A/N Thank you for the kind reviews of Chapter 1. I am currently working on a longer story, not related to Atlantic Inferno, but thought I would use some of the ideas to write a second part for this piece - perhaps as a kind of prequel. I also have an outline for a third part to this story so watch this space!
Spoilers for "Atlantic Inferno", "Terror in New York City" and "The Uninvited".
Disclaimer: I do not own International Rescue or The Thunderbirds
Atlantic Inferno: Ashes
Part 2
I finish rubbing the towel over my damp hair and fold it neatly – half, then half again – and drape it over the towel rack. Corners tweaked and aligned, both ends hanging an equal distance. I turn my attention to the mirror above the sink. I wipe the steam, first a thick band at eye level, but the uneven view irritates me so I clean the entire expanse of water residue until the face looking back is clear. Uniform.
The reflection is one I know well. I have looked at this reflection every day for over fifty years and in that time only the lines have got deeper, the hair greyer, perhaps the eyes more tired and wearisome. But the expression remains the same. Solid, steely, firm. In my profession I have always worked on keeping a poker face; people want someone they can depend on to get the job done. Emotions, smiling, laughing, anger, frustration, they get in the way. You can't make life or death decisions in that state.
Jeff Tracy shows no emotion. Jeff Tracy shows no fear.
I raise one of my thick grey eyebrows and allow the slightest hint of a smirk on my lips. Jeff Tracy might not show fear, but he sure as hell feels it. Fear, anger, frustration, elation, pride - I'm a veritable emotional rollercoaster. But it has to be put away, kept in a box and locked tight. It's the only way International Rescue can function efficiently. And yes, Jeff Tracy is one for running things efficiently. Or, as my old commanding officer once wrote on my personnel file "blunt to the point of rudeness – but always right."
I had certainly pulled no punches at the debriefing earlier. I remember the exact words out of my mouth: "International Rescue does not attend unless lives are in danger." His flinch told me that I might as well have physically struck him. I always wondered when this would become a problem. It has definitely been a case of when, not if.
He was a hot shot fighter pilot, decorated for bravery and tipped for 'great things'. He was used to calling the shots, being on the field and making the choices. And although on paper Scott becoming pilot of Thunderbird 1 seemed a natural choice, I have always wondered when he would begin to resent it. International Rescue took away his independence, the respect and reputation he had earned and the lifestyle – and women – he was accustomed to. Instead of being celebrated as a hero, he is living a reclusive existence, taking orders from his father and looking after his four younger brothers. I remember all I had managed to achieve by his age. I would resent it too.
Glancing at my reflection, expressionless again, I begin my evening ablutions. Methodologically I squeeze toothpaste onto the brush – neatly rolling up from the bottom of the tube – then replace the cap tightly, ensuring there is no overspill around the edge. Looking at my wrist communicator, I flip the dial to stopwatch and begin brushing in a rigorous back and forth motion. One minute for the top row, spit, one minute for the bottom row, rinse. As I brush I think.
The reasons that Scott cannot lead International Rescue are clear to me already. I mentally tick them off in my head, an old habit that I have clung to throughout the years. If you include a semblance of routine and logic in tasks they become mundane; sending people off to die becomes manageable. Sending your own sons off to a danger zone becomes bearable. Just.
Reason one: He is morally unambiguous. His logic and beliefs are Boolean: black/white, on/off, good/evil, stop/go. He cannot see that for International Rescue to thrive we must be selfish, both with our time and with our technology. Look at business, war, even love; everything I have ever experienced has proven to me that to protect others, you first need to protect yourself.
The head of International Rescue must firstly keep his men and technology safe. I am more aware than ever that every single time we launch we put ourselves at danger: from technological malfunction, accident, discovery, even espionage! My blood still runs cold when I remember waiting for Virgil to return after Two was hit by missiles. Or the time when Scott and One were shot down in the desert. Or… no, I have to keep it in the box.
I notice that I am gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white. Every time they launch I wonder if this will be the last time. To send them out to a gas leak for goodness sake! I let out a harsh laugh, more of a bark, in distain for the recklessness of my eldest.
Toothbrush back in its holder, upright with bristles facing outward, then I reach for the floss. The most hated part of my evening routine. I measure out an exact length, rip it off and wind it, three times, around each index finger. In order, left to right, top then bottom, I start. When the metallic taste hits my tongue I barely notice it. I'm angry again. I want to go and find him and physically make him see the consequences of his decision. The box is coming undone. Deep breath and back to the checklist - order and logic.
Reason two: He is too headstrong and passionate. I used to take pride in observing how well he lived up to the Tracy reputation. When he was decorated for bravery in the line of duty, I thought my chest would burst with pride. Out of all my sons, he is the one who fit the mould, the chip off the block, the apple from the tree. But his emotions are always near the surface, perhaps not quite as much as Gordon or Alan, who can be relied upon to explode with laughter or anger at any given situation, but as his reactions over the past few days have proven, he cares too much to be objective. I can't trust that he will always choose his head over his heart.
And finally, reason three: He is my son and I love him. As his father, I want to protect him and keep him safe. I am experienced at covering up just how much I care about my sons. Every mission I send them off with an imperative and welcome them back with a hand shake as if they were no more than my employees. Scott is a second father to the others and I assume he experiences the same fear as I do when things go wrong. As long as I'm in command and issuing the orders, I can protect him from the agony and guilt of feeling responsible for the death of someone he loves. God knows that after twenty years, it still lays heavy in my chest. I should have saved her. But I will keep her boys safe. As long as I'm in control I can do this for her.
Lost in memories, I jolt as soft fingertips stroke my greying temples and then move down my forehead to the folds at the corners of my eyes before tracing the grooves to my mouth.
"Jeff Tracy, you are taking a very long time," A sweet soft purring on the back of my neck. Like a balm it eases me and the tension ebbs from my forehead. I look at her reflection next to mine, wryly noting the contrast: young and old, soft and harsh.
"I should speak to him. Clear the air."
"In the morning. He is too much like you, let him lick his wounds in peace. I am more concerned about you, Jeff. You didn't get a proper holiday!"
I turn and reach my hand around her waist, pulling her to me. She smiles and moves out of my grasp before taking hold of my right index finger and gently pulling me towards the door. Jeff Tracy, head of International Rescue, follows meekly like a lamb.
As I get to the doorway, I notice the picture on the wall is slightly askew. I frown and adjust the corner of the frame until it is level. Continuing on through the door I suddenly stop, reach back and give the picture a hard flick. Then I follow Penny into the bedroom.
Jeff Tracy is trying to be more human.