Hiya! Late, this time, because I've had far more than the usual number of plates to spin. Watched to see what a hundred words looked like, because I have so much respect for those who can drabble... but it looked like so little! Chapeaux, Bow Echo, Creative Girl and Tikatu. I couldn't do what you guys make seem so easy.
15
Thunderbird Prototype, just a bit earlier-
Captain Taylor liked to boast that he could fly anything, in the worst conditions imaginable, whilst hungover and out on parole. Well, three of those four were certainly true, that evening, and the thought brought a grim smile to his handsome, unshaven face. (Didn't regret missing out on the hangover. He'd nursed some real beasts in his day, but this wasn't the time or the place for a week-long drunk, nor its aftermath.) Could've used a cigarette, though.
Or someone to talk to. Not the whole herd, or nuthin'… just a like-minded fellow space drifter, in on the whole cosmic joke, and able to grin at a punch line. Still, a little time-to-time solitude never set a man awry, that he'd noticed. And he surely had plenty to do.
Doc was still over yonder, managing traffic and getting the victims aboard, together with Alvin and somebody else; one of the New Crew, he figured; sweet, shy and gangly-young. (But how the h*ll she'd got herself flight-rated on even a crap Fischler-made rocket was beyond Lee's understanding. He'd thought you had to be out of d*mned high school, first. Then again, Alvin was only fourteen… or was it fifteen? Times had changed.) Shaking his head, Lee stuck to flying, which was what he did best.
The huge hollow Bird was light, more of a big metal bubble with wings and volcanic engines, than a rescue plane. Handled like a kite, only tougher to keep in one place.
Full, shrieking night had fallen by that point, adding to all the fun. Taylor's one job was to keep the prototype gently pressed up against that tottering oil rig, allowing Doc and the kids to get people loaded aboard. Rain lashed the Bird's uninsulated hull, creating a din like hail on an old metal bucket. Thunder boomed and lightening flared, bringing him occasional flashes of everyone else and their various doings. Gale force winds pushed the Bird first this way, then that, as did that big, creaking drill platform; a hundred tons of steel-reinforced concrete and scrambling people.
Taylor chewed gum, fought the controls, and listened for comm chatter; hearing when Spencer and Jase found little What's-her-name, their sister, and when Vic got all the folks off'n that high observation tower, and on into Thunderbird 2.
"It's lookin' good," the pilot grunted, over wind scream and engine roar. "Be home in time f'r breakfast, bet me."
Got a signal from Mike, the robot, then; down in the big, frigid hold. 'Time to close up', he'd said, more or less.
Nodding, Lee reached across a half-finished control panel and pulled up the engineer's comm.
"Doc, it's me," he announced. "Everyone in?"
"W- We are, indeed, Captain T- Taylor. You may, ah… may s- seal the boarding hatch, and d- depart at will." Just a voice, it was, because the Bird's imaging systems weren't on line, yet.
Taylor prepared to reverse thrust. First, though, he shifted the gum in his mouth (nothing but a flavourless wad, by now, but still good for thinking and stress-relief.) Then, he asked,
"Whut about Alvin and the new gal? They back in their Birds, yet? Wunst we pull clear, this heap's comin' down like a sand castle at high tide. Best not ta have no one on deck when she folds, I'm thinkin'."
Another blast of wind shook the prototype, pushing her sideways across wet, rusting metal, producing a blizzard of sparks and a tooth-gritting squeal. Lee wrestled her back into line, again, half-hearing Heckenbeak say,
"Th- They are on Alan's rocket-board, C- Captain. All is, ah… is w- well."
"Y'r the boss, Doc," replied Taylor, being a reasonable fella (as most anyone you cared to ask would agree). Just in case, though, he broadened the comm signal and called, "Everyone clear the h*ll out! We're pullin' free!"
XXXXXXXXXXX
Surfing the storm winds, over a groaning and shuddering drill platform-
He ought to have hurried, maybe, but Alan Tracy couldn't resist showing off just a little. The cracked concrete deck, snapped girders and rusting crew quarters were like a super-cool obstacle course. With a pretty girl's arms wrapped tight 'round his waist, her slim form pressed up against his, Al was in rescue-god heaven. Never mind lightning strikes, high winds and imminent doom. He was with her, and that's all that mattered.
"I can remote-fly my Bird," he sort of not-quite-bragged. "Let's get you back to yours, and then we'll detach from the deck."
Had to yell, almost, because the noise of cyclone and dying rig was so loud.
"Okay! I'll give you a lift back to 3," Piper offered, sounding beautiful, even when just about having to scream. "Promise not to laugh at my Bird, though. Frank's a little bit basic, but I love him. He gets me."
Frank? She'd named her Bird Frank? Alan grinned to himself, and pressed backward a little, snuggling into Piper. There was nothing about her not majorly cool.
"I won't laugh," he promised, enjoying that hug.
He confused the board by leaning back on his off foot, that way. Made it seem like he wanted to slow down, when he didn't. It was pressure-sensitive, responding to position and weight-shifting, both. Alan corrected his stance as they cut back around a crushed-insect shuttle. Rain hammered his helmet, as the wind howled a wild song. Thunderbird 2 had already backed free, overhead. Alan could make out her big, illuminated '2', and blinking red lights in the swirling black sky, up above. Thunderbird 1 was higher, still; circling on autopilot like a long silver shark in a theme-park tank.
He heard Uncle Lee's warning, then, and acknowledged with,
"Yessir! We're on our way!" Only, maybe didn't remember to hit his comm button, first, because he was too busy thinking up ways to make the ride last longer. That's why he cut through the abandoned crew quarters, instead of rising above it. That's why he and Piper were still inside the old building, when the rig began to go down.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Tracy Island, at Leeward Head-
A handful of grounded pilots and assorted GDF peace officers had been backed up against a dark, scowling cliff-face by rising winds and rough, choppy surf. Quite clearly, a storm was coming, but none of their aircraft would start. Nor would their comms fire up for so much as a tapped SOS.
Lieutenant Commander Reese Sheffield was the highest-ranking officer present, and therefore responsible for all of the men and women stuck on that unshielded spit of bare beach. They looked up to him, expecting solutions from that much gold braid and bright emblems… except he was out of ideas.
Then, just as the gathering clouds began flashing with distant, as-yet-silent lightning, a section of cliff slid aside, revealing a square of warm, golden light. Sheffield blinked his dark eyes in surprise, as a little flat robot zipped out of the doorway on sand-flinging treads. Beeping merrily, it trundled right up to the huddled pilots and crewmen, then issued a glowing hologram.
There in the dark, on that bleak, windy shore, they saw a slim older woman outlined in flickering blue. Taller than they were, and louder, the woman said,
"You c'n go to th' cliff and let 'em in, Chips, but make sure they leave all their weapons outside on th' beach." Then, for good measure, the small metal robot projected the image of a rifle, with a big, red 'NO' slash cutting across it.
"L.C.?" Asked one of the pilots, a little nervously. "Should we do as it says?"
Another gust of wind rattled their clothing and emergency shelters, whipping froth off the wave tops and wetting them all. Lieutenant Commander Sheffield pondered briefly, looked out at an oncoming, dirty, wild night, and then nodded.
"Looks like we'll have to," he grimaced, dropping his own sidearm there on the glittering strand. "But that doesn't mean we'll go quietly, or that we've abandoned the mission. Drop your weapons and follow the bot. In good order, and ready for anything. We've seen what these bastards can do."
XXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 1, shortly thereafter-
Scott Tracy shot away from those towering, spuming black waves, with a female pressed tightly up to his muscular chest. She was talking a lot, but not to him. Voice sounded familiar, though it was tough to be sure in all of that wind-rush and spattering rain. Seemed to be dictating something into her handheld device; describing the rescue and flight up to Thunderbird 1, with maximum verbiage and adjectives.
His Bird was just overhead, now. The sleek, silver rocket plane was less stable than usual, having lost a wing, but her onboard systems were able to compensate. Mostly. He had to zig and zag on approach, trying to match her wildly rolling cockpit. Waited till the last moment to deploy his seat, because those savage crosswinds were gusting hard enough to rip away anything dangly and vital.
Saw Thunderbird 2 banking upward; all running lights and big, white ID number. So, Penny, Gordon and Virgil were safe. The prototype was out there, too; made visible by her wide cockpit windows. That was Lee and Brains, with a crap-ton of refugees. Couldn't see his second brother, but had no doubt that John would land on his feet, somewhere. Like any good Tracy, the astronaut had a knack for survival. Scott didn't see Thunderbird 3… but there was a lot going on, and a whole bunch of pseudo-Rescue Birds in the neighborhood.
Battling wind and the weight of his wriggling passenger, Scott triggered 'Cockpit Deploy'. Thunderbird 1 rolled and yawed above him like a rowboat on heavy seas, engines screaming as they fought to keep her in place. Lashing rain blew in sideways, slapping his helmet glass and blurring his vision. But that's what the heads-up display was for. All Scott had to do was follow the dotted red flight path up to that blinking green icon, before his jet pack's fuel bar dropped from amber to red. Just like one of Alan's videogames, except with no reset or save file. Already, the over-burdened jet pack was starting to sputter and pop.
Someone up there must've liked him, though, because Scott Tracy managed to take hold of the bobbing pilot's seat, and half clamber up, just as his jet pack flamed out. Got the woman onto the cushion and then climbed up across her, panting with stress and fatigue. Almost fell right back off again, when she grabbed his arse.