Thundergeek59

-oOo-

As Thunderbird 2 entered the hangar and powered down, Virgil didn’t even bother with doing post-flight checks. He just needed out. “Nothing personal, Girl.” He assured the specialised craft, as he ran his hand over her interior hull, making his way down. As he disembarked, his feet seemed to carry him to the service elevator, straight to the villa. A routine that was usually engrained in his being, that brought him a sense of control, was merely perceived as a barrier, a nuisance.  Staring ahead at the metal doors as the elevator drew him up, Virgil swayed and counted the seconds, the paces it would take to get to where he wanted to. Coming to a halt, the doors hissed open and he shot through. It took him 23 paces, to reach the end of the hallway and press on the door handle. As it swung open, his eyes fell on the woman before him. 

Glancing up from her book, Vani’s smile soon disappeared as she saw the hardened expression the pilot wore. “Virgil.” Without second thought, Vani had clambered off the bed and crossed the space between them. Virgil’s mind, upon registering where he was, and who he was with, let his body collapse into the woman. Arms wrapped around him tightly, Vani held up her love as he broke down into heaving sobs. Tears welling in her eyes, Vani held him steady and rubbed his back as she cooed reassurance. “I’ve got you Virg, and I won’t let go until you say so.” Virgil held his lifeline tightly, and some conscious part of him was screaming at him for crushing the woman he loved so deeply. He buried his face into her soft curls, the smell of cocoa butter and pineapple a familiar, soothing presence. It wasn’t often that Virgil would be so impacted by a rescue. But he was grateful that she was there when he needed. Even after Virgil’s cries had soothed, he couldn’t find himself ready to let go. 

“Virgil?” Vani whispered. “I’m just gonna have a quick look at you.” Pulling away, Virgil looked at Vani with a tear streaked, reddened face. Her heart nearly broke at the look in his eyes - the slight fear of being left alone in his vulnerability, and the uncertainty. Holding his hands and squeezing a few times, she gave him a small smile as she scanned over his form. His IR blues, usually so vibrant, we muddied with dirt and soot. And blood. Streaks, pools, splatters. Being a trained medic, Virgil often supported emergency response personnel in the field if need be.

“I’m just checking for injuries.” Vani verbalised, as her hands traced over the blood stains and slightly prodded. The blood was dried, with no oxygen rich pools flooding the spaces. But that didn’t mean they didn’t hurt the man, with the way his eyes fell to her hands. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Gently moving him to their ensuite bathroom, the man held her hand like a small child, letting her lead the way. 

As she turned the taps on, the sound of water filling the ceramic tub echoed within the room. Steam rose, looking inviting as Virgil’s gaze fell on the body. Hands on his chest drew his attention back to the present, his eyes falling on Vani. “I’m going to start removing your suit, starting with your baldritch. You use your hands, or your words, if you want me to stop. Is that okay?” Of course. Virgil thought to himself. I trust you entirely. But words couldn’t form, and so a simple nod sufficed. Nodding back, she began to unfasten the clips on either side of his hips and thighs. As they slid down, Vani gently lifted the baldritch sash over his head and let it drop, kneeling as he stepped out. 

“Hold onto my shoulder.” Doing as instructed, he kept his balance as she undid his boots and pushed both the baldritch and it aside. Standing upright, she gently held his hands and pulled off the velcro pads for his gloves, slipping them off. As she put them neatly on the benchtop, her gaze lifted to him. “Are you okay with me undoing your suit?” Virgil nodded, and Vani unzipped the top. Helping him discard the dirtied suit, his thermal undershirt and undergarments, she held his hand and guided him into the hot bath. Without second thought, he sank down and let the warm water encase his body in a safe cocoon.

Virgil let out a long breath, watching the woman move around him. The tap closed, as Vani gathered soaps and hair products to help clean the dirt away. “I’m just gonna start cleaning you up, Hon. Pouring water over your head.” She announced as a stream of water soaked his hair. A bottle opening and cool liquid dampening his locks, Vani’s fingers worked to massage the gel into his hair, and thoroughly lather and clean it. Groaning at the calming sensation, Virgil’s eyes fluttered closed. How could something so gentle give him such solace? 

“Did you want to talk about what happened?” Vani whispered into the air, looking down as she combed her fingers through the black strands. Eyes opening, Virgil looked up at the woman above him. He hadn’t really had a chance to admire her. But now in the seconds he had, his eyes roamed over her. She was wearing one of his old shirts, one he used to use after ballet practice. A warmth in his chest blossomed at the sight of something that was his, complimenting her so perfectly. How it framed her, and matched with the bike shorts, contrasted against her tan skin. After a brief moment, he nodded a little and stared ahead. 

“John called in about a series of tremors along the San Andreas fault. Apparently these escalated into a few earthquakes. One impacting a school.” Virgil shifted, the water sloshing and lapping at the sides. “The building had sunk into an open crevice, and needed help lifting them out.” Vani nodded, gently rinsing the shampoo out. Hands collecting conditioner, she let him continue as she worked the cream through his hair. “When I landed, the local emergency crews had evacuated the surrounding areas, but also got to those that were just trapped. I had to go in and not only lift the building up, but get to what was estimated, 17 children and a few adults.

“Once I had moved the debris, I had a clear view of them.” His breath hitching, Virgil looked up at Vani. “They were so scared, Baby. They couldn’t have been older than 9. Covered in dirt, some with broken arms, scabbed knees. Kids should only get those injuries on playgrounds and when having fun, not fearing for their life in a crevice with a building over them.” Vani gently held his shoulder, squeezing slightly. 

“That you worked to save them from.”

“I did, but getting there was hard.” Motioning for him to continue, Vani started washing over his upper body and arms, scrubbing at the dried dirt. The massaging motion, and gentle touches soothed Virgil’s body, but also relaxed his mind. “I had to first get the injured kids up, being careful not to move too suddenly, or twist them harshly. I had to gently pry them off, even against their pleas.” Virgil twisted his mouth, trying to push down the thought of teary, horrified faces pulling away from a safe hold. “And then we managed to get a ladder down, so the rest of them could climb up. Just as we were about to get the last child up, another tremor hit, and the ground caved-” Breath hitching, Virgil tilted his head back, looking at Vani as she squeezed his hand. Watching his face, Vani gave a soft gaze as she traced his knuckles. 

“Deep breaths, Hon. Take your time.” Doing as she instructed, Virgil took a deep breath and exhaled, leaning back against her. 

“Without thinking, I grabbed the arm of the girl tightly as I held the ledge, and she screamed. I- I dislocated her shoulder.” Virgil’s voice quivered, and Vani leaned down and held him from behind. “I pulled her up and carried her out. Holding her so tightly, and begging for her forgiveness.” Virgil shook, holding Vani’s arms closer to him. 

“Virgil, you saved that girl’s life. You did what any of us would’ve done in that situation.” Vani assured him.

“They were already scared and in pain, and I made it worse-”

“Virgil Tracy.” Vani firmly said. Gently cradling his face and tilting his head back to meet her gaze, she looked down at him. “I’ve never known you to make things worse. You make things better. You are a beacon of hope, and are everything that is good in this world. Those kids were lucky that you were there today. I’m sure that young girl forgave you, knowing that her hero did his best. But you need to know that too. That you did your best.” Virgil gave a small nod. Vani, as blunt as she could be sometimes, always knew what to say, always knew how to ground him. Her logical approach was always a nice contrast and comfort to his emotional approach. It’s what balanced them so perfectly. “Did you do everything you could?”

“I did.”

“And was everyone taken care of, by yourself or other personnel?”

“Yes.”

“And did everyone get to go home today, to their families safe and sound?”

“Yes.”

“And you did too. And that’s all that matters.” Kissing his forehead, she stroked over his cheeks. 

“Does anyone ever tell you that you give great pep-talks Baby?” Virgil leaned into her touch. 

“Not recently, but please give me all the praise I deserve.” Giving a small smile, she placed a kiss on his lips and massaged his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll let you finish up while I get your suit in the laundry. Then we’ll get you some food, and then go to bed.” 

Virgil smiled as the woman stood and started to move around him. Virgil may be a rescue operative, but even he needed a bit of saving and helping every now and then. And he was grateful that Vani was the woman he could always count on to do so. 

The men rescuing him had been kind. Gentle. They’d sheared through the chain around his ankle and helped him onto a stretcher, had bound his wrists and ankle where the cuffs had chafed.

And then carried him from the room.

Scott closed his eyes and tried so hard not to give in to weeping in his relief. His brain warred with itself - on the one hand not believing that this was real and on the other collapsing with relief - so, despite the relief, he held himself ready.

If this was a trick then that’s made a huge error in not strapping him to the stretcher.

But as they moved him Scott became aware of the changes in the environment. The putrid smells he’d become accustomed to were replaced with something he couldn’t quite name, the word tantalisingly out of reach. The light was getting brighter too, and was that a breeze???

Light suddenly flooded him, bright enough that Scott could see it through his closed eyes, and he couldn’t help but crack one eye open.

Sunlight! Blessed sunlight!

…but…

He couldn’t see.

It was so bright! His eyes watered and he screwed them shut in a desperate attempt at controlling them.

It was too bright!

Too big!

Too much!

The roaring of his blood pumping drowned out all sound and thought, and Scott struggled as hard as he could against hands now holding him down.

He was screaming but he didn’t know it…

Hands finally secured him. Suddenly there was a sharp scratch on his arm and a metallic coldness flooded Scott momentarily before he succumbed to the sedation.

His rescuers cursed themselves. How did they not realise this could have been the reaction? They should have known!

Quickly they loaded him into the waiting medivac helo and returned to make sure everyone had been rescued from that hellhole.

Tuesday 11 May, 0700hrs New YorkWednesday 12 May, 2100hrs Cloudbase

At precisely seven am NYT, Jeff stood behind the podium in the Tracy Tower auditorium, Lee just behind his right shoulder, and gave the assembled cameras and journalists a winning smile, relaxed and calm. 

This was probably the most technically difficult speech he'd ever had to give. Because that bitch had proof he couldn't accuse her of slander and he couldn't outright deny everything, so today was about dancing between the lines of what he could and could not say to lead the thoughts of the general public - because that's who he was really talking to, not the reporters - a certain way. 

This would be the foundation of his defence, Tobais and his team were busy building the rest even now, and by the end of the month it’d be nothing more than a blip on the news cycle.

Taking a deep breath, Jeff began. “Good morning everyone, and thank you for coming. I'm going to just come right out and say it. The ‘expose’ screened last night can be summed up as bitter and angry words from a bitter and angry man who couldn't stand to share the spotlight, and that's all it is, words. I love my boys, I've cherished and nurtured them, and I've worked hard to give them the best of everything. To have my reputation attacked like this is deeply hurtful and I will fight these accusations - especially the baseless claim that my eldest son had to go into hiding.  Even now my lawyers are laying an injunction against the Kat Cavanaugh Show, and on their instructions I will not be able to answer any questions on this topic as it will be before the courts. Once again, thank you all for coming.” 

To a storm of “Mr Tracy!” and “just one question!”, with an accompanying forest of raised hands, he gave them all another smile and nod, stepped down from the podium and vanished out the side door, Lee guarding his back the whole way. 

“That was perfect,” Tobias fell into step with him and handed over a bottle of spring water. “We've got it up on the website and socials already.” 

“What about pinning as much of it as possible on Lucille?” 

“We're still running test audiences, but blaming a dead woman isn't proving popular, especially with how she died.” 

“Keep at it, there's got to be a way. How are the lawyers going?” That was what Jeff really wanted to know. 

“They’re still in their meeting, but we should get a report when they break for lunch.” 

“Good. What's the next step?” 

“A counter attack. We're digging for dirt now, vetting a reporter for a follow up interview, and lining up character witnesses to tell the world the truth about the man who is the only possible choice for the next World President.” 

Jeff felt his lips stretch into a smile as he cracked open the bottle. “Good work Tobias, very good.”

T H U N D E R F A L L 

Between adventures, home for the Pendergasts was a small house tucked away in Burrumbeet, Australia. It was their haven, a place to rest, recover, and plan out new expeditions. 

They were in the middle of doing just that, having gotten back two days ago after a trip to Peru. The plan had been to take advantage of the cool night breeze to relax on the porch and review their footage before turning in, and they were more than a little annoyed to have their quiet time interrupted by a call on their private number.

They were even more annoyed when the guy calling them explained what he was after.

Buddy looked at the hologram, then at Ellie, who's extremely expressive face was doing an extremely expressive demonstration of how she felt about the idea. 

“Tobias, right? Lemme get this straight.” Buddy laid back on his hammock chair. “Your boss wants me to tell the world he's an awesome guy after Kat Cavernaugh told the world he beat his kid?” 

“It's muck-raking by an angry, bitter man who couldn't share the spotlight…” Tobias started, but Buddy cut him off before he got any further. 

“I've met that ‘angry, bitter man’,” he kept his own expression neutral for now, ”and I've met Gordon and I've met Alan. I've never met Jeff.” 

“That can be fixed in a matter of minutes,” Tobias gave him an ingratiating smile, “and the boost to your program will be…” 

Buddy cut him off again. “Mate, I would rather fuck a spider.” He ended the call and looked at his wife. “Ells, you get all that?” 

She held up her tablet, grinning broadly. “Every last bit. Feel like doing a quick piece to camera? I can have it edited and up before bed.” 

“Luv, I thought you'd never ask.” Buddy rearranged himself in his chair, made sure his beer bottle was out of view, and when Ellie held up the tablet and gave him the thumbs up he tossed off a cheery wave. “Hello adventurers, Buddy here. I’m sure you’ve heard about the report about Jeff Tracy by now, and if you haven’t you soon will. Me and Ells just got a call from Jeff’s head PR guy and someone forgot that Victoria is a one party consent state. We’ll let the clip speak for itself.” 

He waited until Ellie had lowered the tablet before reclaiming his beer. “How was that, Luv?” 

“That was perfect, Buddy.” Ellie was already hard at work splicing the two clips together. “I’ll have this up in no time.” 

It was online less than half an hour later, and it was the snowflake that set off a proverbial avalanche.

T H U N D E R F A L L 

The hastily arranged interview at the Superlative Hadron Collider was conducted by remote, but that didn’t detract one bit from its message. 

“You’ve worked with International Rescue on several occasions, including providing the Centurium 21 fuel that was used to rescue Jeff Tracy from the Oort Cloud,” the reporter was saying, “but even though you’ve never met Jeff Tracy you’re speaking out against him?” 

“I am.” Calm and composed, Professor Moffat nodded, her chin raised and firm. “I was in fact recently invited to visit Tracy Island to meet him and possibly work for him, but I declined straight away. I couldn’t take the risk of working for a man like him or giving him access to my research.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, look at what happened to his wife, Lucille,” Moffie replied, getting animated as she warmed to the reason why she’d arranged this interview. “Not long before she married Jeff Tracy, Lucille Tracy née Evans designed the magnetic pinch bottle; the foundation technology for magnetic fusion and the heart of the engine in almost every modern spacecraft. And she didn’t just create a design that was stable in the lab, but she made one robust enough to be used in space. She single-handedly founded our current space age, but after she marries him? Nothing. No articles, no papers, no patents, no books, no interviews. I know she did some of the early engineering work for Tracy Industries, but on every design, patent application, and article I could dig up, do you know who I found listed as the author or designer? ‘Jeff Tracy et al’. He took credit for her brilliance and erased her! And she’s not the only person he’s done this to!” Moffie visibly stopped herself and took a calming breath. “So you see why I couldn’t possibly go - alone, by the way - to that man’s private island in the middle of nowhere.”

T H U N D E R F A L L 

Lieutenant Commander Atlanta Shore worked very hard to not roll her eyes as she listened to the… she checked her tally… fifth reporter who’d made it through to her office ‘phone, trying to get information by going to WASP for the Gordon Tracy angle. She had to give the guy credit for persistence and creativity. After getting the official spiel of ‘no comment’ and ignoring it, he was really laying it on thick with the ‘vital for people to know the truth with the election looming’ and other variations on the theme.  

He wasn’t going to get a thing out of her though - she had her orders -  and she refused to give him the toe-hold of a disrespectful eye-roll to make print out of.

The first reason for her discipline was years of service in WASP and being held to a much higher standard than everyone else simply because she was Commander Shore’s daughter, the shared name automatically meant she had a much harder course to row.

The second reason was years of exposure to Tempest. 

“The answer still hasn’t changed: No comment. No access. No interviews. Goodbye.” A flick of her hand dismissed the call and she leaned her elbows on her desk so she could rub her temples to fend off the looming headache. “I need hazard pay for this.” Yes, her job was to be the final filter to keep the nonsense out of the commander’s hair, but this was getting ridiculous. How in Amphitrite’s name were so many people getting past the media liaison office? 

“Atlanta?” A whirr of a hover chair and a touch on her arm was her father. 

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do, sir?” she asked as she raised her head. She’d met Lieutenant Commander Tracy and a couple of his brothers in passing once or twice, and of course she’d seen the news reports over the years. But as far as WASP as a whole was concerned, it didn’t matter that it’d been years since he wore the uniform, Tracy was still one of them and he was entitled to the same protection as an active member. This broken record response of ‘no comment’ was feeling uncomfortably like not taking responsibility and not standing in defence of one of their own, and the fact that Jeff Tracy and her father had been friends was only adding to that feeling. 

“I’ve got Phones doing his thing, seems like some of those reporters are handing out bribes - and not a little blackmail - to get through to you,” Shore told her. “We’ll get the cracks plugged in no time.” 

“But just leaving it at ‘no comment’?” Atlanta frowned. “Tracy’s WASP, he's one of us.” 

“The water is muddy enough without us diving in too.” Shore clearly wasn’t happy about it either, giving her arm a reassuring little squeeze. “It’s being handled, trust me, but it's delicate. If we start spouting off we could capsize things.” 

“Speaking of capsize…” 

“Yes, Marina’s keeping Troy busy and well off shore in Stingray for the next few days,” Shore reassured her, “there’s no way I’m chancing him being unsupervised with the press on the hunt.” The ‘again’ went unsaid. 

“Yes, father.” The holophone chimed and Atlanta gave the device a venomous glare: it was another reporter. “Sir, I want hazard pay.” 

“You’ll get it,” Shore promised as he backed up out of camera range - if he was spotted, it might get the reporter’s hopes up of more information, especially if the word spread that they were starting to get past the proverbial guard at the gate. “I’ll tell Phones to stomp on things harder.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Atlanta nodded, squared her shoulders and girded herself for caller #6. 

Sam Shore felt his heart swell with pride as he watched his daughter at work, but he couldn’t help the curl of concern - and guilt -  that curdled his belly. Charles had visited last week to give him the warning about the storm bearing down on them and the course he wanted WASP to sail. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Charles had brought proof, and it’d taken a lot of fast talking from Charles to keep him from calling Jeff to bawl him out, then call everyone he knew to spread the news. 

Sam couldn’t hide his grimace. This whole mess had been a hell of a bitter pill to swallow. ‘Charlie, I hope like heck you’ve got this under control, because sitting on my thumbs like this is getting hard.’ 

T H U N D E R F A L L

Standing in the hall and listening to the bickering in the Yellow Drawing Room, Étienne Gieger rolled his eyes to the quite frankly ostentatious baroque rococo ceiling and prayed for strength to resist temptation. 

He had faithfully served the Lemaires as their head butler for almost ten years. With the kind of lifestyle the couple led, the tabloid scavengers had always lurked about with very large cheques in hand for gossip and tittle tattle, he could only imagine what this little exchange would bring with the current atmosphere. 

“Françios!” 

Étienne winced. Madame always became somewhat shrill when she was upset. 

“You mean to tell me you want to support Jefferson Tracy?!” she went on to exclaim. 

“I quite simply can’t imagine that he'd do something like that. It must be an exaggeration. You know what the press are like, they'll make molehills into mountains at the barest suggestion of a possible scandal. They’ve done it to me enough times.” 

Étienne could imagine the expression that the Master would be wearing, his eyes half shut as he looked down his nose at Madame while lolling indolently in his favourite armchair, a snifter of brandy in hand. 

“He has always been a perfect gentleman to me,” the Master sniffed, “unlike his sons.” 

“His sons who have saved our lives how many times?” Madame demanded. 

“I’ve told you, each and every time I knew exactly what I was doing!” 

“Oh yes, you know exactly what to do: press the emergency button and eat camembert cheese with quince paste while you wait for rescue.” She paused, then sneeringly added “when you can find the emergency button, that is.” 

The last line was laced with enough acid to burn even through the door. Despite himself Étienne crept closer to listen. They'd quarrelled before, but nothing like this. 

“How dare you!?” 

A crash and breaking crockery was the Master lunging to his feet and knocking something over. 

“No. How dare you, François Lemaire. I am fed up to the back teeth with your lackadaisical attitude to my safety and your callous disregard for anyone not yourself. We are done.” 

“...Madeline, what…what are you saying?” 

Étienne blinked, the Master sounded actually scared. 

“I am going to stay with my brother,” Madame snapped. 

Heels clacked on marble and Étienne scrambled out of the way just before the double doors were thrown open and the furious Madeline stormed out, tears brimming in her eyes but her head held high. She spotted him immediately. “Étienne, have my travel cases brought up and the car brought around,” she ordered.

“Yes, Madame.” 

T H U N D E R F A L L

"Who, Harrison?" John stared at his assistant, he couldn't have heard that correctly. He’d never met the man but he knew the name and the reputation, and a surprise visit, just dropping in out of the blue without even a ‘phone call? It was unheard of.

Harrison canted an eyebrow, he'd worked with John Svenson before he was The John Svenson, and had no fear of the man. "Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward. He said to mention that you have a mutual foe." 

John leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. "Did he now?" There was only one foe that had his attention currently and he’d have been lying if he’d said wasn’t burning with curiosity about how the man knew about his interest in the matter. "Ten minutes. Unless I say otherwise." "Noted, Mr. Svenson. Ten minutes." Harrison turned and ushered in a tall man with blue eyes and silvered blond hair that was slightly longer than fashionable. What was extremely fashionable was his three piece suit in charcoal grey in a conservative English cut, crisp white shirt, and some kind of school or regimental tie done in a four-in-hand knot. John shifted slightly in his chair, he knew enough about clothes to realise this English lord was wearing bespoke Savile Row. 

John stood and held out his hand. "Lord Creighton-Ward." 

"Mr. Svenson." The handshake was firm without any of the usual power games. "I shan't take much of your time. I'm here to offer you an invitation for dinner tonight in New York. Harvest's private dining room, 8pm sharp."

The choice of restaurant was reassuring, but…"To what aim, Lord Creighton-Ward?"

The smile that came his way was a lion's snarl. "To discuss the downfall of Jeff Tracy." 

"So he would be our 'mutual' foe?" John crossed his arms. While he was reasonably certain about his own attack on the man, the offer of help would shorten the timeline considerably.

"Just so." 

John didn't need to think it over, but he made a show of it, he did have a reputation after all. "Any reason we couldn't discuss it now?" He waved a hand at the two couches and table in the corner of the room.

"Because the third member of this triumvirate isn't present." The lord hooked a thumb into his jacket pocket. "So, dinner?"

John's curiosity was aflame as he tried to figure out who the third person would be. "Dinner. I will see you there." "Excellent." Lord Creighton-Ward held out his hand again. "Do be on time, it's rude to keep a lady waiting." 

T H U N D E R F A L L

“Bearheads!” In his artfully messy lounge, Brandon was lying sprawled across a gaming chair upholstered in orange and grey, surrounded by carefully arranged sports and video equipment. “Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard about what a certain person has been accused of doing to the guy who literally saved my life. I said it on my socials, and I’ll say it again, right here, right now on live stream: I believe Scott Tracy.” 

He sat up straight, serious for one of the few times in his life. “Scotty’s someone I know, same with his brothers Virgil and Alan. I’ve seen them in action, and they always show up, camera or no camera. But Jeff Tracy?” His features twisted into a disgusted scowl. “Me, Goose, The Bear Team, and a few friends of ours have been digging ever since the broadcast aired. You only ever see Jeff Tracy when there’s people he wants to be seen by and seen with, and he always talks to the journos. The rest of International Rescue? If you ever see them on camera, they’re the ones doing the actual work while the big man takes the glory. Bearheads, I’ve got a challenge for you: look back in the archives, ask around, make notes. See when Jeff Tracy shows up and look at who’s there: who’re the rich people, who’re the famous people, who’re the important people in trouble and needing a rescue. Actions, words, which one speaks louder, Bearheads? Ask yourself who’re you gonna believe? The person who only shows up when it helps him, or the people who always show up to help you?” 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

“I don’t care what it’s doing to your budget, we have a job to do and we are going to see it done!” Colonel Casey snapped as she stared down the image of the commander in charge of the North Atlantic. “If we lose a ship because you ‘can’t find the budget’ to run the operation you put on paper as having, I will have your head on a plate, and that’s after you’ve fronted to high command to fess up to spending all your operational budget on not making sure your crews and your ships are ready to respond, 24/7. Is that clear?” 

“....yessir,” the man gulped, pale even through the blue tinting of the hologram, and Val cut the call with one hand while reaching for a bottle of ibuprofen with the other. She dry-swallowed a pill, made a timestamped note so she wouldn’t accidentally OD, then pulled up the file on her next proverbial fire to put out. iR had taken the strain in so many places across the world that many of her regional commanders had gotten slack, and the current crisis had shown that there was a non-zero number of ‘paper tiger’ operations out there: reported to be fully staffed and kitted out, but the reality was severely lacking. 

‘I have a feeling there’s going to be several resignations after this, but there’s no way they’re going to be accepted until after the investigations,’ was her sour thought as she scoured a map of Southwest USA and considered how to best redeploy the assets they had.  

A tap at her door got an irritated “What is it?” as she frowned at the map. 

Her aide de camp Lieutenant Rand stuck her head in. “Colonel, it’s Jeff Tracy’s office calling. Again. They want a statement of support.” 

“Tell them I’m busy,” Val tried to not snap, and to Janice’s credit she recognised that. “Yes I know I’m the GDF Liaison with iR, but iR’s not flying and I’ve got emergencies to deal with.” 

“Understood.” Janice nodded. “Coffee?” 

“Yes, but make it decaf,” Val absently waved a hand at the collection of cups on the corner of her desk. “If I have any more caffeine I’ll be in orbit without the help of a rocket.” 

That got a brief smile. “Yessir.” 

Janice ducked out and Val went back to her map, brows drawn close together in concentration as she moved GDF assets around like a grandmaster playing chess. 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

This interview was an unusual one. Conducted in the visiting room of the rebuilt main facility of Parkmoor Scrubs Prison, the man once known as Fuse of the Chaos Crew was tidily presented in what had to be his court clothes, not the black and white stripes of an inmate, and seated opposite his interviewer at a plain, utilitarian table. 

The meeting had been arranged well in advance by a certain Lady with the ear of the right people in the right places and a deep appreciation of the effects of a personal narrative.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us,” the reporter said, her tone warm and friendly. “Though it did come as a surprise, considering you and your sister’s history with International Rescue.” 

“I had to.” Clarence made a vague gesture at their surroundings. “We saw it, the report I mean, an’ the press conference this mornin’.” His expression darkened. “‘e's lyin’. Jeff Tracy, I mean, not Scott Tracy. I grew up in the system, I know when someone's lyin’.” Clarence shifted his weight, his expression changing from anger to bitter regret. “Look, I'm in here because of what I did, right? An’ one of those things I did was almost murder Gordon Tracy. We dropped a pile o’ rocks on his submarine an’…” He paused to take a deep breath, “...an’ then I left him there to die. And you know what happened later?” Clarence straightened up. “Scott Tracy saved my life. I was at Shackleton t’ steal uranium. I set off the lock down, an’ I got in trouble. Big trouble. Like, ‘I should be dead’ trouble, an’ I dragged Scott an’ two GDF guys right into that trouble with me. Scott saved me when he had no reason to and I had no right to be saved. I almost killed his brother on purpose, and he risked it all to save me. That ain't what a ‘bitter and angry man’ would do. You ask me?” He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Th’ only ‘bitter an angry man’ ‘round here is Jeff Tracy. He’s got somethin’ to hide and he’s scared it’s all gonna be dragged out inta the light.” 

T H U N D E R F A L L

In his London workshop, Tycho Reeves considered Becky’s hologram like it was a particularly fascinating insect, and in some ways it was. 

He had been in touch with Moffie for almost three years now, having met her through Brains, and she and he had been in cahoots on how to get Brains out of his pickle as soon as she’d alerted him to the true nature of Jeff Tracy. The knowledge that Brains had been evac’d out was a deep relief for both of them. 

What made the little hologram of the PR flunky so fascinating to him was that the woman had the inside scoop on Jeff Tracy and she was still sold on him, hook, line and sinker, passionately defending his cause instead of running for the hills like a sane person. Not only that, she was trying to convince him to speak up in the man’s defence. ‘I should look into why she’s doing this. Must make sure I don’t fall for something like it too,’ he mused as she went on, extolling the virtues of a man he’d never met and really didn’t want to. 

She finally paused for breath and Tycho jumped in before she could continue her hardline sales pitch. 

“No thank you, and never call me again.” He hung up and blocked her number, then on second thought he set his phone to private and flicked a message to his PA to screen all of his calls with absolutely nothing from Jeff Tracy or his people to be passed on until further notice. 

Task done, Tycho went back to his work. He had upgrades to the Hypertube to finish and roll out before the rush of holiday travellers. 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

“It was a complete bloodbath after Jeff took over,” Doctor June Calligan told the interviewer. 

Once the head of R&D at Tracy Industries’ UK division, she was one of a group of former employees that had (with the encouragement of a certain Lady) banded together for a series of interviews with one of Kat Cavernaugh’s comrades - another investigative journalist who reported under the moniker of Abby South - and they were being interviewed in twos and threes.

“The man ruled the room and he deliberately dismantled all of Scott’s pet projects, no matter how much profit they were making,” she went on to say.

“He fired me and half the board at TI’s South American division,” Eduardo Sousa chimed in from his seat next to her. “Scott hired me as head of security, but as soon as Jeff took charge, me and everyone else that Scott or any of the other Tracys hired was either out or on their way out. He kept everyone that he’d hired and everyone that his people had mentored, but if you were a ‘new’ hire, unless you proved your loyalty you got your walking papers pretty quick.” 

“Did anyone try to bring this in front of the employment courts?” Abby asked. “That has to have violated your contracts.” 

“Some of us tried, but his lawyers sued and bankrupted…” Eduardo looked to Calligan.

“Seventeen,” June supplied. 

“Yeah, seventeen people, citing non-compete clauses and other stuff.” Eduardo made a face. “That plus things that started happening to the people that didn’t have those clauses: broken windows, cars getting damaged brakes, our kids being followed by vans… well, it made the rest of us shut up pretty quick.” 

“So why didn’t you go to the police?” Abby asked the question she knew everyone else would want an answer to. 

June and Eduardo shared an incredulous look, then turned back to Abby. “It’s Jeff Tracy,” Eduardo began, "the richest man on the planet, and he was giving a warning. If we’d taken it further… well… we’ve all seen what happens to whistleblowers.” 

“Why speak out now?” 

“Because Kat’s expose put the truth out there and if something happens now the world will listen and the world will know it was him,” was June’s reply.    

T H U N D E R F A L L 

At five minutes to eight, John Svenson strode into the Harvest restaurant and went straight to the maitre'd, a slim man somewhere in his forties who looked about as ruffle-able as a statue. “Good evening, John Svenson, there should be a reservation under Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward for the private dining room,” he said, scanning the main room to see if he could spot the Brit and the mysterious third party. 

“Yes sir.” The maitre'd beckoned over a young woman in a crisp black uniform and spotless white apron. 

“This way please sir.” She turned and guided him to the small private room at the back of the restaurant. The table was already occupied by Lord Hugh and an older woman in a dark suit and royal purple blouse.  

“Ah, right on time,” Lord Hugh said as he rose to greet him. “Mr Svenson, I would like to introduce our third party, Doctor Ruth Tracy.” 

“A pleasure,” John said with a polite smile and a handshake that covered how he was actually feeling. He knew of the Tracy matriarch by reputation, if she was involved in this… if she was going up against her own son… ‘There is much more going on here than meets the eye…’

By silent mutual agreement, a quick scan of the menu was made and orders were placed, and as soon as the waitress had their orders and was out of the room, John got straight to business. “Doctor Tracy, would I be right in suspecting you’re leading the charge?” 

“You would be. Because I know you like to know someone’s credentials, I was a partner in my husband’s agricultural business, I was heavily involved in managing the board in the immediate aftermath when Jeff was… away, and assisted in running it while Scott and the boys were in charge. The board all either know me or know of me.” She drew a paper folder from the bag beside her chair and laid it on the table. “Gentlemen, I need your help in launching a hostile takeover of Tracy Industries. Between the three of us, we are now the majority shareholders. The end goal of this operation is to get Jeff and his sycophants out while keeping TI as intact as possible: it provides the funding for International Rescue, and I’m sure you’ll agree that the world needs iR back in the air ASAP.” Her lips thinned. “This needs to be done quickly and seamlessly. Knowing Jeff like I do, the longer things are drawn out, the higher the chances that he’ll burn the place down on his way out the door.” 

“If he can’t have it, no one can?” John guessed. 

“Exactly.” 

For a moment, just a moment, he caught a flicker of bitter self-recrimination, but it was gone before he could blink. 

“I have been advised that Spectrum will be arresting Jeff as soon as they can,” Doctor Tracy went on. “There’s a lot of moving pieces in play, but all we have to worry about is our end. If we can get the takeover underway before Spectrum acts, we’ll keep TI out of limbo and move things along that much faster.” 

John nodded slowly, absorbing everything. ‘I wonder if Adam’s involved in this. It has to be more than just that expose, especially with how he asked me to get in on things all those months ago.’  “Why is Spectrum doing the arrest?” he asked out loud. “Not that I don’t agree that TI and iR need to be out of that -” he almost said ‘bastard’ but caught himself just in time “- man’s hands as soon as possible, and he cannot possibly be allowed to win the election, but so far what he’s done is local law enforcement level, not World Government level.” 

Doctor Tracy flicked a quick look at the door to make sure it was closed, then turned back to him. “Do you recall what happened to my eldest grandson while he was in the military?”

It took a moment’s thought, but he nodded. “Yes, but…” The penny dropped and he blanched. “He’s involved with that country?!” 

“Yes.” 

That cinched it for him. ‘Adam and I have a… complicated relationship,’ John admitted to himself, ‘but there is no way in hell I’ll stand by while someone makes nice with the people who tried to kill him.’ “I’m in.” He nodded to the door. “Food first, it’ll be due any minute now, then show us your plans, Doctor Tracy.” 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

Exhausted at the end of a quite frankly hellish day, Tobias dropped into his plush office chair with a groan. He took the time to rub both temples with his fingers before pouring himself a glass of G Rum No.1 and taking a long sip. 

Today had been bad and he was not looking forward to Jeff’s reaction to the results of their work trying to drum up popular support for him. He had a few voices, but no one of serious substance and standing, and anyone that’d been rescued by Scott? They were closing ranks and speaking out in his favour. “How the hell did this go so sideways?” Tobias asked himself as he sat back with his drink. The election should have been a cinch and running this campaign should have been smooth sailing all the way. He’d done his research before signing on the dotted line, looking into the backgrounds and track records of all the candidates like a gambler picking where to lay his bets on the Superbowl. Jeff Tracy had stood head and shoulders above the rest, a rising star that continually stretched to ever more stupendous heights, and attaching his name to the Tracy campaign promised to open every door for him.  

But now… now that crusading bitch was going to ruin everything! Between ‘The Bear’ kicking off his trending hashtag on one side of the younger voter base and the Pendergasts’ cheeky little clip starting things off with the other side, Professor Moffat appealing to the female and scientific communities, and of all things, one of the Chaos Crew speaking to the rougher end of society and the bleeding hearts who wanted to rehabilitate them, they were in deep trouble. Sure, they had the TI/Jeff Tracy die-hards railing away on social media and posting their clips of their favourite Jeff Tracy moments, but aside from Lemaire and Fischler there weren't any big social media names on their side and the overwhelming majority of mainstream media outlets were playing hard to get. Yale - both current students and alumini-  was turning out in force on Alan and Scott's side (and he was grinding his teeth over what those college kids were doing, he’d literally kill to have that creativity and passion for their guy), the GDF was refusing to toe the line, and on top of all that, someone, or several someones more likely, had even dug up and set loose two or three more videos from the Paris Air Show incident and the media had pounced on it! 

Tobias scowled and took another sip of rum, letting the alcohol sit on his tongue and feeling the pleasant burn of it before swallowing. The Paris Air Show stuff was something he was going to chase up personally, they’d laid out a lot of money to Tracy’s people in the different media outlets to catch and kill that particular story and all the associated photos and videos that went with it. 

“All this means we’re fighting eight plus years of the Scott Tracy brand, the kids who’ve grown up with him as the face of International Rescue, versus two plus years of the Jeff Tracy brand,” Tobias sighed as he thought out loud. “Yeah, our guy’s got the most recent attention, but he’s not as established with the current generation. But it’s not too late to salvage this.” Tobias swirled the glass, watching the light play off the alcohol and the cut crystal glass. “Everyone hits a stumble or set back along the way, it was naive to think it’d all be smooth sailing. That’s all this is, a set back, and something that we can later frame as proof about how great our guy is, how he rose above this to get to where he needed to be. Yeah, that’ll work, ‘Rising Above’, that’ll be the perfect title for his autobiography.”   

Feeling much better about it all, Tobias put down his glass and called up a holoscreen to quickly jot down some notes, only to get interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“What is it?” he asked, and not a little sharply, irritated at the interruption to his flow. 

Expecting one of the interns, he was vaguely surprised when the bottle blond analyst walked in, a battered and old paper folder in his hand and a smug grin on his face. “Tobias, I just struck gold,” he announced as he put the olive green folder down on the desk.

His notes forgotten, Tobias dragged it closer, opened it up, then whistled through his teeth as he read the papers, then read them again to make sure they said what he thought they did. He looked up at the analyst - some really forgettable name. "Is this for real?"

Bottle Blond nodded. "I called in a favour with a guy I know in the WAAF records department. We can file an expedited FOIA since we have names. We can't use this yet, not until we have it 'officially', but after that it’s all on."