Chapter Three
Since the reason for the total loss of power was still a mystery, for caution's sake Scott ordered a change out of uniform for everyone before their departure. No matter what might be waiting for them out there, it just wasn't a good idea to offer up easily-identifiable targets. After selecting the darkest clothing they had on board, the IR team clambered single file down the sixty-foot ladder from the cockpit level to the pod floor, and Scott broke open the weapons locker. As Gordon had predicted, none of the battery or electrically powered firearms were functional, which meant no lasers. This was going to be Old School all the way. Scott pocketed spare clips for his Sig Sauer, handed Virgil a shotgun and ammo and took the same for himself; Alan and Tin-Tin stuck with their sidearms. The guys each grabbed a survival pack and made their way over to the outer exit on the forward left side of the pod. Doing a head count as they reached the hatch, Scott realized Tin-Tin was missing. "Tin-Tin," he called back into the cavernous gloom. "Are you with us?"
"Yes, Scott," her voice came back after a moment. "Be right there."
Between them, Scott and Virgil managed to open the hatch via the manual override and quite a bit of protesting metal. Virgil went out first, taking point, and when he called back the all clear, Scott waved the others through one by one. As Tin-Tin reached the hatchway, Scott spotted the reason for her delay…slung over her shoulder was one of the military grade medic bags they routinely took into areas where they were expecting to have to treat trauma victims before they could be safely transported. She looked at him briefly, and his unspoken question was met with a look identical to the one he'd seen in Gordon's eyes in the cockpit just a little while previously. Tin-Tin was clearly dealing with her own feelings of foreboding.
That made three of them. Cold pooled in the pit of his stomach, and he opened his mouth…but she brushed past him and was gone, jumping down into the wet grass. Reminding himself that he hadn't exactly been forthcoming about his internal uneasiness either, Scott put away the questions for later and followed her.
Outside, there had been a welcome break in the rain – or maybe they'd flown far enough to hit the edge of the weather front – and there was enough moonlight to see what had stopped Thunderbird Two from skidding further across the grass of the clearing: a stand of huge, ancient trees, several of which she had felled before the rest had halted her progress. Looking at the damage, Scott said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn't been hurt worse than she had. With any luck it wouldn't take Brains long to figure out a way to get her airborne again long enough for her to reach the safety of Tracy Island for a more extensive refit.
But they had to get Thunderbird One first. The abandoned airport buildings were just silent hulks of darker shadow against the sky a couple hundred yards back in the direction Thunderbird Two had come in from. Scott glanced at the long furrow of destruction that Thunderbird Two had left in her wake. "Let's go," he said. "Stay sharp."
Alan and Tin-Tin exchanged looks; Scott saw his youngest brother frown a little at Tin-Tin's expression, but she turned away immediately as she had done with Scott back inside the exit hatch. Virgil made a noncommittal grunt and fell into step behind his field commander.
The bad feeling in his gut grew stronger with every step Scott took closer to the long, low hangar where they'd left his 'bird. He wished he could trigger her systems remotely the way he would normally do, just for reassurance – but his wristcom stayed stubbornly dark. It occurred to him suddenly that John and their father would be wondering what the hell had happened to them. In their place, he'd have been climbing walls.
Reaching the hangar, they paused to take stock. There were no vehicles they could see, no other people in the area. Scott instinctively avoided the front, with its vast, building-height doors that faced the runway Thunderbird Two had just destroyed. He led them instead to the smaller door a third of the way down the long side closest to them.
The others behind him, Scott reached out and turned the handle. The hangar's interior was as black as the inside of a tomb. Scott waved them through the doorway, watching to make sure nothing made its presence known behind them. "Go left, One's toward the back. Wait until we're all in before you use the glowsticks, just in case."
"What's that smell?" Alan said as they filed in and Scott closed the door.
"Sulfur." Tin-Tin sounded suddenly very nervous. "Scott, I don't think we should –"
All the lights blazed on.
Scott gave an involuntary shout of surprise and pain, throwing his arm up to cover his eyes as the sudden fierce flare of white stabbed at his optic nerves. He could hear the same shocked reactions from the others, but it took a few moments to blink his vision clear enough to see what was going on.
When at last he succeeded, the sight that greeted him defied understanding.
The sleek form of Thunderbird One stood on her struts where he'd left her, near the back of the cavernous hangar. Behind her was a jet that hadn't been there before, painted black; not quite military but not quite civilian either. But what was happening in the center of the room was definitely the main event.
Someone had painted a large red circle, easily twenty feet in diameter, on the concrete floor. Within the circle, just touching the inside edge with its red points, was an image he recognized from Gordon's horror movie collection as a pentagram. Scattered across the entire interior of this bizarre piece of pavement art were arcane-looking symbols in both red and gold. Just outside the circle sat a large, ornately-decorated golden bowl filled with some dark, liquid-looking substance that couldn't be identified from this distance, beside which stood a powerful, wide-shouldered man with harsh, Asian features and a bald head. He was stripped to the waist, and in his right hand he gripped the golden hilt of a dagger with a long, curved blade. A thin red line on the palm of his left hand made Scott suddenly wonder if he knew what was in the golden bowl…
The Asian man spoke then, staring straight at Scott, his deep, heavily accented voice ringing across the empty hangar. "Welcome, Scott Tracy. I have been waiting for you and your family to arrive."
He snapped his fingers and suddenly, out of thin air, a dozen armed men and women rushed at them.
"Get out of here! Get out now!" Scott swung toward his team but before he could take even one step, an invisible force struck him out of nowhere and he was flying backwards through the air. He smacked full force into the concrete floor, the impact half-stunning him and knocking the breath from his lungs. He rolled from sheer instinct, gasping, fighting to get his feet back under him. His shotgun was gone. As he fumbled to drag the Sig Sauer out of its holster, he caught sight of Tin-Tin standing there as if rooted to the spot by some sort of shock; saw Alan shouting at her, trying to pull her backwards. Then Virgil lunged past his field of vision, arms outstretched as if to bodily sweep them both to safety. The roar of a shotgun nearly deafened him, the buckshot whipping past close enough for him to feel the wind.
Tin-Tin's scream rang out as the force of the hit knocked Virgil off his feet and slammed him into the hangar wall. Scott could only watch with horror as he slid to the floor and lay still.
Leaving the wall above him slick with blood.
Building on the encouragement of the glow sticks working, it hadn't taken Gordon long to figure out that the chemical heating tabs of their hot ration cans should be equally operational. He was just sitting back down in the pilot's seat of Thunderbird Two in triumph, hot cup of coffee in his hand, when all the cockpit lights suddenly flickered once, twice, and then came back on full strength.
He managed to avoid spilling the coffee in surprise, and then almost did it again as a familiar voice issued from the speakers behind him. "—bird Two from Thunderbird Five. Do you read me, over! Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Five, come in please. Where the hell are you guys?"
Gordon swung around toward the control panel, relieved to see the instruments all glowing with welcoming illumination. "Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Two, reading you five by, Johnny."
"Gordon? Is that you?" John's voice sounded like it was about to crack with strain. "Dad, I've got them! I've got Thunderbird Two!"
"Yeah, it's me. Don't ask me what happened, though. One minute we were coming in for a landing and the next we had a total power failure."
"What do you mean, a total power failure?" Jeff Tracy's voice had never felt so comforting, so solid in Gordon's ears.
"Just what it sounds like, Dad. We lost everything – engines, communications, electronics, hydraulics, the works."
"But that's impossible."
"Amazing how we all wear out the same tune around here," Gordon sighed. "I assure you, Dad, not only is it possible, but we've got proof. Virgil had to crash Two to get us down."
"Is everyone all right?" The strain was audible in his father's voice, too, now.
"Yeah, we're a bit beat up but nothing a couple days in the whirlpool couldn't fix. Wish I could say the same for Two."
"Never mind Thunderbird Two, son. She's repairable. What matters is that you and your brothers and Tin-Tin are safe. Let me talk to Scott."
"He went with Virg and the others to the hangar to get One. Hang on, let me see if his wristcom is working again."
"I'll do it," John said. Gordon could hear him hailing Scott. There was a brief pause, and then John said, "That's funny. He's not answering, and I can't get a fix on his location."
Another pause, and when he came back his voice had changed. "I can't get a fix on anyone's location. All I see is yours."
The uneasy feeling in Gordon's gut, the one he'd known from that brief look that Scott shared with him, came back full force. "John, are you getting a location on Thunderbird One?"
"Negative."
"What's going on?" Jeff asked sharply. "Gordon, where are they?"
"Hold on, Dad. Doing a visual." Gordon glanced over at the controls for Two's external cameras, relieved to see that their status lights were a steady green. He punched up the panel, selected the one mounted on the periscope that extended above the hull directly over the cockpit. It rose slowly, sensors automatically switching it to night vision mode as it turned to point back in the direction they'd come.
He couldn't suppress a gasp as the airport buildings came into view. The hangar where they'd left Thunderbird One was gone.