Home for a bit, which explains the over-active keyboard. Promise I'll slow down, soon. Thanks for your kind reviews, Tikatu and Bow Echo. (El, you win the bubble-gum cigar!) Hi, cd1!
6
Tracy Island, down in a mostly empty and echoing hangar-
Virgil Tracy swung himself into the cockpit of… well, 'Thunderbird-prototype', he guessed. Almost on autopilot, himself, the dark-haired young man kept his emotions in check, thinking: Man, the GDF's gonna be pissed! Followed by: Screw 'em, who cares?
He'd kissed Grandma, and got her hug, in return, pretending not to notice when Captain Taylor did the same thing (yet another emotional bomb for the 'do not open' pile, buried way down inside of him). Lee was strapping into the copilot's seat to his left, whistling something tuneless and brisk. Gordon, Brains and Max were back in the barren equipment hold, clipping themselves onto the Bird's bright yellow cargo webbing, because there weren't any seats. Thunderbird-P hadn't even been painted, yet. Looked like a cross between Thunderbird Shadow and a GDF transport shuttle, only bigger, and silvery-grey.
After that business with the training sim, back at the Ranch, Virgil had realized that they needed another Bird; one with the capacity to safely evacuate large numbers of refugees from Earth, to the nearest safe haven. Mars, say, or Elysium. So, he, Brains and Gordon had worked themselves practically into the ground, producing this big, bat-shaped monstrosity. Whatever. At least she would fly, and that was major. Virgil Tracy, grounded, was a deeply unhappy young man.
A chime sounded, as Virgil was running a super-fast preflight systems-check. John's holographic image appeared in the air before him, looking calm and expressionless (meaning he was probably doing about seventeen things, at once).
"Hey, Virgil… Uncle Lee. Change of plan. Scott will be riding over in 5, with me. Get boots on the ground a little faster, that way. I've launched the Birds. Scott's remote-flying 1, Eos has 2, and I'm doing my best to shift the station, plus keep the GDF's planes on the ground. They've just developed a nasty virus. You'll have to transfer to Thunderbird 2 in midair, Virgil, along with Gordon. Captain Taylor, if you'd stay behind in the prototype, with Brains…?"
"We c'n pick them trapped folks up from two places, at wunst. Sounds like a plan, Jase. Me 'n Vic, here, c'n handle th' transfer. You want Godfrey ta hit th' drink, directly we've reached Destiny?"
John's image looked to one side, briefly, then back at Virgil and Lee.
"Yes, Sir. Scott says we've got to be sure that the rig isn't leaking, below. Don't need an ecological disaster, on top of everything else."
Virgil nodded, then, saying,
"What about Thunderbird 3, John? You haven't mentioned Big Red."
A brief smile-shadow touched the astronaut's face, and he said,
"3 is being remote-flown by a certain kid brother. Didn't expect Alan to just sit in his dorm room and cheer, did you?"
"H*ll, no," Cut in Taylor. "Knowin' Alvin, he'll probably beat us all ta th' danger site… and we're green acrost th' board. Go f'r launch, Vic."
Virgil flexed his broad shoulders, and nodded, again. Looking around at that bare, unfinished cockpit (cables still on the deck, wires dangling, Mini-Max jacked into the force-shield controls, no cushioning, yet, on the seats) he sighed. Then, the pilot signed off and switched comm settings to bring up Grandma Tracy. She was at Dad's old desk, looking busier, even, than John.
"Got the all-clear on this end, Grandma," Virgil told her. "Ready to get this Bird in the air, at your say-so."
She smiled at him, blue eyes crinkling fondly.
"You got it, Teddy. Cleared for launch, with expected midair rendezvous in… twenty-two minutes, give or take. Rough weather, up north, so you boys be safe. I'll hold th' fort, and keep them GDF take-over crews at bay. Offer 'em supper, if I have to. That'll send 'em screaming into th' night!"
Virgil snorted, but didn't deny it.
"Love you, Grandma," he told her, while Taylor mouthed 'Save some f'r me', beside him. Possibly the only man in the world who actually liked Grandma's cooking, Lee was one hardy guy.
And just then, with their entire world seeming to wobble and slip like a de-magnetized compass needle… with nothing but dark uncertainty up ahead… Virgil thought: Please let this all work out, somehow. Please, let it all be okay.
He wanted Emma, and his family. He wanted to fly, and to rescue folks in a bind. He wanted nothing ever to change.
Ahead of them, those big hangar doors unlocked themselves with a thump, and then began rumbling slowly apart. Golden sunlight spilled into the hangar bay. Robots skittered away from the prototype Bird and its runway, abandoning their last-minute touches. Virgil felt unaccountably buoyant as he ran up the engines, which grumbled to life like an awakening super-volcano.
'Everything's better in the air,' he thought, beginning to hum as he taxied her out into daylight. Wished he was back in Thunderbird 2, rather than this half-finished husk. But, flying was just like pizza, or sex: even when bad, it was good.
Giant tyres crunched over tarmac. A hundred feet, two, two-fifty… Once out to the green-line, Virgil halted her roll, and then fired the new Bird's mighty VTOL rockets. Slowly, the iron-grey prototype began to rise through the air, whipping the vegetation around her entirely flat. Over the shaking and cataclysmic roar, he called,
"On our way, Scott. See you in the sky."
XXXXXXXXXXX
Same time, in the Prototype's uninsulated cargo hold-
Gordon Tracy was wearing ear protection. They all were, except for Max, who could just mute his audio receptors and hang on tight. On the other hand, all that vibration was hard on the robot's delicate components, so maybe they were even, after all.
Gordon should have been worried, probably; but after nearly two weeks of construction detail, he was ready to fly anywhere, in anything at all, if it meant that he got back to 4, and the deep, quiet sea. He was in uniform, reflexively checking its systems, because one leaky valve could mean a very bad day in the water. Like, permanent bad. So, yeah… he was a little obsessive. Out there, your equipment was your life. Do the math.
Brains just looked huge-eyed and miserable. The engineer had never liked flying, and he'd had some real bombs dropped on him, recently; first at the Ranch, with the defection or kidnap of Braman, then that cluster-f*ck on Ross Island, and now an illegal mission, in his untested prototype Thunderbird. So, yeah… good times.
Well, his own heart and whatever had logged a few city miles, by this point, so Gordon could empathize. Pulling out one of his earbuds (currently blasting 'Twilight Zone', by Golden Earring) the aquanaut swallowed his gum and reached over to pat Hackenbacker's thin shoulder.
"Gonna be okay!" he shouted, when Brains looked his way. "We do good work, and Virgil's an awesome pilot… almost better than me." Almost.
Brains, who'd locked himself into that yellow cargo webbing like a spider's freshly-wrapped kill, gave a convulsive swallow, and nodded. Whispered something that looked like,
"Thank you, M- My Friend,"
But didn't seem very soothed. His eyes looked as big and brown as a frightened horse's, with a similar get-me-the-h*ll-out-of-here white ring, all around. Max just hunkered, able to shift and roll a bit with the Bird's movements; clinging to webbing and bulkhead with multiple arms. Had his neck retracted all the way down, making him look like a giant white turtle on treads. Must've chirped something encouraging, because his mic-light flickered, but Gordon couldn't hear it. Max had one of his data-feed arms plugged into a bulkhead socket; both powering up, and keeping an eye on the prototype's systems.
Pretty soon… well, five minutes after launch, maybe… the big, hollow equipment hold began to get cold. Like, breath-misting, gonads-crawl-back-up-inside-of-you cold. Not worse than Titan, though, and his pressure suit could handle a few temp fluctuations. Max didn't care, either. Brains was in serious trouble, though.
On the bright side, Gordon had brought a fleece-lined jacket along, just in case. Now, he reached into his yellow personals bag, clipped tight to the webbing beside him, and fished out the jacket for Brains. Poor guy was wearing nothing but an orange work coverall and light nylon boots. Okay for the hangar, sure, but not up at altitude.
"Here!" Gordon called loudly, barely able to hear himself, "Put this on!"
…Guessed he'd just have to impress the ladies some other way. Clean thoughts and bold deeds, maybe. Or, y'know… flex a few muscles. He'd already updated his webpage, which the GDF couldn't block, for all of their trying… and his subscriptions had gone through the roof, and out into space.
So, maybe Gordon should have been worried, but it just wasn't in the aquanaut's nature. Instead, as Brains struggled into that too-large leather jacket, Gordon popped his earbud back in and groped through the bag for another stick of peppermint gum. Seriously, frickin' could not wait for their midair transfer to Thunderbird 2, and his beautiful Sea Bird. Because… Ladies and Gentlemen… it was about to be hero-time.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
London, in the GDF tower, General Steele's office-
Robert Steele cut off his wall screen, on which chaos was happening, live. Then he turned his chair to face the doorway. Captain Kraft had just been admitted, together with her legal counsel. Perfectly erect, cover tucked under one arm, she received his nod, and came forward. Best keep matters brief, Steele decided. He had a schedule to maintain. Next, Captain O'Bannon would be arriving from Global-1, her former command.
Regarding the rigid young officer before him, Steele did not smile, nor did he gloat. He was a surgeon, excising weak, diseased tissue. Anything at all that the Tracys had touched and corrupted, had to be eliminated, before that infection spread further. Unfortunate, really. Not a bad-looking female, though rather short. Young enough to have been his daughter, if he'd ever started a family. But, a maker of foolish choices, just like Ridley O'Bannon, and Penelope Ward.
Kraft crossed the room, stopping on a painted red square, exactly five paces in front of his desk. Then, standing at attention, she saluted the general.
"Good morning, Sir. Captain Kraft, reporting as ordered," she said, green eyes focused directly forward. Her counsel, young, low-ranking and visibly nervous, came to her side and saluted, as well. Steele returned the salute, as was proper.
"Good morning, Captain. Let us dispense with small talk. You are here because certain irregularities have been noted in Union Jack's logbook. You are hereby relieved of command, and will await court-martial, confined to quarters. That is all."
Her breathing roughened a bit, Steele noticed, but Kraft retained her military bearing. Light flickered from the braid and gold emblems on her dress whites, however, betraying a slight tremble.
"On what grounds, Sir? Any 'irregularities' were authorized by…"
"Someone who is no longer here to defend your illegal activities, Captain. Two someones. As previously stated, that is all. Dismissed."
Kraft saluted him. Then, without speaking further, she turned on her heel and left the room. One down, two to go, and not yet eight o'clock.
XXXXXXXXXX
Earlier, in London, approaching a well-hidden Thunderbird Shadow-
Naturally, Kayo had received that alert, as well. Or, maybe… thankfully, she had. After all that had happened, there'd been no guarantee that her adopted family would trust her enough to call on the girl for assistance. Might have been just an oversight, but Tanusha Kyrano intended to make the most of it.
She was still in the city, taking the rooftop "high road" to get back to her stealth-locked Bird. Kat Cavanaugh was along, too, because she wanted IR's angle on all this, and only Kayo could give it. The girl had paused atop a replica of the old City Hall, once her wrist comm started buzzing. Uncertain perch, being glassy and bulbous, but surely no one would hunt for them, there.
"What is it?" demanded Kat, crowding closer for a look, while pulling out her own device. The reporter was out of breath, despite their reasonable pace, and Tanusha's frequent hand-ups.
"An alert. Out in the North Pacific, somewhere. I'll have to cross-check these coordinates with…"
"Don't bother, Ducky," Kat stopped her. "Judging by the data feeds, something's gone wrong with the demo mission, and your impounded Birds have just launched themselves. You'll want to head for Cutwater Destiny, and I'm coming along."
Kayo sucked in a deep breath. Those dumb kids had gotten themselves into trouble, forcing her brothers to break house-arrest to go help them?
"Awfully neat coincidence," Kay mused aloud.
Cavanaugh snorted, rolling her brown eyes heavenward.
"Coincidence, no. Trap, yes. In glowing, mile-high letters, yet. Naturally, your hunky, beef-cake brothers will pile right into it, and get themselves arrested, if they somehow get through this, alive. Count on it, Ducks, there's another shoe up there, and it's dropping from further. Of course, 'Hotties in Jail' makes a good series hook, too. Hmm…"
The reporter balanced her hands up and down in front of her, as though weighing alternatives. Meanwhile, Kayo tapped her wrist comm to acknowledge the Code-Red Alert. Then, she snapped,
"How about, 'none of the above'? Come on, Cavanaugh. I'll fly, and deflect that other 'shoe', you figure out who's behind all this, and how we can stop them."
Kat grinned at her.
"I always did like a nice overseas flight. Just go easy on the aerobatics, Ducky, unless you want to ruin the upholstery."
Kayo's face in the rising dawn was perfectly angelic as she said,
"Sensitive tummy, hmm? Well, don't you fret yourself, Cavanaugh. Smooth as silk, the whole way. I promise."
…never occurred to her that perhaps a nosy reporter just wanted to find out what Shadow could really do.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Out over the North Pacific, by Cutwater Destiny-
Thunderbird 1.2 had reversed thrust, and was now hauling backward with all the muscle it had, trying to right that crumpling observation platform. Distracted by screaming crosswinds, flickering power-levels, and projected shear-loads, Janice almost missed it, when Thunderbird 2.2 showed up.
The big blue cargo plane arced into view from the south-east, followed by their bright-orange (and not yet space-rated) rocket. The cloud-carrier wouldn't be too far behind, the girl figured. Cutting her comm back on, Jan said,
"There you are! Just lower the cargo door, Josh, and start taking people aboard. Fast and safe, guys. I think they spiced up the mission, just to test us."
Josh replied to her, sounding concerned.
"Do us a favor and don't shut your comm down like that, anymore, Jan. We're supposed to be communicating, here."
Then Caleb cut in, saying,
"For real, you had us worried, Leader-Babe. Nobody likes checking the news to see if their commander's still in one piece. Right, Piper?"
The astronaut clicked her mic by way of response, being shy of her own voice on the airwaves. Didn't much like doing interviews, either. Cody said nothing at all, probably upset that she'd cut him off. They'd make up later, though, just like always.
Thunderbird 2.2 was banking around the big deep-water drilling platform, when several things happened, at once. Those tautly strained magnetic cables snapped, Jan's engines stalled, and Thunderbird 1.2 nose-dived right for the elderly rig's main deck. Jan's stomach lurched as she plunged through the air. Couldn't restart, or pull up.
The girl had no time to scream, only think. She could punch out, leaving her crippled Bird to crash on the swaying platform, with almost a full load of fuel. Or, she could fight the stick, and ride Herbie down to the ocean. No contest. Pulling hard on those stubborn control levers, Janice said,
"I'm going down. Get those people to safety, Josh, whatever it takes."