Buzzard
“You’re gonna be sooo awesome, Scotty!” Alan yelled as Gordon danced around the family group singing ‘Danger Zone’ at the top of his (high efficient swimmers) lungs.
Scott Tracy mock glared. “What do you mean ‘gonna be’, Squirt? I am awesome, and don’t you forget it!” The last was punctuated by fingers jabbing his youngest brothers ribs, eliciting high pitched giggled squeals.
“What’s your callsign gonna be, Scotty? I bet it’ll be something cool, like ‘Maverick’. Yeah! Be Maverick!” Gordon danced closer, arms flinging in every direction.
Scott sighed. “Gords, you don’t choose your callsign. You’re given it.”
Jeff’s hand landed on his second-youngest’s head, stopping his progress, as he made a show of examining the boys ears. “Nope, no ear plugs left in. That means you definitely heard, and you’re definitely listening, right?”
Gordon sighed. “Right. Don’t get to choose a cool name. Like nicknames.”
Alan stared up at his oldest brother, suddenly anxious. “What if they give you a mean callsign, like – like ‘BoogerFace’?”
Virgil and John snorted, trying to disguise laughs. “From Maverick to BoogerFace in fifteen seconds. I hope you fly better that that, Scott,” John smirked.
Jeff sighed. “Nobody will be allowed to have a callsign like BoogerFace, Alan. There are rules about what is acceptable. That is not.”
He met his eldest son’s gaze. “But, Scott, not every callsign is assigned out of respect. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Did Scott ever understand. Colonel Jeff “Kirk” Tracy had taught him that a very long time ago. Having dreams and ambitions were all well and good. Speaking them out loud wasn’t always a good idea.
Basic training had been gruelling. But Scott Tracy stuck it out.
Basic Flight had been frustrating. He knew the theory. Had been studying it since he was five years old, and the stage one training planes they used were so primitive compared to what Scott had flown at home.
The instructors had been doubly hard on him. His civilian flight training and experience wasn’t considered a benefit here. Quite the opposite. It was “lazy” and “undisciplined”, and one instructor in particular had taken a personal dislike to Scott, based solely on the types of planes he had listed in his civilian log book. “Little rich boy wanting to play ‘Top Gun’,” was probably the nicest thing he had said about him.
Scott had doubled down, working hard on the training, and even harder ignoring the taunts. Some of his classmates had taken their cue from the instructors and gave him a hard time. If there was an applepie bunk, whipped cream shaving cream, custard in boots, you could bet it had happened to Scott Tracy.
It was almost like being home with Gordon.
But that was all over now. They had been tested, graded, and sorted. Some had washed out, others were taken off flight training, and there were those who where assigned transport corps. But Scott had made it. He was going to be a Fighter Pilot.
Few of the guys giving Scott trouble had made it. Even though he hadn’t reported anything, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the people who mattered. They didn’t fulfil the ‘team work’ requirement. They were history.
The few that had, were those who had recognised Scott for who he was. Respected him for not reacting to the provocation, respected his skills. As he respected theirs.
And now here they were.
The class had been divided into two teams. Attackers and Defenders. Infiltrate, target, and destroy, and get the hell out, verses stop them at all costs.
Scott was an attacker.
It was a virtual fire exercise in restricted airspace, but there were still a million things that could go wrong. The biggest risk was collision, either with terrain or another aircraft in the event of a dogfight.
Scott Tracy focused.
Afterwards, he couldn’t really remember details of what had happened. The attackers had won, some high-risk low-terrain flying had paid off and they were almost on the target before the defenders had realised they were there. A couple of the team had made attempts at the target, before a quiet young man from Alaska had fired, seemingly at random and from an almost ridiculous distance, and destroyed the target.
“Attack team disengage and return home.”
There were more hairy moments, as they fended off the pursuing Defenders, desperate to regain some of their lost honour, but all of the attack team made it across the line to the ‘safe’ zone and were on their way back to base.
Lost in the euphoria of the moment, Scott celebrated with a couple of acrobatic manoeuvres. The response was immediate.
“Tracy. Level flight and return to base. Immediately.”
Chastened, Scott formed back up with his flight and followed them in to land.
With his plane taxied and parked up, Scott removed his helmet and flopped back in the seat, letting the avgas scented breeze waft over him from the open canopy. Oh man, had he fucked up but good.
With no other option but to face the music, Scott trailed his flightmates into the briefing room, and took his accustomed seat.
Their chief instructor, Colonel Rudolph “Valentino” Isa took the lectern, and in typical fashion wasted no words in his assessment of their performance.
Moore was commended for his successful attack on the target.
Garcia, a Texan, was commended for his flight plan into the target.
“Tracy.” Scott squirmed in his seat. “Excellent performance in bound and in combat. Your display on return …” He frowned. “That was the first time. Don’t do it again.”
Scott gulped. “I won’t, sir.”
Debrief went quickly after that. As the flight was dismissed, Colonel Isa spoke again. “Garcia. Moore. Tracy.”
The three pilots quickly formed up in front of the chief instructor.
“Give these instructions to the ground crew. Your planes need new paint jobs.” He handed each men a sheet of paper.
Scott stared. Authorisation for a callsign notation on the planes name tag.
‘Buzzard’.
Scott glanced up, Isa was watching him, a small smile quirking his lips. “So you don’t forget. Dismissed.”
Garcia looked at Scott as they made their exit. “What did you get?”
Scott showed him the paper. “You?”
“‘Pathfinder’,” Garcia visibly swelled with pride.
“‘Sniper’,” Moore offered, pleased. He frowned at Scott’s page. “‘Buzzard’. Huh. What do you think he meant by ‘so you don’t forget’?”
Scott shrugged. “I don’t know.” Isa moved past, almost strolling as he whistled a tune that tickled something at the back of Scott’s brain.
He shrugged mentally. Whatever it meant, it was definitely better than ‘BoogerFace’.
Scott occasionally wondered what Isa had meant. The Colonel often made a point of whistling that tune in Scott’s vicinity, it was always an annoying niggle. He knew that tune, but for the life of him couldn’t remember it.
Jeff had simply smirked when he learned of his son’s callsign and the story behind it, but, despite having served with Isa, refused to enlighten him as to the meaning.
The mysterious meaning of his callsign was quickly forgotten as he went into active duty, then active combat duty when the self-proclaimed Independent Nation of Bereznik went into one of the aggressive phases.
Scott quickly distinguished himself as a pilot on active duty, but his promising career came to a screaming halt as his plane suffered a catastrophic mechanical failure over the wrong line on a map.
That the cause of the failure was later proved to be sabotage by a Bereznikian agent working as a mechanic was small comfort after the eternity of six months in a Bereznikian “POW camp”.
Scott “Buzzard” Tracy left the Air Force via an honourable (medical) discharge, burdened by medals and accolades and memories that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Scott returned to the skies, growing more confident until his father unveiled his plans for International Rescue. In command of Thunderbird One, he felt more like a phoenix than a buzzard; reborn from the fires of the crashed fighter. Stronger, with a more clearly defined purpose.
He had joined the Air Force simply to fly.
He joined International Rescue to fly with a purpose.
It was a rare quiet day on Tracy Island, Scott was playing chess with Gordon (and losing), when Virgil started playing a tune on the piano that Scott recognised.
“Hey, Virg?”
“Hmm?” Virgil was mostly lost in his music.
“That’s a song, right? I mean, it has words?”
Virgil stopped. “Uh, yeah. It’s pretty old, by Nat ‘King’ Cole. It’s based on one of his father’s favourite folk tales. He was a Baptist minister, and used it for sermons.”
Scott frowned; as Jeff exaggeratedly focused on his paperwork at his desk, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“How’s the song go, Virg?”
Virgil stared at him, then shrugged. “Fine. Just remember: you asked for it, and there’s a reason I play piano.”
He started over again, this time singing, and as Scott listened to the words of the first verse, his heart sank.
“A buzzard took a monkey
for a ride in the air.
The monkey thought that
everything was on the square.
The buzzard tried to throw
The monkey off of his back.
The monkey grabbed his neck
And said ‘Now listen, Jack’”
“Straighten up and fly right
Straighten up and fly right
Straighten up and fly right
Cool down papa, don’t you blow your top.”
Jeff gave in to laughter as the second verse came around.
“Ain’t no use in diving
What’s the use of diving
Straighten up and fly right,
Cool down papa, don’t you blow your top.”
Captain Scott ‘Buzzard’ Tracy USAF (retired) sighed.
He wasn’t likely to forget.
Notes:
The song is called “Straighten Up and Fly Right”, written by Nat ‘King’ Cole based on one of his father’s favourite folk tales; although I personally prefer the Robbie Williams cover.
I don’t know what made me put two and two together, but it just feels so perfect …
And as for Jeff’s callsign, well, I figure he was always fixated on space, and the Air Force was just a step on the road for him, so what else were they gonna call him?
The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)
I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.
