Unveilings

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"What happened with Gordon at Wharton?"

The flight to New York was just a quick hop from Springfield, and easily made. They were spending more time trying to get to the Tracy Building by car than they'd actually spent in the air. Even the limo driver was having trouble coping with the rush hour traffic.

Jeff sighed. He stopped to marshal his thoughts before speaking. Finally, he sat forward to gaze right into Alan's face. "You know that guy who mentioned he didn't want to deal with me because he'd done so before?"

Alan nodded. "Yeah. Pierce, the creep from the kitchen."

"Right." Jeff hadn't known Pierce's occupation until that moment, but it didn't surprise him. "Well, when Gordon was at Wharton, Pierce was the big sports hero; sort of like your Lee Sugimoto was. He played basketball, baseball, and was on the swim team. Made MVP in all of them his freshman year. He sort of took Gordon under his wing and brought him into his little group of friends." Jeff paused, his gaze shifting to look away, as if he were seeing the past out there over Alan's left shoulder. "Gordon was flattered, of course. Who wouldn't be? He was a mere freshman, but was part of the 'in' crowd."

He turned his attention back to Alan. "Then I started to see a decline in your brother's grades. Just a little at first, not enough to worry about, but they were on a gradual, downhill slide. By the middle of his sophomore year, he was getting Cs as a matter of routine, and I was getting notes and phone calls from his teachers. They were very surprised, I think, when I went out to the school and spoke with them personally. Found out that Gordon was putting all his time into sports; not just the swim team, but basketball, too, and was strength training far more than he really needed to. Coach Evans was concerned, partially because Gordon's grades were about to cut him from all sports, and partially because he'd heard rumors of steroid use among the players."

"Did Gordon use steroids?" Alan asked, his mouth and eyes as wide as his injuries allowed.

"He told me 'No' at the time, but he didn't tell me whether or not his friends were," Jeff replied.

"Did you believe him?"

Jeff nodded. "Yes, I did. I figured later that the amount of training he was putting in was an effort to bring his strength up to that of his friends, without turning to the drugs. However, he'd requested a room change, one that would let him move in with Pierce." He shook his head. "I don't know what it was about Pierce that made me distrust him, but I did, and refused to approve the request. Then I told Gordon that he could participate in only one sport, and that he'd be dropped from that one, too, if his grades didn't improve."

"I bet he didn't like that!"

"No, he didn't. We had a big blow up about it, and he didn't talk to me for weeks, except to ask for money. But Coach Evans agreed with me, and talked to him, and by the end of the year, Gordon's grades had come up to a more respectable level. Moreover, I looked into Pierce's background, and I didn't like what I saw. I was determined to keep Gordon from falling further under his influence as much as possible."

"What did you see?" Alan's tone was eager, and he realized it. He moderated it as he added, "I mean, what made you so determined?"

"Nothing concrete, at least not with Pierce himself, just an overall sense that his family liked to do things in the quickest, easiest way possible, even if what they did was unethical or illegal. There were records of investigations into marginally fraudulent activities, and some civil cases claiming swindles, but nothing blatantly criminal, and very few decisions for the plaintiffs. It was a surprise to me that Pierce was even in Wharton, but then, private schools often are willing to overlook just where the money comes from, as long as it's there." At Alan's shocked expression, Jeff shook his head. "Don't look so surprised, Alan. Private schools, for the most part, are as much businesses as they are institutions of learning. It's natural to think that people who work for a private school are there because they care about their students' future or because they love to teach. Many of them – probably most of them - are, but a lot are also looking at the bottom line. Especially the trustees and administrators. A school with high academic standards, like Wharton, needs money to keep their teachers up-to-date in their fields, or else their image as an elite, literate school suffers."

"Wow." Alan said softly. "I never thought of that." He shook his head gingerly, then sighed. "So, back to Gordon. You didn't like Pierce; you kept Gordon from rooming with him. Then what happened?"

"Early in Gordon's junior year, Pierce was caught using steroids. He was removed from the sports teams and expelled from school. Every other athlete was tested; one or two others were caught using. Gordon wasn't one of them, a fact that relieved me immensely. Soon after, Gordon came to me and apologized. He began to work harder in his studies, and found a balance between his love of sports and his academics." He smiled. "He finished well in both, and gave me cause to be prouder of him than I already was."

"Wow." Alan's voice was still soft and full of awe. He frowned a little. "How come I don't remember this? The stuff about Gordon at Wharton and all. I remember going to his graduation a couple of summers ago, but I didn't know what he'd been up to."

The driver's voice, piped in from the front of the limo, interrupted the discussion. "Mr. Tracy? We've reached our destination."

"Thanks, Henry." Jeff glanced out the window. Things seemed darker outside as they passed into the parking garage reserved for Tracy Industries' top executives. "Looks like we're here. We can continue this conversation over dinner."

"Okay, Dad," Alan said. He looked out the window, too, and sighed.

"Home away from home, huh, son?" Jeff ventured, incorrectly interpreting the deep breath.

Alan shrugged slightly. "I guess so, Dad." Right now, I think that's what I'd call Wharton. And that's really, really weird.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five. Gordon?"

Gordon frowned at John's tone. He sounds a bit... worried. "Thunderbird Five here. What can I do for you, Mobile Control?"

"Do we have a translation filter for Abkhaz?"

"Translation filter for Abkhaz," Gordon repeated slowly. His frown creased his forehead in deeper furrows as he began searching Thunderbird Five's translation database. "Why do you need it? What's happening?"

"A couple of the military men down here are having a little private conversation. I've been recording it and I'd like to know know what they're saying." John quickly glanced over at the general, who was discussing something with Captain Oblivious just outside the area lit by Thunderbird Two's spotlights and running lights. He could see their figures, and once in a while a pale face would flash in his direction. At first, he had only seen it out of the corner of his eye, but once he had activated Thunderbird Two's external cameras, and patched them into Mobile Control's monitors, he was able to see more. What he saw made him turn on the multidirectional microphone as well. Madame Prime Minister was nowhere in sight, which worried him too.

"I don't see one, John," Gordon said, shaking his head.

"Damn," John swore softly. "I was afraid of that. When I get back to base, I'm going to get a list of all the world's languages, from the most prominent to the most obscure and see what we can do to get translation filters for all of them!"

"Whew!" Gordon said, his frown suddenly melting into a teasing grin. "Here I thought you were going to learn them all!"

John shook his head, but resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. "No, Gordon," he said, also resisting the urge to call his brother the name he was thinking at the time. "That'd take a lifetime, and I have plans for my future that don't involve linguistics."

Thunderbird Five's current occupant opened his mouth to reply, when Scott's voice interrupted him. "Mole to Thunderbird Five and Mobile Control."

"Thunderbird Five here, go ahead." "Mobile Control, reading you four by four."

Scott winced as the out of sync stereo replies echoed in his ears. "We're working on stabilizing the victims, but they're going to need immediate airlift to a trauma center."

"F-A-B. I'm on it," John replied. "I'll inform General Beria. He can tell me which hospital has the trauma center, and give them a heads up." Might break up the cozy little tête-à-tête those two are having.

"F-A-B, Mobile Control," Scott acknowledged. "I'll call again when we have an ETA to the surface."

John got up from Mobile Control and approached the general. Captain Oblivious saw him and came to attention, causing General Beria to turn toward John, giving him a nod. "How can we assist you, young man?"

"We'll need to take the injured cavers to a trauma center," John explained. "Where is the closest hospital that deals in trauma?"

"Ah, our hospital in Sukhumi is well-equipped. I am sure it will suffice," the general said.

"Does it have a trauma center?" John was polite, but wanted to press the point. These cavers need specialized care; a local hospital here might not be able to provide it.

"Our hospital has the best facilities in the region," Beria insisted. He looked over John's shoulder, and smiled. "Is that not right, Madame?"

John turned in time to see Luba start, her eyes wide with sudden fright. It seemed she'd been standing there in the shadows; for what purpose, John could only guess. Then she regained her composure, smoothed her coat, and stepped fully into the light. "That is correct, General. Our hospital is fully capable and equipped."

"So," Beria continued, beaming, "I will notify my forces and have medical helicopters here to take the victims to the hospital."

Something in his manner – perhaps his insistence on the helicopters - set off warning bells in John's head, and he paused for a moment. Then, using his most polite manner, he said, "Thank you, General, but that won't be necessary. A transfer from our digging machine to a helicopter would take more time than these people may have. It will be more efficient if we airlift them to the hospital ourselves."

The general blinked once or twice, as if surprised by John's refusal, then took in a deep breath and let it out. "As you wish," he said, his tone a shade less gracious.

"If you could notify the hospital, we would appreciate it," John told him.

"I shall do so when your people are ready," Beria said. He turned back to the group of soldiers, taking Captain Oblivious by the shoulder and drawing him into conversation again.

The prime minister walked up to John, standing by his side, her eyes on her brother-in-law. "Your green Thunderbird is a mighty craft. It took me some time to examine it all," she said aloud, putting a hand on his shoulder. John looked up at her, and she began speaking soft and fast, never taking her eyes from Beria. "I wished for him to make that officer apologize; he would not. Told me that 'he was just doing his job'." She shook her head, and shot him a quick, shrewd look. "You should know; we have no trauma center."

She gave his shoulder a squeeze, and walked off again, staying in the light. General Beria looked to see which way she went, then resumed his discussion. John thought about her words for a moment, then quietly called, "Thunderbird Five from Mobile Control. Gordon, find me the nearest trauma center, and make it snappy!"

In the cavern, Virgil was working on the climber who had fallen, fitting an inflatable splint to her arm. Her skin was clammy, evidence of shock. The expedition leader, one Gabrielle Sidorova, had done what she could to keep the victims warm. The two cavers who had joined them were the team medic, and the only fluent English speaker, Hong Kong native Wong Zhongyu.

"So, where do you go from here?" Virgil asked Gabrielle, who hovered over his shoulder, watching how gently he dealt with her half-conscious teammate. Zhongyu translated into Russian, and the team leader shrugged.

"We go up. We make record; all is done," Gabrielle replied in broken, Russian-accented English. She grinned, her wide smile showing a set of gleaming teeth. "The hole you make... we are last."

"What do you mean?" Virgil asked as he fastened the straps of the backboard.

"She means that, because of the hole you've created, no one will be able to go any deeper," Zhongyu said, removing his helmet long enough to push his dark hair back. "Unless your machine fills in the hole as it leaves, other 'cavers' might use the tunnel for an entrance, and go deeper from here."

"Claiming that they'd gone all the way down themselves?" Virgil glanced over at Zhongyu, who nodded quickly. "I'm sorry, but we really did have to make the hole." He turned his attention back to work, and made sure the lightweight blanket was tucked in around the victim.

"I know. And it's all right. As Gabrielle said, we'll be the last to break the record." The interpreter smiled. "Besides there are some very promising Karst caves in China."

Virgil shook his head slowly. "Let's get her to the Mole. Then we can see how Scott's coming along."

Gabrielle took one end of the backboard and Zhongyu the other. Virgil kept a steadying hand on the board until they reached the huge digger. Virgil tapped a few keys on the sleek controls he wore on his wrist, and a small door irised open above the hatchway. Another tap, and a multi-part square beam telescoped out, each section locking into place as it reached its full length. "Wait here and don't put her down. I'll get the basket." He climbed quickly to the hatch and inside the Mole. In a moment, he had a Stokes basket, and rigged it with a harness. He then attached the harness to a cable draped over a block and tackle. The other end of the cable was fastened to a winch. When all was secured to his satisfaction, he climbed back down and activated the winch. The block and tackle moved outward as the cable lowered the basket to the cave floor.

"Put her down gently," he instructed. Once the backboard was in the basket, he fastened it in with clamps and tested them before standing. "Okay, is one of you coming with us?"

Zhongyu and Gabrielle conversed in Russian for a few moments, then Zhongyu turned to Virgil. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder to where Scott and the medic were working on the other victim. A large man was crouching nearby, holding the victim's hand. "Yes, Piotr over there is going. He speaks Abkhaz and will be able to translate at the local hospital."

"We may not be bringing your teammates to the local hospital if it doesn't have a trauma center," Virgil warned them. He paused, then added, "I think it'll work, though. One of our people speaks Russian." He nodded. "It'll work out."

"Good," said Gabrielle. She called to Piotr, who kissed the hand of his teammate, and joined them. She introduced Virgil to Piotr using Russian, and Zhongyu translated.

The two men shook hands, then Virgil said, "Come with me; I'll need you inside." He indicated the Mole with a movement of his head, and Piotr's face lit up. He said something to Virgil that the pilot didn't understand.

Zhongyu laughed. "He says he's very excited to ride in a Thunderbird!"

Virgil just smiled and nodded, then began to climb back into the Mole, Piotr following.

"Mole to Thunderbird Five and Mobile Control." Scott was securing the second victim as Virgil powered up the digging machine. "Mole to Thunderbird Five and Mobile Control."

"Mobile Control, here. What's your ETA, Virgil?" "Thunderbird Five to Mole, receiving you three by three."

"We're twelve minutes to the surface, Mobile Control," Virgil said. He glanced at the monitor which showed a view of the cavern outside. Gabrielle, Zhongyu, and the medic had disappeared further into the darkness, away from the Mole, following Scott's orders. "Two patients and one passenger to airlift to the nearest trauma center."

"Which isn't in Sukhumi," Gordon said. "The nearest one is in Georgia's capital, Tbilisi." He had found the information that John had requested.

"Mobile Control to Mole. Does your passenger happen to speak Abkhaz?" John crossed his fingers. The prime minister now sat on a folding camp stool not far from where her brother-in-law was trading jokes with the soldiers. The night was getting chilly, and he wished he could do something for the brave lady who sat there, a rough blanket over her knees. His eyes narrowed, and a plan came to mind.

"Yes, he does, John. Why do you ask?" Virgil sounded puzzled.

"Can you ask him to listen to and translate a conversation for me? Gordon, download what I sent you while I tell the general that the Mole on its way back."

"Here's the download, guys," Gordon said. "I've tightened the transmission beam; hopefully, it'll get through."

Virgil and Scott sat, tense, waiting for the information to finish transmitting. All of a sudden, a gruff male voice sounded out in a language they didn't understand. But Piotr, who had insisted on sitting near his teammate, Illya, glanced up with a cry. Scott turned and beckoned him forward.

"Gordon, can you use the filter to ask our passenger – his name is Piotr - to translate this into Russian? I know it'll be time consuming..." Scott frowned as he realized that they might not get the answers that John wanted as quickly as he seemed to want them.

"Mole from Mobile Control." John's voice cut in before Gordon could reply. "I'm back. I've given the general an ETA of 25 minutes."

"Twenty-five?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah. Just a hunch I had. And I caught your last transmission to Five. I can understand whatever he translates." John quickly asked Piotr to turn the Abkhaz into Russian for him. Piotr agreed; he began to listen intently, then his eyes widened, and he rattled off a sentence in Russian for John. This continued for a few minutes, then John spoke again, saying, "Thank you, Piotr."

"What was that all about?" Scott asked, puzzled. He checked their progress. "Four minutes to the surface."

"We don't have much time, so listen to me. General Beria is hoping to get his hands on the Birds. At first, he was planning on trying to get on board with his troops and force us by taking hostages or some such nonsense." Using his helmet communicator to continue his conversation, John quickly started breaking down Mobile Control. "Now he thinks we're going to the hospital, and he can have us arrested there when we land to deal with the victims. So, we're going to move fast – ugh, this thing is heavy – and try to keep him off balance. I've nearly got Mobile Control stowed now..." There was a pause, and John chattered something to someone in Russian. Virgil and Scott could hear a muffled voice, then their brother replying with a light laugh. "Whew. He wanted to know if I needed help, but fortunately I didn't."

"What do you need for us to do?" Scott asked.

"I'll open up Thunderbird Two once the Mole is wholly on the trolley," John said. "Whatever you do, don't stop. Get that trolley going the minute the clamps are locked, and head at best speed to the pod. I've explained that we'll be moving quickly... ah! I see you're heading out now."

Virgil had been focusing on piloting the Mole out. "I wish this thing moved faster," he muttered. "It sounds like we're going to need all the speed we can muster."

"We've caught him a off balance," John said. "That's good. I'm going to douse the spot and running lights, and open the pod. You can back in by the pod's interior lights, can't you, Virge?"

"Watch me," Virgil said with a grin. "I always was good at parallel parking."

Scott could hear John murmur in Russian to someone. "John? What's going on?"

"I've got to give a lady a lift home. You don't mind if I take your ride, do you, Scott?"

Virgil chuckled, and Scott blew out a seemingly frustrated breath. "Don't see how I can stop you. You've got the keys."

John laughed. "Thanks, Scott. I promise to fill up the fuel tank when we reach Tbilisi. Thunderbird One, out."

The half-rumble, half-scream of Thunderbird One's engines could be heard outside the Mole, even as Scott felt the telltale bump that meant the back end of the Mole had cleared the ramp and was inside the pod. One more quick bump, a shuddering as the interior clamps settled around the trolley's caterpillar tracks, and Virgil unfastened his safety belt.

"John's probably got the chassis lowering now by remote control, so I'd better go on up to the flight deck and get us in the air," he said as he headed to the hatch. "You and Piotr should get our patients ready to disembark."

"F-A-B," Scott said, but Virgil was already out the hatch, climbing halfway down the ladder, and dropping the rest of the way to the caterpillar treads, then vaulting to the pod floor from there.

Scott looked at Piotr, who grinned back at him. Toggling the Mole's communications switch, he called, "Mole to Thunderbird Five."

"Thunderbird Five here, reading you five by five. You ready for that translation service now, Scott?"

"F-A-B, Gordon. Translate starting now." Scott smiled at Piotr, and indicated the bed that held their female patient. "Let's take her first."

The translation echoed in the Mole a moment later, and Piotr looked up at the hidden speakers. He turned back to Scott and said slowly, "F-A-B."

Scott sighed and shook his head.

"I thank you for allowing me to sit in your Thunderbird. You were very kind," Luba said as Thunderbird One streaked toward Sukhumi, and her home.

"You looked cold," John replied, glancing at her and giving her a smile. "It was the least I could do for the Prime Minister of Abkhazia." He paused, turning back to his instruments. "It is I who must thank you for your warning."

"I am glad you interpreted it as such," she said. "I had gone all the way around your green Thunderbird, hoping to speak to you without Sergei's knowledge." She shook her head, a few strands of salt and pepper hair escaping the bun at the back of her head. "He will not be pleased. He will assume I told you what his plans were." There was resignation in her voice. John realized that, for all her sharp-tongued bravado, this lady knew that her brother-in-law had the military might behind him to remove her from power... or from life, which would amount to the same thing.

"You didn't, and I have proof of it." He pulled a jump drive from a port in Thunderbird One's communications console. "Here. I recorded his plans as he was making them. I had them translated, and that's how we stayed one jump ahead of him." He handed it to Luba, who turned it over in her hands. "I saw you stand up to 'Captain Oblivious' out there. I'm sure you can stand up to the general... especially with this as ammunition."

She nodded slowly. "Yes. I think I will have a word with a few other members of my cabinet. An emergency meeting, perhaps." She suddenly smiled at him. "I think we will discover a sudden need for a new military commander. Just because he is my sister's husband does not mean he can get away with this."

"I'm sure your sister will agree with you once she hears that," John told her with a grin. He flipped a couple of switches. "I think this is your stop."

Thunderbird One landed where it had before, with just a small bump as the landing gear hit the ground. Need some time in the simulator, John thought. Scott would put this baby down light as a feather! He unbuckled his safety harness, and helped Luba out of hers.

Servants, children, and husband all rushed toward the Thunderbird as John gallantly aided the prime minister from its confines. She immediately started bawling orders, sending the servants scurrying. Then she turned to him and said, with a loud, clear voice, "On behalf of the government of Abkhazia, I offer our official appreciation and gratitude for your efforts in rescuing the researchers in Voronya Cave. May you continue to have success in all your endeavors." She held him by his upper arms and gave him a kiss on each cheek. "Fly safely... wherever you may be going."

John bowed. "On behalf of International Rescue, I accept your kind words and good wishes. Thank you again for your assistance, Madame Prime Minister."

"You are most welcome, young man. But now you'd better go." She glanced back at her son, whose eyes were wide with awe. "Before someone asks for a ride."

"Goodnight, Madame." With that, John turned smartly on his heel and walked back to Thunderbird One, his stride lengthening and pace increasing with every step.

"Mama!" Luba's son asked as his mother hurried back to the house, still giving orders left and right. "What was it like, riding in a Thunderbird?"

"Very fast. Nice and warm," she said briefly. "I'll tell you more later."

"So, how was the pizza?" Jeff asked as he put down his wineglass.

"Good," Alan replied. "Kinda hard to eat the usual way, though." He waved his fork in the air. "My face is still sore."

Jeff sat up, concerned. "Do you need some painkiller? I can go get it..."

Alan shook his head, then winced, and sighed. "No, Dad. I'll get it in a little bit." He sat back with his tumbler half filled with soda, and sipped through his straw. When he'd finished swallowing, he asked, "So, how come I didn't hear about all this stuff about Gordon? Where was I?"

"You were in grade school at the beginning, staying with Grandma during the school year. I was still building things up on the island, finishing up Thunderbird Five, getting the organization ready. I talked with Grandma about it, but she didn't think you needed to know, or would even understand." He sighed, and took another sip of wine. "I'm sorry if you feel you were kept out of the loop."

Alan sat silent for a long period, and Jeff became concerned about his son's eventual response. He sipped his wine, and picked up another piece of pizza, beginning to eat it as something to do. Finally, Alan fidgeted a bit, and finished his drink with a long, noisy slurping sound. He blew out a breath, and slumped in his seat.

"I guess I could have asked... I mean, Gordon's my closest brother, and now I feel like I missed a big piece of his life. There's a whole chunk of time where I didn't know what was going on, and I feel like I should have." He shook his head slowly. "How can I say we're close when...?"

Jeff heard the emotion in Alan's voice. "Son, listen to me." When he knew he had his son's attention, he went on. "You were just a little boy then, maybe nine or ten. Your life was school, and Grandma, and missing your mom and your dad." He wasn't going to sugarcoat it; he knew how much Alan had missed him at that time, and if he could do it over, he would do it differently. "Gordon wasn't part of it on a daily basis. You love each other; you stayed in touch as much you could, but even had you asked, I don't think he would have told you. It was his world, his life at the time." A thought occurred to Jeff, and he smiled. "Maybe that's a perk with the life we lead now, and with you being the youngest. We are all interested in what you're doing, and we all want to be a part of it in some way or other. We want to keep you close, even when you're far away." He chuckled. "Believe it or not, you've kept us sane by keeping us in touch with the world outside the island, reminding us that there is a world outside, even when what we heard were the complaints."

Alan snorted a little, and Jeff took a moment to drain his glass. "You and Gordon are close, as close as two brothers can be. But neither of you are ever going to know everything about each other's lives. I think you can be forgiven for not knowing about what was going on with him while he was at Wharton."

There was another long pause, and then Alan straightened. "I guess so. But I am so going to tell him off about it next time we talk!"

"Hey, why don't we watch some TV?" Jeff said, trying to turn Alan's attention to other things. "See if there's a game on somewhere."

"A game of what?" Alan asked, rising slowly.

"Football, of course. Tis the season, y'know." Jeff rose from his seat, and refilled his glass. He offered Alan a refill, which the boy refused at first, but accepted when Jeff reminded him, "You'll need something to wash down those medications."

"I'll get them," Alan said, stiffly heading off to his room to find his pill bottles.

"I'll find a game while you're gone." Jeff sat on the couch put his glass down on the coffee table, and picked up the remote. Turning on the televid, he began to surf the channels, and his eyes opened wide when he lighted on a news channel. He hollered to Alan, "Hey! The boys were out on a rescue!"

Alan hurried back down the hall, his meds bottle clutched in his hand. "Really? Where?"

Jeff responded by turning up the volume. "Two cavers are in critical condition following their rescue from the world's deepest cave. They were part of the latest group to break the world descent record, going down 2400 meters into Voronya Cave, located in the autonomous Georgian republic of Abkhazia. They were so far underground that International Rescue was called in to pull the injured team members out. International Rescue airlifted them to the trauma center at the main hospital in Georgia's capital, Tbilisi, where they are undergoing surgery."

The anchorwoman paused for a beat, then resumed her commentary. "In related news, we have reports coming from Abkhazia that the supreme military commander of that region has been replaced. Our sources indicate that the head of the unrecognized, de facto national government, Prime Minister Luba Mzhavia, has accused General Sergei Beria of allegedly planning to arrest International Rescue's operatives and impound their vehicles. We will have more on this particular situation as it develops."

"Arrest and impound?" Jeff's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to see them try." He glanced at his watch, then over at Alan. "It's around ten a.m. tomorrow at home. I'd better give the boys a call and get the details." As he went in search of his phone, he pointed at the bottle in Alan's hand. "Those don't do you any good sitting in the bottle."

"Yes, Dad." Alan watched as his father stalked off, then put the bottle on the coffee table. He picked up the remote, searching for another newscast that might have more information on his brothers' latest rescue.