RACE AGAINST TIME by PATTI KURTZ RATED FRPT

This story was written in response to the Tracy Island Writers Forum's 2006 Fic Swap Challenge.

Fic Swap Request: I would like to see a nitty-gritty, down and dirty rescue story with lots of realism and no sugar coating. It doesn't need to have to have a happy ending but it should be technically accurate.

Beep! Beep!

"Cool." Alan Tracy strode across TB 5 to the source of the alarm. Not the emergency klaxon, but a digital clock he'd set for 4:00 Central Standard Time. Shutting off the alarm, Alan dialed in the all-sports channel. He scanned the monitors, making sure there were no pending disasters. The weather station was tracking a massive snowstorm across the Upper Midwest, and he made a note to keep an eye on the emergency channels in case anyone needed International Rescue's help. Then, he turned his attention to the sports channel, where the logo of the US Arena Racing Association was displayed. The locater text read: Allsports Arena, Bismarck, North Dakota,

"Well, at least the snow won't affect the race." Alan settled onto a tall stool to watch the race.

John Tracy stretched behind the desk in the lounge in Tracy Villa and yawned. Checking the chronometer, he reached for the comm. link. Time to check in with Alan.

"International Rescue to Thunderbird 5. You there, Alan?"

The vid screen blossomed to life, revealing his brother's grin. "Hey, John. How're things down there?"

"Quiet." John tipped his coffee mug back, then made a face. Cold and bitter. "Anything happening we should know about?"

"Just a blizzard in the Dakotas. But they're used to that sort of weather there, so I expect the local authorities can deal with anything that comes up." His gaze strayed off screen and John heard the telltale noise of an auto race.

"So which race is it this week, kiddo? The Daytona 500?"

Alan shot him a "give me a break" look. "Arena racing, Bismarck, North Dakota. Rick Briggs has the pole; he's a guy I used to race with."

"North Dakota?" John frowned. "How can they have an auto race in the snow?"

"Arena racing, bro. It's indoors, so they can race in January."

"Auto racing inside? Isn't that dangerous?"

"Not really. They've got all the safety equipment and crews like a regular race. Though there has been some controversy."

Alan sounded as if he was about to say more, so John prompted, "So what's the controversy?"

"Well, you know race drivers." Alan's eyes sparkled. "We're always trying to get more speed out of anything with wheels. This year, drivers convinced the racing association to let them use NASCAR spec engines."

John whistled. "So these cars go 200 mph?"

"Almost," Alan corrected. "These are short tracks, not super speedways like Daytona or Talladega. So, they only get up to about 180."

"Still, inside an arena…" John tried to picture race cars blurring around a short oval track indoors. "Sounds risky."

"That's what a lot of people said." Alan shrugged. "Arena racing is trying to compete with NASCAR and NHRA. Speed's the way to go. Makes the races exciting."

"I bet."

"Look, they're about to drop the green flag."

"Okay." John laughed. "Just make sure you don't miss an emergency or you might end up with another month of space monitor duty."

"Very funny. " Alan grimaced. "I can watch more than one monitor at a time. It's why I'm the best space monitor IR's got."

"Come again?"

"You heard me. Gotta go." Alan closed the connection before John could think of a comeback.

Shaking his head, the middle Tracy brother fired up the computer and, after checking the international news feeds, did an internet search for arena racing. Might as well find out all he could about this odd new sport.

"And as they come around to the start/finish line, it's Rick Briggs in the lead." The announcer's voice boomed from the speakers aboard TB 5.

"Way to go, Rick!" Alan leaned closer to the monitor. "Show 'em what you've got!"

The orange and black race car leapt ahead as the pack rounded the first turn. Smoke puffed from the tires as Rick locked up the brakes, and the car's back end slewed to the left. But Rick pulled back in line and tore off down the straightaway.

"The lead cars are setting a record pace," the announcer added. "Briggs' last laps was 185 mph. These drivers seem bent on proving the sports' detractors wrong; they're making it one exciting race, with no incidents so far."

"You got that right," Alan told the monitor. "Nobody ever gives us drivers enough credit."

When the race cut to a commercial, Alan made the rounds of the station, checking the monitoring equipment and grabbing a cup of coffee. Everything was quiet, though the green blob on the radar screen told him the blizzard in the Dakotas was intensifying. Alan punched up the weather channel, which was showing video of the storm. High winds blew the snow sideways and already, the ground was covered with knee high drifts. Roads were closed and people were advised to stay inside.

Alan shivered. "Good day to be inside." Even if "inside" happened to be a climate controlled space station high above the earth's weather patterns. Sipping his coffee, Alan checked the news feeds, then switched back to the sports channel…

Just in time to see Rick's car spinning down the track. Another car struck him broadside with such force that the race car went airborne, sailing over the wall and into the crowded stands.

"Earth to John." Gordon waved a hand in front of his brother's face.

"Huh?" John blinked.

"Just as I thought. Out to lunch." Edging behind his brother's chair, the aquanaut frowned at the computer screen. "US Arena Racing Association? How come you're checking out their site?"

"Just curious." John pushed his chair back. "Alan mentioned a race when we did our check in and something he said got me thinking. Look at this." He tapped the screen. "These cars race inside--in sports arenas, usually in the northern states, where it's too cold to race most of the year."

"Indoor racing? Whose bright idea was that?"

"Not sure. They used to use smaller cars and engines. But this year, they bumped up the specs. Now, they can reach speeds close to 200 mph."

Gordon whistled. "Isn't that risky inside an closed arena?"

"Alan said they have all the usual safety equipment. But look at this." John clicked the "back" button and a newspaper article appeared.

"Arena Track Safety equipment Substandard At Best," Gordon read off the screen. "That doesn't sound good."

"Apparently, arena racing operates on a wing and a prayer. The circuit doesn't have much money and the arenas have small budgets. So they cut corners on safety and pray that the local officials can take up the slack."

"And if they can't…" Gordon began.

"Big trouble," John finished. "Can you imagine what a serious crash or fire inside one of those arenas would be like?"

"I'd rather think about something else. Like a dip in the pool." His amber eyes glinted. "If I remember correctly, you owe me a race. In fact, your exact words were, 'double or nothing, Gords.'"

"Your memory's too good."

"Photogenic," Gordon said proudly.

"I think you mean photographic."

"Same thing," the aquanaut said cheerfully. "Either way you look at it, I'm it. Photogenic and photographic."

"And hopeless." John got up. "Okay, let's get out there so I can beat the swim trunks off you."

"In your dreams, rocket boy," Gordon punched John in the arm. "Don't forget, the water is my element."

"That explains the fins and gills." John whacked him in return. Gordon ran towards the patio doors, calling, "Last one there starts in the far lane."

Just as they reached the doors, the emergency signal sounded.

"Of course it would have to be snowing," Gordon grumbled as he strapped into the passenger's seat in Thunderbird Two. Thunderbird One was already at the danger zone, Bismarck, North Dakota. Now, John, Virgil, and Gordon were following in the big green transport. "I hate cold weather."

"If it wasn't snowing, " John pointed out, "there wouldn't be an emergency. The local firefighting equipment is snowed in or busy, so they need us."

"Well, if that fuel catches fire, it'll get hot inside the arena," Virgil put in from the pilot's seat. "So you won't have to worry about being cold, Gordon."

"That makes me feel a lot better."

As he listened to Virgil exchanging coordinates with Scott, John thought about what he knew about the emergency. According to Alan, there'd been a multi car crash on the indoor track. One car had sailed into the stands, trapping the driver and some fans. The safety crews had rushed to the scene but their worn tow cable snapped. Now, fuel was leaking, which raised fears of a fire. Plus, the heavy snow made the arena roof sag. Officials were trying to evacuate the building, but the exits were frozen or blocked by snowdrifts.

"ETA Bismarck thirty minutes," Virgil's voice broke in on John's thoughts. "Scott's having them clear the parking lot, so we should be able to set down close to the arena."

And then, John knew, they'd have their work cut out for them.

"Nice flying Virg," Scott Tracy said as he watched TB 2 descend, its vertical jets making clouds of steam in the frigid air. "You made good time."

"How's everything inside?" Virgil asked.

"They've begun to evacuate, but the place is still pretty full." Scott huddled into his fur lined jacket and tugged down the ear flaps on his hat. "They've got the smaller fires under control, but their extinguishers ran out, so if that one car catches fire, it'll be up to us."

"So we'll need the Firefly." TB 2 settled into the snowy parking lot and her pod door opened. "John and I can get inside and put out any fire in there."

"Have Gordon take the Domo around to brace that roof." Scott scowled at the nearly flat surface, a poor design that let all the snow accumulate with no way to clear it off.

"And tell him to hurry. The weakest part of the roof is right above the crash site. So if it comes down while you guys are in there…" Scott didn't finish. Somehow, putting the possibility into words made it seem all the more--possible.

"Will do."

As he watched the Firefly lumber into the swirling blizzard, Scott huddled deeper into his coat. Despite the fact that he'd set up in the shelter of the racing teams' haulers, the wind tore at his hair and stung his cheeks.

"Coffee?" Tanner, the arena safety crew chief held out a thermal cup.

"Thanks." He sipped the steaming liquid. "Any news from your crews?"

"They're doing the best they can." The man sounded defensive. "But we're working with a skeleton crew, shoddy equipment and inexperienced workers."

"I hope this isn't typical at all your races."

The man's silence gave him his answer.

"I'm at the north side of the building." Gordon leaned closer to the Domo's windshield, trying to see through the swirls of snow. Finally, he saw the sagging roof section, weighed down by several feet of accumulated snow. The high wind made the roof bounce like flimsy cardboard trying to support a five layer cake. "That roof's not gonna hold long. Even with the Domo's help."

"Understood." Virgil shot back. "Just brace it for as long as you can."

"FAB." Gordon positioned the Domo and began raising the supporting arms.

John fidgeted as he watched the arena's bay doors grind open. The door mechanism had frozen and the safety crews were using blow torches to heat up the metal. Even so, they stopped every few feet as the melted snow froze again.

"We'll have to work fast," Virgil told him. "Gordon says that roof is in bad shape."

John nodded and checked his medikit and the cutting tools he had ready.

"TB 5 to Mobile Control," Alan's voice said from the speaker.

"Go ahead Alan," Scott said and John guessed his brother had punched Alan into all of their comm. units, so he could tell them what he knew.

"There's gonna be racing fuel spilled all over the place. If it hits that hot motor, it'll catch fire quick and spread like crazy."

"Got it," Virgil said. "We'll be ready."

"Remember, race car doors are welded shut. You'll have to go in through the windows."

"FAB, Alan, thanks." Virgil looked sideways at John. "Got that?"

"Right."

The bay door ground open a torturous few feet and the Firefly rumbled into the arena.

John's first impression was one of utter chaos. Fans milled about in the stands. On the oval track, several race cars lay on their sides, or sat jammed against the retaining wall. Hunks of sheet metal scattered across the floor like odd shaped hailstones.

And on the far side of the track, a crumpled orange and black car lay on its roof in the lowest section of the stands.

Virgil sprayed the car with the dicetlyne, then he and John grabbed stretchers and tools and climbed out into the chaos that had once been an auto race.

"Check on the driver," Virgil called. "I'll start up in the stands."

"FAB." John ran towards the ruined car, which looked as if it had been flattened by a giant hand. He peered into the twisted mass of sheet metal. After a moment, he spotted the driver, still strapped into his seat, his helmet a spot of orange in the dimness.

"Hey," John called. The bitter odor of fuel made his nose itch Taking a deep breath, he gently touched the man's shoulder. "Rick, can you hear me?"

The driver didn't move. John tugged the man's protective helmet off, then ran a hand along the complicated series of straps that held him into his seat. Just as his fingers pressed the latch, Rick groaned.

"Can you hear me?" John asked again. "It's International Rescue--are you all right?"

The driver squirmed and John saw that the man's legs were hidden amid the wreckage. We're gonna have to cut him out of there.

He was about to turn back to the Firefly for a cutting tool when the driver mumbled, "International Rescue?"

"Yes. Just relax. We'll get you out in no time."

"No." Rick thrashed about in the ruined car. "No!"

"Hold still." John squeezed the man's arm. "If you're hurt, you'll just make it worse. I'll be right back…"

"That's not what I mean." Rick turned to face John and his dark eyes were wide. "Take care of the fans in the stands. Help them first…"

"My colleague's already over there--"

"Go on!" Rick shouted, his face going pale with the strain. "Help those fans. I heard them crying, calling for help. Some are children… you've got to help them."

"But you're hurt…"

"Don't worry about me! Help those people, get them out of here. They don't deserve…"

John spun away. "Okay. But I'll be back for you."

As he picked his way through the rubble towards where Virgil was working, John heard Rick mutter, "Don't bother."

Gordon raised the Domo's arms to touch the underside of the sagging roof. But even moving the weighted metal sheeting that much sent showers of debris down into the arena below.

"Okay, roof braced--for now," he told the others. "But you'd better work fast. I don't know how long I can hold it."

"I'll tell them," Scott replied. "Keep me posted."

Gordon stared up at the sagging roof, his hands poised over the controls, ready to react at the first sign of movement.

"Give me a hand." Virgil motioned to his brother amid the rubble of the wrecked grandstands. John picked his way over to where his brother knelt beside an unconscious young woman pinned under a row of seats.

Virgil grabbed one end of the seats, John the other. But when they strained to lift the row, John felt it move a few inches, then stop. Looking around, he spotted the reason.

"The end is pinned under the car, Virg."

"We'll have to cut through it in two places."

As he finished making his cut, John felt something wet drop onto his back. Glancing up, he saw that a large crack had formed across the middle of the roof. Snow and ice spattered onto the arena floor.

"We'd better hurry." John set the saw aside.

"Right." Together, they lifted the seats, then Virgil eased the woman onto a stretcher. John scouted around to see if anyone else was trapped.

Just looking at the twisted rows of seats made his stomach churn. In several places, the seats had been flattened by the impact of the car. Everywhere, he saw things the fans had dropped in their frantic flight: souvenir plastic cups, caps and autographed photos and a stuffed teddy bear wearing a T shirt with the logo of one of the race car drivers.

He was about to head back to the crumpled race car when he heard a muffled voice call, "Help me, please!"

John spun towards the sound. "Where are you?"

"Down here," the voice replied. Crouching amid the debris, John finally spotted a girl of about 8 huddled on her side in a cramped space between the roof of the car and the floor. Two rows of seats had fallen on either side of her, trapping her.

"Hi there. Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," the girl replied. "But I can't get out and I can't find my aunt. She was with me when the car came flying up here, and then I didn't see her again." The child hiccupped.

"I'm sure one of the other workers got her out already. She's probably wondering where you are." John smiled. "What's your name?"

"Andrea. But you can call me Andy."

"Well, Andy, I'm John. I'm going to get you out of there. How's that sound?"

The girl smiled. "Good."

"Okay." John straightened up. "You just sit real still and I'll be right back."

He stepped away, his mind racing. The seat rows were too long and heavy to lift. He'd have to cut through the mess, but if he cut in the wrong place, the whole mess could come crashing down on the girl. Finally, John located a section of seats that wasn't supporting any other debris. He got the saw ready, then called to the girl again.

"Andy, I'm going to cut through these seats so we can get you out. The saw might shoot a few sparks when it hits the metal, but don't be scared, okay?"

"I'm not afraid," the girl declared. "You're International Rescue. You won't let anything happen to me."

"That's the spirit." But as he set the blade to the metal bar connecting the seats together, he prayed that Andy was right.

More snow showered from the cracked roof. Gordon stiffened as he felt the Domo shift under the increasing weight.

"Great." He reached for the mic . "Sure wish John and Virg would hurry."

"I'll tell them," Scott said when Gordon relayed his status to his oldest brother. "Just hold it as long as you can, Gords."

"FAB." He tried to sound upbeat, but the ceiling section was starting to sag like soggy cardboard. Really, he had no idea how much longer the Domo could hold it.

"For God's sake, man, get the rest of those people out," Scott snapped at Tanner. "What are you waiting for? Christmas?"

"It's not that easy. We've got two sets of emergency doors frozen, and two more located under the weak roof. That leaves three exits for 50,000 people. I don't want to start a stampede--people could get killed."

"If you don't get them out, people will get killed anyhow," Scott snapped.

"The blow torches can only move so fast…"

"Can't you get more torches?"

"We're using all the ones we can find. Unless you guys have some equipment you can use…"

"Maybe I do." Scott set off for TB 2 at a dead run. "I'll be right back."

"John?" Virgil shouted over the whirr of the saw. "How much longer?"

John eyed the second cut he was making. "Five minutes, maybe."

"You'd better make it less, if you can."

"Why--" John began, but then he smelled it too. The spilled fuel from the stock car spread along the floor towards where he worked. In a few minutes, he'd be standing in it. If sparks from the metal saw hit the fuel….

No. He pushed the grisly thought aside and tried to work faster.

"I'll get some dicetylene and soak down the area." Virgil's voice faded as he sprinted towards the Firefly.

John kept his attention focused on the saw blade as it chewed through the metal bar.

"Okay, watch yourselves," Virgil called.

"Andy, close your eyes and don't breathe too deeply," John called.

"Okay." Her voice was muffled, as if she had her hands over her mouth.

"Go, Virgil." John inhaled and willed himself to breathe only through his nose. He was dimly aware of the bitter smell of dicetylene, of the hissing sound as Virgil activated the spray.

"--should do it." Virgil moved up behind him to support the small section of seats that John was cutting free. When the saw blade sliced through the bar, Virgil lifted the seats and set them aside.

Shutting off the saw, John crouched by the opening. "Okay, Andy, if you can reach my hands, I can help you."

The girl stretched her arms towards him. John leaned in, Virgil supporting him from behind and finally, his hands closed about Andy's slender wrists and he pulled her towards him. Once they had to stop when her T shirt caught on rough metal, but the girl ripped it free and John lifted her to safety.

As John set her on her feet, Andy flung her arms about his neck and hugged him hard. "See?" she said. "I knew you could do it."

Grinning, he tousled her blonde hair. "So did I." Well, okay, so it wasn't the biggest lie he'd ever told, but it came close.

Andy had another hug for Virgil, then the safety crew carried her off to a waiting ambulance. John and Virgil exchanged grins.

"Okay, then, is that everyone?"

"Except Rick--the driver. He told me to get the fans out first. He's still trapped in his car."

They sprinted towards the race car. Just as they got there, John felt a blob of something cold land on his shoulder; another hit Virgil on the back. The brothers looked at each other, then up at the ceiling. John stifled a groan.

The crack was a lot wider. Snow and ice and pieces of debris clattered to the concrete floor.

"We'd better hurry." Virgil ran to the passenger's side.

"Hope they're making progress on the evacuation," John leaned in through the window to check on Rick. The driver was groggy but conscious; he jumped when John squeezed his shoulder.

"Hey there remember me?" John forced a grin.

"Oh, yeah, International Rescue." Rick's words slurred together. "You still here. Told you--get the fans--don't worry about me."

"We did," Virgil put in. "Now it's your turn. How much can you move?"

Rick squirmed, and a sharp hiss escaped him. "I can't move my legs. Feels like something heavy's pressing on 'em."

John looked at his brother. "The motor?"

"Probably." Virgil frowned at the upside down orange car. "You cut through the door on. I'll cut the motor mounts and get help pulling the engine forward."

"Got it." John fired up his saw and got to work.

"Status of the roof, Gordon?" Scott said into his headset as he aimed his laser pistol at the ice build up that had the emergency doors frozen shut.

"Not good, Scott. The Domo can't hold much longer; it'll just break apart,"

"Well, hold it till the very last minute, okay? We're almost done here."

"FAB. But it'd be a real good idea if you'd try to be done in say--ten minutes."

"I'll keep that in mind--ah!" Scott grinned as the ice shattered and the exit door swung open. He turned the laser beam on the other door.

"Okay, ready here." John pulled the last hunk of sheet metal free. "How're you doing, Virg?"

"Almost there. Go round up some help, okay? I'm not exactly Superman."

"Got it." John sprinted off in search of the safety crew, dodging more chunks of snow and ice drifting through the widening crack.

His headset crackled to life and Scott said, "How much longer, John?"

"We're down to the last person--one of the drivers. But he's wedged in his car pretty good. It's gonna take a few minutes to get him out."

"A few minutes may be all you've got. Gordon says that roof won't hold much longer."

"Understood." John beckoned to several members of the safety team. "Tell him to give us as long as he can."

"We're almost evacuated. So once you guys get out, this building's gonna be history."

"I'm sure the city will love that," John muttered as he led the way back to the wrecked orange race car.

Virgil set his saw aside. "John, get on that side. Everyone else over here with me. Soon as I cut through the hood, we'll push the engine away from the car. John, you pull Rick out."

"FAB." John grasped the driver under the arms. "Relax and let me do the work. You just enjoy the ride."

Rick's lips twisted into a parody of a smile. "That's what they told me when I started driving."

"Get ready. " Virgil made the last cut. John heard a clunk as the motor shifted. "On three. One…"

John tensed as another blob of wet snow and slush dropped onto his back.

"Two."

"Hurry up," Scott said in John's ear. "We've got everyone out. But Gordon says the roof is going."

Then Virgil said, "Three," and several things happened at once.

Metal grated as the engine dropped away from the car.

John pulled Rick towards him, stopped when Rick choked out, "My foot's caught."

John held his position, while Virgil crawled under the car, trying to free the driver. Something clattered on the floor behind them and John heard a shout from the safety workers.

"The roof's coming down!"

"Get out of there, you two!" Scott ordered. "The Domo can't hold it."

"Just a couple minutes," John grated.

"You don't have--" Scott began, but then Virgil's shout drowned him out.

"Now!"

John pulled Rick backwards and together, they tumbled onto the debris strewn floor.

Virgil tugged him to his feet and they sprinted for the Firefly, carrying the unconscious driver between them. John was dimly aware of Scott shouting in his headset but the words were lost in the inner scream that echoed in his brain: Get out get out get out!

Everything slowed down. The Firefly seemed miles away. Debris, snow and ice rained around them as they ran through what felt like Jell-O. We're not gonna make it, John thought. It's too far, we waited too long…

Then the Firefly loomed in front of him. Virgil yanked the door open and they tumbled inside. Virgil slipped into the control seat while John pulled the door shut, then lifted Rick onto the passenger's seat.

"Hang on!" Virgil shouted as the vehicle lurched backwards towards the bay doors. John braced himself against the wall. Something hit the Firefly's windshield with a frightful crack, but the safety glass held. Then, sky and parking lot opened around them, and the only thing falling on the windshield was the wind driven snow.

"We're clear!" Virgil called.

"Get the Domo out, Gordon!" Scott ordered.

"FAB!" came Gordon's muffled reply.

John leaned over the back of Virgil's seat in time to see the roof tremble, then collapse like a soggy napkin. The air was filled with the groan of bending metal. Snow and ice toppled through the opening, raising a powdery cloud.

"Everyone okay?" Scott's voice filled in the stunned silence.

"FAB here," Virgil said.

"I'm okay," Gordon added.

"Same here," John said. "Did we get everyone out?"

"Think so," Scott replied. "Nice work everyone."

"So there's going to be an investigation into arena racing," Alan told John several days later. "Bismarck wasn't the only arena to be cutting corners on safety. They were trying to rake in the kind of dollars that NASCAR's making, and they forgot about safety. Racing is suspended until the investigation's over."

John wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. "How's, Rick? Have you contacted him?"

"Yeah. He's okay." Alan's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "He's gonna make it, but his legs were badly injured, lots of broken bones and torn ligaments. They don't think he'll ever be cleared to drive again."

"I'm sorry." John made a face. "I know that doesn't help. But he seemed like a nice guy."

"He is. And he's not getting out of racing entirely." Alan smiled. "He told me he's thinking about buying a racing team. He asked if I wanted to come out of retirement and drive for him."

"What'd you tell him?"

"I said I already had a pretty exciting job." Alan chuckled. "Rick said he couldn't believe I found anything more exciting than being a race driver."

John rolled his eyes. "If he only knew what you really do."

"Yeah, if."

Alan was about to say more, but then Gordon poked his head into the lounge. "Hey, John--you still owe me that race, remember? Double or nothing?"

"Oh, yeah. Be right there." John looked up at the vid screen. "Gotta run, Al. Time to whomp Gordon in a swimming race."

"Take the inside lane," Alan advised. "It's a little shorter."

"I'll remember."

"See you in a week."

"Right." John broke the connection, then whirled and headed out towards the pool calling, "Dibs on the inner lane."