FIFTEEN
Gordon Tracy had lived through several events in his lifetime that still haunted his worst nightmares but nothing could have prepared him for the disturbing condition of his two brothers or the experience of cutting Virgil's uniform from his unresponsive body.
Gordon could still feel the sticky blood on his fingers and hear the way the heavy, wet material had squelched as he'd struggled to cut through it. He'd revealed the wound and then had to squeeze his eyes tight against the wave of nausea that had washed over him. Considering his experience in dealing with injuries, that was saying something. He doubted the image would ever leave him.
Dr Jackson had rescued him from enduring it for long, taking over with the efficiency and confidence of someone who wasn't emotionally vested in his brother's survival. He'd whisked Virgil away, taking Alan as his assistant, leaving Gordon with the job of patching Scott up.
At least that was what he was supposed to be doing.
Gordon gritted his teeth and willed himself to concentrate. He was part-way through stitching Scott's wrist and he knew he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by worry for Virgil.
He tried to focus on the damage to the wrist, taking the needle only just deep enough to pull the skin together. He tugged on the thread and was about to tie it off, when slight movement in the bed caught his eye.
"Scott?" Gordon moved closer but his brother's eyes didn't open. Instead, they moved erratically under the closed, bruised lids.
"Scott?" Gordon tried again, placing a hand on his brother's arm. The gesture was meant both to reassure and to safeguard the stitching. "Don't move. You hear me?"
"Ugh," Scott groaned and Gordon watched his brother raise the other arm in an attempt to pull the oxygen mask away.
"Lie still," he urged. "I'll raise the bed."
"Don't..." Scott breathed, licking his lips and closing his eyes again. "Don't raise the bed."
Gordon understood immediately. "You feel nauseous?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," Gordon gave the arm another squeeze of reassurance. "You want something for it?"
"Give it a minute."
After a while Scott pulled his eyes open cautiously.
"How do you feel?" Gordon asked him.
"Terrible," he admitted.
Gordon nodded in sympathy, studying his patient to assess his current level of understanding. "That's kind of to be expected. You're been drifting in and out for a while now. Do you know who you are?"
"Scott Tracy... April four... Tracy Island... South Pacific. "
"You know where you are now?"
"Sick bay in Thunderbird Two." It was a monotone and Scott's responses were bordering on automatic. "I think we've established I'm lucid, Gordon."
"Uh-uh," Gordon shook his head and reached for a clipboard. "I have a whole heap of questions to ask you first." He made a show of running a finger down the paperwork. "What's your date of birth?"
"I already told you that."
"So, humour me."
"April fourth." The reply came with a snap.
"Where do you live?"
"Tracy Island."
"What's the phone number of that cute blonde on reception in the New York office?"
Scott scowled but Gordon was expecting it and simply shrugged. "You can't blame a guy for trying."
"Virgil's bad, isn't he?"
Gordon heaved a sigh and perched himself on the side of the bed. "He's alive. Doc thinks it's a miracle. He'd lost a hell of a lot of blood. They've managed to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding but…"
"But?"
"He'd lost so much blood, Scott. A dangerous amount of blood," Gordon reiterated. "He was pretty much running on empty. It's still too early to say if there's going to be any complications."
"What kind of complications?" Gordon's answer didn't come fast enough. "Gordon!" he growled out.
"He was showing signs of cyanosis; there wasn't much oxygen getting around." Gordon sighed, hating the pained look as it stole across his brother's face.
"To his internal organs?"
"Or his brain."
He watched Scott suck in his top lip and fix his eyes on the ceiling.
"The medicone was holding but the bullet must've shifted when we got out. Maybe it nicked something. He was bleeding out so fast…. I wasted time. I should've got him out quicker."
"Scott… don't." Gordon shuffled uncomfortably. "Look, I don't know what went off down there but I do know that if I was going to get shot and tortured, I'd want you by my side. You did enough," he stressed. "You got Virgil out."
"Where is he now?"
"In the Triage room." Gordon was pleased to move the conversation on. "Doc figured there was less risk of infection in there."
Scott took a deep breath and resorted to drawing on the oxygen mask. "I need to see him," he said shuddering a cough.
"You're kidding me, right?" The shock of the request etched itself into every crease of Gordon's forehead. "I'm halfway through stitching your wrist."
One look at Scott's face told him there was no 'kidding' and that he didn't give a damn about what was currently being stitched.
"You just told me you felt nauseous and that you couldn't sit up. Your feet are shredded, too, by the way so how are you even going to stand to get there?" Gordon chuckled out an apprehensive laugh. "Just lie back and relax, I promise I'll let you know if there's any news."
Scott was resolute, "I said I want to see him, Gordon."
Gordon realised he was running out of excuses and brokered a pact instead; "Look, how about we make a deal? I'll finish stitching your wrist and if you haven't drifted off back to press rewind and delete on your memories, we can get John to bring up a feed of the triage room?"
There was an ominous pause as Gordon prayed for compliance.
"Okay," Scott finally agreed. "It's a deal."
XxxxX
Thousands of miles above the earth, John Tracy approached the main communications console on Thunderbird Five. Fresh from the shower and still towelling his hair, he reached for his coffee mug and took a sip. Allowing himself a moment to take in a deep breath, he expelled it slowly, watching the earth below him as it turned.
John relaxed as the holographic displays on the viewing window ticked by, denoting the different time zones. Sure enough as the one that Alan had changed to read 'Tracy Island Time', ticked around to eight am, the communications console sprang to life.
"Thunderbird Five, Thunderbird Five from Base."
John wandered away from the window and placed his mug to one side as he settled in to his chair and rolled it closer to the console.
"Base, this is Thunderbird Five, reading you strength five," he confirmed as he checked his instruments. "Go ahead."
John's eyes lifted to the main screen just in time to see the International Rescue insignia fade to reveal his father sat behind his desk.
"Morning, son," Jeff's lips pulled into a smile but John suspected it wasn't born from humour. His father's eyes told a story of weariness and what they all felt … anxiety. "Did you sleep well?"
John offered a nod, "Better than you by the looks of it, Dad."
"I managed a couple of hours," Jeff reassured him. "I'll feel a lot happier when they're all home again and I can see them with my own two eyes."
"Yeah, me too." John became wistful, wishing he'd have that luxury.
Jeff noted the change. "Once Alan's home and rested, I want you to come down here for a little while."
John's brow furrowed a little. "I'd rather the resources were spent caring for Scott and Virgil. My rotation isn't up until the end of the month."
"I know, but I've been thinking about things and I want us all together."
John watched him carefully. Clearly worry for his brothers wasn't the only thing that had kept his father up all night.
"About what Penelope said before …. " John sensed this had something to do with the future of International Rescue.
"We can discuss it when you're home." His father's response was abrupt and then he changed the subject. "Do you have an update from Two?"
"Affirmative." John checked another monitor, "Estimated time of arrival Base is one hour fifty three minutes."
"FAB," came the response. "Any update on the situation on board?"
John realised that finding out the answer to that had been his father's intention all along. He softened his tone. "There's no change with Virgil, Dad. He's stable but they're not expecting him to regain consciousness for a while. Scott was coherent when he woke last but he's been drifting in and out. Doc says that's normal."
"FAB, Thunderbird Five."
Jeff's flat reply gave John the impression that he hadn't revealed anything his father wasn't already aware of, but there was still a hint of desperation as if hoping for any new snippet of information.
"Thunderbird One will remain flying escort until they're closer to Base," he reported, suddenly distracted as a pink light illuminated on the satellite keyboard. "Dad, I'm showing an incoming call."
"That's affirmative, Thunderbird Five," Jeff's eyes were already straying away from John's portrait in the family lounge where the unmistakable voice of Lady Penelope could be now be heard.
"International Recue, England, calling Base, I repeat: International Rescue, England calling Base."
"Thunderbird Five, standing by."
John signed off as his father took the call.
"International Rescue England, this is Base," Jeff tapped at the controls that would allow Penelope's live image to be broadcast into the room. "Go ahead."
"Good morning, Jeff. I spoke to John earlier and I'm glad to hear everyone is safely on their way home." Penelope made a grand show of looking at her watch. Jeff thought he could just make out a glass of something looking suspiciously like beer in her right hand. "I wanted you to know that my intention when I return to England is to conduct a full root to branch review of our intelligence gathering capabilities. As soon as my report is complete, I'll let you know the recommendations but I'm not anticipating any problems. If I'm truly honest I rather think the circumstances were beyond our control." She smiled at him. "I ran the details of the vehicle Scott and Virgil were travelling in through a few contacts in the Middle East."
"Good thinking, Penelope," Jeff was still uneasy about the mystery surrounding the identity of The Woman. "What did you find?"
"It was stolen nearly a month ago from a place called Ka'Larn." She paused when he frowned, visibly disappointed. "To be frank, Jeff, I'm not at all surprised. I would've done exactly the same thing. We've destroyed the vehicle, courtesy of Thunderbird One's forward cannon and I can report that the clean-up operation is now complete."
Jeff was pleased to hear it. The last thing they needed now was any link to International Rescue or worse, the Tracy family name. "Good. I'm concerned this woman could still pose a risk to us. Did you get anything else?"
"Negative, I'm afraid, Jeff. The explosion was very well planned; it triggered several others on a cascade system. I'm sure once Scott and Virgil are compos mentis, they will confirm that they were extremely lucky to survive themselves. The woman's survival would be highly unlikely."
"Hmm…" Jeff wasn't satisfied so Penelope changed the subject.
"Reports from Russia would indicate that the agreement Russia and Gallium signed has been located. The WSC have invited Chevlock to attend the council. That sounds promising, wouldn't you agree?"
"Why do I get the feeling you already know the outcome of this meeting?" Jeff asked.
"Jeff!" Penelope laughed, a little coy. "I know you think very highly of my skills but even I can't tell the future." She paused to sip on her drink a little off-screen. The way she savoured it, Jeff was now even more convinced that it was beer. "However, my crystal ball is leading me to the conclusion that the WSC will realise the error of their ways. I think they were misled, but no doubt they will be in touch to offer their apologies."
Initially Jeff doubted that but knowing Penelope, this was probably her way of warning him the call would come.
"Gallium is to have a referendum," she announced. "It will remain a country in its own right, however, its political allegiance will be with Russia. In return, Russia will offer it protection."
"More power to Russia." Jeff was disgruntled.
"Well, yes," Penelope was a little offhand about the whole thing. "But I have to say Chevlock seems to be very reasonable in all this. Russia are tied to the World Security Council, after all."
Jeff harrumphed. "Only so long as they want to be."
"And, given the way they're been treated thus far, I'm not sure I would want anything to do with a council so easily led by the influence of the CIA."
Jeff had to admit, that was a good point. "It's only a matter of time, Penny." He sighed. "The war's been deferred not prevented."
Penelope's expression became sombre. "I have to say I agree. Unfortunately, civilisation needs war as it needs crime. It's basic sociology."
"So, we've delayed the inevitable," Jeff huffed, yet again.
"Forewarned is, however, forearmed." Penelope was trying to take the positives. "And we now have time to address the security concerns you discussed so as to ensure we have measures in place to deal with it when it does occur." Jeff didn't immediately respond, so she repeated the sentiment. "We now have time to decide on how best to proceed."
"Hmm."
Penelope was studying him closely and Jeff realised that maybe there'd been something in the way he'd responded that had led her to the conclusion that those decisions had already been made. Jeff had an inkling that his most trusted advisor would counsel caution, that after the anguish and intensity of the last few hours, she would say now was not the time to be making those kinds of fundamental decisions. Jeff reasoned that maybe she'd have a point.
"Now on to more pressing things..." Her words prompted Jeff to look at her directly. "It's rather a good job you're sat down," she began sarcastically. "The CIA has reported the theft of the Titanium turning rounds they were tasked with destroying, but they have given assurance that they've also dealt with the culprit." She raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Apparently, they didn't report it earlier as they were fearful they'd appear incompetent and the American people might lose faith in their integrity." She paused to incline her head a little towards the screen. "If I were an American citizen, Jeff, I think I'd feel rather insulted by that slur on my intelligence."
Even Jeff in his solemn mood, had to snicker at that.
"The WSC has of course, offered thanks to the CIA for sparing them the embarrassment of having to tell the general public that one of the world's most feared terrorists had escaped from their most secure facility. Likewise," she drawled on, "Yemen has extended thanks to the CIA for assisting them following an explosion within their borders." She raised her eyes upwards. " Thank heavens the CIA were less than fifty miles away!"
"That's the official line, huh?"
"The 'official line', as you so call it, is rather dull and boring. The explosion in Yemen was purported to have been an old mortar shell left from conflict over two decades ago. And Kasim Templar took his own life in his Luxemburg jail cell. International Rescue aren't mentioned, which I concede is obviously a good thing. However, it appears the CIA are the heroes of the hour, which I'm afraid rather grates on me when I believe them to be the villains of the piece."
"Penelope," Jeff smiled at the dramatic account. "You're starting to get cynical. It's most unbecoming of a Lady."
She let out a soft laugh before fixing him with one of her stares. "Jeff, I assure you. I am a paradox in every sense of the word."