THE FIRST RESCUE by Daria

[Disclaimer: All Thunderbirds characters are the property of Granada/ITV Inc.; all rights reserved. This work of fiction is unauthorized and solely for non-profit entertainment. Please do not republish this work without notice to and permission from the author.]

"Keep in touch and notify me of any new developments, John."

That's a relief; he's going to leave it at that. "F.A.B., Father," I say, poker-faced, but wide-eyed and as innocently as possible. With any luck, it'll never occur to my serious-as-a-heart-attack dad that the "dire situation" I'm monitoring in Boston is only a disaster for the hometown hockey team, The Bruins, who are very much in a desperate situation at the moment, but not the type of which International Rescue could be of any assistance to them. They should be so lucky.

Of course, if my father, Jeff Tracy---founder and supreme commander of our top-secret organization---had the time at present to register the real nature of my distraction during his call to me from our base of operations, I'm the one who would be in need of a rescue. Thankfully, even if he did manage to suss out my attention deviation, due to the month-long rotational schedule of satellite duty I share with my youngest brother, it would still be a full 3 weeks before he'd be able to act on his displeasure with me, giving him time to forget about it. Being the "piggy in the middle" son out of five, I've long been resigned to being filed away in Father's mental catalog under "out of sight, out of mind," unless my expertise in electronic and laser communication is specifically required.

But who am I kidding? He's not known to forget details often, even events which would seem trivial to most anyone else, and especially not incidences involving his family. In fact, Father was reminiscing recently about some rather silly predicaments my four brothers---Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan---and I had gotten into as boys. He was feeling nostalgic that day, seeing as how we, the key agents of our high-tech voluntary emergency unit had just responded to our first emergency call, one which saved hundreds of lives, including that of our own beloved surrogate sister, Tin-Tin, the daughter of my father's friend and confidant, Kyrano. While he spoke of those bygone days of soccer matches, skinned knees, swimming meets, science fairs and piano recitals, I was reminded that long before my brothers and I donned our now familiar blue uniforms and distinctive sashes in aid of saving the passengers of the maiden flight of the supersonic jet, Fireflash, we had all participated in a pre-International Rescue emergency---our first rescue adventure---and all quite without Father's direction.

I suppose in those days we must have looked a bit like the Lost Boys of Neverland during that long, warm summer, the one just before I turned ten. The older ladies in our neighborhood, several of whom were in the throws of "empty nest syndrome" were known to remark that it would have been a joy to them to corner the lot of us with a washcloth and a bar of soap. Some of them reminded the others among them of their deft ability with sewing needles, having been, on occasion, alarmed by pairs of knobby little knees visible through our jeans. We were mindful not to allow ourselves to be lured close to their front doors by their promises of brownies and cookies inside for the taking, lest any of us fall victim to being forcibly "mothered." We, the self-reliant and valiant Tracy brothers were above such worldly concerns as neatly combed hair, sparkling, squeeky-clean faces and non-ventilated attire. Like most children who live with some form of deficiency or deprivation, we learned to adapt and accepted our lot in life.

Our own mother had been dead for several years at that time, and even now, at age twenty-four, I find the events surrounding her loss to be rather difficult to talk about. Immediately following her death, Father had given up his Space Agency commission, returned to being permanently Earthbound, and began working practically day and night, feverishly trying to build a fledgling high-tech engineering and construction firm from the ground up. Meanwhile, he was also trying to be both mother and father to his five sons, dutifully setting about housekeeping and childrearing on what had been saved from his military salary, all in spite of an amazing lack of knowledge about modern conveniences such as ovens, vacuums and brooms. Most nights, dinner was delivered pizza with plastic-wrapped salad, and packaged puddings for afters. In his busy, cluttered mind, Father was doing his best. It just didn't work, though he tried to convince himself that everything was about as good as could be expected for a widower with five minor sons.

Scott and Virgil, being the two eldest boys, did what they could to keep the other three of us in line, taking on the role of surrogate dads by helping out with laundry, sorting clothing for school wear, setting the table and doling out easy meals like dry cereal for breakfast and peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch. I did my part by minding my younger brothers much of the time, learning infinite patience while feeding and cleaning up after the very fussy baby Alan while constantly trying to keep one eye on the cabinet-climbing, cookie-filching Gordon, barely a year older, who hadn't stopped running around like a lunatic since the moment he'd learned to walk. As time passed, Scott and Virgil, much to their credit, also made time to help with homework and mediate fights between the "babies," neither of whom had had a chance to learn those all-important lessons about sharing and brotherly love from their departed mother. A moment of joy turned into one of sorrow: our mom had died shortly after Alan's birth.

I guess I was pretty messed up by that event, looking back at those years. At the time Mom died I was a shy four year old, often estranged from my world-famous yet, to me, mysterious father who was, by then, in charge of the building of a massive space station on the Moon. Until her untimely death, I'd spent every day with a wonderful mom who was my best friend, secret-keeper, teacher, mentor and all-around idol. Lucille Tracy was a beautiful woman who always had a smile, kind words and caring hands when it came to her sons. There was never a cut or bruise or a gale of tears that couldn't be nullified by the offer of a homemade oatmeal cookie and a tender kiss on the forehead. How she found time to bake and care for a home and chase around after four little handfuls of mischief while she struggled through a difficult fifth pregnancy, I'll never know...but she did it and in an unforgetable manner. She was so special and she is very much missed.

I've never been as close to anyone else as I was to my mom, which made it hard for me to open up to other people. This left me with a lifetime of labels such as "spacy," "aloof," "sensitive," "introverted" and "enigmatic." My chronic shyness irritated my outgoing and gregarious father and made it difficult for me to attempt to make friends, but my fascination with books and the cosmos easily filled any gaps I had in socialization. Deep down, I suppose I just never wanted to experience a loss as traumatic as losing Mom again. So, as ironic as can be, here I am in the life and death "game" of International Rescue, knowing that my family members could be injured...or killed...in aid of those in situations of imminent peril. Still, though, we've all accepted that fact. It's definitely worth all the risks to be able to spare other families the pain of the tragic death of a loved one as our own family had suffered.

Our harried father was eventually enlightened to the fact that his five young sons---"Scotty," "Virg" (or "The V-man") "Johnny," "Gordo," and "The Baby," in those days---could definitely do with a motherly influence from a number of sources by the time Scott had hit his mid-teens. The most obvious indication of the problem at hand came in the form of complaints from our long-suffering neighbors about Father's various progeny turning over flower beds, trodding across fresh-sewn lawns, riding bikes through sprinklers, splattering mud along the sidewalks, extended soccer matches in the street and generally screaming our heads off whenever possible. Single women secretly researched boarding schools while freely using our motherless state as a selling point for their suitability as a mate, making the by-then financially successful "Widower Tracy" a marked man. But eventually the most important, thoroughly reliable and least easily pacified voice soon thundered over all others: Grandma came for a surprise visit.

Petite and sprightly Mary-Alice Tracy has always been a kindly, deeply caring, lovable, salt-of-the-Earth Kansas farm woman, a proud and capable mother and a doting grandmother who had accepted her son's long distance electronic assurances that his children were well and happy. To this day, the only things which drive her to hysterics are the prospect of a Republican in the White House and the notion that her grandchildren might be in peril. Apparently our chaotic household called to her across the miles, for quite by surprise one day I managed to hear the doorbell ringing over Virgil's piano practice, Alan's endless whining and Gordon's high-volume sing-along with the video disc he was viewing in the den. My brothers and I helped Grandma with her bags after being firmly lectured never to open the door for anyone. As she stepped inside, her initial smile began to fade and her mouth dropped open just slightly more as her eyes darted between her grandsons and the state of the house in which we lived.

Looking back to us, she took quick note of our smudged faces, long and generally messy hair, muddy trainers and grubby t-shirts, cuts, bumps, bruises, baggy trousers, assorted missing teeth and untied shoe laces. Her purse and travel bag dropped to the floor in a thud more deafening than the television noise, and it was at that moment that we all seemed to realize at once just what we had become. If Father thought he knew what was best, Grandma was there to set him right. Before her visit had ended and she felt it safe enough to return home to California, Grandma had put our home in order, leaving us in the capable hands of a new housekeeper, a long-time acquaintance of Father's who all agreed would be perfect for us.

It only took a knowing nudge from Grandma to unite the overwhelmed Jeff Tracy with his now retired fellow single father, widower and friend, Nuata Kyrano, a mild-tempered and deeply religious Malaysian gentleman who had first encountered our dad during a stint with the US Air Force civilian services. The two men elected to raise their children together, with Kyrano---as he prefers being called---taking on the job of daily care and control of the household concerns and its inhabitants while also acting as Father's valet and consultant. It was a perfect match for the adults, but it took a bit of adjustment on the part of us kids to make it work.

When Tin-Tin eventually arrived at our home that summer, she was nine years old, doll-like in stature and easily matched me in the shyness factor. She had been educated in an Anglican girl's school in England, so boys were all but completely unknown territory to her. Her nervousness was visible as she was introduced to the Tracy clan; so timid was she that her hand tightly gripped the handle of her carry-all bag long after arriving, as if it insured her safe departure if she didn't like what she found inside our door. After having spent so long as being members of an all-male household, we boys were lectured about our deportment, with Father threatening swift and harsh punishment for any one of us who didn't treat Tin-Tin with the utmost in respect and courtesy. Once shown her room, it took a number of days before she willingly left it for much more than her meals and visiting with her father as he performed duties around the house. As a way of welcoming her, Father had asked Kyrano what gift might make her happy and was told she had always wanted a kitten. Overjoyed at the prospect of having a surrogate daughter in the house, Father soon presented Tin-Tin with a frisky tabby kitten she named Lucky. She and her new pet became inseparable playmates, Lucky making a far less intimidating companion than a houseful of strange boys. However, Tin Tin's need to seek out her wandering new pet around the house worked as a perfect icebreaker to familiarize our new family member with the rest of the household.

We had a few other changes around that house during the same summer, several of which changed the balance of power among the Tracy brethren. Alan and Gordon had bonded early on and used that closeness to make life miserable for me in the bedroom we shared. Their noise and constant clowning made it difficult for me to concentrate on the books I read for companionship, and though I complained early and often to Father, I got little sympathy and no assistance, save an occasional "Cut it out, boys!"

One day while helping Kyrano put things away around the house, I rediscovered the trap door which led to the attic. Triggering the stepladder, I climbed up and groped for the lights. It was just as I had remembered from my early childhood on the numerous visits I had made up there with my mother. Mom was an artist who loved painting the changing seasonal views from the large attic windows facing the backyard of our home. I fondly remember early winter days when Mom sat in dappled sunlight painting the fields of wildflowers on the other side of our garden wall, while Virgil and I sat on the floor nearby her, finger painting on butcher paper and encouraging her work as she did ours. Mom especially loved the early evening sunsets of November with the warm violet glow of the sun contrasting against the chill in the twilight air, and she marveled aloud at how the colors emblazoned my flax-colored hair as I peaked over the window sill to see what it was that fascinated her so. Those memories made this room feel like "home" to me, and, despite Father's objections, I chose to make it just that. Boxing all of my clothes, astronomy books and other belongings, I spent the better part of a Saturday shifting my things into the attic, that vacuum of times past with the lilac skies overlooking my mother's garden.

Father had a fit when he'd found out several days later that I had ignored him and moved north to the attic anyway; I suppose in retrospect I can see why. Having me rooming with Gordon and Alan extended my babysitting role, helping to insure that their usual "high-spirited" antics were either kept in check or at least kept to a minimum before getting out of hand. This was just a wish on his part, not a matter of reality. The "Terrible Two" never heeded my warnings of danger ahead or my threats to tell Dad of them; they did as they pleased, eventually threatening to, in turn, tell Dad what the other boys at school had begun to tease me about---my, as they put it, "secret shame." Lithe, thin, graceful, quiet and captivated by books and all realms of intellectual pursuits, I fit the profile of the boy "most likely to be beaten for his lunch money." I'd had put up with taunts about being "queer" for long enough that the bullies had resorted to far nastier epithets to express their derision; that's just how some boys view other kids who don't fit into the macho routine. Thankfully, with the dashing, athletic, talented and popular Virgil always nearby on the school grounds, I had little to no worries about their threats of a physical attack in that forum. The only threat I had to worry about was Dad finding out and taking it all the wrong way, and I courted that eventuality daily every time I caught my younger brothers at something they shouldn't have been.

The whole situation came to a head when I came home one afternoon and found Alan perched at an upstairs window holding Lucky the cat out of it. Gordon, his willing partner in crime, was down below in the pool---his favorite afternoon hangout---apparently acting as a lookout instead of practicing his dives as he should have been. When I confronted Alan, he said that he'd heard that cats always land on their paws, so he and Gordon had decided to conduct an experiment to test the theory. Grabbing Lucky away from him, I returned the cat to the trembling Tin-Tin who stood in the hall; I then called our dad on his private line at the office to report on my brothers. After the two of them were lectured and issued punishment later that evening, I caught them conspiring in a sinister manner with a whispering routine that stopped as I came near, their hissing instantaneously substituted with icy stares aimed at me. Apparently, before the evening was over, these two made good on their threats and reported the nature of my harassment at school while pretending to have a rather loud private conversation. Since Father and I had no rapport to speak of, he didn't seem to know how to approach me about the uncomfortable issue, but I noted that he suddenly stopped demanding that I move back downstairs into the bedroom with the younger boys. From that time on, Father seemed to have very little to say to me; our relationship to this day always seems to be one of mutually few words between authority figure and peon. The trade off was that Tin Tin sensed the tension there and, grateful for Lucky's safe return, she and I became fast friends. I may have lost any chance at closeness with my father, but I gained a caring and devoted sister in the deal.

In spite of having someone new to share things with, I had quickly fallen in love with the solitude of the attic and took to remaining up there most of the time, even skipping evening TV with the rest of the family. Scott and I shared an old walkie-talkie set I had rewired with modern speakers; he worried I'd get too lonely up there on my own and called up to check on me from time to time. Infinitely well-liked by all who met him, my eldest brother couldn't understand my need to be alone so much of the time; he worried I'd become morose and sullen. That was pretty far from the way I felt at the time. I really enjoyed the fact that I finally had room to store all the second-hand books and magazines I had been collecting on astronomy, music and art, not to mention the fact that I no longer had to watch every step from door to bed for fear of trodding on my kid brothers' toys and clothing. Better still, the attic held a good number of long-stored secrets, including a wonderful sample of Mom's artwork on canvases stacked on a table in a corner and covered with an old sheet. I found some nails and arranged her work on the wall across from the fold-away bed I slept on; the arrangement gave me a glowing feeling that somehow my mother was still looking out for me from somewhere beyond those skies she loved to capture in oils. Next to the table where the canvases had been stacked was a box which contained star charts which, from the notes and photographs included, had belonged to my father during his college days, along with a short-barreled telescope with an adapter for terrestrial viewing. The charts were in perfect condition and greatly welcomed. I spent hour after hour pouring over them, reading and memorizing the positions of heavenly bodies both familiar and new to me, then using the material to find and identify images through the use of the telescope. Imagine, me---the one Tracy boy who seemed to have the least connection with Father---having the same deep, overpowering love for all things related to astronomy. I couldn't believe it; it was the first time I ever thought of my father as being "cool."

The telescope's terrestrial viewing lens definitely came in handy a few days later as poor Lucky seemed determined to disprove his moniker, giving up a few of his nine lives in the process. From my perch high above the backyard, I was able to keep an eye on my younger brothers without their knowledge as they defied Father's edict about going over the fence into the ravine beyond. I used Scott's old telephoto lens camera to guarantee I had evidence to back up my reports...just in case I needed to use the information, of course. Also, from my vantage point, it would be easy to report any dangers or accidents those two might encounter, just in case they were in need of a rescue. When I tilted the telescope up to focus on the treehouse, I spied someone who just happened to be in immediate danger and in need of help---Tin Tin.

The diminutive girl with big, olive-colored eyes was crouched on the shaky beams of our creaking, aging treehouse, using one arm to reach for higher branches of the tree, her other arm barely maintaining her balance on the teetering wooden roof. Far above her on a very high branch of the towering maple tree sat the meowing Lucky, seemingly unfazed by his owner's frantic pleas to come down. "Come here, Lucky; come down!" she kept calling as all the while Lucky was busy eying the telephone lines hanging above the back fence, his tail flicking casually back and forth.

"Tin Tin!" I called to her as I leaned out of the attic window, "It's not safe up there! You've got to come down---but be careful!" Even before I had finished my warning to her, she had already realized how dangerous her stance was as she put a foot out to shift her weight toward the tree---and it went right through the weathered wood, up to her knee. Screaming with fright but keeping her wits about her, she snagged an exposed beam as she fell and was able to stop her downward motion. Though she had stopped her slide and seemed safe for the moment, I couldn't be sure of how long she could hold out. As I looked for a way to help her, I saw Virgil coming through the garden gate.

"Hey, V-Man! Heads up!" I called out, getting his attention. He noticed the peculiar scene in the treehouse as he scanned the yard looking for the source of my voice.

"It's ok! I've got my balance!" Tin Tin yelled. Her primary school training in gymnastics came in handy as she found herself able to thrust her body weight forward, rolling fully onto the roof and freeing her leg.

"Stay put, Tin Tin," urged Virgil, "I'll find the ladder and help you down." Half-way to the garage, he stopped in his tracks and looked up. "Hey, Johnny? Didn't Maggie Anne bring the ladder back from the weekend?"

I had to think about it a minute, but I recalled pretty quickly that Scott's friend from school had borrowed our sliding ladder to decorate for the "Back To School" dance a couple of weeks before, and I was sure I hadn't seen her since. "I don't reckon she did...'least she didn't while I was home. We...maybe we should call Father...?"

Virgil balked, shaking his head. "No. Gordo's already called him twice today, and his secretary is getting pretty annoyed. How about Scott?"

When faced with reporting bad news, I'd rather call Scott any day than Father, even now. There's less likelihood of getting my head bitten off with Scott, though my big brother has got a reputation among us as "Dad Lite" when he's left in charge. Running over to my computer, I accessed the modem and sent an e-transmission to Scott on the Voice/Data Phone he carried around with him. I could have made a voice call, but I knew from experience that my tall, dark-haired and handsome brother's audio-trans line was almost always tied up with girls queued up in Call Waiting. It had taken a couple of minutes to get a response when the "view call" screen flashed suddenly with the message:

TRANSMISSION RECEIVED...KEEP HER STABLE...HOME IN 5...CALL DAD TO REPORT TROUBLE...KEEP EVERYONE ELSE OUT OF TREEHOUSE...ASK VIRG TO GET LADDER READY...SEE YA SOON...(happy face symbol) SCOTT, OUT.

I usually found Scott's advise to be reliable and trustworthy, but the last thing I wanted to do was call our dad, and I didn't dare tell him about the ladder situation. We---all five of us---had had at least one chewing out each by a frantic Father furious at not being able to find one tool or piece of hardware or another. Finding cowardice and self-initiative to be the optimum virtues for the moment, I opted to start working out a method to get Tin Tin to level ground. As I leaned out of my attic window in search of an answer, I was startled as I heard her yell in anger.

"Lucky!" she screamed, "Lucky, come down! Don't you dare...LUCKY!" Without even a backward glance or a care for his mistress, the tabby climbed to the very edge of a branch high up in the tree and leapt onto one of the telephone lines running above the garden wall. A few quick steps and Lucky had gained a perch atop the telephone post which ascended from behind our next door neighbor's wall. Exasperated beyond belief, Tin Tin folded her arms, dropped her head and muttered, "Stupid cat!" Silently, I echoed her sentiments, for now we not only had to rescue Tin Tin but also had to find a method to save her devil-may-care cat as well.

In a manner only the self-assured Scott could exude, he came rushing into the backyard by sprinting over the garden gate, despite the fact that he held the key in his hand mingled among the others on his key chain. Our intrepid, real life "Action Boy" rushed in and immediately began to organize our rescue effort, plotting a course of action based on a quick assessment of Tin Tin's precarious situation. Virg advised him that our ladder was still on loan, and, with furrowed brow, Scott began scanning the yard for other implements which could help.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed as he ran to the area opposite the tree, with Virgil following closely behind him. Grabbing the remnants of Mom's old clothesline, the two of them began to reassemble the sun-weathered pulley lines that used to hold a myriad of cotton diapers and baby clothing for our perpetually expecting mother. Though worse for wear from exposure to the elements, the old cords were apparently still pretty sturdy, for Scotty and the V-Man soon had the unit reassembled and had even attached the big burlap bag in which Mom used to keep her dozens and dozens of clothespins. Funny, years later I recall my Father wondering while he disassembled it why a modern woman had preferred to use this ancient means of drying baby wear to the quick and efficient electric dryer on the laundry porch, but Scotty then recalled her once saying that a baby's tender skin preferred the soft feel of sun-dried clothing and that a dryer could never supply the fresh scent of an afternoon breeze. Little would she have suspected that this simple device had other practical purposes.

"Hey, Johnny! Catch!" Scotty yelled, flinging the end of the long set of cables up to me as I leaned out of the window. Suddenly, his face dropped. "Wait a minute," he sighed, smacking his forehead with the open palm of his hand. Looking up at me, he shook his head and pointed to a spot on the wall about three feet below the attic window. "If we haven't got a ladder, there's no way we can hook the cable to the side of the house. It's too high to reach from the ground."

I stared down at the rusting connector rack and, undaunted, began to shimmy out of the window as I held the tie rod in my mouth. I must have scared my brothers to death, for their faces mirrored a double amount of terror.