Caribbean Cliffhanger

In the lighted interior of the seagoing FAB-1, Lady Penelope sat in the farthest corner of the rear seat, her back pressed up against the door, Peter's carrot-topped head resting in her lap. She pressed a wad of gauze against his upper arm with one hand and unconsciously stroked his hair back and away from his pale, sweat-covered brow with the other. She lifted her eyes to watch Viktor.

The doctor had taken a pair of scissors from the well-stocked first aid kit and first cut off the sleeve of Peter's black turtleneck near the shoulder, just below the Kevlar vest, then chopped off the black trousers near the hip. The bullet wound in his thigh was a nasty looking hole that gushed blood with every twitch of the Irishman's leg, and made the wide, glistening red welt on his arm look tame by comparison. Penelope swallowed hard and took a deep breath or two. Viktor quickly covered the leg wound with an absorbent dressing, padding it below with a generous wad of gauze in a spot where the seat itself would provide pressure. Then he handed Penelope a thick gauze square. "Please put pressure on the graze."

"Oh, yes. Of course, Doctor."

He looked through the kit again, then up at Penelope. "Do you have a blanket?"

"That shiny square there," she said, lifting her hand from Peter's forehead and pointing to a silvery piece of fabric. "That's a blanket."

"This?" Viktor asked, frowning as he picked up the three by three inch square.

"Yes. Just shake it out. It's made of Penelon."

Viktor did as he was told, and watched in amazement as the tiny square became a large, lightweight blanket. He covered as much of Peter with it as he dared, then frowned at the blood that was soaking through the dressing.

"I think the bullet may have nicked the femoral artery," he murmured. "I will have to apply pressure on it above the wound. Brigitte?"

The blonde turned at the mention of her name. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Can you lean over and apply pressure to the wound itself while I apply accupressure to the artery?"

"Yes, I can." The firefighter turned to kneel on her seat, her long arms reaching out, just able to touch the bloodied compress with her palm. She pressed down as Viktor shuffled up in the confined space towards Peter's waist. He undid the leather belt, then cut Peter's trousers open at the hip, pulling them back, slicing through the briefs, and exposing the groin. With sensitive fingers he probed for the strong femoral pulse. When he found it, he pressed the heel of his hand down, hard. Glancing up at Penelope, he said, "Milady, please time this for me and let me know when five minutes are up."

"I... I have no watch..."

"Don' worry, guv," Parker's voice said gruffly. "Ay 'ave h'it." The chauffeur glanced at the digital clock on the dash and made note of the time.

"Thank you, Parker," Viktor said gratefully. He continued to apply pressure, helping the bleeding to slow. "Are you still with us, Peter?"

There was a soft groan from the wounded man. "Yeah... I thin' so."

"Well, stay with us," Viktor admonished him, trying to sound jocular. "Tell Milady a story."

Penelope looked down into Peter's blue eyes as he tried to look back up at her. "Okay. A story... once 'pon a time, there was a boy call'd Scott," he began, his Irish brogue thick on his tongue. Penelope smiled and chuckled a little as he continued, "He wus a han'sum lad, wus Scott, an' always lookin' afteh th' ladies. One day 'e sez t' his mate, Pete, 'Pete, I'm gonna ask thet pretty lass o'er there t' dance.' An' so 'e did." Peter swallowed and his eyelids blinked closed. But he seemed to recover himself and, taking two deep breaths, he opened his eyes and spoke again. "Now whut Scotty-boy di'n't know wus thet th' pretty lass wus the daughter o' an ole frien' o' Pete's Da, an' th' two o' them, lad an' lass, had grown up tergetheh. Pete knew that th' lass had a temper like fire, as fiery as 'er long hair thet fram'd 'er face like an angel's halo. An' he di'n't know thet his mate wus in love wi' th' lass." Peter's voice began to fade, and his words to slur.

"Fayve minutes, guv," Parker intoned softly.

Viktor nodded and removed his hand. Brigitte pulled the blood-soaked gauze out from beneath the thigh and replaced it, then changed the dressing on top. "Give me another five minutes, please, Parker." The chauffeur nodded.

"Peter?" Penelope asked softly, bending down near his ear. "What happened next?"

Her question seemed to shake him from his lethargy. His voice strengthened. "Wha' happen'd next? Well, ole Scotty-me-lad put on his mos' charmin' smile an' waltz'd Melissa aroun' th' floor. An' when they come off th' dance floor, Scotty turns on th' charm. Brin's a glass o' wine, asks 'er t' dance again. Pete, he sees thi' an' thinks 'I gots t' put th' brakes on here'. So, he comes up behin' 'em when Scotty is standin' close t' Melissa, an' he pinches 'er on th' ass. O' course' Melissa thinks thet ol' Scotty-me-lad did it, an' she gives 'im an earful an' goes off, leavin' th' poor lad wonderin' wha' th' 'ell he did wrong."

Viktor frowned at the way the blood was still gushing from the wound, despite Brigitte's efforts. Before Parker called the five minute time limit, the doctor pulled off his own belt and wrapped it around Peter's thigh, using it as a tourniquet, tightening it to cut off the blood flow again. "Better to lose his leg than lose his life," he muttered under his breath.

Peter paused, and smiled slightly at his memories. He showed no sign of having heard Viktor. He was taking deeper breaths between phrases now, and his skin was paler, except for his leg, which looked blue. "Dem, but I'm cold," he murmured as he began to shiver. Penelope reached over to tuck the Penelon blanket a little closer around Peter's body, then signaled for Parker to raise the temperature in the car. She knew the rest of them would be uncomfortable very soon, but she'd rather have the able-bodied suffer a small bit if it would help the wounded.

"Fayve minutes, Doc," Parker intoned again.

"Thank you, Parker," the doctor replied. Brigitte pulled up the wad of gauze, and the sharp intake of breath through her teeth told the rest of the passengers that things did not look good.

Viktor pulled out a compact wrist blood pressure cuff and fastened it to Peter's right wrist. When activated, the cuff inflated, then slowly deflated, the clicking of its timer sounding loud in the car. At last, the cuff deflated all the way with an audible hissing, and a series of numbers appeared on the digital readout. Penelope glanced over at Brigitte, then again at Viktor. Brigitte turned her moist eyes down to Peter's leg and kept them there, avoiding the London agent's stare while she put fresh gauze on the wound. The doctor returned the aristocrat's gaze and shook his head solemnly. Penelope nodded a little, and turned her attention back to Peter. Smiling softly and brushing back his hair again, she said, "Surely the story didn't end there, Peter. Tell me more."

Peter took a deep breath, then another, and continued. "Well, after tha', Pete moved in an' swept th' lady off 'er feet. An' they got married an' Scotty-boy wus best man a' th' weddin'. But he never learn'd thet t'wus 'is fren' who pinched Melissa's ass."

"Did Melissa find out?" Penelope asked.

"No, I don' think she ever did," Peter said dreamily.

The quietly tense mood was shattered as Parker looked up. "Ay fink we 'ave h'a li'l problem...," he began, searching the sky and listening intently. The others in the Rolls listened, too, and heard a shrill whine, growing in intensity just before the Cockney shouted, " 'Old on!" He jerked the wheel and swerved wildly as behind them the sea erupted in a geyser of water and flame!

Jim Franks lifted his gun to shoot the man in front of him, the man wearing the face of Carlos Esteban Alvarez. The man laughed and his eyes grew wide and glowed. The mercenary couldn't close his eyes, couldn't look away... and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled in a chair in Alvarez's office with no recollection of how he got there. His gun was on the desk, and Alvarez looked at him with an amused expression. Ramirez stood nearby, a data pad in his hand and an earphone with microphone in one ear. He glanced up as his employer began to speak.

"Did you have a nice little sleep, Señor Franks?" the man posing as Alvarez asked. Rising, he picked up the gun. "I think I will put this little toy away until I am ready for you to have it again." He walked over to the portrait, and opened the safe behind it, storing the gun inside. Then he returned to his desk and sat down again.

Franks's eyes narrowed and he sat up slowly, keeping his body situated so that he could move fast if he needed to. Ramirez glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow, then favored him with a sardonic smirk. "Your Excellency, I think that Señor Franks is a little on edge."

"I agree, Ramirez."

"Perhaps you should explain..."

"Perhaps. First, what is the status of the helijet?"

Ramirez held a hand up to the microphone as he rattled off a question in Spanish. There was a brief pause, and then, "They have caught up to the... car... and are beginning an aerial assault with missiles."

"Excellent." "Alvarez" pulled a cigar from his humidor, clipped off the end and lit it, then sat back, swiveling his chair around a bit. He put a hand behind his head and leaned back just a little, one ankle situated on the knee of the other leg. "It will not be long before the accursed car is destroyed, along with those inside. Then Tr... then International Rescue will wonder what happened to their beloved London agent and her companion. While they investigate, I will move ahead with my plans." He rolled his head lazily towards Franks and smiled. "Come now, señor. Ask your questions."

Franks licked his lips, glancing from one man to the other, finally letting his gaze rest on "Alvarez", who was now staring off into space. "Questions... okay. I've got some." He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs at the knee. "On the beach... that is, if I didn't imagine the whole thing... you said you were Belah Gaat, the Hood. If you are, what should I call you now?"

"You did not imagine what transpired on the beach, Mister Franks. But you may call me 'Your Excellency, Señor Alvarez'." The cigar smoker blew out a smoke ring. "For all intents and purposes, I am Carlos Esteban Alvarez, Minister of Security to the World Government."

"What happened to the real Alvarez?" Franks asked cautiously.

"He lives." Alvarez swiveled the leather chair back around to face Franks. "He is here, under my control and command until he ceases to be useful."

"Did you kill his family?"

"What do you think? Alvarez begged me to let them go back to Columbia, so I did. Of course, there was an unfortunate 'accident' involving the helijet..." The false minister smiled again, amused. "What else do you want to know?"

Franks glanced up at Ramirez, who was talking softly to the men in the helijet. He jerked his head in the secretary's direction. "Where does he come into it?"

"Ah, Ramirez." At the sound of his name, the secretary focused on his employer for a brief moment, still continuing his conversation while listening to the two men talk. "Fernando here was... dissatisfied. Dissatisfied and disillusioned. He watched the strong, decisive man he had once known turn into a mere bureaucrat, no longer willing to make the harsh decisions needed to keep order in this world of ours. So, when I offered him the opportunity to join me, he jumped at it. And he has been very, very useful."

"So I see," Franks responded, glancing up at the secretary again. "So, what is your re..."

His words were cut off by a suddenly surprised Ramirez shouting, "¡Diablo!" He turned a frowning face to the man behind the desk. "Your Excellency, we have a problem..."

"FAB-1 from Thunderbird One," Scott said smartly, a grim smile on his face. "I am on my way to your position. ETA, 2 minutes."

"Ay h'a-pree-shee-ate it," Nosey Parker replied in Scott's ear. "We'll trayh an' stay h'alayve fer ye... Deployin' smoke canister now."

"You do that, FAB-1," Scott tapped his earphone. "Base from Thunderbird One. I am going to FAB-1's assistance."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird One," Jeff replied from his office. "Thunderbird Two's ETA is twenty minutes."

"F-A-B." Scott turned his attention to his viewport. He could see the lighted bubble of FAB-1 weaving across what would normally be a calm sea, tendrils of smoke from the diversionary tactic wafting after it. The helijet was above and behind it, keeping pace, and a man with a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher was tethered to the open side door, leaning out to take potshots at the fleeing hydrofoil.

"FAB-1 from Thunderbird One. Douse that light!"

"No can do, Thunderbird One," Parker replied sourly. "Th' layght h'is needed bayh th' doc."

Scott muttered a curse under his breath. "F-A-B, Nosey. Just keep dodging while I give this guy a warning and take some of the heat off you." He manipulated the steering yokes, diving down, buzzing by the helijet and making the pilot momentarily lose control and altitude in sheer surprise, then pulling up to skim across the water, mere meters above its surface. The man with the rocket launcher now turned his attention to this new threat, and fired off a missile in Scott's direction. The explosive was fast, but Thunderbird One was faster, and the rocket exploded on the surface of the sea in the wake generated by the silver rocket plane's passing.

"So, that's the way it's going to be, huh?" Scott murmured. He reached over and activated his Gatling gun. Tracking the pink dot that was Lady Penelope, he plotted a course that would intercept the Rolls and its persistent pursuer. "Base from Thunderbird One," he called as he swung his 'Bird in a wide curve and headed back toward the action.

"Base here," Jeff's voice sounded in Scott's ear.

"I have been fired on. Requesting permission to use deadly force."

There was a pause, and a small sigh, then, "Permission granted."

"F-A-B, Base." Scott smiled grimly again as he increased both speed and altitude. His timing was perfect; he intercepted the helijet, gun blazing, passing it over it with mere meters to spare. The man with the rocket launcher slumped in his tethers and the weapon dropped into the sea. Scott turned again, a tighter turn this time, and intercepted the still moving helijet. FAB-1 had put some more space between it and its attacker, and Scott moved to a position just above the black aircraft, matching its speed precisely. He turned on his outside speakers. "This is Thunderbird One to helijet. Break off pursuit immediately or I will open fire again."

There was no response from the craft, but Alan's voice sounded in his ear. "Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five."

"Reading you strength five, Thunderbird Five."

"The Pink Lady has been in touch and tells me that the pilots might not speak English. Patch me through to your speaker and I'll warn them off in Spanish."

"F-A-B... Sigma." Scott toggled a switch. "You're good to go."

Alan's voice rang out in fluent Spanish, basically giving the pilots of the helijet the same warning that Scott had. Scott noticed a movement below; the dead man was being cut from his restraining straps and his body dropped unceremoniously into the sea. Then another man, helmeted and wearing what must have been night vision goggles, took his place, aiming a heavy-duty, automatic assault rifle at the bright dot that was FAB-1. He fired and his bullets sent tracers into the night. Some of them reached their mark in the Rolls Royce's boot and rear bumper, only to be foiled by its tough, bulletproof hide.

Scott swore, then dropped his airspeed a little, pulling back and behind the helijet. That's when he noticed the blinking camera detector. "Damn! How long has that been on?" Squaring his shoulders, he hit the camera fogger, then retracted the Gatling gun and armed the launcher beneath Thunderbird One's belly. Usually it held the tough cahelium lances that he had used time and again to keep rocks and other debris from falling on a rescue site from above. Now it held a spread of minimissiles, each of them as deadly as any of the rockets that had been fired at FAB-1.

"You don't know how much I hate to do this," he muttered to himself. His thumb hovered over the firing button on his left steering yoke as he lined up his target, the fuel tank of the helijet. "Fire one."

The minimissile leaped from the launcher, heading for its target, while behind the helijet, Scott was already pulling up and away from the doomed aircraft. The helijet tried to put on more speed, to outrace the little projectile, but the effort was futile. There was a loud boom and one blossom of flame, then a second as the auxiliary fuel tank went up. The crippled craft fell like a stone, hull on fire, trailing smoke into the still dark sky.

The reaction in FAB-1 was muted at best. Brigitte, who had been watching, shielded her eyes with a small cry. Parker, who had been watching through his mirrors, voiced a soft and sibilant, "Yussss!" Viktor didn't look up; he was timing Peter's slowing pulse. Peter and Penelope gazed up through the smoky glass canopy at the lights of Thunderbird One as it moved overhead to pace the Rolls. "Scotty-me-lad," he whispered hoarsely.

"FAB-1 from Thunderbird One," Scott said, his voice sounding weary. "Rendezvous with Thunderbird Two at these coordinates. We'll get you all to a hospital as soon as possible."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird One. But 'urry."

"Downloading coordinates now."

Penelope glanced in concern down at the Irishman as he whispered, "Thirsty." He was breathing heavily now, each inhalation a struggle, each exhalation a noisy huffing.

"Doctor?" Penelope said. "There is an emergency rations kit under Parker's seat that may be reached from the back."

Viktor nodded and shifted so he could pull out the sealed metal box. He opened it, and handed a pouch of water to Penelope. She pulled off the straw, broke the seal on the small hole where the straw was to go, and held the drink to Peter's lips. He pulled on it once, and twice, then sighed. His eyes were heavy again, but he focused on Viktor and asked in a faint, hoarse voice, "Doc, am I gonna die?"

Viktor took a deep breath of his own and with a soft, rock-steady voice replied, "It looks that way, Peter."

With difficulty, the Irishman raised his right arm across his body, grasping Penelope's left wrist in his pale hand. She shook her arm just a bit to make him let go, and when he did, she slipped her hand under his and squeezed gently.

"Milady?" he breathed.

"Yes, Peter?" It took all of Penelope's self-control to keep her soft voice level.

"Tell... Tell my wee ones thet their Da loves 'em. Tell 'em I'm watchin' o'er 'em."

"I shall, Peter."

"An tell Scott thet I forgi'e him the pint. But he should drink one fer me wit' those brothers o' his."

Penelope smiled softly. "I will tell him."

"An'... promise me you'll tell my angel Melissa thet I love 'er. An' I wus thinkin' o' 'er at th' end."

Brigitte sniffed loudly. Penelope took a deep breath to calm her voice again and murmured, "I promise."

"But don' never tell 'em who t'wus thet pinch'd Melissa's ass."

Penelope chuckled despite herself. She swept her free hand up over his forehead and stroked back his hair, then bent down to whisper to him, "It will be our secret." The words were followed by an impulsive, gentle kiss on his cold, damp forehead.

"Fine," he breathed out, then he closed his eyes. He took a deeper breath than normal, then whispered, "An' tell th' boss... t'wus worth it."

Penelope swallowed and ruthlessly tamped down on her tears as the car became quiet, the only sounds that of Peter's labored breathing and Brigitte's soft sniffling. Doctor and aristocrat exchanged bleak glances once again, and Viktor murmured, "All we can do now is wait."

"What is the problem, Ramirez?" Alvarez asked sharply.

"There is... a Thunderbird... Thunderbird One is attacking the helijet," Ramirez replied. He listened intently. "The craft has flown over the helijet, very close. The men are firing on it..."

"¡Estúpidos!" shouted Alvarez, exploding from his seat. "Tell them not to fire! Take pictures instead! Break off the assault on the car and get pictures of the Thunderbird attacking!"

Ramirez tried to relay the orders as quickly as he could, then he looked at Alvarez and shook his head. "Too late. They've fired a rocket at him. It missed."

"Have them take pictures of the Thunderbird and download them live," the false minister commanded. "This is too good an opportunity to pass up." He hit the intercom switch and shouted, "Jorge! Prepare for incoming images!"

The secretary spoke quickly into his mike and then listened for an answer. "He's coming back around... one of the men has a vidcamera... the Thunderbird is firing! He killed the man with the rocket launcher and the weapon is lost. The craft has passed them now."

"Excellent!" Alvarez's eyes gleamed with eagerness. He leaned toward Ramirez, hands flat on the desk. "What is going on now?"

"The Thunderbird is making a turn... he is coming back and is above them. He is warning them in English... now there is another voice, warning them in Spanish. They are cutting the dead man loose and one of them is firing on the car with a rifle..." Ramirez glanced up at Alvarez. "They say that the picture is gone... there is nothing but static... Aaauggh!" He pulled the earphone out violently. It bounced on the desk and slid off the other side. "The pilots reported a missile was launched from the Thunderbird. They were trying to outrun it then there was some cursing and a loud 'Boom'!" he explained, rubbing his ear. "I think the helijet was destroyed."

Alvarez nodded. He called into the intercom again. "Jorge! Did you get any footage?"

The computer expert's voice came back, sounding peeved. "Si, your Excellency, a few seconds. Though it is of poor quality, seeing as it is night."

"I will come down to see it in a few moments," Alvarez promised. He turned to Franks and Ramirez. "Well, gentlemen, we have a problem."

"We?" Franks asked, frowning. "I wasn't aware that I was part of this little scheme."

"You have no other option," said Alvarez. "Unless, of course, you prefer death... by your own hand."

Franks started at the threat, his mind casting back to the scene with Luis. He slumped back into his seat. "When you put it that way... you can count me in."

"Good. Fernando, sit down. We have much to plan."

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One. What's your ETA to the rendezvous point?"

"Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two. Rendezvous in ten minutes."

"As soon as you arrive, drop the pod. FAB-1 has a priority patient and there's no time to waste."

"F-A-B. Who's the patient?"

"I'm not sure, but I do know it's not the Pink Lady or Nosey."

Virgil breathed a sigh of relief, then unbuckled the straps to his command chair. "John," he called, using his wrist communicator.

John's frowning face appeared on the watch face screen. "Uh... Delta? You know we're supposed to use code names while we're on a rescue. Especially in transmissions."

His older brother had the grace to look sheepish. He ran his hand through his chestnut hair. "Sorry about that; I guess I forgot. Anyway, how are things in the sickbay?"

John's face brightened. "Good. Ship shape. We're prepared for whatever is thrown at us."

Virgil smiled. "Great! Now, can you come up here and take over the controls so I can..."

The Thunderbird Two pilot didn't get any farther than that. 'What?" John shouted, his frown returning. "You want me to do what?"

Virgil sighed and tried to explain. "I want to be the one to meet FAB-1 in the pod. So I need you to come up and take over the controls for me."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," Virgil said, his tone turning irritated. "Now just get up here and take over!"

"Why?" John countered, his voice just as irritated. "And you'd better have a helluva good reason, Delta. You know damn well I'm not as good a pilot on Two as you are."

Virgil stopped cold. Above all else, he did not want to tell his brother how he felt about Lady Penelope. He scowled at John through the watch, then put his straps back on. "All right. You win. You'd better get back there now. We're three minutes to rendezvous."

"F-A-B," John said, still angry. "I'll let you know when I'm situated."

"You have less than three minutes."

John hrumphed, and grabbed a medikit and a stretcher. He hurried to the lift that would give him access to the pod. Once inside, he turned on the interior lights then raced over to the Firefly and hopped inside, laying aside his equipment and buckling himself into one of the seats. And not a moment too soon, because he heard Virgil's cold voice in his ear calling, "Dropping pod... now!"

John's stomach lurched as the pod and its contents fell several meters to the sea. That was a hell of a lot rougher than it needed to be. I'll let Dad know about this during our debriefing.

Once the pod had stabilized, he climbed out of the Firefly. The big door was already opening, swinging slowly down into the water to create a sturdy ramp for FAB-1. John did a double-take as the matte black Rolls Royce floated towards him, hydrofoils retracted, using its own momentum to ease up to the ramp. Once the four front tires hit the ridged surface of the door, Parker put the car into gear and powered it inside. John took a moment to hit the switch that would button up the pod, then rushed over to the Rolls.

There was a hiss as both sets of gull wing doors opened on the passenger side. A tall, well-built blonde got out of the front seat and hurried to the back, not sparing him even a glance. John opened up the antigravity stretcher and activated it, drawing it with him. Now the blonde looked at him as Parker joined him from the other side, and John caught a glimpse of blood inside the car, lots of blood; it seemed to be everywhere and over everything. A dark-haired man was performing CPR on someone under a light Penelon blanket, someone whose skin was paler than paper. John dove into the extensive medikit and pulled out the portable defibrillator, turning it on and passing it to the blonde, who nodded and gave it to the man. As she pulled away to be clear of the thrashing body, the astronaut could catch a glimpse of bright red hair.

"Aw dammit! Not Pete!" he moaned. He moved toward the door, and on the far side of the back seat, he could see the dusty, disheveled form of Lady Penelope. Their gazes locked, and for the first time since he had known her, John noticed a single tear tracing down her dirty cheek.