Uniforms

"Where's the Brain?" Dom asked excitedly as he set his tray down next to Qaeshon.

"His dad took him to lunch," A.J. said, sounding sad.

"Why? What's up?" Jason asked, pausing to wipe the milk from his lips with the back of a hand.

"Look at this!!" Dom pulled out a piece of paper. Jason snatched it from him, but it was Xavion who ended up with it and read it aloud.

"Yes!!" he cried, giving a clap and shaking his clasped hands. "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition! Pinky is still in the house!" He grinned. "Wonder if Coach knows yet."

The dining room windows shook and the cutlery rattled as a mighty roar sounded outside the home of the Abkhazian Prime Minister Luba Mzhavia. The chandelier's crystals tinkled and the lights looked dim compared to the bright fire outside.

"Mama!" The teenaged boy jumped up from the table and ran to the window. His face had an expression of awe and delight as he turned to his mother and told her, in Abkhaz, "It's a Thunderbird!"

A few moments later, a servant guided a tall man, garbed in the silvery jumpsuit and helmet of the Thunderbirds, to the dining room. "Madam Prime Minister?" said the man in excellent Russian. "I have need of your assistance." He appeared to look around the room slowly. "If I could have a moment in private?"

"Come to my study." The short, plump woman stood from her place at the table, and beckoned to him.

"I apologize for interrupting your dinner," said the International Rescue operative, giving a small bow to those in the room, then turning sharply to follow the prime minister.

In the study, behind a closed door, the young man removed his helmet. Luba looked with approval at the wavy blond hair and the handsome face. "How may I assist International Rescue?"

John smiled slightly, and told her what he needed.

"Y-Y-You're s-s-staying?" Fermat's breathless stutter was born half from unbelief and half from excited delight.

"Yep. I'm staying." Alan's smug reply caused Jeff to raise an eyebrow.

"Only as long as he is very, very careful," he said sternly. "I mean it, son. I can't be here to protect you, and I can't provide you with a private security detail. I'm counting on you to take care of yourself and stay out of trouble."

The smugness was gone from Alan's tone as he lowered his eyes and said, "I know, Dad. I'll be careful. Promise."

"Good." Jeff motioned for another cup of coffee from the waitress. "I made a couple of phone calls, and one of the top plastic surgeons in Manhattan has made room in his schedule to see us tomorrow morning." Turning to Brains, he went on. "We'll fly out late this afternoon and stay at the penthouse; I plan to be back here some time Friday. You'll have the use of the suite and the car while we're gone, of course."

Brains nodded gingerly. He'd taken off the cervical collar, tired of the attention it drew to him. "S-Sure, Mr. Tracy. That sounds g-g-g... like a plan."

"So, we'll be back in time to see Fermat compete?" Alan asked, his tone hopeful.

Jeff smiled. "Yes, barring any unforeseen circumstances."

The two boys exchanged grins and a high five. "Yes!" Alan crowed. The men at the table chuckled. The food they'd ordered arrived just then, and they settled down to eat.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Alan?"

Alan's face became serious. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to talk to Coach Evans before we leave. I'm not sure where I stand with the track team..."

"You won't be able to compete like this, Alan," Jeff said automatically.

"I know, Dad. I can't compete now... not yet. Still, maybe I can stay on the team, and sit on the bench until things heal up. Or help with the equipment, that sort of thing." Alan looked down. "He might not want me on the team anymore, not with everything that's happened. But I won't know until I ask him." He gave his father a pleading look. "Please, Dad, can I talk to him before we go?"

Jeff looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "All right. I agree that you should know where you stand. We'll see if he's available after lunch."

A sudden muted bit of music - "Rule, Brittania!" - played, and Jeff fished around in his coat pocket for his phone. He smiled as he opened it. "Hello, Penny. Good to hear from you."

Across the Atlantic, Penelope sat in her drawing room, before the huge fireplace where a warm fire hissed and crackled. Parker was serving tea to both her and a downcast Tin-Tin, who sniffed miserably and occasionally blew her nose.

"Now there, Miss Tin-Tin," the retainer said soothingly. "Put some lemon and honey in your tea; it'll 'elp you with that cold o' yours."

"Thank you, Mr. Parker," Tin-Tin replied, sounding stuffed up. She glanced at Penny, who had just been connected with Jeff Tracy.

"And it is so good to hear from you, Jeff," Penny replied. She smiled up at Parker as he poured out for her. "I thought I'd ring you up and ask how Alan is feeling."

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Without warning, Jeff handed the phone to his startled son. "Penny would like an update on your condition."

"Uhhh... hi, Lady P.," Alan said cautiously as he put the phone to his ear. "How are you?"

"I am well, dear boy, but I have heard that you are not. Please, pull the phone away from your ear so that I may see the damage for myself."

Alan sighed, and did as she asked. He kept an eye on the screen as he held the camera further and further away from his face. When Penelope made a motion with her hand, he stopped and gave her a rueful smile. He could almost hear the tsking noise that he saw her mouth make as she slowly shook her head. Then there was a flash of movement, and suddenly Tin-Tin was looking back at him. Her eyes widened in shock and her mouth dropped open. The shock passed quickly though, and she brought her hand, thumb and pinky extended, to her ear as an indication that she wanted to talk to him. He sighed again, and followed her wishes.

"Alan! How are you? What happened? Lady Penelope told me you'd been hurt but... you look awful!"

"Thanks a lot, Tin-Tin," he said wryly. "You don't sound so good yourself. Got a cold?"

"Yeah, I've caught a cold. Not used to this climate," she admitted. "But... your face! I hope you gave the guys who beat you up as good as you got!"

Alan chuckled. "I tried, Tin-Tin, I tried. Managed to break the nose on one of them; that's something, I guess." He shrugged. "They're in jail and I'm okay, or I will be soon. The real heroes were Fermat and our friends... oh, and Gordon, too."

"Lady Penelope told me some of what happened. Maybe you and Fermat can tell me the rest. Send me an email with all the details; I know you don't have time to talk now."

"Yeah, Tin-Tin, sure. Hey, do you want to talk to Fermat?" Alan handed the phone off to his friend as suddenly as his father had to him. "It's Tin-Tin."

Fermat fumbled with the phone a little, finally settling it into his good hand. "H-Hi, T-Tin-Tin. H-How are you?"

"The way he's stumbling over his words, you'd think he had a crush on her," Jeff quietly murmured to Brains.

Brains started a little, then gave his son a long, evaluating look. One eyebrow went up as he listened to and watched Fermat's animated conversation, then he nodded slightly. Jeff may be on to something there.

Fermat's talk with Tin-Tin was brief, and he soon turned the phone back over to Jeff. "Lady P-Penelope wants to speak to you again."

"Thanks, Fermat." Jeff put the phone to his ear. "Here I am, Penny."

Alan ate quietly and carefully, half listening to his father's end of the conversation. It had been embarrassing to talk to both Lady Penelope and to Tin-Tin. He hadn't really wanted the first to see him all beat up as he was, and the second's gushing concern grated on him a bit. He couldn't put his finger on just why it did. Her breezy attitude toward him during the spring, and her "one of the guys" camaraderie over the summer had changed and he didn't quite get why. Then there was Fermat's blushing, stuttering, fumbling-over-his-own-feet attitude toward Tin-Tin. Alan sighed internally. Fermat's probably got a crush or something on her. That's okay, I guess; he won't get any competition from me. But I wish I could have waited to talk to Lady P. until I was looking more myself. There's no telling what she thinks of me now.

"Okay, Penny. We'll see you on Friday then." Alan chose that moment to tune back in on his father's chat. "Goodbye." Jeff ended the call, and smiled at his companions. "Penny will fly out tomorrow to see Fermat compete on Friday, and will bring Tin-Tin with her. It'll save time for us to go directly from here back to the island."

"T-Tin-Tin's going back h-home?" Fermat asked, puzzlement and concern on his face.

Jeff nodded. "I'm afraid so. She appeared to be involved in an incident at her school and everyone concerned thought it best that she leave." That was putting the best possible spin on it; the whole story really wasn't his to tell. He did not for a cold minute think Tin-Tin was actually at fault.

Fermat exchanged a troubled glance with his friend. A vision of Tin-Tin's golden eyes, of the scorpion flying, untouched, from Alan's shoulder, flashed through his mind. Alan had a memory of how the catwalk he'd been hanging from somehow shifted, turning his position from precarious to protected. They shared a single concern: could she have used those strange powers of hers?

"Th-That's too bad, Mr. Tracy," Fermat said, choosing his words carefully. "But it'll be g-good to see her again." Hastily, he added, "And L-Lady Penelope, too."

Jeff tried to hide a smile and smother a chuckle. "Yes, Fermat. It will be good to see them both. You'll have to be sharp and make a good impression." He didn't smother a second chuckle as the boy's eyes went wide with the implication of Jeff's statement. Brains grinned at his son's sudden reaction.

Alan nudged his friend. "More of an audience than you expected, huh, Fermat?"

Fermat mumbled, "Y-Yeah," and went back to his food.

Brains glanced at his watch. "W-We'd better h-hurry and f-finish eating or Fermat will b-be late for cl-cl-cl... instruction."

"Oh yeah," Jeff said, consulting his own watch. "C'mon boys, finish up now. I don't think this food would be too tasty cold."

"I dunno, Dad," Alan said between bites. "I think it'd make a great midnight snack."

The prime minister was more than willing to help the handsome young man from International Rescue. She sent a servant running down the street to deliver a handwritten message to her brother-in-law, the head of the Abkhazian military forces, telling him that International Rescue needed them; he had fifteen minutes to rendezvous at her home and, for God's sake, wear his dress uniform! Then she smiled sweetly, and asked if John would like a glass of wine. He graciously turned down her offer, and they waited for the gentleman in question to arrive, the prime minister tapping her foot and glancing at her watch all the while.

Some twenty-five minutes after the message was sent, a tall, slightly portly gent wearing a green dress uniform covered with bars and medals stepped into the study. His long handlebar mustache was salted with gray strands and there were silver patches on the temples of what John suspected was a seriously balding pate.

The military man, introduced as "my sister's husband, General Sergei Beria", gave a sharp salute, removed his hat – confirming John's suspicions – and offered his hand. John returned the salute, shook the man's hand, then briefed Sergei on the situation.

"So you see, sir, I have need of a military authority that the captain will recognize as being above his own, someone who can order him and his troops to stand down and let us do our work."

Sergei looked thoughtful, and nodded. "Da. I will come with you. It will save time if I am on site. If you have any other needs that the Abkhaz forces can provide, I can order them right away." He replaced his hat and rubbed his hands. "Perhaps we will ride in your marvelous Thunderbird?"

That had been John's plan, but the gleam in General Beria's eyes made him reconsider for a moment. Then a nuance of what the general had said finally reached him and he politely asked, "We, sir?"

"Yes." Luba had put on a coat. "I am coming with you. That captain needs a lesson in civility, and I shall give it to him."

John stifled a sigh, smiled, and nodded. "Of course, Madam Prime Minister. If you will both come with me?"

When they returned to the danger zone, the Mole was already out of the pod and in position. John helped his passengers from the cockpit, and was amused to see the prime minister march right up to the troops that loosely ringed the Mole. She started shouting, and the soldiers looked at each other in blank confusion, but when General Beria came to stand behind her, they snapped to attention. The unfortunate Caption Oblivious gingerly stepped forward, and saluted both of the people before him. John could have sworn there was a pleading look in the captain's eyes as Luba refocused her harangue directly at him.

Meanwhile, General Beria shouted orders in Abkhaz, and the soldiers fell back, moving a safe distance away in an orderly fashion. Satisfied, the supreme commander came over to John, who had been quietly briefing Scott on the situation. John introduced the general; they shook hands, and Sergei addressed his words to both young men.

"They will be no more trouble for you. Go and do as you must." He turned his head toward the captain and his country's leader. "I pity him. My wife's sister has a sharp tongue."

"So I see," John replied, trying hard to keep an amused tone from his voice. "We will start operations now."

"Good. I will be nearby if you have need of me." Sergei saluted again, and went off to join the soldiers.

"I'd better get going," John said, motioning his head toward the Mole.

Scott held onto his brother's arm. "Not so fast, John. Virgil's already in there, and this is probably just a two man job. I need someone out here to keep an eye on the situation and man Mobile Control."

"And why can't you do it?" John asked, a blond eyebrow rising.

"You know why. I don't speak Russian." Scott sighed. "I know you like to get your hands dirty on rescues; we all do. But right now, you're the only one who can keep an eye on this crew. Moreover, you're the only one who can relay any information or requests we have to the General over there." He put a hand on John's shoulder. "John, I'd rather not make it an order."

There was a brief, tense silence, then John sighed, a short quick breath. "All right, Scott. I see your point. I'll stay." He glanced up at the Mole, sitting patiently. "Better get going."

"Right. I owe you one," Scott said as he clapped John's shoulder. Then he turned and ran for the Mole.

"Damn right you do," John muttered as he turned toward Thunderbird One to retrieve the mobile control unit.

"Coach?" Alan knocked on the jamb, and peered into the athletics office. "Coach Evans?"

The man behind the desk looked up. "Alan!" He rose to his feet. "It's good to see you, but God, you look awful. Oh, hello there, Mr. Tracy." Coach Evans held out his hand. "Good to see you again."

"Nice to see you again, too, Coach," Jeff replied with a smile. He put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "Different son, different sport... similar problems, it seems."

Alan shot a puzzled frown at his father, while Coach Evans shook his head. "Not quite, Mr. Tracy. Alan here knew better than to fall in with the steroids crowd."

"Dad? What does he mean?"

"I'll tell you later, Alan," Jeff replied. He folded his arms and motioned with his head in the coach's direction. "You'd better ask the coach what you came here to ask. He's a busy man."

Alan swallowed. "Uh, Coach? I... I wanted to know if I could stick with the track team." The coach opened his mouth to say something, but Alan didn't give him a chance. "I know I have a lot of healing to do; my knees are all cut up; my gut is sore; my shoulder's sprained, and... well... you can see my face. But I've been looking forward to this ever since I made the team. I'm willing to carry equipment, set things up, do whatever I can to help out until I'm well enough to get back to practices and compete." He stopped and took a deep breath to steady himself. "Please, Coach. Don't cut me from the team because of this."

Coach Evans glanced over at Jeff. "I take it he's staying at Wharton?"

Jeff nodded. "Yes, he is. The police feel the gang has been caught and the danger is over. I can't watch over him all the time, even at home, and he has to learn to take care of himself." He shrugged. "It's what he wants, and I'm willing to let him learn."

"Hm." The coach stroked his chin, and gave Alan an appraising look. "What do the doctors say?"

"We'll be seeing a plastic surgeon tomorrow about my cheek." Alan shrugged. "The rest? I'm not quite sure how long it'll be." He gave his coach a hopeful look. "Maybe... two weeks?"

"Make it three. You're in the stands this week; no sense in everyone gawking at you when they should be watching the players. The following two meets you can help with the equipment and sit on the bench." At Alan's gasp of delight, he held up a finger. "I'll want a doctor's clearance, though, before you return to practice, never mind competition. And I want to hear what the plastic surgeon says, too, especially about the timing of any possible surgery" Coach Evans glanced over at Jeff. "The fact is: he's got potential, and my team needs him. Losing Lee and Steve..." He saw Jeff's jaw harden, and Alan's gaze drop to the floor. "I need every player I can get." He held out a hand to Alan. "Do we have a deal?"

Alan brightened, and shook the coach's hand. "Deal."

"So, I'll see you at the meet on Saturday?"

"I'll be the one yelling the loudest."

Coach smiled and chuckled, then held out his hand to Jeff. "You've got a winner here, Mr. Tracy. Not quite the natural that Gordon was in the pool, but he'll get there."

"I know," Jeff replied as he shook Coach's hand once more. "Come on, Alan. Brains is waiting to drive us to Springfield."

"Okay. See you, Coach!"

The Tracys left the office, walking down the corridor together. Classes were changing, and students in the hallways either stopped to gawk at Alan as he passed by, nudging their fellows and murmuring to each other, or they grinned widely at him and greeted him by name. "Hey, Alan!" "How you doin', Alan?" "Good to see you, man!"

Jeff took it all in, then indicated the quickly moving boys with a hand. "Do you know all these guys?"

Alan frowned thoughtfully for a minute, then shook his head slightly. "Actually, no, not all of them." He shrugged a little, mindful of his tender shoulder. "I guess word's gotten around."

His father gazed around as they continued to walk. "I'd say it has."

"Change direction two degrees starboard."

"F-A-B." The Mole's engines changed pitch slightly as Virgil implemented Scott's order. The two inside the machine couldn't feel any real change in their position; they were still going down at the same angle. But they both could hear the difference in the engine noise. Not a bad difference, just there, and normal for the circumstances.

"Another fifteen meters, and we should break through," Scott said.

"Reducing speed." The engines changed pitch again, and there was a definite feel that they were slowing. The deck plates shuddered slightly, increasing their shaking minutely and incrementally, as the Mole slowed. After all, it wouldn't do for the Mole to burst through the cavern wall at full speed.

"Slower... slower... two meters per second... one meter... we've broken through! All stop!" Virgil cut the drill bit and the engines simultaneously. "We should be in far enough for access from the forward hatch."

"Turn the lights on at one-sixth power. We can increase it gradually if we need to."

"F-A-B. One-sixth power."

"Mobile Control from the Mole. We've arrived at the rescue zone." Scott unbuckled himself from his seat and made his way to the equipment bay.

"Mole from Mobile Control. F-A-B. Give me an ETA when you're ready to surface, and let me know if the injured will need airlift." The internal speakers compensated for the weakened signal, but there was no vid feed as a result of that compensation.

"F-A-B." Scott took out a backpack and glanced through it quickly. It was supposed to be refilled after every use, but it didn't hurt to make sure. "I've got the med kit. Can you get the stretcher?"

"Sure. We'll need both." The younger man put his helmet on, making sure the spotlight on it worked properly. "Do you think they'll all want a lift to the surface?"

"I don't know," Scott replied, securing his own helmet. "Two more team members made it down to this level while we were dealing with the politics above ground. They may send just one or two people back to the surface with the injured."

"You know the caving community is gonna just love us for this," Virgil said wryly as he pulled out the requested equipment.

"Better a new hole in the ground than a couple of deaths," his brother muttered. "Besides, don't they have to take altimeter readings on the way down?"

"Yeah, they do. From the top of the mountain to wherever they stop." Virgil tapped his helmet. "Thunderbird Five from the Mole, can you read me?"

"Thunderbird Five here." Gordon's voice sounded faint and tinny. "I read you, three by three. No interference but the signal's not the best."

"F-A-B. Do you think it'll work with the translator filters?" This had been a real cause for concern; the team members who spoke English hadn't been in the party that had made it to this level.

"Not sure. Just have to give it a try, Virge. If it doesn't, you may have to rely on your high school French."

Scott opened the hatch and swung out into the semi-darkness, beginning the climb down from the Mole's chassis. Virgil rolled his eyes, and shook his head within the helmet. "F-A-B," he replied as he followed his older brother, an antigravity stretcher secured to his back.