Fanfiction .net hasn't given me enough options for the genre of this story, so to aid the reader, the full listing is:
Genre 1: Tragedy
Genre 2: Misery
Genre 3: Drama
Genre 4: Gloom
Genre 5: Mystery
Genre 6: Sorrow
In other words, another cheerful story from Purupuss. I'm an equal opportunities author. This time I'm beating them all up equally.
Don't say you haven't been warned. I even had my proof-reader threatening to go on strike on me, and, for a time, the sale of tissues increased in England. On her advice, and to reduce the incidence of flames and/or suicide attempts, I am uploading the first few chapters two at a time. So I'm sitting here in my flame-retardant suit to protect my thin skin, with the Firefly at the ready, about to upload the first couple of chapters of my latest story.
Once again, thanks to Quiller (and Albert), for gritting her teeth and helping me through it. Thanks to D.C. for her proofing skills. And thanks to those who created Thunderbirds. I don't own them and I am grateful for the opportunity to be able to write about them.
Please ask my permission before listing this story in a C2 or elsewhere. Thank you.
Enjoy
:-) ?
Purupuss
What is the one thing that could destroy International Rescue?
One: As straightforward as they come?
Jeff Tracy stepped up to the tarmac at the edge of the Kansas City airstrip and looked to the skies. "A bit overcast today, Bill," he noted.
"No wind though," Bill Webber, the superintendent of the airfield, admitted as he glanced at a windsock that hung limply from its pole. "You're going to have a good flight home in that plane. It's beautiful." He indicated Jeff's private jet, looking at it in the appraising manner of someone who'd spent many hours with aircraft. "I've never seen another like her."
"And you won't in the short term," Jeff admitted. "She's one of a kind. One of my engineers designed her expressly for me."
Bill grinned. "You still haven't taken me for that flight in her that you've promised."
"On my next trip," Jeff assured him. "I don't feel up to joyriding today."
Bill looked at him. "Something go wrong this time, Jeff?"
"No," Jeff shook his head. "Everything went as expected. Unfortunately."
"Business?"
"Of a personal nature. I've had to terminate… a long standing venture." Jeff sighed. "Now I've got to go home and tell the family the shocking truth."
"Well, flying home in that," once again Bill pointed to the jet, "will cheer you up."
"I hope so," Jeff replied. "And I'll be glad to get home."
"In that case I won't keep you," Bill said. He held out his hand. "Have a good flight, Jeff. Give my best to the boys."
"Thanks, Bill, I will. See you next month."
"And don't forget that flight."
Jeff managed a smile. "I won't." He pulled a personal digital assistant from out of his pocket. "There," he said as he wrote in the PDA. "I can't forget it now. It's encoded into the old electric brain."
Bill laughed. "See you, Jeff."
"Bye, Bill."
Jeff walked out onto the tarmac, admiring his plane as he went. He had to admit that she was pretty special. Brains had designed her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago and the engineer, along with Jeff's sons, had built her when they hadn't been working on various International Rescue projects. She'd only been completed a month ago and, in Jeff's opinion, handled flawlessly.
Jeff reached the plane and examined her closely. It wasn't only out of admiration that he made the circuit of the jet, it was to check that everything was shipshape and in working order. He knew that the mechanics at the airfield had thoroughly checked her over and fuelled her up, but he was going to be flying a long way over ocean. He needed to be sure that the craft was in A1 shape.
Bill Webber watched the multi-billionaire do his circuit of the plane and wondered briefly what had been terminated.
"Mr Webber?"
Bill turned. "Yes, James?"
"You are required in your office. Horace Miles has a complaint."
Bill sighed. "That man does nothing but complain. Okay, I'll be along in a moment." He looked back at the Tracy jet. Jeff was no where to be seen, obviously checking the far side of the craft. Bill gave a hopeful wave and returned to his office and the irate Horace Miles.
A short time later the control tower heard Jeff Tracy request clearance to take off. It was granted.
The Tracy jet soared off into the greying Kansas skies.
Scott Tracy sat at his father's desk in a mild state of irritation. This was the last place that he wanted to be. His brothers had left a short time ago on a mission and he wanted to be out there leading them. If only this had happened a couple of hours later then his father would have been home manning International Rescue's base. "Couldn't they have waited half a day?" Scott muttered, and then chided himself for being so selfish. Somewhere out on the American mainland people were badly hurt and worse; and here he was complaining about being stuck behind a desk.
He opened communications with Thunderbird Five. "How's it going, Alan? Has John got there yet?"
"I've just been talking to him," Scott's youngest brother sounded as though he was in the next room instead of 36,000 km above the Earth. "He estimates he'll be there in approximately five minutes.
"Let me know when he arrives."
"F-A-B, Scott."
John Tracy, at the controls of Thunderbird One, swooped down low over the rescue zone, following a blackened trail. A pall of smoke hung over the scene. It had clearly been a big explosion and most of the mall had been reduced to rubble. He could see people in neon coloured protective clothing digging busily, trying to save those that they could.
It was those that the regular rescue authorities couldn't help that International Rescue were here to save.
John brought Thunderbird One down next a fire appliance, leaving plenty of room for Thunderbird Two, and shut down the motors. He pushed a button on the Thunderbird's control panel, removed the cartridge that popped out, and exited the rocket plane. He was met by a man wearing the same day-glow clothing as the others, but whose nametag proclaimed him to be the 'Incident Controller'.
"Boy, are we glad to see you guys," the controller said.
It was an introduction that the Tracys were used to receiving. "What's the situation?" John asked.
"We're still trying to ascertain exactly what happened. Looks as though he came in from this direction," the controller made a pass with his hand to demonstrate the angle, "and ploughed straight into the mall. Fortunately it's a quiet shopping day: but that's no comfort to those who were here. We estimate that there's at least 30 people trapped in the underground parking area. They are the ones who need your help."
"Okay. We'll do what we can." John held out the cartridge. "I took some high resolution video as I came in to land. We're going to have to destroy some of the scene to rescue those people and it might help with the investigation later."
The controller seemed surprised as he accepted the cartridge. "Thanks. What are you going to do?"
"We can't do anything until Thunderbird Two gets here," John admitted. "She's bringing a drilling machine that can tunnel down to those trapped. Is it possible to get me plans of the complex?"
"I'll arrange that now," the controller agreed and walked away, speaking into his radio handset.
John activated the mechanism that lowered Mobile Control from the belly of Thunderbird One. Deciding that in the shadow of the rocket plane was as good a place to operate from as any, he sat on the seat. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five."
"Thunderbird Five. Go ahead, John."
"I've arrived. They are getting the plans for me. How far away is Thunderbird Two?"
"Virgil says they're fifteen minutes away from the danger zone."
"Thanks. Can you put me through to him? And then you can tell Scott that I haven't crashed his precious plane."
Alan laughed. "F-A-B. Putting you through now."
Now, framed by a panel of gauges and dials, Virgil's face appeared on the screen. "Arriving in 14.58 minutes, John."
"Thanks, Virgil. Has Gordon checked out the Firefly and Mole?"
"Sure have, John," the auburn haired Tracy came and stood at Virgil's shoulder. "She's ready to roll."
"Good." John looked over towards the main command post of the rescue operation. "Here come the plans now. I'll let you know what to do when you get here."
"F-A-B," Virgil replied. "Out."
The screen went black.
The incident controller jogged up holding a roll of paper. "Here you are," he puffed.
John rolled them out on Mobile Control's console. "Where are we?"
"Here." The controller pointed at one corner of the plan.
"Okay," John looked from the plan to the devastation in front of him to get his bearings and blinked as soot was blown into his eyes. He wiped them and then looked back at the plan. "So this is the area where we've got to work?"
"That's it."
John looked at his watch. "Thunderbird Two will be here in about 13 minutes." He poured over the plans again. "Any idea why it crashed?" he asked.
"Not so far. We're still trying to confirm who the pilot was. Once we know that we'll be able to start making assumptions. We have our suspicions, but I can't say anything at this point."
"I understand," John said. "It's nothing to do with us anyway. We're here to help the living. We can't afford to spend time worrying about those who aren't." He straightened when he heard the sound of engines. "Here's Thunderbird Two."
Its shadow eclipsing the surrounding landscape, a giant plane flew low, lumbering towards the scene of the crash. The controller gaped at the craft in astonishment as a voice came from Mobile Control.
"Where do you want us to land?" Virgil asked.
"There's a clear area straight ahead of you," John told him. "It'll be a squeeze, but you'll have enough room to work."
Not long afterwards, the great green bulk that was Thunderbird Two had landed and was rising up on its hydraulic legs, leaving Pod 5 on the ground. The pod's door began to swing open.
"Gordon," John instructed. "Take the Firefly and clear an area big enough for The Mole in quadrant… 24/B."
"F-A-B," Gordon replied. A motor was heard to start up and a scoop, followed by a relatively squat machine, exited the pod and trundled down the ramp that had been formed by the door.
"You're going to need help," John told Virgil. "I'll come over and give you a hand."
"F-A-B." The drilling machine, known to those in International Rescue as 'The Mole', made its exit from the pod.
John smiled at the controller. "I'll be on channel three six, if you need to contact me."
"Roger," the chief replied. "Or should I say 'F-A-B'?"
John chuckled.
"What's happening, Alan?" Scott asked.
"Gordon's using the Firefly to clear the ground," Alan replied. "John said he's going to go down with Virgil."
"I hope he locks down Mobile Control."
"Relax, Scott. He will." Alan was grinning. "Boy, we never have this grief from Dad."
"Well, I'm not him," Scott replied. "And I aim to make sure that everyone stays on their toes."
"Relax," Alan said again. "This is as straightforward as they come. We all know what to do and I'll guarantee that John won't crash Thunderbird One. He's as good a pilot as you are. He must be. We all learnt from Dad: the master."
Scott opened his mouth to make a retort, but closed it without saying a word.
---F-A-B---
John walked briskly, skirting the blackened entrails of the aeroplane that had crashed into the mall. As he walked he cast his eye over the scene, trying to work out what had happened and to double check that the regular rescue teams hadn't missed anyone who needed help.
A piece of relatively uncharred metal caught his eye and he stopped.
He stared at the panel.
He blinked, trying to erase its image.
It lay there, mocking him.
Without conscious thought he picked it up.
"John?"
He heard the voice say his name but didn't acknowledge it as he stared at the object in his hand.
"John?" Virgil repeated. "What are you doing? You know better than to disturb the scene any more than we have to."
John turned, the piece of metal still tightly held in his grasp. "Tell me I'm wrong, Virgil."
"Huh?" Virgil looked at his brother. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Tell me I'm wrong." John held out the battered piece of aeroplane. "Please tell me I'm wrong," he begged.
"Wrong?" Virgil frowned as he, with some reluctance, took the panel. "What do you mean wr…?"
John watched his brother's face pale.
"John," Virgil's voice was a whisper. "This is Father's registration number. It's from the panel under the pilot's cabin. I painted it myself."
"Yes," John croaked.
"Then this," Virgil turned to look at the wreckage. "This is Father's plane."
To be continued…