FOURTEEN
"Operation Boomerang?" John sounded unconvinced. His eyes met Gordon's through the video feed silently questioning whether his brother thought this was as crazy as he did.
John's scepticism didn't seem to faze Lady Penelope in the slightest. "Yes, John. It would seem there may have been a reprisal. Thames House has always…."
"I'm sorry, Lady Penelope." Gordon was apparently the only one prepared to vocalise what his brothers were all thinking. "But this is …"
Jeff had already picked up on the looks being exchanged between his sons. "The last 'Operation Boomerang' was before your time, Gordon. They call it that because every decade or so someone has the bright idea to create some kind of team made up jointly from the CIA and MI6."
"It's then vetoed by politicians, or there are too many arguments about Sharing Protocols and it never comes to fruition," Penelope explained.
"Either way." Jeff dismissed it. "It seems to come up every now and again, then goes quiet for a few years."
"So it's affectionately known," Penelope seamlessly continued, "by those in the know, as Operation Boomerang."
"Because it keeps on coming back." John concluded and was rewarded by nods from those members of their group apparently 'in the know'.
"If some kind of 'Operation Boomerang' is live now. Do you think they could be behind this? The UK would benefit just as much as America." Jeff's question was directed towards Penelope.
Penelope's nod was thoughtful. "It's a possibility. Mossad are under the impression that the CIA and MI6 are collaborating so I certainly wouldn't rule it out."
"You still think this is about creating a war for money?"
"Most things are, Gordon," Penelope's response was tinged with sadness. "I think International Rescue is collateral damage."
"Hmm," Jeff grumbled. "I don't think it can be collateral damage if it's coveted."
"No, perhaps not." Penelope had to admit he had a point.
"What about the Covert Ops Team, Penelope?" Gordon made a show of checking his watch before he continued. "They're due within the next hour, might they be acting under the command of this Operation Boomerang?"
"Quite possibly, it's certainly something we should be prepared for. There was always a desire to gather strong links with International Covert Ops Teams. I wouldn't be at all surprised if the team en route to us now isn't 22 Regiment."
"SAS?" Gordon surprise manifested in his high brows; remembering that was a term he'd heard during his service.
"Hopefully …."
"Urgent Message!" John over-rode whatever his father was about to say. "There's an explosion in Qu'Lak. It's…." It wasn't often John was lost for words. "…it's off the scale."
Gordon moved to the pilot's seat, his fingers flying across the control panels to bring up a digital map of the area. Alan stood to look over his brother's shoulder. He let out a strangled moan. "Oh God, look at the heat readings … ….."
Alan's comment lingered in the air suddenly thick and heavy, as for a few seconds all anyone was capable of doing was watching the changing depth of the red patches on the live feed from Qu'Lak.
Jeff took control. "Gordon, you need to get to Qu'Lak …. Now!"
John's eyes met Penelope's through the video screen, possibly the only other person present showing any remote capability of understanding the political consequences of that order.
Penelope understood John's reluctance to raise concerns when it was the most promising chance yet to liberate his brothers. She attempted to redirect proceedings. "Yemen are not requesting assistance. I think I'm correct in saying that if International Rescue…."
"I don't give a damn!" Jeff erupted so loud that the speakers rattled in Thunderbird Two.
Shocked silence reigned across the airwaves.
It lasted only a few seconds and then Jeff regained control.
"Look, we know they need medical assistance. Get Two to Qu'Lak. Find your brothers and get out. Gordon," He paused for a heartbeat, ignoring the way Penelope was staring at him. "Any means necessary. You have my permission to use as much force as you see fit."
"Yes, sir."
"Penelope." He made minimal eye contact. "I want you to stand guard with One – anyone gets too close, shoot to kill."
"FAB," was her terse reply.
"Mr Tracy!" Tin-Tin entered the room at a jog.
"Tin-Tin, not now, there's …." Jeff Tracy's dismissive tone was halted when he saw the look on her face.
"Mr Tracy…. It's Scott!"
XxxxX
Scott blinked hard against the dust still settling around him, his eyes watering against the tiny fragments of plaster and ground cement hanging in the air like fog. His ears buzzed from the sound of the explosion and it all added to his disorientation, making it feel quiet and eerie. A right-angled blob of colour focused into the corner of a lump of concrete inches before his eyes. Whatever he was laying on was not hard or angular but then there was an intermittent billow of air against his cheek ….
The roar of the explosion faded until he could hear a soft mumble: "Sc… Scott."
"Virgil?" Scott's chest shuddered as he breathed in the dust of what had once been their prison cell, dissolving in to a fit of coughing and spluttering that rocked his whole body.
He heard Virgil's groan at the movement without any issue. "Sc… Scott, can you m… move?"
Flexing his fingers and toes, and gingerly unwrapping the arm he'd used as a cocoon to protect his own head as well as Virgil's, Scott replied. "I'm okay."
"Not…" Virgil growled out. "What I … asked."
Scott suddenly realised why hot air was being puffed against his cheek at regular intervals. He had no idea at what point in the proceedings he'd actually thrown himself over his brother but it was evident that, despite his intention being to protect Virgil from the explosion, the weight of his body had only caused his brother additional pain.
"God, Virgil!" He raised himself up on his hands, took his own weight and then rolled himself off his brother's chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered out against the coughing as yet more dirt showered down on his brother. "You okay?"
Virgil was gasping for air, his face scrunching up with discomfort. "Mmm."
"I'm sorry," Scott repeated. He moved his head to look around but it was like staring in to fog as the aftereffects of the explosion continued to create a sandstorm made of plaster and powdered down cement.
"M'okay. I'm okay." Virgil's words were clear but Scott saw an anxiety in his eyes. He followed Virgil's vision down to the wound and his stomach rolled as Virgil slowly pulled his hand away to reveal blood trickling underneath his fingers.
"We have to go," Scott spluttered out. He spied the hole where the door once stood and started to put an arm around Virgil's shoulders.
"Scott… don't." Virgil's bottom teeth grazed his lip and his head lolled back as if he had no control over the movement. Scott's gut clenched with the reminder that Virgil's condition meant they were running out of time.
Fast.
"Listen to me," Scott resorted to command mode. "We have to get you out of here. We don't have long …"
"I'm…bleeding..."
Ignoring him, Scott continued to weave an arm under his brother's neck in order to pull him up.
"No. Don't…"
Virgil gripped his arm and Scott's frustration exploded. He found himself with a hand either side of Virgil's head, fingertips white with the pressure they were applying as they pinched into his brother's cheeks. "I'm not listening to this. We don't have time!"
After a second or two, the spike of emotional energy waned away. Scott allowed his head to drop until all that would be visible to Virgil was his hair. Which also meant all that was visible to him was the gaping wound that was slowly killing his brother right in front of his eyes. The waft of metallic blood was too much. He raised his head again.
"I don't know how many times I have to say this to you but I'm not leaving here without you."
"Not me, …. Her…" Virgil whispered out. His gaze passed over Scott's left shoulder refocusing into the foggy abyss.
About five feet away, only the Colonel's head was visible between slabs of mortar and bits of cement. Waist down was hidden underneath the rubble. Scott could see the blood carving a path through the grit down her face.
"Don't move." Scott licked his lips, decision made. "Keep your eyes open. You hear me? You give up on me now Virgil, and I swear to God ..."
He didn't finished the sentence.
With an ironic smirk, Virgil responded, "'m not going 'nywhere."
"Good. Because I'm making that an order."
Turning away from Virgil, Scott moved towards the Colonel, eyes searching the rest of the debris for any signs of Templar. He retrieved his weapon from the rubble before continuing towards her. Kneeling down to test her pulse, the adrenaline was pumping hard through his veins and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she opened her eyes.
Seeing that she was conscious, Scott's attention moved to the slab pinning her down.
"No," she coughed. "There's no time."
Scott disregarded her words but as his hands moved to shift the concrete, she reached out to clasp his shirt.
"Scott," she insisted. "You can't save us both. Go."
"I can't just leave you here to die." His voice was barely a whisper. Far too many years of experience weighing up balances and chances told him that was exactly what he needed to do if Virgil even stood a chance at survival. He stared at her blankly.
"This can't be for nothing. International Rescue has to survive. He has to survive." Her eyes slid to where Virgil was propped up against the wall. "Go."
Scott found his own vision following. He didn't need the Colonel's next words to remind him: "He's dying, Scott."
Scott wished there was another way. He felt he should say something to acknowledge what she'd done for them and he had so, so many questions he needed answers to.
"He saves lives." The Colonel interpreted his lack of action as hesitation. "I take them." She gurgled out an ironic chortle. "It's not the hardest command decision you've ever had to make."
Scott gave a brief nod. "If there was another way …." he found himself saying, a little more emotive than his usual control would allow.
The Colonel cut him off. "It's better like this. He's bleeding; you'll need to carry him. Take the boots off the first dead man you come across, and the weapons off any others after that. Shoot to kill. Go." When he didn't move fast enough, she reiterated: "Go!"
Scott reached down for her shoulder and squeezed it tight, hoping to convey all the things his lips couldn't articulate.
"Scott!"
He hesitated.
"I would never have betrayed you." Her eyes met his, clear and untarnished by deceit. "You need to know that."
Scott nodded.
"Good." She let out a breath. "Now, go."
Scott spared her one final glance as headed back to Virgil, but she had allowed her eyes to close, content with her fate.
"Come on," he returned to Virgil to find blood pooling on the floor. "W're getting out of here. You hear me?" He reached for Virgil's arm and there was little resistance as he pulled his brother to his feet.
"Now, we've got to keep the pressure on this, okay?"
Virgil groaned as Scott pushed harder to stem the bleeding. His legs crumbled, his body threatening to fall back to the floor. Scott caught him, holding him upright with some difficulty and placing a hand on his neck to try to support his head.
"This is going to hurt you more than it's going to hurt me, Buddy." He kept talking in an even voice, unsure how compos mentis Virgil was. With that he heaved Virgil's arm across his and dragged him towards the door.
After that, everything was exactly as The Colonel had said it would be.
After commandeering a pair of boots for his shredded feet Scott successfully navigated the tunnels leading to another gaping hole in the complex, gunning down the minimum number of hapless combatants who'd stumbled across them and still managing to drag Virgil along. Retrieving the keys to the vehicle, he'd bundled Virgil into the passenger seat and discarded the weapon he reasoned was now empty into his brother's lap. Virgil was a dead weight, mumbling incoherently and his head lolled forward with a jerk. As Scott clambered into the driver's seat and started the engine, he risked a glance and felt a newfound sense of panic.
"Virg?" He reached a hand to his brother's leg to shake gently. Virgil didn't stir. "Virgil?" he called, louder this time. "You with me? Come on, Virgil, I didn't drag your butt all the way out here for you to die on me now. Huh?" Still no response. "Talk to me… Virgil? Come on." He was getting desperate. "VIRGIL?!" he screeched.
"S'cold. S'snowin'?"
Scott started to move the vehicle forward at a faster pace and tried to make sense of his brother's muddled thoughts. He scanned the interior for anything to distract him. "Snowing? What are you talking about? Huh?"
"Snowin'," Virgil repeated.
"Virgil," Scott kept talking but he knew that there was an element of panic creeping in to this tone. "We're in the dessert, it's not snowing." He reached towards a compartment and a cloud of powdered cement dusted the interior of the truck from his filthy clothes. Suddenly it made sense. "Ahh… no, that's not snow, Virgil." He continued to rummage through the compartment and lunged when he saw a phone. Dividing his attention between switching on the electronic device and what could barely be called a road, he was relieved to see adequate battery and signal strength. "Here," he dialled the prearranged, highly encrypted code Brains had been adamant was only to be used in absolute emergencies. "Take it," he pushed the phone against Virgil's leg. "Virgil, take it."
Blindly Virgil's blood-caked hand fumbled for the small electronic device.
"Come on Virgil!" Scott's voice was louder than necessary; his frustration and desperation translating to shouting somewhere along the line.
"Scott?"
"Tin-Tin!" Scott found himself raising his voice over the straining of the truck's engine, "I need…"
"Hold on, Scott," Her soft tone was like music to calm his soul. "I'll get your father."
XxxxX
Jeff Tracy could hardly believe what he was being told. He glanced between Tin-Tin and the sound-only display on the video screen on his desk.
"Scott?" The hope in his voice was tentative. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," Scott heaved out a heavy, relieved breath at the sound of his father's voice. "Yeah it's me, Dad."
"Thank God!" There was sentiment in that. "Are you okay? Is Virgil okay?" The questions began.
"Virgil's been shot," Scott blurted out, foregoing all the usual pleasantries. "He needs medical help fast. He's barely conscious any more. He's lost a hell of a lot of blood. He's in a bad way, Dad."
"Tell me where you are," Jeff instructed but his hands were also gesturing at John's display on the wall directing him to check.
"I…" Scott sounded distracted. "I don't know, I have a GPS here but… I think I'm heading towards Tehbna. I'm driving a white truck." He paused. "I need you to keep him talking."
Jeff reached for pen and paper on his desk, scribbling down everything Scott was saying. He swallowed thickly at the unspoken undertone to Scott's words.
"Virgil," Scott sounded further away. "Virgil! It's Dad. Come on! How about you talk to him, huh?" he was encouraging.
There was a rustling on the line before a sound that tampered down any hope that Jeff had allowed himself to have.
"Dad?" The voice was recognisable but for all the wrong reasons.
"Virgil … Son …" He tried to sound calm. His thudding heart told him he was far from it. "Can you tell me where you're hurt?"
"Dad," Virgil breathed. "… S'not safe."
"Dad's safe, Virgil. Open your eyes, he's on the phone. Talk to him."
"Tell me where you're hurt, Virgil," Jeff tried to keep his words clear.
"Shot," Virgil murmured. "Stom'ch."
Jeff's pen hesitated on the top curve of his 's'. People didn't just walk away from gunshot wounds to the stomach, particularly left untreated.
"Bleedin'," Virgil swallowed. "Lots'of…. Blood."
Jeff steeled himself to ask the next question. "How long have you been bleeding, son?" He looked to John and acknowledged the message his space bound son had just sent him as the text materialised in front of him on the screen. "John," he said. "Dr Jackson needs to hear this." Then he turned his attention back to the video phone. "How long, Virgil?"
"Dunno," Virgil replied. "Coupla … Y'st'rday?"
Jeff felt his heart miss a beat.
"He's had 25mg of Napraxomorph about twenty minutes ago and a condensed PFCE transfusion … I don't know….probably over an hour ago, the medicone held until we moved but I think the bullet's shifted. He's deteriorating fast and he's losing a hell of a lot of blood. He needs a doctor, Dad."
"It's in hand, Scott. Concentrate on driving, son. Virgil, how do you feel now?"
"M'dicone …. Help'd." Virgil continued.
"That's good," Jeff encouraged.
"Bleedin' 'gain," Virgil carried on as if he hadn't heard.
"Scott," John interrupted, breaching his own radio protocol, "I have you on satellite, just keep driving. The guys are ten minutes away."
Jeff reiterated this to Virgil. "Did you hear that Virgil? Help is on it's way. The boys will be with you soon, they have a doctor with them. He can help you."
"Mmm …"
Virgil's mumble was cut short as Scott announced: "Damn it, we've got company, I'm being tailed."
John's voice burst through the speakers on Tracy Island, "I have a black SUV on radar, Scott, keep driving as fast as you can. The guys will be with you soon, they're…."
"Damn it!" Scott cursed. "He's gaining on me." There was the ping of gunshots on the metal body work on the car. "We're hit! I can't hold it!"
The screech of metal protesting echoed around the Tracy Lounge, followed by a load crunch and then the eerie hiss of steam.
"Scott!" Jeff rose to his feet so hard that his chair clattered backwards to crash into the sideboard behind him. "Virgil!" He shouted. "Answer me!"
The voice that responded wasn't one he recognised.
"Freeze!"
The accent was American.
"I said freeze or I'll shoot!"
Then the tell-tale double click of a gun being readied for action.
Jeff's balled fists rested on his desk, his every muscle taut with a need for action but equally frustrated by the knowledge he could do nothing but stare at an inanimate videophone. A videophone that could be about to provide him with sound-only coverage of his two eldest sons' murders.
"Identify yourself."
"We both know that's not going to happen…."
Jeff's relief at hearing Scott's voice was short-lived.
A gunshot blasted through the speakers; loud, brash and vulgar.
After that, there was only silence.