill the young man was. They had crossed the equator over an hour earlier, and still had four hours of flight to look forward too.

Jeff had seriously underestimated his own need for sleep, and after catching himself nodding off for the third time in the last hour, he was considering waking Gordon and asking him to take the controls for a bit.

Looking over, he couldn't help the swell of love that he felt watching the young man sleep. It was a reaction he was very familiar with. It happened at odd times with each of his sons. With Scott, it was whenever his eldest turned goofy with his brothers, not that it happened all that often. With Virgil, it was watching the faraway look he got whenever music took him away. With John, it was when he was concentrating on reading, tiny frown lines on his forehead. Alan could raise the feeling in him almost at will, with his wild passion. But with Gordon, it was always when he slept.

Jeff had long ago realized it was at these times that his sons most reflected their mother. He sighed, the old pain almost rising again. He reached out a hand and softly brushed the red golden hair off of his son's forehead.

Deciding he wouldn't wake Gordon just yet, he turned back to his controls just as an alarm sounded. The jet shuddered and the left wing dipped. Jeff grabbed the flight stick and felt his stomach flipflop. How had they dropped so low without him noticing?

The stick juddered in his hands, and the control boards were lighting up red with rapidly failing systems. The stick steadied, and Jeff risked a glance over to see Gordon lending his strength to hold the jet level.

With Gordon working to hold it together, Jeff could concentrate on damage control. He looked out the window at the left wing, and his heart climbed up into his throat. About a third of the wing had sheared off. Jeff frowned, thinking it had to have been one hell of a bird. The smear of blood and a few feathers fluttering madly in the aileron told the story. It frightened him to think that the jet had somehow dropped low enough for a bird strike without him ever noticing.

Turning to his instruments, it took only a moment for him to realize the plane was doomed. The red engine lights on the port engine told him there had been more than one bird. Had he been on his own, and closer to land, he might have been tempted to try to hold it together, but with his son onboard, and the nearest land over a thousand miles off, it wasn't even close. "Son, we're going to have to ditch."

"Yeah." The terse reply brought Jeff's head around. Gordon was straining to keep the jet on an even keel, sweat beading his upper lip.

Until that point, Jeff had not felt anything more than mild trepidation. But remembering how ill his son was, his heart started beating wildly. He swallowed his panic, and in a fair approximation of his normal command voice said, "Hold her steady long enough for me to get my parachute on, and I'll relieve you, all right?"

"Go."

Jeff needed no further urging. He spun out of his seat, and moved into the main cabin, grabbing his chute and buckling it on with practiced speed. He was back on the flight deck, sliding into his seat in less than two minutes. Looking out the front windshield, he was dismayed at how much they had dropped. "Hurry, son, and pull the survival raft to the door. Call me when you're ready."

"Yes, sir." Gordon released the stick to his father and disappeared to the rear. Jeff felt as if he had been handed a wildly bucking mustang, the control stick pulling him instead of the other way around. He spared a moment to marvel at his son's strength, but holding the jet together soon took all of his concentration.

He hit the face of his watch, and in terse tones, called out. "Thunderbird Five, this is Tracy One. John, get a lock on us, we're going down."

"Thunderbird Two is already in the air, Dad. Gordon called. I've got a lock on you, help will be there practically before you hit the water."

John's coolly professional tone helped calm Jeff's shuddering heart. "Good job, son. We'll be parachuting out in just a moment or two. Take care to track us, and not the plane."

"Understood, Dad. Good luck."

Jeff felt the controls buck again, and didn't answer. He felt the cabin pressure drop as Gordon opened the door. Seeing the ocean rushing up to greet him, Jeff didn't wait, but headed for the door. As he came into the rear cabin, he saw Gordon shove something out the door. The wind noise was too loud for conversation, so Jeff simply grabbed his son, and pushed him out, jumping out behind him.

The jet had a final trick up its sleeve. It rolled just as Jeff leapt out into space, and something clipped him hard as he fell. Only half conscious, it was instinct more than anything else that brought his hand up to pull the release on his parachute. The jerking stop as the chute caught air was enough to send him over into blackness.