Bonus points are available for those of you who catch the Marvel references in this chapter. They have absolutely zero relevance to the plot, I just thought it was funny and I'm a nerd so I added it in.
The projector woke them all with a cheerful chime and three new alerts – report times and stations for Gordon and Scott and interview slots for John, Virgil and Alan – apparently Alan's 'interview' was more of an assessment to gauge which academic level to set him at. Alan, of course, found this hilarious, fully confident in his ability to outsmart his peers in Physics and actually looking forward to this inevitable achievement. He bounced around gleefully, energised after a proper sleep, while Scott peeled himself off the sofa and regretted not returning to an actual bed and Gordon proceeded to crack his entire back like a glowstick just in time for Virgil to walk in and cringe.
The cafeteria was less packed for their allocated breakfast slot. The engineering division had earlier reports and so a great swathe of workers had already come and gone. Scott dropped into the nearest chair and longed for the days when caffeine had been readily available. Across the table, Alan was gleefully chasing cereal around a bowl – overly sugary crap with no real nutrient but certainly as energising as it claimed on the packet.
"Look alive, Scooter," Gordon quipped – and wow, hello mask – flicking him on the temple. Scott smacked his hand away with a growl, earning a loud laugh. "Wow. Someone's grumpy. Wake up on the wrong side of bed or something?"
"Wrong side of the couch more like," Alan corrected, too engrossed in his food to notice Gordon's slight flinch. Night-time conversations were never spoken of during the day, but their memory didn't fade along with the dark.
Breakfast was a short-lived affair. They were all on edge and it didn't take long for that tension to infect Alan too. They filed out of the cafeteria before their slot had even ended, retreating to the relative peace of their quarters whilst calamity continued outside as children began trekking down to the classrooms. Tomorrow, Alan would be joining them, but for today he would wait with Virgil and John until their allocated interview times. Alan had always grown easily bored even with the wealth of entertainment on Tracy Island at his fingertips, so Scott didn't envy Virgil and John dealing with their youngest brother cooped up within such a small space for hours on end.
Gordon's report call was only one floor up from the military training floor where Scott had been instructed to go, so they left Alan bouncing off the walls, Virgil overthinking his future interview and John pretending reality was an illusion and hopped into the elevator together. The GDF agents were notably warmer to Gordon, spying his higher clearance level within an instant and possibly hoping to unlock some privileges by sucking up to a superior. It wasn't working. Mostly because despite having higher clearance, Gordon was just as much under Jenkins' thumb as anyone else, but also because for once in his life Little Brother didn't appear interested in flirting.
"I'll come find you before I leave," Gordon told him as the elevator opened on the military training deck. "I've gotta undergo a mission briefing first, but I'll find you."
The other agents in the elevator pretended they weren't eavesdropping.
Scott stepped into the clinical corridor and turned to catch his brother's eye. "Don't do anything dumb."
"It's me."
"Anything dumber than usual then."
Gordon cracked a grin. "Eh, Scooter, quit worrying. I've got this. Piece of cake, isn't that what people say?" He flipped a salute. "Laters, gators."
Needless to say, Scott did not feel reassured by that interaction in the slightest, but the elevator had already trundled onto the next level, so he shifted focus to his own trial. The corridor was overly white so that the lights reflected off each perfectly polished panel glaringly. His boots seemed filthy against the tiles. Arrows directed him towards the main training room which was locked with an electronic reader. He hovered his iD tag over the red light until it shifted to green and slipped inside, trying to remain inconspicuous. It didn't work. There was a series of recruits performing practice moves on safety mats and each of them stopped short to stare at him. It was unclear as to whether this was due to the shock of having a new arrival, or because they recognised him.
Their superior – a harsh-faced Major with sharply cropped hair and steel eyes – coughed loudly, signalling for them to return to their training. He rose from his chair and strode across the room, sticking out a hand for an overly aggressive handshake. In the corporate world, alarm bells would have been ringing. In the military world, Scott was very aware that he'd just been informed of his status – he may not have been given an exact title, but he was willing to bet it was humbling.
"You ever been in close combat?"
"Uh…" Scott followed him over to a rack of wooden weapons. "Only in a training capacity, never in the field in so far as military experience goes. But I've been in combat against the infected if that's what you're asking."
Against bandits too, but instinct warned him not to mention that part, so he rocked back on his heels and stood to attention without another word.
"Were you any good?"
Scott frowned. He had the distinct feeling that this was some sort of test.
"I'm still alive," he replied cautiously. "That should tell you enough."
"Prove it."
He had just enough time to react as what was essentially a wooden stick came hurtling towards his middle. He caught it before it could knock the air from his lungs, dropping back a pace to maintain balance. There was a spare mat about two steps to his left and he aimed for that. His most recent combat training had been sparring in the gym with Kayo or occasionally with Penelope or Gordon, and he found himself instinctively leaning into martial arts over the traditional military stance.
He'd been expecting to be paired with another recruit, but the Major stripped off layers down to a plain black thermal and trousers and surged onto the mat too, paired with his own baton. Scott dropped into a defensive stance, not entirely clear as to what was expected of him. Casual sparring? Taking one another out in any way possible? Were there rules?
The Major was a powerhouse. Direct attack wasn't going to work. Scott needed to be smart about this. He circled the mat, assessing, blocking any sudden blows that came towards him but not making an advance on the Major's position just yet.
The Major, of course, took offence to this. "Are you a coward, Tracy?"
Irritation was hot under his skin, but he knew better than to fall for a simple taunt. He didn't rise to the bait, keeping his position, waiting for the opening that was bound to come shortly. And there. The Major deflected the attack just in time, but Scott didn't miss the flicker of admiration in his eyes. They continued, fairly evenly matched, for the next ten or so minutes, until the Major shifted gears, as if he'd just been playing before but was now aiming for a kill.
Scott let himself get pushed back to the edge of the mat before he decided he'd had enough of these games. It took two short moves to knock his opponent's baton flying. He was briefly aware that the other recruits had halted their own routines, staring, whispering as the baton landed with a crash. The Major's smile was brittle, face flushed. He paced back, gritting his teeth as Scott dropped his own baton, because he suspected this entire set-up was about proving himself and it would be worthless unless they remained evenly matched.
The Major was overly confident, for good reason. He was also in better shape, given he hadn't been on severe rations or fighting zombies or inhaling radioactive dust in the past two weeks. Scott caught himself flagging and made a mental note to finish the match quickly. It took several more moves to knock the other man to the edge of the mat and only two sharp attacks to bring him down.
"Are we done here?" he asked, trying to catch his breath, forearm against the Major's throat, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He shifted back onto his heels to release the man, catching himself with one hand against the mat, tasting salt and a hint of copper where he hadn't been quick enough to block a blow which definitely hadn't been pulled in the slightest. He pushed hair from his forehead, shivering slightly in the force of the aircon. A hand appeared in front of his face and he accepted it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
"Nice moves," Gordon greeted him, steadying him as his vision swam for an instant.
"How long were you watching?"
"Only about five minutes or so. Just caught the ending. Kayo would be proud."
Scott nearly laughed at that. Kayo would have criticised him for holding back. He turned to face the Major, straightening up as the man approached.
"Impressed, sir?" Gordon teased, evidently having interacted with him before. He looped an arm around Scott's shoulders – a bold choice given Scott was ninety percent certain he'd sweated through his shirt.
The Major slanted his chin with a derisive sniff. "I don't recall inviting you onto my training deck, Cooper."
"Cooper?" Scott queried under his breath.
Gordon shrugged. "There's a second Gordon. I figured going by my middle name would make things less confusing."
"Tracy," the Major snapped, a bark for attention which Scott obeyed instinctively. "You're impulsive. You second-guess your own abilities. But I suppose you'll do. Take a shower. Grab some water. Report back to me in an hour for your briefing. I want you in the skies by eleven."
"Yessir."
Gordon motioned towards the doors. "He'd never admit it," he said as they stepped out into the corridor, "but he's impressed. Like, dead impressed."
"Tell me, for the love of all that's good and holy, that wasn't a pun."
Gordon sniggered. "Okay, but on a serious note – you're the second person who's ever laid him out flat on a mat like that."
Scott tilted his head to study his brother's expression. "Who was the first?"
Gordon grinned. "That would be a certain Gordon Cooper Tracy." He slapped Scott's bicep. "C'mon bro, get showered and watered already. I can't wait for you to learn about this mission."
Scott stopped short. Personally, he was dreading it and last night had proven that Gordon had shared the sentiment, so for him to have suddenly changed his tune so quickly… "Why?"
"Scouts have gotten orders to check a set of coordinates for survivors and supplies. There's a list, it's a whole thing, but anyway, that's not the point."
"What is?"
"The coordinates are two states away, so us scouts need a ride. And guess who my pilot is?"
"Is this a joke?"
"Nope. Getting back into that cockpit might be a fuck-ton of trigger warnings, but you get your own personal lucky charm along for the ride."
"Gordon, no one has ever described you as a lucky charm. You've had more near-death experiences than the rest of us put together."
"Ouch." Gordon shot him a sideways glance. "Okay, really though… We don't have a way out of this, you're right, but at least… You might be going into your version of Hell, but I'm coming with you."
Scott winced. "Don't make a habit of following me into dangerous situations."
"I think that became a habit as soon as I agreed to join a rescue organisation in which you're typically the first guy on the scene." Gordon let the joking tone fade. "Seriously, Scott," he said softly. "I know it's usually John you talk to but… I dunno man. I'm better than nothing. And to a certain extent, I get it. So let me be your anchor, yeah?"
"Doesn't sound like I have much of a choice."
"Maybe not, but I'm still asking."
There was a chime as the elevator reached their level.
"Thank you." Scott stared intently at the opening doors.
Gordon knocked their shoulders together. "I've got your back, brother."
Briefing was a whirlwind of call codes, coordinates and casual banter between seasoned pilots – the crowd who had been here for months on end, some even GDF drafted from the very beginning. They gathered in a small meeting room which overlooked a military hangar – on a lesser scale to that which currently housed Two but equally as impressive. Scott didn't hear half of what was said, not due to volume – seriously, who needed a loudspeaker when you had Captain Mitchell barking orders: that guy had a crazy pair of lungs on him – but because he was half zoned out, trying to keep from thinking and failing at this task rather spectacularly.
There were little details he kept trying to focus on, a sort of grounding strategy. He'd been supplied with the same armoured GDF uniform as Gordon wore and while it certainly fit better than his original gear had done as of late, he still found it somewhat… disconcerting. It also made him question exactly what the real mission was, because this suit was definitely tailored towards active combat rather than the supposed drop-off run at a disused military base that Mitchell was describing.
The scouting units joined them about twenty minutes prior to take-off. It was easy to pick out the new recruits fresh outta training or assessments, as the regular crews were mostly relaxed, cracking jokes and commenting on the trip ahead. Scott hung back, sticking close to the observation window to get a closer look at the aircraft he would be flying.
There were a collection of varying types: one classic GDF transporter, which dwarfed the surrounding fighter jets. This was the big bird which would carry the vast majority of scouts and demanded a crew of three at the minimum. Then there were two jets – classic reconnaissance but with enough manoeuvrability and firepower to be considered attack craft if required – and, tucked away towards the back, sleek hull gleaming under the spotlights, there was also a twin-seat fighter jet. It was a modern model, only recently released into active service approximately a year prior to the apocalypse, which was fantastic for a number of reasons including the part where Scott hadn't ever flown one before and consequently was less likely to be jolted into not-so-fun memories by the controls. Also, this baby was fast. She was no Thunderbird, but she was highly responsive and boasted all-weather strategic superiority over almost anything else in the GDF's arsenal.
She was beautiful.
She also happened to be the aircraft he'd been allocated to.
Hell yeah.
Okay. Maybe this wasn't going to be the nightmare he'd feared. He had the chance to get back in the skies, scout out a possible escape route for when they finally got the hell outta this place, and he could keep an eye on Gordon to ensure his younger brother didn't make any further dumb decisions. All he had to do was focus on the moment. Take it one step at a time. Remember to breathe. Laid out in his head like that, it didn't sound so bad.
Gordon popped up behind him like some sorta possessed jack-in-the-box. "What'cha looking at?" He peered over Scott's shoulder. "Ooh, which one's yours?"
"Don't sneak up on me like that. Jeezus."
"Sorry." Gordon didn't look apologetic in the slightest. "So? Which one are we flying?"
Mitchell let out another unnecessarily loud shout, demanding attentive silence. Scott gestured to the fighter jet towards the back of the hangar and watched Gordon lock onto the sight, expression shifting between curiosity, excitement and concern in a matter of seconds.
"So… they've got you on a jet jet?" he commented as soon as they'd been cleared from briefing and had filed into the elevator down to the hangar. The remaining crew with them were too busy discussing the mission to pay much attention. "That's uh… Not gonna lie, I was kinda hoping they'd stick you on the big bird. Less unwanted similarities there."
Scott stared fixedly at the descending digits on the door display. "I've flown Thunderbird Shadow before."
"Shadow's not exactly the same as… Look, if you say you're okay with this, then I'm cool. But… well." Gordon studied his boots with far more focus than required. "I've got a pretty good reason for wanting this to go well, given I'm also in the cockpit. Crashing's not on my bucket list."
"Maybe don't mention crashing right around now, yeah?"
"Shit. I- Shit. Sorry. Okay. Shutting up now. Not gonna say another word."
"Sure. I give that vow about… five minutes? At the max?"
Gordon narrowed his eyes, went to speak, caught himself at the last second, and settled for flipping him off instead. Scott turned back to the doors, struck by the urge to laugh, which at least rated higher than the urge to vomit so maybe that had been Gordon's sneaky plan all along. You could never tell when it came to a Gordon Tracy scheme.
The elevator arrived at the hangar floor far too quickly for Scott's liking. That strange sense of being disconnected from reality had crept up on him again, as if he were wandering through memories or a haunted dream. For once, he leant into the feeling. Reality wasn't doing him any favours at current, and he welcomed the numbness like an old friend. It was far better than the overwhelming panic at any rate, no matter how many concerned looks Gordon kept shooting him. He let his subconscious take the brunt of listening to orders, slipping in old military routines which hadn't changed in all the years since his last active service.
Located closest to the entrance of the hangar, the transporter seemed even larger in person than Scott could recall it being pre-Z-Day. Perhaps the GDF had dressed it with a few upgrades. There was certainly extra shielding around the VTOL ports. Gordon vanished from his side for a few minutes to check in with the rest of his scouting party who would be travelling on board. Scott would have loved to know exactly how Gordon had been the only scout granted permission to fly separately, but he'd learnt by now where questions got people, so instead he kept his mouth shut and started pre-flight checks.
Mitchell joined him for the walk-around.
"First flight?" He smiled. "Relax, Tracy. I've seen your records, even if I didn't already recognise your name. Given the past manoeuvres you've pulled off, you've got nothing to worry about."
Scott didn't bother questioning him. If Mitchell had truly seen his records, he'd also have seen all the ugly details relating to his exit from USAF, but the man clearly wasn't concerned about any of that. He seemed genuine enough, lacking the oily introductions which Jenkins had presented upon first meeting, and something about him invited trust. Scott relaxed a fraction. It paid to keep his guard up and he wasn't stupid enough to forget that, but it was still good to know he was flying with someone who was unlikely to immediately stab him in the back.
"Mitchell," he asked quietly, glancing sideways to observe the captain's casual stance. "Is there anything I should know about this mission?"
Mitchell flashed a smile. "Quick on the uptake, huh?" He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion betraying his true feelings for a moment. "We're not expecting any company in the skies if that's what you're asking. On a serious note… severe turbulence, I can tell you that in full confidence. Uh, radiation packs a punch. We're carrying extra shielding but keep an eye on your readouts."
"And when we land?"
"Stick with your wings. You're flying with Cooper, right?"
It took a moment to recall that Cooper = Gordon. Scott nodded. "Yeah."
"He's your brother?"
"Younger."
"By much?"
Scott wondered where this was leading. He trailed a hand across the fuselage of his plane, sneaking a glance over at the transporter where Gordon was emerging from the open hatch.
"There's quite a few years between us, put it that way," he answered eventually.
Mitchell's smile shifted into something fond. "Must be nice, to still have one another. My sister's over in Sector Alpha and I'll be damned if I can get in touch. It's insane – we're in the same bunker but there might as well be the entire Pacific between us."
His tone twisted into something that sounded suspiciously like a warning. Scott looked up sharply. Mitchell's smile had vanished.
"I chose who was allocated to which bird. Like I said, I read your files, but come on Tracy, it would be a complete waste sticking you in anything other than a fighter. You must realise that. I know you have a history. I get that. I've been there myself. But you've got this. This girl here… she's not Thunderbird One by any shot, but she's the closest fit to your flight style. Keep your head in the game and you'll do fine. And as for this mission? Just remember, don't overstep. You're here to fly, not to scout. That's your brother's job."
There was definitely a hidden warning there. Scott cleared his throat. "Right, sir. Thanks."
"See you in the skies, Tracy. Good luck up there."
The last time he'd actually been at the controls of any aircraft was months back. It was so long ago that he struggled to recall the exact date, or, hell, even the month. Had he taken One out at all for a final flight post-October? He didn't think so. Shit, did that mean his last flight had been Jerusalem? That didn't seem right.
Thankfully, flying was one of the rare things which he didn't have to think about. There was more focus involved in this particular flight, of course, given the peculiar take-off procedures – onto a set platform, locked into position, rise into the tunnel above, accelerate towards the end where a hatch would open to release them into the outside world, lift the nose, up the ramp, increase thrust to the max and bam, head for the clouds – and the fact he hadn't flown a fighter jet in years. In a way, this was helpful – focussing on the logistics made it difficult to fall into the spiral which whispered at the back of his mind.
Do you remember?
Yes. He very much remembered. Now shut the hell up.
"Dude," Gordon whistled from behind. Scott could spy his brother's reflection in the glass – wide-eyed and wondrous, like a little kid shown a rocket for the first time. "I haven't been in one of these, like ever."
He let his brother revel in the adrenaline rush and the wonder of an experience which was completely different for pilot versus passenger. Gordon's role didn't come into play until they actually landed, which gave him nearly three hours to sit back and enjoy the ride. Meanwhile, Scott got the joy of navigating radiation storms and skies which were a minefield of hazards. Already his dash was lighting up like a firework show with varying colours of hologram warnings. Turbulence was going to be a bitch.
"Hey Gords, did you change your mind about rollercoasters in the past six months?"
"Nope. Still hate 'em." Gordon propped his chin on the back of Scott's chair. "Why? Turbulence? That's no biggie. I'm chill."
"How is that any different to a rollercoaster?"
"Listen Scooter, how many examples have you heard in the news of those things breaking or people falling out and dying? They can't be trusted. Your piloting skills on the other hand – I very much trust those thank you very much. Rollercoasters? Death machines. Turbulence? Eh."
"Wow."
"I know. My logic is astounding."
"That's one word for it."
"I'm incredible."
"You're something."
"Yeah, something incredible."
"Shut up and let me fly."
"Scott. Scotty."
"…What?"
"Admit I'm incredible. Or awesome. Either works."
"I'm going to ignore you now."
"But Scott."
The following hour continued in this fashion. Gordon's constant chattering was a welcome distraction - not that Scott would ever admit as much aloud – dragging him back from the edge whenever flying grew too repetitive to keep him in the moment. The skies were clear and so far the radiation storms had remained too far south of their flight path to pose a threat.
The other crews kept in contact over the radio. Rogers and Faroe – flying the two reconnaissance crafts – took the lead, scouting out the best routes when their nav systems were knocked out of commission by leftover radiation and magnetic anomalies. A strange frequency not so far from the bunker itself left Scott flying blind without any reliable instrumentation for approximately two minutes before they broke free of its sphere of influence, but after that it was relatively smooth flying for the next hour and a half.
He'd dropped back to tail the transporter under Mitchell's orders while Rogers and Faroe were so far ahead that they barely registered on radar when the first radiation warnings started screaming at him.
"Fun," Gordon quipped from where he was half-draped over the back of Scott's seat, arms hooked around the headrest so that he could examine the display. He caught Scott's gaze in the glass and silently reached for his safety harness, that familiar communication without question from their IR experiences returning in an instant. "What've we got?"
What they had was a collection of weather systems which Scott hadn't seen on this scale… ever, as far as he could tell. The pressure was plummeting. Turbulence smacked into them like a brick wall. Gravity released them from her clutches to send the plane rocketing upwards as if they weighed nothing at all, only to yank them down hundreds of feet in mere seconds. Based off data readouts, this was only the beginning.
Yay.
Then the radio cut out.
"Oh, you have gotta be joking."
"Uh…" Gordon tried to peer over his shoulder again, straining against gravity as pressure shot them towards the darker skies. "What just happened?"
"Nothing good."
"Always an optimist, aren't ya?"
"Save the quips for later."
"Alrighty."
And- Gordon actually did shut up. Scott would have twisted in his seat to check if his brother had suffered some sort of head injury – perhaps a concussion via being violently thrown against the window courtesy of the turbulence – only his focus was rather taken up by wailing alerts and the sheer shittiness of the weather conditions.
The sky was dark. Scott registered this as a vague blur in his peripheral vision before his mind caught up and recognised that they were not ordinary storm clouds. It wasn't simply thick with rain, it was pitch black, as if night were creeping along the horizon. Heavy lightning stuttered between the fraying edges. The pressure created was enough to make him wrestle with thin air for control. The aircraft was trembling, tossed about like a paper boat on an open ocean.
Up ahead, the transporter vanished within the gloom. The last Scott saw was that grey and blue paintwork turned to a blur as the entire aircraft was flung sky-high by the change in pressure. Snatches of radio transmissions bled into static, torn apart in time with newfound radiation warnings.
"Um…" Gordon couldn't quite keep the nerves out of his voice. "Is this… this is fine, right?"
Everything is fucked.
"This is fine," Scott agreed brightly.
We might die. They did not put enough shielding on this aircraft.
"Gonna be a rough ride for a while, that's all."
I am a dirty liar.
"Maybe hang onto something."
Aw man, this is gonna suck…
A common misconception made about both the sky and the sea was that if you had enough engine power, you were in control. This was not merely a lie, but a dangerous one. Believing in your own misconceived control led to complacency which tended to result in accidents. You could have undergone the best training in the world and have decades of experience under your belt, but the sheer power of the sea and the sky would still vastly overwhelm your craft until all that was left to do was hang on and hope for the best. This had never been clearer than in that precise moment.
Pressure pockets. Crosswinds. A suspicious rattling sound from one of the engines. Flashes of forked lightning puncturing those dark clouds. Torrential rain transforming to ice mid-air, colliding with the hull like a sea of tiny bullets. Everything was shaking, to the point of near concussion, so violent that it was impossible to see the controls through blurred vision. A siren wailed, drowning in the sheer thunder of ice pounding the windows and screaming engines.
Radiation spikes tangled with cascading wind and rain and crusting ice spiralling over the glass. This was without a doubt the worst conditions he had ever flown in, which was saying a lot given the situations he'd dragged One through. There were more red alerts than healthy green holograms popping up across the displays. Radar was patchy. Rogers' recon plane had vanished, and Scott could only hope it was due to interference and nothing more fatal.
Clear skies above. Never go underneath a storm, that was the unbroken rule, but flying over it? Still hazardous but less so by a significant margin. He didn't know this aircraft - didn't know her limits or her tells - but he had a broad idea of her acceptable operating parameters and if they kept going in these conditions without a break he'd burn out the engines.
"You've got that look on your face again," Gordon shouted above the storm. "Which is it this time – something dumb or something cool?"
Scott didn't dignify that question with an answer.
"Both then," Gordon concluded. "Got it."
The conditions were… well, apocalyptic. This was a storm beyond the scale of anything in recorded history. It stretched for seemingly miles, although given the current state of the radar – like a motheaten quilt – that could have been a misinterpretation. Yet another alert popped up.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Climbing too quickly would slow their speed into critical levels and stalling wasn't on the mission's agenda but rise too slowly and they wouldn't get anywhere at all. The wind was a rabid animal and they were caught in its clutches. There was the threat of a tornado several kilometres south-east. Rain drove sideways in thick sheets. Vision was nil. Given the status of the instrumentation at current – either offline or malfunctioning – this wasn't encouraging.
Sometimes, you just had to take a leap of faith.
Or maybe Alan had made him watch Into the Spider-Verse too many times.
The point was, he had to trust his instincts, trust his own abilities – trust in himself. Historically, he hadn't been very good at that. But hey, there was a first time for everything.
If someone had collected all the rollercoasters in the world and merged them together, the effect would have been similar to their climb through the clouds. Rattling, rolling, rumbling. Onwards and upwards despite the sky's best attempts to hurl them into the ground. Explosions of pressure and lightning bolts at every turn. And then, all of a sudden, as if someone had flipped a switch, everything grew still.
Eerily still. The world outside was pitch black, so dark that the light from the cockpit seemed to reflect back at them as if the sky hadn't finished loading in a video game. It was a similar darkness to that found in the depths of the ocean – an unsettling, oppressive gloom. Fine tremors ran through the aircraft but nothing near the scale of the previous shaking. The radio struggled to connect. Radar put them alone in a universe of white noise.
There was a faint squeak as Gordon yanked at his safety harness in order to shuffle forwards in his seat, peering over Scott's shoulder at the displays. "Where are we?"
"No clue."
"That's promising."
Scott kept climbing. The darkness seemed infinite. Thick cloud, swallowing them whole. His eyes were playing tricks on him – unknown monsters swooping in-and-out of his vision. Radar placed nothing within range. He inhaled sharply and tightened his grip on the throttle. Focus.
"Creepy," Gordon breathed, nose pressed to the glass, eyes as wide as saucers. He shivered, rubbing at the bruising where his harness had cut in. "It's the middle of the day."
He ran a thumb along the seal between glass and metal. Strange shapes carved from ice had grown along the exterior. They were oddly beautiful in their own way, glittering in the pale light from the controls. Scott leant forwards to inspect the patterns. He wasn't sure how to feel about any of it. He hadn't had chance to revel in being back in his element. But these skies didn't feel like home. It was as if he were navigating an alien atmosphere. Nothing was playing by the book. The laws of nature he'd grown up with had been tossed out the window.
Gordon propped his elbows on the back of Scott's chair.
"It's like an eclipse," he remarked, tipping his head back to examine the world through the glass above, sort of wistful, seeking stars amid an empty cloud. "What else turns the sky dark like this?"
"Smoke," Scott replied instantly, without stopping to think about it.
Gordon frowned. "That's… huh. Any of your equipment working yet?"
"Not a Thunderbird, remember? No atmospheric analysis at my fingertips."
"Dangit."
The cloud appeared to be growing thinner. A vague semblance of light curled around the upper layers, sinking claws into the darkness. Sunlight cascaded through the windows. Scott held the controls steady whilst trying to blink his way back from temporary blindness. Gordon let out an indignant squawk and slapped a hand across his face.
"Where's the dimmer switch for the sun?"
Breaking free of the clouds was both a wonder and a relief. Their wingtips cut ribbons through the uppermost wisps, trailing scattered vapours in their wake. The sun was bright and welcoming, and the cockpit quickly grew warm. Scott cast a swift glance over the temperature gauge before Gordon could notice. The heat was rising suspiciously quickly. There were no warnings from the jet itself, suggesting that the sudden spike was due to another source. He didn't like the place his mind instantly leapt to. If there was damage to the ozone layer as a result of all the atmospheric pollution on a global scale since the end-times had begun – it was barely February… surely it would take longer than mere months?
"Ash," Gordon suggested quietly. "A mixture of smoke and ash… wouldn't completely wreck the engines on an aircraft this new, but could slow the intake just enough to make everything shake, right? Like severe turbulence? I mean, I know there's the giant ass storm down there, I'm not denying that, but combined…"
"So, what exactly?" Scott levelled off at the jet's max altitude, not quite as high as he'd have flown One over the storm but sufficient to avoid further turbulence. "Volcanic eruption? More fires?"
Gordon examined the ashen skies below. "Possibly. I dunno, man. I'm just saying – that wasn't a normal storm. Even with the radiation, that was off the charts. So, hopefully it's a volcanic eruption and the ash got carried over the states by the change in wind direction."
"Hopefully never got us anywhere. What are you really thinking?"
Gordon fell silent. "I'm thinking a whole bunch of crap. None of it's worth much."
"Come on. I know you better than that."
"If you… if you wreck enough cities… the fallout's gotta go somewhere. But also… the fires in the aftermath… that's more smoke and debris that's tossed into the atmosphere. You saw the ash fall in New York, right? So, you want to know what I'm thinking?" He hesitated. "Hey, that radio's definitely off, yeah? No one can hear us?"
Scott highly doubted anything was gonna connect via that radio any time soon given the sheer intensity of the interference, but he switched it off anyway. "Radio's off. Hit me."
"This is just a theory."
"Okay?"
"It's probably a massive coincidence."
"Gordon. Spit it out."
Gordon fumbled over his words a few seconds longer before announcing in a rush, "The pattern of strikes on cities perfectly matches the scouting locations. And I mean it's an exact match. As in, the scout team goes in and clears out supplies and any found survivors, then twenty-four hours later – bam – it's struck off the map."
Suddenly, despite the temperature reading, Scott felt as if he'd plunged into the Atlantic in the middle of December. "Sorry, what?"
"You heard me."
"And you waited until now to mention this?"
"When was I supposed to tell you? There's recording devices everywhere. They probably even watch you in the goddam shower. The only reason I even figured it out is because when I met up with you guys John had managed to piece together the available data to plot probable strike locations and then it sorta dawned on me, hey, those are hella familiar coordinates."
"Gordon. What the fuck?"
"I know."
"So… this city, today?"
"Probably, yeah. Well, today's a scouting trip. It's whoever gets stuck with air support tomorrow who'll actually… y'know?"
Silence was brutal. Gordon was tapping against the bulkhead, unnerved by Scott's lack of reply.
"The GDF are supposed to be the good guys. I trusted that. And by the time I figured out how corrupt the entire place is, I was in too deep. I've still got unanswered questions even now. But this- There are people down there who are gonna get caught up in the fallout, outside city limits but still at risk, and there's no way we can account for them all."
"People like Joanna's survival group?"
Gordon froze. "Y-yeah," he murmured, turning away to hide his expression. "Exactly like them."
