FIRST FLIGHT by QUILLER RATED FRC

A series of short stories in which each of the Tracy brothers shares a special memory.

Author's Notes: I would like to thank Purupuss for proofreading this, and Sam and Lady Viva for providing background information for Scott's chapter. My thanks also to Purupuss for her contributions to Virgil's chapter.

MUSICAL NOTE: For those of you who like to listen to music while you read, the perfect accompaniment to Alan's story is Sky's 'Watching the Aeroplanes'. Now, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, you can listen to the music by clicking on the embedded player at the end. (Your PC may show a bar at the top of your screen asking if you want to run Windows Media Player.)

Chapter One: Scott
Chapter Two: John
Chapter Three: Virgil
Chapter Four: Gordon
Chapter Five: Alan

Scott

"OK, son, she's all yours. Good luck, now!"

My instructor steps out of the cockpit and closes the door, leaving me alone. It's my sixteenth birthday and I'm about to take my first solo flight.

I glance over to the side of the airfield where the cars are parked. Dad is wearing his poker face but Virgil is giving me a thumbs up. Even from this distance I can see the big smile on his face.

OK, here we go. Brakes off. Check for approaching aircraft. Ease open the throttle. I hear the note of the engine pick up as we start to move down the runway. I keep one eye on the instruments and the other on the runway as I gently ease back on the control yoke. The rumbling of the wheels on the ground dies away as we lift off. We're airborne. I've done it!

Calm down now, Scott. This is no time for a happy dance. There's a lot more to flying than just taking off. What is it the old hands say? That a good pilot is the one with the same number of take-offs as landings.

I pull back on the controls, gaining height as we clear the end of the runway. Now if the engine stalls I would put down in the field straight ahead. Never turn back, that's what they tell you. I sneak a quick look back to the cars and people behind me, now looking very small. I needn't have worried about the happy dance. Virgil's doing it for me. I'm glad he could come today. The other kids all had other things on, and Grandma was too nervous. She's at home, probably polishing something. It's what she does when she's worked up. The house will be gleaming by the time we get back.

I level off now, glancing up at the sky above me. It's a perfect day for flying, just some light cirrus clouds high above me, no problem there. I'm not licensed to fly above cloud yet, not until I get my instrument rating. That's my next goal. I've been training for the last three months for today, doing my ground school and getting the hours in my log book. Well, strictly speaking I've got a lot more hours than that. Dad's been letting me handle the controls in level flight ever since my legs grew long enough for my feet to reach the pedals.

We're coming up on the McAllister's grain silo now. Time to make a turn. Ease round gently, feet playing across the rudder pedals. Now if we stalled there's a cow pasture straight ahead.

I'm amazed how quiet it is up here on my own. It feels completely different from flying with Dad, or with my instructor. Apart from the noise of the engine, there's nothing, just me and my thoughts. For some reason I feel lighter, as if gravity is less up here, though I know that's nonsense. This is where I belong. Is this how Gordon feels about being in the water? No wonder he's always so keen to get to his practice sessions. Right now I feel as if all the problems I have, my schoolwork, the responsibility of keeping the kids in line, the pressure of living up to the Tracy name, I've left them back down on the ground. Dad can be a hard act to follow sometimes. People seem to expect more of you if you're the son of a famous astronaut, and a millionaire as well. But the sky doesn't care who your father is. Up here the only rules you have to obey are the laws of aerodynamics, nothing more. Up here it's just me, the plane and the sky.

Now I'm crossing the road to town. I make another course correction, feeling the plane respond to my control. For a moment I dream that this isn't a single engine Cessna, but the Air Force's most advanced jet which I can throw across the sky by just moving a finger.

Later, Scott, later. I've go to finish college and get through University first. The air force will still be there. Coming up on the lake now, which means its time for the next turn. Now I've got the airfield ahead of me again. This flight has gone so quickly. I line up on the runway and start to lose height, coming in on the glide path. The windsock is hanging limp so there is no worry about cross winds, and there's no other traffic around. I make a small course correction and extend the flaps. We come lower - watch the speed! My instructor's voice echoes in my ears, talking me down, but my hands and feet seem to be moving almost without conscious thought, as if I've been doing this for years. A rumbling from below tells me the wheels have touched down, so I put the flaps on full We slow to a halt and I look across to the cars. Virgil has his hands clasped above his head in a victory salute, but it's Dad's face I'll remember. He looks proud enough to burst.

I'm home, though part of me feels that `home' is now up in the skies. I can't wait to get back there again.

John

T-minus 30 minutes and counting...

The hatch shuts with a clang. I am sitting next to it and turn to see the technician give a thumbs up through the small porthole before he leaves. I manage a what I hope is a cheery smile in return. This is no simulation, no test. There will be no climbing out of here in a couple of hours to stretch our cramped legs and take the elevator back down to the ground to discuss things over a cup of coffee in the staff canteen.

How long have I been waiting for this moment? A year's training at NASA, three years at Harvard before that studying laser communications, all the years through college and school, right back to standing beside Dad in the back yard of our Kansas home, looking up at the stars as he named them for me. A long time.

T-minus 25 minutes and counting...

I turn and look the other way. Alison, sitting beside me, is the only other space virgin on this trip. She gives me a tight smile in return. The other four members of the crew have all made at least one flight before. Paul, our Flight Commander, is talking in quiet tones with Mission control. Co-pilot Sam is busy checking some instrument readings and the other two crew members who like Alison and myself, are destined for duties on the space station, look relaxed, almost bored if anything.

Their calm is reassuring. I can't help but be aware that we are sitting on top of enough explosive material to destroy a small town. I know NASA has a good safety record, but am also conscious that only a mile from here is the launchpad where my brother Virgil's namesake was killed, way back in the mid twentieth century. That accident put paid to the Apollo project, then by the time the United States was ready to try for the moon again the Cold War had ended, reducing the need to get there for purely jingoistic reasons. The upshot was that when men did finally reach the moon in 2038, one of those men was my father.

T-minus 20 minutes and counting...

Dad is down in the visitor area now, watching. I spoke to him on the phone this morning. He wouldn't have missed this launch for the world. I know he is proud of me, of what I have achieved. Having a famous astronaut for a father hasn't really helped me - in fact I think I have had to work doubly hard to demonstrate to everyone that I have earned my place on my own merits, not just because my father in on first name terms with most of the NASA top brass.

T-minus 15 minutes and counting...

I take another look out of the window. The rocket and its gantry cast a long shadow over the ground. Take-off was delayed for a couple of hours by strong winds, but by late afternoon these had dropped and we were given the go-ahead. This means the space station will be in the Earth's shadow by the time we catch up with it, but the pilots have trained for this and do not consider it a problem.

T-minus 10 minutes and counting...

I'm looking forward to my month in space. I'm there because of my expertise in communications, but I'm hoping to be able to use some of the astronomy equipment while I'm there for my own enjoyment. The long term aim of the station of course is to see how crews function together in space, as preparation for long voyages to Mars and other parts of the solar system.

I remember once reading the journal of Captain James Cook, written when he was exploring the unknown waters of the Pacific Ocean in the late eighteenth century. (I sometimes wonder if he visited Tracy Island on his travels, and what he thought of it.) Cook wrote `I had the ambition to go not only further than any other man had been, but as far as it was possible for man to go'. Yes, Captain, you'd have wanted a seat on that Mars trip, wouldn't you? In a way, he was braver than all of us, setting off into the unknown, no way of contacting home, no knowledge of what he would find. For all he knew there could have been fantastic creatures waiting for him on these strange lands, every bit as exotic as the multi-tentacled bug-eyed monsters so popular with the sci-fi pulps.

T-minus 5 minutes and counting...

Of course, no-one else on this mission knows that I have a secret agenda - to check out ideas of space station design for Dad's planned rescue organisation. Hopefully any tips I pick up about living in space can be incorporated in the design of our own station.

The countdown reaches the final minute and begins counting off the seconds. The voice of the announcer is lost in the last ten seconds as the rockets ignite with a roar. I feel the ship tremble beneath me as it balances for a few seconds on a column of fire before starting to rise. I feel myself being pushed back into my seat, the noise of the engines now so loud that it is felt rather than heard. Apart from the fact that we have just passed the control tower there is little sense of movement, except when we break through the cloud layer and back into the last rays of the setting sun. The G force is increasing now 3Gs, 4, then it stabilises at 4.5. I feel it as a heavy weight pushing on my chest. It's bearable - we were taken up to 6Gs in our centrifuge training - but I'm glad it won't be going on for too long. Suddenly the noise and the pressure cease and we are thrown forward against our straps.

"Orbital velocity achieved," says Paul. "Rendezvous with space station in seventeen point five minutes."

Still strapped in my seat there is little sensation of weightlessness, apart from a slight tendency for my arms to float up in front of me. What I do notice is all the bits of dust and debris that are suddenly floating loose in the cockpit. A paperclip drifts past my face - no doubt dropped by someone running through a checklist sometime during the ship's construction or testing.

Abruptly the ship is plunged into darkness as we cross the terminator line. We are flying over the Atlantic, approaching the coast of Africa, so the Earth below is inky blackness. Then I look up and see the stars. Not the twinkling lights we see from Earth, filtered through the atmosphere. Not even the view I used to get on a summer evening on the plains of Kansas, far from any competition from the lights of town, when the whole sky seemed to be aglow. No, these stars are like nothing I've ever seen before, hard, bright, steady, like diamonds. A king's ransom in diamonds, spread across a field of black velvet. When I was learning German, I was intrigued to find that their word `himmel' means both `sky' and `heaven'.

Now I know I'm in heaven.

Virgil

The moment of truth.

OK, hackneyed I know, but that's the thought that pops into my mind as the elevator doors open and I see the great green craft standing there. We've done all the wind tunnel tests and computer simulations, we've run the engines on test frames and in situ, but today I get to fly her for the first time. Mind you, I had to fight Scott for the privilege. He may be a qualified test pilot, but I'm the one who's got the transport rating on his licence. Besides, I helped Brains design this plane, so I know her better than anyone else.

I suppose it's easy to understand Dad's reasoning behind his selection of crew. Scott is a born leader which made him the natural choice for Field Commander and pilot of Thunderbird One. Gordon's WASP and John's NASA experience made them the logical choices for Thunderbirds 4 and 5 which only left 2 and 3. Dad knows how well Scott and I work together: he also knows from bitter experience that putting Scott and Alan together can be an explosive mix. Those two are just too alike in character and sometimes the sparks can fly. So I wasn't surprised when Dad told me I was going to be the pilot for the big transporter craft. In fact, I was delighted. I've always liked big machines. At engineering college one year we had to do a restoration project. Most of the others in my class worked on cars or bikes - I chose to renovate an antique steam locomotive.

My footsteps echo in the vast cavern as I cross the hangar floor. Brains has come up with an elaborate scheme for a chute that will take me from the lounge and drop me straight into the cockpit, but I'd rather test one thing at a time, thank you very much.

I enter the cockpit, sit down and strap myself in, then open the radio link. "I'm all ready here, Father."

"F.A.B., son. Is everyone else ready?"

Scott's voice came over the link. "All prepped and ready to go. I'll be taking off right behind you, Virg." He'll be flying chase for me in his ex-Air Force fighter, maintaining visual contact at all times.

Gordon spoke next. "Standing by, Dad. Good luck, Virgil!" Now I can see the logic of completing the submarine first. When you're testing experimental planes and rockets on an island, it's comforting to know that if you end up ditching in the sea there'll be someone around to fish you out - however deep you might be. After all, this baby's not exactly built to float.

"R-r-ready, M-mr. T-t-tracy." I don't think I've ever heard Brains sound so nervous. He's in his lab, ready to receive all the telemetry from my flight. Well, this is his creation and I suppose he feels his reputation is on the line but I can't help wishing he sounded a bit more confident.

Dad's voice comes through again, calm and steady. "OK, son, the radar is clear. Take her out." He is up in Landing Control with John and Alan. This island must have a more sophisticated fire control system than any airport in the world. I just hope that we don't end up testing that as well.

I take a deep breath and press a button on the control panel. I can hear the faint whirr of motors as the cliff face drops away outside. Then the metal door in front of me lowers and light floods into the hangar.

We inch forward on the ancillary engines. It's hard not to laugh as I see the palm trees drop away on either side. I insisted on having these wide windows in the cockpit, even though Gordon commented that I'd better not let Grandma in here or she'd be measuring them for curtains. Scott may like flying on instruments, but when you're trying to land something the size of a barn it's comforting to be able to see where you're going.

A signal from the control panel tells me I am now lined up with the take-off ramp, and I feel myself being tipped backwards. Strange sensation when you're still on the ground, but Brains wanted to be able to reach altitude as soon as possible after take-off from base, in order to avoid detection on radar.

I run through the pre-flight sequence that I have practised so many times on the simulator, then open the throttles. With a roar the booster rockets ignite and I am pressed back into my seat as the plane surges forwards. Through the noise I can hear cheers from my brothers watching in Landing Control as I clear the ramp and climb into the sky. There's a change in the engine note as the ramjets kick in, then it settles down to a steady rhythm.

"Levelling off at 5,000 feet. Speed 1,000 mph," I report.

"F.A.B., Virgil." Dad's voice no longer has that note on tension in it. "How's she feel?"

I'm already trying a few course changes, trying to get the feel of my new craft. "Very smooth, Dad. Not heavy at all. Those linkages work fine, Brains!"

"Very good, Virgil. From the telemetry it seems that the craft is performing to expectations." Brains doesn't sound at all nervous now. "Please increase speed to 5,000mph and climb to 30,000 feet. I want to see how she handles at altitude."

"You're looking fine, Virg." I turn my head to see Scott's fighter flying alongside, looking about the size of a gnat.

I wave to him then climb away, following Brains' instructions. She seems to handle better in the rarefied air. Those forward pointing wings might look odd, but they seem to work. Brains gets me to run through a few checks on the instruments. Everything seems fine, apart from the back-up GPS which is insisting for some strange reason that I am somewhere over the south of France. John, who did the programming, doesn't seem very worried when I mention this, saying he'll soon be able to fix it once I land.

I lean back in my seat, pulling gently on the control yoke, enjoying the way the plane responds to my commands. For a craft that weighs over 400 tons unladen, she certainly handles easily enough.. Scott can keep his flying cigar - I wouldn't swap this baby for anything!

"OK, Virgil, I think we'll wrap this one up for today." Dad's words cut into my musings.

"Can't I try dropping the pod and picking it up again - or maybe using the grabs?"

I hear Dad clear his throat to answer, but it is Scott's voice that comes over the airwaves. "It's OK, Virgil, we'll let you play with your new toy again tomorrow." There are chuckles in the background from my brothers, and I feel my face turning red.

I spiral back down towards the island, making my last turn so I am facing away from the cliff before firing the VTOL jets and settling gently onto the runway. The tracking computer lines me up with the entrance to the hangar and I roll the great machine back inside, before shutting down the engines.

"Great job, Virgil!" comes my father's voice from the radio. "We'll see you in Brains' lab to go over the telemetry." There is a click as the radio cuts out and silence reigns once more. But my ears are still echoing from the beat of the engines. Dum-di-di-da. You know, that would make a catchy tune. I could call it the Thunderbirds March.

Gordon

"Do I have to do this?"

"Yes, Gordon, you do," replies Scott, his tone firm.

"But I'm the aquanaut of the organisation. Dad's already said that Alan will be relief pilot for Thunderbird One. Why do I have to be able to fly her?"

"Gordon, we all need to be able to handle each other's machines. You know that. Suppose I got injured on a rescue and you had to fly her home for me? Now buckle up and get on with it!"

I sit down in the pilot's seat of TB1 as Scott straps himself into the jump seat behind me. I don't really enjoy flying, not the way my brothers do. If we didn't live on an island, I probably wouldn't have bothered to learn, but I certainly didn't want the indignity of having to cadge a lift like some teenager every time I wanted to go to the mainland.

Scott nods when he sees I am ready. "Right, I just want you to take her up, make a quick trip round the island, touch down in horizontal mode on the runway then lift off again and put her back in the launch bay. You've done it on the simulator, just do the same again." Ye gods, he sounds like a driving instructor.

I power up the great silver rocket and start the sequence that slides her down the ramp into the launch bay. As I do this I know that up above me a klaxon is sounding outside and the swimming pool is retracting into its housing.

"OK," says Scott. "Now remember to lock yourself into position on the launch pad, then call Dad and check you are clear for launch." I bite back a comment. What is it they say about never letting a member of your family teach you to drive?

"Thunderbird One, requesting take-off clearance."

"F.A.B., son, you're clear to go."

I push open the throttles and feel the mighty engines burst into life beneath me. "Hey!" I exclaim. "That's a kick in the butt!" I look round and I swear Scott has a small smile on his face. Maybe that's why he likes this beast so much.

I watch the instruments notching up our speed and altitude. As we near 10,000 feet Scott speaks again. "Contact base and inform them you are changing to horizontal flight."

"Why?" I ask, "Won't they see that for themselves?"

"Because you don't want whoever is tracking you from the space station to think that you are falling out of the sky." Uh oh, back to Big Brother mode again.

I do as I'm told, changing the orientation of the craft as I do so. As my seat slips round on its gimbals, my eye is caught by the plate on the wall. Yes, a plate. An honest-to-god, blue and white patterned china plate that Scott has fixed up there. None of us knows why, not even Virgil. Alan reckons we'll have to get Scott drunk one night and ask him. Fat chance of that. Scott could drink us all under the table and still juggle chainsaws afterwards.

Scott's voice brings me back to the present. "I want you to reduce to cruising speed and extend the wings. Careful - you'll find she handles a bit differently at slow speeds!"

His warning comes a fraction too late as we roll wildly. My corrections only seem to make it worse. "Hey, Scott, couldn't you have asked Brains to put a bit more resistance into these controls? I only have to blow on them and they move!"

Scott grins, a sly smile. "I like them like that. Of course, if you don't think you can handle it...." He leaves the threat hanging.

I take a deep breath. "No sweat, I can do this." I look round at my brother. "Say, Scott, can we just cut the driving-test routine for a few minutes? Just give me chance to get the feel of your `bird on my own terms?"

Scott seems to think for a moment, then nods. "OK, kid, she's all yours."

I try a few gentle turns. It's not too bad - a bit like riding a surfboard in strong seas. Then I pull too hard and sky and sea flash past the window as we execute a series of barrel rolls across the sky. I manage to gain control again and attempt another banking turn. This time I've got it - not a surfboard but a windsurf. I feel myself wanting to lean out to counteract that weight as we slide round. Now for pitch. I point the nose of the plane towards the waves and we make a steep dive then pull up sharply. As we go over the top of the arc I feel myself momentarily float out of my seat with the negative G-forces. "Yee-ha!" I exclaim. "Ride `em, cowboy!"

"Have you quite finished?"

I turn and give my brother a wide grin. "Hey, Scott this is fun! Much better than flying an ordinary plane. This is almost as much fun as ...." I pause, searching for a comparison, "as riding with one of my dolphin friends!"

I think Scott realises that I can give no higher praise, and he smiles. "Yeah, Brains did a good job, didn't he? Come on, let's finish the test. Horizontal landing, please."

We turn back to the island and I hover over the runway, firing the belly jets to touch down. I turn and look at Scott. "You want to walk home from here?"

"No way, kiddo, how about you?"

I shake my head. "No, I'll finish what I started."

I take off again and we circle the island to come in over the swimming pool, which I am glad to see is sliding back as I change to vertical mode. I want to get back to my pool, but I'd rather not share it with Thunderbird One. After that it is simply a matter of lining up with the guidance control and settling back down into the launch bay.

Once the engines have shut down, Scott undoes his harness and stands up. I'm not sure I like that look on his face.

"You're not mad at me for throwing your `bird around, are you?"

Scott shakes his head. "Nah, I'll get my own back. Just wait `til Thursday."

"Why; what happens Thursday?"

That sly smile is back again. "Thursday I get to take your toy submarine out. Let's see what I can do with that."

Heck, I hadn't thought of that.

Alan

There's just enough light to see the steps as I walk down from the house. I had planned to fly at first light so there wouldn't be too many thermals. It's still way too early but seeing as I've been awake for the last two hours I thought I might as well get up. Too excited, I guess. I've been working towards this day for so long.

I approach the hangar. Not the one where we keep the Thunderbirds, but the one where our more `orthodox' planes are kept. I push open the doors, but don't put the light on. Even in the half-light I can see her standing there, waiting for me. You'd think she would look out of place besides the family jet, Scott's sleek fighter and Tin Tin's Ladybird, but she doesn't. She has a quiet dignity, a pride, all her own. After all, she was flying before these other machines were even thought of.

I can remember the first time I saw her. I was sixteen years old. Steve Peckham had told me he had something he wanted to show me in his grandfather's barn. We cycled over there after school and entered the barn, pushing past sacks of fertiliser and pieces of farm machinery. Then I saw her, standing at the back of that gloomy building, illuminated by light filtering through gaps in the roof.

"It's called a Tiger Moth," said Steve. "my great-grandfather bought it off an old barnstormer when he was a young man. He used it for crop-dusting, but when Grandpa took over the farm he never got round to getting lessons. It must have been here over fifty years."

She was in a sorry state. Part of her undercarriage had collapsed, leaving her listing drunkenly to one side. Sections of the fuselage were scratched and dented, the fabric of her wings was in tatters where it had been nibbled away by mice, and it looked as if several generations of chickens had been born and raised in her cockpit. Yet even in that condition, I could feel her calling to me. She yearned to come out into the sunshine, to feel the wind on her wings, to fly once more.

At that time Dad had already announced his plans to buy this island and move out here, and Steve's family were quite happy to hang on to her for a bit longer until I could arrange to have her shipped over. Then, I regret to say, I was forced to leave her sitting in our hangar for a while. I had college to complete, and my NASA training. My racing career was just taking off, and of course we were putting together and learning to handle all the various machines for International Rescue. Every time I went into the hangar I felt a pang of guilt, but at least she wasn't deteriorating any more now she was away from the mice and the chickens.

At last came the time when I was able to give her my full attention. Rebuilding the frame itself took months of work, salvaging what could be reused and cutting and shaping new sections to replace what was beyond repair.. And of course I could only work on her when we weren't busy with rescues or maintenance on the Thunderbirds and in between my shifts on the space station The engine was another challenge. Virgil gave me a hand there, machining some of the parts that I could not obtain through normal channels. In fact all the guys have been a great help, and Tin Tin too. She helped with fitting and doping the fabric. That was a messy job - I remember we nearly managed to glue ourselves together a couple of times. (Not that I would have minded that for one minute). The next job was connecting everything up in the cockpit, and fitting instruments I had managed to acquire through various historic aircraft clubs. Lastly came the painting. I decided she had been dingy for long enough, so chose a cheerful combination of red and yellow.

So now she sits here gleaming, ready for her first flight. I run my fingers along the surface of her wing. It's almost like stroking a living creature. She feels sleek and vibrant, ready to go and meet the sky once more.

"Hey, Alan, are you going to fly this thing or just sit in it and make `brmm brmm' noises like you used to with your toy pedal car?"

I look round with a start to see Gordon leaning against the open door. Past him I can see daylight streaming in. It must be over an hour since I came in here.

He enters, followed by Scott and Virgil. "Come on, let's get your baby outside."

We push her out into the daylight and I see the whole family has come down to watch.

Tin Tin steps forward and hands me a box. "Here you are, Alan. We've bought you a good luck present for your flight."

I open the box and take out a fleece-lined leather flying helmet and goggles. "Hey, thanks, guys."

Gordon slaps me on the back. "We thought if you were going to fly like Biggles, you might as well look the part."

I give him a grin. All my family know how much I used to enjoy the adventures of the fictional World War One British flying ace when I was young. It's a nice gesture, and useful too. It's going to be cold up there in an open cockpit, even over a south Pacific island.

The plane is now pointing down the runway. I climb in and run through the pre-flight, signalling when I am ready. Virgil swings the prop and the engine roars into life. With a final wave to my family, we taxi down the runway, picking up speed. I feel her tremble beneath me. She's been waiting for this moment for more than fifty years. Then we're airborne. Back in the sky, where she belongs.

She's come home.