Lol, I just never know what my mind is going to come up with next! Major Gordon whump alert!

I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.

"Next time, I'm going to let you get shot," Gordon grumbles. "It'd be a lot easier if I could just do all of this myself instead of trying to explain it to you."

Gordon's face is white, and Alan really hopes that it's just because Gordon's in pain, and not that he's bleeding out – for a variety of reasons, it's going to be a while before they can get to a hospital. "Well, while you're figuring out a plan, keep your knees bent," he tells Gordon. "It'll help with the pain."

Gordon rolls his eyes. "Yes, doctor," he mutters sullenly. But he obeys, because Alan is right.

Mindful of a warning Gordon had given him a few minutes earlier, Alan makes sure not to raise his head too high as he scans the horizon. He's glad that the color of his hair actually blends in pretty well with the tall grass. "Do you think we'll see them coming?"

"Depends on whether they're professionals or amateurs," Gordon says.

His voice sounds muffled, and Alan glances over at him to see that he's draped an arm across his face to keep the sun from glaring in his eyes.

"If they've been poaching a long time, or if they've got military training, we're probably dead meat," Gordon continues. He's silent a minute, then he peeks out from under his arm. "But I think they might not actually be professionals – the fact that we're both still alive proves that."

"Or it could just prove that you've got good reflexes," Alan counters. He sighs. "Remind me again why you thought it was a good idea to leave our watches back at the camp?"

"We depend on them too much," Gordon mumbles. He shifts slightly, then winces, his red-stained fingers going to the makeshift bandage on his left side. "And anyway, it was supposed to be just for a couple hours. It's good to practice other types of communication."

"Well, hey, I've got a mirror," Alan deadpans. "Shall I try signaling Johnny with that?"

"Ha, ha," Gordon says. "It's also good to practice not having big brothers swoop in to save us every time we get ourselves in trouble. We're grown men. We can handle this."

Alan shoots him a sideways glance. "You're kidding me, right?" he says. "You're lying in the middle of the African Serengeti with a bullet in your gut, being hunted by angry poachers, and you're telling me that if you had some way to call for Scott and Virgil to come rescue us, you wouldn't do it?"

Gordon grimaces. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"If nothing else, they could at least help me haul you around," Alan grumbles. "Why are you so heavy, anyway? You're shorter than me!"

"Muscle," Gordon says. "Muscle weighs a lot." He sounds tired. "Okay, yes, I admit it – I do wish we could call Scotty and Virg in to save the day. But we can't, so we've gotta figure this out on our own." He sighs. "Sorry, Al."

Alan rolls his eyes. "Not your fault. Well, the poacher part isn't your fault, anyway. The rest of it might be." He sits in silence for a minute. "How far do you think it is back to camp?" he asks. "Less than two miles, right?"

"Yeah, but that's a long way to go when you're dragging along my deadweight," Gordon says. "Plus, we'd have to approach it with extreme caution – if they've found the camp, they'll probably set up an ambush for us. With those guns, they could snipe at us from a thousand yards away." His face scrunches up as he thinks. "Unless…you know, we could follow that little gully that runs alongside the camp. You'd probably have to leave me at the bottom and climb up. Then you could belly-crawl into camp, grab the watches, and duck right back into the gully. It's risky, but…"

"It could be our only chance," Alan finishes grimly. "All right, how do we get to the base of the gully without being detected?"

Gordon shakes his head. "It's gonna be pretty hard on both of us – we have to try to stay low. Even then, it's not without danger – if they've found a tree to perch in and they happen to spot us, then it won't matter how low we are."

"So I should be watching the trees," Alan says. "Okay, got it." He looks down at Gordon's pinched face. "You ready for this?"

Gordon's grin is a pale, sickly version of his normal broad smile. "As ready as I'll ever be!"

Alan's not sure what makes his stomach clench more – the little half-gasp, half-sob sound that comes out of his brother's mouth as he pulls him up, or the fact that when they're standing, the grass only comes up to their waist. So much for staying low.

He's got Gordon's left arm pulled up over his shoulders, and he grips his brother's belt with his right hand. Gordon sags against him, stumbling along on rubbery legs, head hanging low.

"Mmf," Alan grunts. "When we get home, I'm stepping up my workouts."

"When we get home," Gordon replies raggedly, "I'm gonna plan our next vacation. I'm thinking Disney."

Alan snorts. "I dunno – with our luck, we'd probably get stuck for hours at the top of a roller coaster, or something."

They only make it a few hundred yards before Gordon pleads, "Stop for a minute, Al – please. Just, just put me down, okay?" He's hunched over, hand pressed to his side, and he's dripping sweat.

Alan hesitates, but he knows Gordon's levels of pain tolerance, and if Gordon is begging, then it's really, really bad. He drags Gordon just a bit farther, stopping under a shady tree, and lowers his brother to the ground as gently as he can.

Gordon is shivering as he curls up in the tall grass, his complexion nearly gray. It's the beginnings of shock, Alan knows, and he needs to treat it, but he doesn't have any of the supplies that he needs – the only equipment he has is in a small pack on his back, and it's just food, water, maps and some basic first-aid stuff. They have plenty more supplies back at the camp, but of course, that doesn't do them one bit of good. Alan crouches down by his brother and puts his hand on his back, wishing there was something he could do to ease the pain.

Scotty, we need you! Maybe if he holds that thought long enough, it will trigger his oldest brother's infamous instinct for when his siblings are in trouble, he thinks, half believing that it might work.

Gordon breaks into his thoughts, his voice barely audible when he murmurs, "Leave me, Al. I can't make it all the way back to the camp. You'll have to go without me."

"Wha-? Gordon, no. For a million reasons, no. One, you're totally helpless out here. Two, I'm not positive I could find you again if I left you, and three, I'm just not leaving you, okay?"

Gordon rolls slowly onto his back, wincing the whole way. There's the barest hint of a smirk at the corners of his mouth and in his eyes as he looks up at Alan. "That wasn't a million," he says.

Alan ignores Gordon attempt at humor. "What if I make some sort of a litter?" he asks, glancing around, looking for materials.

"Nah, that would take too long. The whole point is that any way of moving me will take too long, and what we need right now is speed. I know it seems backwards, but if you want to save my life, you're gonna have to leave me." He grabs Alan's wrist, and his grip is weak. "Yes, it's dangerous – and not just for me, but for you too. I don't want you on your own right now any more than you want me on my own, but our only chance is you making it back to camp and getting those watches."

Alan grimaces, wishing that Gordon's words didn't make so much sense. After a minute, he sighs and pulls one of their water bottles out of the backpack, setting it where Gordon can easily reach it. He looks down at his older brother, his heart panging with each symptom of shock and blood loss that he recognizes. Yes, speed is crucial right now. "Okay," he says. "Just promise me that you'll still be here when I get back."

Alan and Gordon both have enough medical training to know that Alan's demand is ridiculous – that even though Gordon is known for his determination, a promise doesn't have the power to keep him alive past a certain point.

But Gordon says the words anyway, his face solemn. "I'll be here, Alan – I promise."

And that's that. It's not a goodbye, so Alan doesn't say anything else. He just slings the backpack on and moves, crouching, into the tall grass. He only glances backward once, when he's fifty yards away, and he tells himself that it's just to make sure he'll recognize the tree when he comes back this way later. He's slightly disconcerted by the fact that he can't see Gordon at all – until he remembers that it's better not to be able to see him. If Alan can't see him, then hopefully the poachers can't see him either.

A mile and a half is a long trek when you don't dare to stand up straight. Alan makes sure to pause every once in a while and look around for any signs of movement. He tries not to think about the fact that the poachers, like him, are wearing khaki – nearly the same color as the tall grass on every side. Gordon knows how to watch for them – he seems to have almost a sixth sense for things like that – but Alan is on his own now, and he has never felt so alone and unskilled.

He's been scrambling uphill for a little while now, uncomfortably aware that the camp is on a plateau. He and Gordon had picked the place because it has a good view of the sweeping plains of the Serengeti. Ironic that that's the reason Alan is scared of it now.

He spots the gully a little ways off to his right and makes a beeline for it, immediately feeling safer once he's out of sight between those steep, rocky walls.

Remembering a tip from Gordon, he steps back into a shady alcove and pauses to listen and observe, making sure that he's truly alone in his haven. Five minutes later, things are still quiet and peaceful, so he continues on his way through the ravine.

He keeps his movements calm and deliberate as he climbs, selecting handholds with care and even focusing on not breathing too loudly so that he won't alert anyone in the vicinity to his presence.

He'd learned that from Gordon too, a couple hours earlier, when instead of panicking and running away from the hail of gunfire from the poachers, Gordon had jerked Alan down and they had just calmly and quietly crawled away, disappearing into the tall grass. In fact, Gordon had been so calm and quiet that Alan hadn't even known he'd been shot until he collapsed twenty minutes later.

So Alan takes his time getting up to the level of the camp, and when he's finally at the top of the gully, he moves very, very slowly as he peeks over the edge into the camp, Gordon's words about fast movements catching attention ringing in his ears.

He studies the camp. It appears deserted, and his initial feeling is a wave of relief. He comes very, very close to pulling himself up over the lip of the ravine in that moment. But then something catches his eye, and he frowns.

Gordon runs a tight ship when they go camping. His bedroom at home might look like a war zone, but something about camping brings out his inner neat freak. Alan thinks it probably goes back to Gordon's time in the military. Everything has a place in their campsite, and every morning before he and Alan set out on a hike, Gordon makes sure that nothing has strayed from its proper place.

Which is why the way the tent flap blows in the breeze makes Alan's nerves jangle. And why the crumpled candy bar wrapper on the ground by their table gives him the shivers.

Now that he's looking for them, he can see more clues – one of the stones around their fire pit has been knocked loose. There are other papers and wrappers left on the ground, scattered carelessly around the campsite. A jacket that Alan doesn't recognize has been tossed on the back of one of their camp chairs.

Well, at least all of this reinforces Gordon's assertion that the poachers aren't highly trained. Surely professionals would never leave such obvious clues strewn around.

But the poachers are still dangerous, and it looks like they have possession of the camp, which is a distinct problem.

The question is, where are the poachers now?

Remembering Gordon's comment about the long range of the poachers' rifles, Alan glances around, trying to think where the men would be likely to post a sniper. There's one tree at the far end of the plateau that seems the only possibility, but sniping is more Gordon's forte than Alan's, so he doesn't want to jump to conclusions.

He turns his gaze back to the tent.

Belly crawl in, Gordon had said. Grab the watches, then duck right back into the gully.

It had sounded so easy.

But now Alan's breath is catching in the back of his throat, and his heart is fluttering in his chest as he studies the bare patch of ground between him and the tent. It's probably only fifty feet, but they've trampled down most of the grass, and the thought of crossing that open area – of being so exposed – has Alan fighting back mind-numbing terror.

He ducks back into the gully, slumping down against a rock and wrapping his arms around his knees.

He can't do it.

He's not trained for this.

He wishes that it had been him who had been shot – that he was the one lying under the tree, and that Gordon was the one in this gully right now. Gordon would know what to do. He has military training, as well as a certain type of creative thinking that allows him to outthink his opponents and come out on top ninety-nine percent of the time. There's a reason that the brothers always draw straws to try to get Gordon as their partner when they play paintball.

But Alan's the one in the gully, and Gordon is the one lying under that tree.

Alan's not trained.

But he has to do it.

So he pokes his head back up, peering through a curtain of grass and trying to think like Gordon.

Okay, so the tree is really the only place that's likely to offer a clear shot at Alan as he crawls in – if anyone is positioned in the grass, they're only going to be able to see him if he stands up. So how can he keep from being seen by anyone in the tree?

It comes to him all at once, and he scrambles a few feet further to his right. This time, when he looks toward the camp, the tent blocks his view of the tree – and, theoretically, if he can't see the tree, then no one in the tree can see him.

Okay, he thinks. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. All right. It's go time.

Before he can change his mind, he slithers up over the edge of the ravine. Moving a bit faster now, but keeping as low as humanly possible, he crawls across the open space.

If he's honest with himself, he's expecting to hear the crack of a high-powered rifle at any second, to feel the sudden, sharp, shattering pain of a bullet lodging in his spine.

But nothing happens. The camp is still and quiet, and even though it feels like a lifetime has passed, it's only seconds before Alan is pulling himself up to the side of the tent.

He reaches for the side panel and crawls underneath, sliding into the tent.

It's only after he's inside that it occurs to him that he should have checked first to make sure no poachers were waiting in the tent. They've clearly been inside – all of Alan and Gordon's stuff is scattered across the floor, and Alan wouldn't be surprised to discover that plenty of it is missing too.

His heart skips a beat as that thought takes hold – stuff might be missing – stuff like their watches!

But then he remembers that Gordon thinks of things like that, and he heaves a sigh of relief when he sees the plain metal case sitting untouched in the far corner. There's a rubber number pad on it, and Alan quickly enters the password, unlocking the box and turning off the electrical current that flows through the rest of the case. He hopes that some of the poachers got a nasty jolt when they tried to touch the box.

He slips on his watch, and suddenly he feels a whole lot better about everything.

He's about to call his brothers when a sudden sound freezes the motion – voices. Voices and footsteps are approaching the tent.

He glances around wildly and dives under his cot, pulling the blanket down over the edge, just as two people push aside the tent flap and stalk inside.

They keep their rifles in their hands as they poke through Gordon and Alan's possessions, jabbering away to each other in a language Alan doesn't understand. He can pick up on the gist of the conversation, though – they're admiring one of Gordon's colorful shirts, and then they're laughing as they figure out how Alan's electric razor works…and then they're making admiring sounds as they pick up a picture of Tintin.

Alan clenches his fists at that and begins counting backwards from one hundred…now is not the time to lose his temper.

They take twenty minutes to collect what they want to keep, with Alan chafing the entire time, knowing that Gordon is waiting – bleeding – under that tree.

At one point, he hesitates as he considers pushing the emergency signal on his watch, thinking that anything that gets his brothers moving sooner is good, but then he realizes that their immediate response would be to radio him back and ask him what's wrong.

So he waits. And waits. And waits.

The men finally leave, arms piled high with stuff they've pillaged. Alan waits just a little bit longer, until he's sure they're really gone, then cautiously peeks out from under the edge of the tent.

The way is clear, so he crawls back across the open area and drops over the edge of the gully – and lands squarely on top of one of the poachers.

The man goes down with a yell, just as startled as Alan is…and Alan discovers that maybe – just maybe – he actually does have some relevant training, because his instincts carry him forward to meet the rising poacher. There are a few quick motions – ones that Scott had drilled into him long ago, and that he hadn't realized he still remembered – and suddenly the poacher is sprawled on the ground, out cold.

His mind and body want to react to what just happened, but Alan knows that if he pauses now, he and Gordon are dead meat. The poachers will eventually discover that one of their men is down, and then they'll know that Alan and Gordon are still around somewhere.

So Alan abandons all care and scrambles down the gulley as fast as he can without breaking a leg, activating his watch at the same time.

"Thunderbird Five, come in," he says.

A pleasantly accented female voice answers him. "Thunderbird Five here. How is your vacation going, Alan?"

Oh. Right. Because two of their operatives are on vacation, John is planet side and Tintin's on Five. Alan knows this, but he had forgotten, and it's thrown him for a loop. "Tintin!" he stammers. "Uh, it's going – well, uh, can you just connect me to Scott? Please and thanks!"

"Oh, of course," she says, sounding startled. "Alan, is everything all right?"

"Nope," he says. He reaches the bottom of the gully and lengthens out into a run. "But I'll have to wait to tell you about it, okay?"

"Okay, Alan," she says. Her voice sounds distracted now; she's probably connecting his watch to the island. "Here's Scott."

"Scott?" Alan calls out. "You there?"

"Alan?" Scott says. "Hey, how's it going? You guys having fun?"

"No," Alan tells him. His foot catches on some grass and he nearly goes sprawling. He slows down to a jog, both so that he doesn't fall on his face and so that he can talk with some level of coherency. "Short story – Gordon annoyed some poachers, they shot him, and now we're on the run through the Serengeti. I could use a little help out here!"

He listens in satisfaction as Scott apparently covers the watch and bellows, "Virgil! Get your medical bag, grab John, and meet me in Thunderbird One!" Then his voice sounds closer. "All right, we're on our way, Alan. I'll keep radio silence so I don't give away your position, but keep us posted as much as possible. Okay? Hang in there!"

"Will do," Alan says firmly, feeling a tremendous weight lift off his shoulders.

The heat drags at him, sapping his energy, and he remembers that he only has a limited supply of water. Of course, that shouldn't be a concern much longer, since his brothers are on the way, but he slows down anyway.

It's probably his slower pace that saves him from being noticed.

He's almost back to the tree when he sees movement and instinctively dives into the grass. Heart pounding, he peeks back up after a second.

"No, no, no," he whispers. "Please, no!"

But he can't do anything to stop what's happening, and he watches with despair as several of the poachers gather up Gordon's limp figure and carry him toward the plateau.

When they're out of hearing range, Alan flops back in the grass and activates his watch. "Scott? Things just got way, way worse."

And some weird part of him chooses that moment to think, You broke your promise, Gordon.