Alan's early experiences as a part time team-member of IR.

Set after "Now we are five" and across the year or so before "Introductions".

Disclaimer: I don't own any of them, and am just grateful for the chance to borrow them for the duration.

Part of my sequence, so mostly TV-verse with some faint hints of alternative.

T-rated for language.

…

The first of many?

It sure wasn't what I had planned for my summer vacation.

Of course I'd hoped to go out on my first rescue. I just didn't plan on it nearly being my last.

…

Chapter 1: 'Boot camp'

I'd been in training for this for what feels like forever. Between graduating high school and heading out for Harvard, Dad had sent me to start training with NASA, along with John – ultimately, he has me marked for Three, although I haven't actually flown her yet.

But I suppose the really serious preparation started with what has become known as boot camp during the Christmas vacation – gee, what a pain in the ass that was.

Scott thought it would be a good idea to 'check out our general level of fitness' so he booked us in with the marines for basic training. He dropped this into the after-dinner conversation a week or so before Christmas. An early Yuletide present, apparently. Said it would be good for team-building. Team-building? Turns out the sonofabitch hadn't even planned on coming with us.

"Basic training? You're kidding, right?" I asked sourly.

"I never kid, kid," he growled. "Go easy on the Christmas dinner and the alcohol or come the twenty-seventh the four of you are going to be wishing you'd never set eyes on a turkey."

"Now, wait just a minute! Did you say the four of us?" Virgil sat up straight. It isn't often the big fella backs me up but I sensed an ally here. "Don't you mean five? What are you planning on doing, may I ask?"

"Me? Been there, got the t-shirt, thanks."

I snorted. "Everyone knows Air Force basic is a walk in the park."

"You can count Alan and me out, then." John, his feet up on the table, tipped his chair back lazily until it reached an impossible angle. "We did our basic at NASA."

Scott's turn to snort. "Yeah, right. A couple of somersaults in zero grav."

"We didn't exactly slouch at WASP," Gordon put in.

"You were made of flesh and blood, not steel pins and plastic in those days. I'd like to see if all your bionics are working right."

"Know what I think? I think he's right – we should leave him at home," I said kindly. "Big brother's getting a bit old for this kind of thing."

No kidding. He's had his twenty-eighth birthday since then. Way along the slippery slope down to the big three-oh. I could see that his rescue days were going to be over before they'd begun. Everyone knows you start to decline physically and mentally after your late teens.

Which puts me right smack at the peak of physical perfection.

He just gave me that old-fashioned look that said he wasn't going to be drawn, but the others weren't finished with him.

"Y'know, I think Alan may have a point. I think he is getting past it," Virgil said to the room in general.

"I think he's just afraid we'll show him up," John said.

"But how are we going to manage without big brother to pick us up off the floor and kiss our grazed knees better, and…."

"Whoa, whoa," Scott raised himself up to his full height, such as it is. He glanced over at father, who was sensibly keeping out of the argument. "You guys are getting in way over your heads here. Alan, Virj, you'll be my age one day, if you live that long, and then you'll be sorry. Gordon, I have never in my life kissed anyone's knee better, and I don't intend to start now." Gordon opened his mouth to protest but Scott interrupted him. "Seriously. It was some other guy. Not me. And John, I am so about to whip your ass."

"Yeah, sure!" John's tone was derogatory. For a guy who spends a lot of time with his head in a book, Johnny's surprisingly fit. I didn't have any doubts he would be able to deliver. But he suddenly put the chair down with a bump as the implication hit home. "You mean you're coming?"

"I'd hate there to be any doubts about my ability to lead from the front. And this has just become an 'every man for himself' affair. We'll worry about team-building later. Anyone wanna bet me a twenty that I'm home first?"

We fell over ourselves in the rush.

I saw Dad smirking in the background. If I'd realised what his expression meant, I'd have hung onto my twenty bucks.

…

They lent us two marines. Presumably Dad was paying handsomely for their services. There was a fresh-faced lieutenant, scarcely older than Gordon. He didn't look so scary. And the jumped-up little gunner sergeant, the worst kind of parody, was just plain funny. At least I'd thought so to start with. Later, he and I developed issues.

I should be thankful for small mercies. At least they didn't make us drill. Would have looked pretty darned silly with just the five of us, after all.

To be fair, some of it was okay. Practicing the route marching and the orienteering had been tedious the first couple of days. I never realised how boring just walking is, and how much more of a chore it gets to be when you're hauling around thirty pounds of backpack. The third day they took us out on the rifle range. That was cool, except that Gordo turned out to be an unexpectedly fluky marksman and made sure the rest of us knew how good he was. The fourth day they took us out on the assault course. This definitely looked like it had some potential. But in general terms it wasn't exactly what I wanted to be doing with my vacation time.

What infuriated us all was that Scott, having been persuaded along to this show, seemed to have no intention of actually doing anything, and no-one seemed to be making him. It seemed clear he'd Gone Over to the Enemy, and they'd welcomed him as one of their own. The young lieutenant and the sergeant were just plain deferential, and considering Scott was no longer in the military, I thought that 'sir-ring' him was a bit rich.

He had just trailed around behind the rest of us on the march, getting real pally with the marines. I was just waiting for him to start semper fi-ing right along there with them. He point-blank – no pun intended – refused to pick up a weapon on the rifle range, and they didn't push it. Now, on the assault course he just stood there on the backlines, watching us, and sharing private jokes with these two. Every now and then he'd come and lend us his valuable insights.

Meanwhile, the rest of us could do pretty much nothing right. We were too slow, too clumsy, too stupid – this being pointed out to us by the sadistic gunny via a smattering of adjectival prose that made even me blush.

By about three in the afternoon I'd pretty well had enough. They'd made me attempt the wall a dozen times in a row because they weren't happy with the way I was doing it. After a few goes, Scott came to intervene and give me the benefit of his wisdom. I could see what he was trying to get at, but try as I might I couldn't make him see that doing it my way was going to be faster in the long run. After a particularly vicious blast from the gunner sergeant, I gave up and did it their way. It didn't feel nearly so effective.

The marines had been screaming at Gordon all afternoon, too, because he kept getting stuck on the tower – well not so much on it, as half way up. He doesn't have much of a head for heights, and then his old war wounds started playing up. John and Virgil seemed to be just about keeping their heads above water, but they both looked pretty fed up.

At last they gave us five. Scott came over to join us. He sat down on the grass and got the heel of his hand into Gordon's seizing back muscles – to which the treacherous little turncoat started purring like a kitten - and started to murmur encouraging platitudes to the rest of us about how great we were doing. But by now I was pretty well ready to blow, and let him know it.

"Why the hell aren't you doing this too?" I demanded to know.

He looked slightly surprised. "After the break you get to try the whole thing, not just the separate elements. You need to go over this thing in under four minutes to pass the course. You think you're going to be anywhere near that today?"

I didn't know, to be honest. "I guess. But that doesn't answer my question."

"You need to learn how to tackle the obstacles safely before you do it at speed. You don't have the hang of the wall yet."

"And you can do it, I suppose?"

"Sure I can."

"Then let's see it. You haven't done a thing yet. If we're going to do the whole course, then you should go too."

His mouth twisted. "You want me to show you how to do it?"

"As if!"

"Maybe you'd like to take me on? Kind of a bore going round on my own." His tone was lazy and provocative at the same time. A tiny little warning bell went off at the back of my head somewhere.

I ignored the ringing sound. I was up for it. Besides, he'd barely so much as warmed up. With luck he'd go off too fast and ham-string himself. Judging by the way the others cheered me on they wanted to watch this imminent humiliation too.

He pulled me to my feet, a faintly amused look in his eyes. I ignored his trying to psych me out. I had every intention of making the old guy eat dust.

The gunny shrugged, got out his stop-watch and whistle.

I've always been pretty analytical. And though we hadn't done the whole course back-to-back, I'd had plenty of time to get the measure of it by now. I read it the way I read a racing circuit. You look for the short-cuts, the places you can get ahead of your opponent without actually carving him into the barrier – though just at this moment I'd have cheerfully pole-axed my oldest brother.

I figured if I could take the wall the right way – my way – I could shave a couple of seconds off there, and if I didn't fasten the second safety on the slide, that would speed the descent and take off three or four more.

The whistle went and I was off like the fury.

I was focused. I'm pretty competitive by nature. I guess people who have four older brothers either curl up into a ball of insecurities or come out fighting. Me, I'm one of the hell-raisers.

And I have the reaction time of a competitive racer.

So I was off fast at the whistle, I know I was. I cast a glance sideways.

He seemed to be pretty well keeping up.

He slammed into the first obstacle, the dummy, with a will, and drove it back home; I was fractionally more cautious, because I'd discovered the hard way the thing was on a tight spring - the damn thing had nearly taken my head off earlier in the day. Okay, so I was a second behind, but it was the only element I wasn't too keen on. He'd easily be caught.

Watching Scott was only going to distract me, so I forced myself to focus over the tyres – head down or you trip over your own feet - and in on your belly through the low nets. Actually, I don't much like those either. The nets are loose and you can get caught up in them, and there are poles every few yards that you have to swerve to avoid. It's hard to see where you're going, and they're probably easier for someone smaller than me. But I was fast, nonetheless. I kind of lost track of exactly where Scott was. But he wasn't even close by the time I'd squiggled out from under the nets and hit the next obstacle, the high bars. The gunny kept pace with me down the side of the course, yelling something that might have passed for encouragement, with a handful of obscenities thrown in for good measure. I was going well. I swung myself across the bars with relative ease given that I'm a big guy and have a fair bit to haul about.

Fatigue was just beginning to set in. I gritted my teeth as I took the wall – my way – and allowed myself a small grin of satisfaction as I landed perfectly.

Half way through – turning through ninety degrees, heading back for the start via the high wire.

I like the tower – unlike Gordo, I have a pretty good head for heights – and was up there faster than you could say monkey, despite the aches in my shoulders and knees. I looped the first safety onto the chain and started the slide back to terra firma. The strategy didn't work quite as well as I had hoped because the lead bucked a bit on the way down, but it was still faster than it would have been with two wires. I landed a little awkwardly, righted myself. I ignored the gunny screaming at me.

Swung out over the water, barely got my feet wet.

Last obstacle, the high nets, tried not to get tangled, getting tired now, made it at last, sprint to the finish. I stopped, doubled over with the effort, took a few deep gulps of air to get the blood re-oxygenated. Beside me, the gunny had stopped the watch.

I checked back behind me for Scott. Nowhere in sight.

I forced myself not to punch the air, but I felt pretty pleased with myself as I ambled back to the start of the course.

Where Scott had gone back to massaging Gordon's back.

He wasn't even breathing hard.

This was incomprehensible. I'd passed him on the second or third element. Hadn't I? The realisation suddenly dawned that he'd pulled out and left me to run the course on my own, looking like an idiot.

"You jerk, you had no intention of going round that course!" I was pretty furious that he'd pull a stunt like that. You'd expect it from Gordon. Not Scott.

"Sorry?" Same half-amused expression. I wanted to wipe it from his face.

The gunner sergeant stepped up. "That is no way to address a superior officer."

"Yeah, well, I've got news for you, pal. He's not my superior officer. He's retired. He's a ci-vi-li-an."

Scott held out a hand, looking more serious. "Let's not get into the ins and outs of that for now, Gunny. Alan, what are you talking about?"

"You pulled out in the nets, didn't you?"

"The nets?" He looked bemused. "Alan, I was over the wall while you were still messing around in there. I thought we were going to have to send in the dogs to fetch you out."

I blinked, looked at the others. Gordon just rolled over and gave me one of those 'hard luck' expressions he does so well. The big fella was trying hard not to laugh – he seemed to have switched sides suddenly. I still wasn't sure that it wasn't a wind-up. John gave me a pained look. "He ran the full course, Alan."

John wouldn't lie to me. Would he?

I still wasn't absolutely convinced. "How fast?" I demanded.

Scott shot a querying look at the sergeant.

"Three-forty-nine, sir."

I wasn't stupid enough to think that was my time.

"And me?"

"Five-sixteen."

5:16? How on earth was I supposed to shave more than a minute off the time I'd just done? I felt unbelievably deflated. I sat down, hard. But it wasn't over. The gunner sergeant had other ideas.

It would probably be a mild understatement to say he wasn't happy about the way I'd taken the wire and the wall. Or about being called 'pal'. I found out the hard way you can't argue with these people. It's their job to make you feel like something the cat found under a stone.

That night I found myself doing twenty laps around the perimeter for my pains.

It occurred to me not to bother to submit to the humiliation. After all, I wasn't actually trying to join the marines. What the hell did it matter if they threw me off the course? I had done a couple of laps, feeling pretty lonely, when I made up my mind to jack it in and head home to the island. I slowed to a walk.

There was movement to the side of me. Scott. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I felt pretty miserable, and wanted some company, it was true, but any of the others would have been preferable at that moment. But they were all putting their feet up and having hot showers back in the barracks.

"Don't stop, kid," he advised. "They'll just make you do double tomorrow."

I broke into an unenthusiastic jog and he fell into step. "I don't have to do this," I reasoned. "I'm not some brainless piece of cannon-fodder who just has to follow orders blindly. What's the worst that can happen – I don't get to be a marine, right?!"

He laughed. "Er, no. The worst that can happen is that you don't make the team."

It took a moment to take in what he was saying. I felt the anger rise again. "That's not your call. Dad's already asked me to join the team."

"Hate to correct you, little brother. Dad's given you an opportunity to make the team. Whether or not you make it is my call."

I glanced at him. I didn't think this was true. He couldn't over-rule Dad. Could he? He saw the look on my face and turned around so he could look at me. I kinda hoped he might fall over, but he just kept right on jogging backwards.

"I need people who are going to do the job right, Alan. No-one's asking you to stop having initiative or being an individual or whatever it is you're worried about. But there's a time and place. There are lots of things that you're going to have to learn that have a right way and a wrong way of doing them. That stunt you pulled off the tower could have gotten you killed today. So we're all going to do it right, or we're not going to do it at all. Bottom line is that in the field, when I tell you to do something, you do it, and you do it the way I want it done without asking questions. If you can't hack that, get out now."

His tone was mild, but I knew he meant it. Maybe he was telling the truth about having the final say about the team.

He kept me company for the rest of the laps, which just about finished me off after the day I'd had, then turned with me to walk with me over towards the huts.

"So, you staying?"

I nodded glumly. "I'll stay if you tell me how the hell you got round that course in three-forty-nine."

"Well, first, I'm super-fit, and you," he tapped me in the stomach in a way I didn't really care for, "need to get into shape, kid. And second, I told you once before, you just weren't listening. Been here, got the t-shirt. You don't think I'd put you through all this without trying it myself first, do you?"

Like I said, my reaction times are fast. So he wasn't quite quick enough to avoid me when I got my head down and tackled him right in the solar plexus, following up with as much of a pummelling as I dared. I didn't knock quite enough wind out of him to stop him collapsing into laughter.

"If you think you're getting me to part with my money, you've got another thing coming," I told him sourly. "All bets are off."

He waved a hand for a truce, still chuckling. "Dad's holding the ante. And he considers that all's fair in love and brotherhood and all that." He started coughing. Perhaps I'd hit him harder than I meant to. "Give an old man a hand up, will you," he wheezed.

I sniffed and pulled him to his feet. "Please tell me that last time you came here you ended up on the wrong side of these guys, too."

He turned me by the shoulders and looked at me solemnly.

"I won't lie to you kid," his expression was rueful.

I braced myself for some juicy bit of gossip.

Then he winked.

"No, I didn't.

...