ALL FALL DOWN by BOOMERCAT RATED FRPT

A missing scene from the episode "Terror In New York City."

***Ned Cook, respected journalist, sat up in his hospital bed, pen poised over his personal journal. He paused, thinking and then wrote, "Today, I changed my mind."

Staring at what he had written, he shook his head. The statement seemed too simple for the momentous occasion. He took his pen to cross through the statement, but then paused, and simply underlined it. Leaning back against the pillows, Ned nodded, satisfied.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the horrors and miracles of the day instantly replaying in his aching head. Several minutes passed before he could bear to open his eyes. When he did, the almost blank page stared up at him. Lifting his pen again, Ned Cook tried to put his jumbled thoughts to paper.***

The Journal Of Ned Cook

Today, I changed my mind.

It seems a simple thing, to change your mind. But in truth, when you believe something in your gut, when you know something in your mind, when you've defined reality in a certain way, to change your mind turns your world upside down.

I know the face of courage. I've seen it in American soldiers when as a cub reporter I covered the wars of the Middle East. I've seen it in civilians standing up to armored tanks during the Aswan riots. I've covered the brave men and women who traveled the stars, and others, just as brave, who fought their own infirmities just to survive another day. Yes, I know the face of courage.

Today I found courage in unexpected places. When this day started, I had no reason to believe it would not be my last day. In little more than twenty four hours, I had gone from being on the top of the world to a desperate survivor clinging to life.

Yesterday, in what now seems like monumental foolishness, an attempt was made to move the Empire State Building. Like all of the attending dignitaries, my heart swelled with pride when that great mass of steel and masonry started to shift. How far we had come, I thought.

But nature has a way of putting us in our place. The cheers of those privileged enough to be there had not yet died away before disaster fell. The mighty 700 foot high scaffolding started to buckle as the ground underneath the atomic engine's track shifted. The engine was shut down, and the crowd, myself among them, sighed with disappointment. Even then, there was little hint of the magnitude of the disaster that was about to strike.

The local cops had just told my cameraman Joe and me to clear the area. I didn't think much of it... It's a cop's answer to any situation that he can't directly control. I remember reporting the order to the television audience with as much drama as I could. After all, the network had paid dearly to get Joe and me the exclusive right to cover the move from up close. I had to do something to make it worth the money.

The network got their money's worth all right. As I spoke, the ground shifted, and before I knew it, Joe and I had been swallowed up. We fell straight down twenty feet in an instant sinkhole. The Lord only knows why we weren't both killed by the drop, but we weren't. Joe took a bad shot to his head, but I came through with nothing more serious than bumps and bruises.

Once I got over the mere shock of my survival, I found my communication gear and let the studio know we were all right. I knew we were in trouble, but like any true New Yorker, I was also sure we could count on New York's finest to save the day. Joe kept staring up out of the hole we were in. Looming over us was that monument to twentieth century commerce, the Empire State Building. In the blink of an eye, it started to topple. Not falling in on itself like those horrific pictures from long ago of the collapsing World Trade Center buildings, but tipping over like the world's tallest tree falling victim to a merciless chainsaw.

When I realized what was happening, that the mighty steel tower was falling directly toward me, I think I may have made some remark. I was, after all, a reporter. I reported. I wasn't afraid. That sounds like conceit, perhaps, but the truth of the matter was I didn't have time to fear. All I felt was spectacular awe. My death came at me with the speed of an express train, and all I could do was marvel.

When the building hit, Joe and I were immediately thrown off our feet. The sound was all consuming, both a roar and a thud. I felt a pressure wave pass over me as the very air was compressed by the block long wall that had fallen on us. For a long time, I simply lay there, unable to think, let alone move. Oddly, my first conscious thought was I must be in Central Park. There was the sound of running water, and in my daze, I associated it with a fountain in the park where I frequently ate lunch.

I slowly came to my senses, surprised for a second time that I was alive. Joe was out cold, a fact that I confirmed only by feeling around in what was now complete darkness. Although the day had been mild, I found I was shivering with cold. And I couldn't quite understand the running water. My first thought was a broken water main, but all services had been shut down that morning in anticipation of the big move.

After I made sure Joe was safe, if not comfortable, I felt my way around the area where I had dropped my microphone. For a wonder, my hand slid over it, and I was oddly comforted to grip the tool that had defined my life for nearly thirty years. With dread, I called out, trying to make contact. In that day of wonders and miracles, I found I had not yet been forsaken. After an eternity, Bax Weatherly, my producer, answered his voice full of apprehension.

I tried to put a good face on it. I couldn't be sure that we weren't still on the air. But I'm afraid my voice trembled and despite my brave assurances of Joe's and my determination to survive, I know any recording of those first desperate minutes would reflect the depth of my fear.

I had faced danger many times. In bull sessions over the years, Joe and I had talked philosophically about death and how when one's number is up, there's no point in groveling. But I was nose to nose with the grim reaper at that moment, and all I could think was that I didn't want to die, and I didn't care if I had to grovel, I just didn't want to die. I'm sure I'll be thinking a lot about those moments. I'm not sure I like what it says about my character.

I think I knew, deep down, that it was hopeless, despite my disbelief that I could possibly die that way. It would take days to dig through the rubble to get Joe and me out. If we didn't starve, or suffocate, or give up in utter despair, there was that water. In the short time since I had been conscious, that water had already turned the dry ground beneath my feet to sticky mud. It was impossible to see, so I had no idea how large to hole was, but I had reported on enough tragedy to know that water can fill even a large space very quickly. Even the best of equipment couldn't get to us fast enough if that water didn't stop soon.

It quickly became obvious that Bax had gotten the bad news from the authorities. The kid never could play poker worth a damn. I knew Joe and I were done for when Bax started resorting to platitudes. I found I hoped Joe wouldn't wake up. As much as I wanted his calm support, I didn't want him to have to deal with what was going to happen.

Contrary to my half-formed wishes, Joe regained consciousness after a few hours, and I was glad for his company. I may have been the face on the monitor, but Ned Cook, ace reporter, was really Ned Cook and Joe Newton, ace reporter. He had been my cameraman for over fifteen years, and we were closer than brothers. He took stock of our situation, silently came to the same conclusion I had, and simply accepted what was happening. I know it was his steadiness that eased my nerves and took the quaver from my voice.

To my amazement, shortly after Joe awoke, Bax reported that the rescue team was on the verge of breaking through to us. Technology is a wonderful thing, and with advanced imaging technology, they had located our approximate position, and were using an atomic drill to cut through the rubble to us.

It was a glimmer of hope that I jumped on with great joy, only to find the drill had limitations. 'Limitations' as in unable to dig a hole big enough to extract us. Bax tried to explain, but I sensed that he didn't understand it himself. Still, after another hour, we heard the sound of the drill somewhere far above our heads, and as quick as that there was light.

Our prison was illuminated for the first time, and a depressing sight it was. The hole was about 20 feet deep and maybe fifteen feet wide. The walls came together about twenty feet in one direction, but disappeared into the darkness in the other. Joe wondered out loud if maybe it was a way out, but I could see that the walls that way were wet and crumbling from whatever the water source was that was slowly filling the cavern.

The light that showed the extent of our prison also showed us our death approaching. The water which had shortly before been enough to turn the dirt to thick mud, had now overcome the ground and was several inches deep in the lowest areas. Despite the moisture in the air, my mouth turned dry. I simply stared at the water, convinced I could see it rise as I watched.

Joe had gone quiet, and I couldn't stop watching the water. Even when the rescue team lowered a capsule with food and hot coffee, I didn't raise my head. I suppose any competent shrink could have explained my state of mind with all manner of textbook phrases. I'll just say I stared at that water like the proverbial bird stares at the snake. I just had no power to tear my eyes away.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. It was maybe a few minutes, maybe longer. I do know I was startled out of my preoccupation by Bax's excited voice telling us that International Rescue was on the way. I was startled in more way than one by this news. The sound of Bax's high-pitched voice practically shouting the news caused me to jump a foot. But the news that International Rescue, of all people, would come to my aid was news more amazing than almost anything I had heard in a long career in broadcasting.

When International Rescue had burst onto the scene two years ago, they had seemed too good to be true. I mean, here was a group seemingly dedicated to the idea of rescuing anyone in the world that needed their help. They had all manner of fabulous machines to accomplish their goals. They claimed they wanted no recompense for their efforts, they were just filling a need. To a world in desperate need of heroes, International Rescue sounded like a cross between the shoemaker's elves and 1930's pulp fiction superheroes, with a touch of Glinda the Good Witch thrown in for good measure.

We in the news media had a healthy distrust of pie-in-the-sky fairytales, and International Rescue was quickly targeted by every news organization in the world. It wasn't long before the rumors started. That International Rescue was a front for some shadowy government agency. That the so-called heroes of International Rescue were actually wanted criminals using rescues as a cover for their dark activities. There was even one story that International Rescue was a set up by the Vatican to distract people from the deep divisions that had rocked the church in recent years.

About the only thing we in the press agreed on was that International Rescue was not what they said they were. And the reporter that got the true scoop on them was going to go down in history. I was determined that that reporter was going to be me.

Over time, I developed my own theory about International Rescue. I became convinced that the rescues were carefully staged events designed to show off the machines in the best light. I was sure that one of the big aerospace conglomerates was behind it all, and that each one of those so-called rescues resulted in one secret government contract or another being rewarded to the company responsible.

It was a theory that I kept close to the vest, of course. Most citizens never saw beyond the façade, and while my bosses would put up with a lot from me, they were very aware of the high regard their viewers had for International Rescue. No, I had to have the goods before I went public.

I had been trying since the beginning to get that story. I interviewed the people who had been rescued over and over again trying to find the chink in the armor. To a man, they fervently held to their stories of miraculous rescue when all hope had been lost. The men of International Rescue were uniformly described as selfless and courageous. My sources in the government were no better. No matter how I pried, I couldn't find a single person willing to admit to the truth. Everyone I spoke to had been taken in just like the general public. It was frustrating beyond belief.

In the past several months, I had taken a different tack. I started researching aerospace companies under the guise of writing a series of stories on technology. It was amazing actually. In my research, I uncovered major embezzlement at Celsius Tech. I found the CEO of Hexcel, Inc. had a serious drinking and gambling problem. Pacific Avionics was under government investigation for supplying sub-standard parts to the Sun Probe program. A Howard Hughes-style hermit who issued orders from poolside on his own private tropical island essentially ran Tracy Enterprises. At Science Applications International, I found a head scientist in the habit of stealing his assistant's work and calling it his own.

I found all manner of things that made me marvel that man had ever gotten off the ground, let alone to the moon and Mars. The one thing I didn't find was any sign of International Rescue. It didn't discourage me. They couldn't hide from me forever and in the meantime my audience was eating up my stories of greed and vice in the halls of power.

Just a week ago, I thought I had finally found what I really needed. A senior engineer at Boeing was fed up with his life. In a bar conversation, he bragged that he could identify the maker of any aircraft in the world. When I pressed him, he gave me a drawn out technical explanation of materials and configurations. In the end, he convinced me that he could look at a ship and tell me who built it the same way a skilled sommelier could give the vintage and vineyard of a fine wine from a whiff of the cork.

Money changed hands, and I promised the guy some film of a ship like nothing he had ever seen. Luck was in my corner and just a few days later, an oil well fire in Pennsylvania brought the vaunted International Rescue within striking distance. Joe and I sped to the scene and I got my first real view of a Thunderbird.

I have to admit it was impressive. Thunderbird Two reminded me of a blimp. When I said this out loud to Joe, his comeback was that it was more like a blimp hangar. I nodded my head in agreement. It was huge. The cops kept us all back, of course, but even from a distance it dominated the landscape. It was Joe who pointed out that there seemed to be a second, much smaller ship beyond the behemoth, and we barely had to glance at each other before we headed back to our truck.

I drove like a madman. The roughneck I had talked to was a fan, and he gave me the lowdown on how to get closer. The problem was it involved driving several miles to get to the other side of the oil field. I had this vision of finally getting there to only discover the Thunderbirds had taken off.

At last we hit this rutted dirt road, and as we topped a small rise, both Joe and I took a breath. There, not more that a couple hundred feet away, was as beautiful a piece of machinery as I had ever seen. Emblazoned on the side was Thunderbird One. She rested on her side, on tall, impossibly skinny struts. She looked like a space rocket with a fighter plane's short stubby wings grafted on her sleek body. She looked fast just sitting there.

Thunderbird One was dwarfed by the huge green bulk of Thunderbird Two sitting just beyond. This close, Thunderbird Two looked more like a building than a flying machine. I had flown on some of the largest military transports in the world, and none of them could match the size of this thing.

Joe and I sat there gawking like tourists. A knock on the window startled us into realizing we weren't alone. A security team had arrived. They were very polite, but insisted that we leave the area. Fortunately, one of them finally recognized me, and we were able to wheedle permission to stay on the proviso that we take absolutely no pictures.

We watched in awe as Thunderbird Two lifted off some time later. For all of its massive size, it floated up into the air as delicately as a hummingbird, and with a roar of its jets shot away to the west.

It killed me to just stand there watching the great machine leave. Unfortunately, there was not a lot I could do because the security guys were caught up in watching the departure just like Joe and me. In a remarkably short time, Thunderbird Two was just a dot in the distance and the security guys got called away.

As I stood with Joe, fuming at the injustice of it all, I watched a distant figure load something into the belly of Thunderbird One. I made up my mind. I told Joe to start filming. The security team was gone, and the guy climbing up into Thunderbird One would never know.

I got in the truck and within a few moments, we were within 20 feet of the silver ship. Joe had barely started filming when a voice boomed from the ship telling us to stop. I brazened it out. With the fixed camera on the roof of the truck, I told Joe to just keep filming, but not wanting a fight, I got back in and took off.

I had this crazy idea that if I could get to the gates of the oil field, I could claim first amendment privileges and keep my film. It didn't quite work out that way, though. Thunderbird One loomed up on us and suddenly our truck was bathed in an odd blue light. The voice from the ship boomed out that the film had been erased.

I checked with Joe, not believing it was possible, but Joe confirmed the destruction. We were left standing, watching Thunderbird One dwindle in the distance. The incident just fueled my determination to expose them.

Joe and I made plans for our next encounter with International Rescue. Plans that would result in the pictures I needed to blow the lid off. Little did we know that we would have a very close up encounter with a Thunderbird in less than a week...

When Bax said they were coming, I couldn't quite stifle the hope that tried to blossom in my heart. I knew that International Rescue was a scam. But like a kid who imagines he hears reindeer on the roof on Christmas Eve, I found I wanted the stories to be true. I wanted them to be the heroes people said they were. I wanted to believe.

It wasn't long before I was talking to a man who introduced himself only as 'Scott'. His voice quickly became a lifeline for Joe and me. There was some sort of problem getting the equipment to the site, but his quiet confidence and willingness to just talk to us buoyed up our flagging spirits.

I told him our situation and he quickly had me marking the rocks of our prison to judge how quickly the water was rising. When I mentioned cold, he had an odd contraption he called "The Cozy" dropped down to us. At his instruction, I pushed it into the knee high water and pulled a handle to activate it. With in moments, I could feel warm air circulating, and shortly after that, I found the water temperature had risen too. He had the authorities find skin diving masks, fins and air tanks for us. He made sure we were kept supplied with hot coffee and sandwiches.

But most of all, he just talked to us. For hours on end, he just talked. He told us he was the pilot of Thunderbird One on the day we tried to film his takeoff. For a wonder, he apologized. He told us how the Sentinel, the World Navy's latest money pit, was bringing Thunderbird Four to rescue us. He told us he had actually once gone up to the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

It wasn't until well into the night that I realized he hadn't given us a single piece of information that could be of use in my investigation. At the time, as I watched the water slowly creeping up the wall, I didn't really care. I just needed that calm voice telling me it was all going to be okay, that Joe and I weren't going to drown.

Late in the night, the water started coming in faster. I told Scott that we could be underwater sooner than we expected. He maintained his calm composure, but admitted that the safety margins were disappearing. He remained confident that we would make it. I found, almost to my surprise, that I believed him. He had a way of inspiring confidence in a guy. He was forthright, and as far as I could tell, totally honest.

When I tried to imagine the destruction of the Empire State Building as a setup to sell jet parts, I found I couldn't believe Scott would have anything to do with such an enterprise. Without ever having met him face to face, I knew he was taking our rescue personally, and if we didn't make it, this stranger, this incredible man would be devastated.

When this day dawned, there was no dawn for Joe and me, just the same ugly hole. Despite the warmth put off by the Cozy, by the morning, Joe was in bad shape. He's always been so vital that it was hard for me to remember he was actually approaching retirement. The stresses of his injuries and the long night in the gradually rising water had taken a strong toll on my friend. Joe was floating in and out of awareness, and the thought of his dying on me scared me more than I would have thought possible.

The inevitable happened, and we were forced to don the masks and air tanks as the last pocket of air was filled with water. Scott kept talking to us, but then he was joined by another voice, identified as Gordon. It was Gordon who was attempting to reach us in Thunderbird Four.

Joe and I were encouraged to swim and look for Thunderbird Four. It was hard. Joe was in no shape to move and as we left the vicinity of the Cozy the water grew bitterly cold. The oxygen in our tanks was depleted and I found my vision kept graying out at the edges. When I saw a reflected light, I wasn't sure if it was Thunderbird Four, or some oxygen-deprived hallucination.

Luck was still with us and with the last breath of air in our tanks, Joe and I managed to pull ourselves into the airlock of International Rescue's submarine. The lock closed behind us, and the water was quickly drained. I dragged myself over to Joe and got the mask off of him as I gasped in the fresh air.

I had just started to wonder if this Gordon was just going to leave us there in the airlock when Joe and I were thrown violently around the closet-sized room. There might have been a voice yelling for us to hold on, I don't know. I tried to grab Joe, to cushion the shock, but I was slammed against a heavy hatch. The pain was so bad that I passed out.

When I came to, my first thought was that something was wrong with my eyes. Everything was in a red haze. There was a whining buzz in my ears and a terrible pain in my back. As I lay there, the whining buzz resolved itself into a voice calling my name. The red haze was suddenly blocked by a moving mass. When I blinked, I realized it was the head of a man coming between my eyes and the red light at the top of the small space I was twisted up in.

I found myself eye to eye with a young man in a blue jumpsuit with the insignia of International Rescue on the upper chest. When he saw I was awake, he smiled, but told me to lie still while he checked me over. I watched as he went through the steps. He was young, probably under twenty-five, but he exuded that competence that I had seen in young battle-tested soldiers. He was very gentle, but thorough in his examination. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he told me to hang tight and then he turned to Joe.

My heart climbed into my throat when I got a look at my friend. He was bleeding from a gash on his gray cheek, and his arm was broken in at least two places that I could see. But worst of all was the absolute stillness. As I looked, I could not see his chest rise.

Gordon took it all in stride, producing a stethoscope and checking Joe's heart. Glancing at me, he reassured me that Joe had not left us and then turned back to his work. I couldn't fault the job he did. In the news business, I'd seen enough rescue work to know when a paramedic knew his job, and Gordon knew his job. In short order, he had Joe's arm splinted, his neck in a cervical brace, the cuts on his face bandaged.

Leaving us for a moment, Gordon disappeared only to return with an odd looking gurney. Telling me to stay put, he transferred Joe to the gurney and flicked a switch at one end. To my amazement, the gurney raised itself up on a cushion of air and Gordon carefully maneuvered it through the hatch, saying he'd be back for me in a minute. I struggled to get to my feet to follow. Before I could make it up, Gordon returned and without censure helped me up.

I was dismayed at how much I had to rely on Gordon's strength to get through the hatch. Just lifting my leg shot pain all the way up my back. I had to bite back a groan, but through it all, Gordon was supportive. He was steady as a rock, and I got the impression he could probably have lifted me like a child. He let me do as much as I could, allowing me my dignity, but ready to catch me if I should fall. As he helped me settle onto a pallet, I had the thought that like his compatriot, Scott, Gordon had an almost innate ability to inspire confidence in people.

I was just beginning to believe I had made it, when a slight movement caught the corner of my eye. I turned my head and my mouth went dry. Thunderbird Four was no behemoth like her high-flying sisters, and from my vantage point at the back of the control cabin, I could easily see out the front window. What I saw terrified me.

We appeared to be in a thick rain of gently falling debris. I became aware of a series of pings and thuds as rocks of all sizes bombarded the hull. Gordon noticed my frightened gaze and nodded his head. "Yeah, it's kind of a mess out there." He said. I thought that was just maybe the understatement of the century. Before I could work myself into a full-blown panic, he continued as calm as could be. "Don't worry about it, Ned. We'll just wait until it settles down some then we'll head to the surface.

I asked him what had caused it, and he told me that another building had collapsed shortly after he had picked us up and caused a pressure surge that stirred things up a bit. The reporter in me wanted details and so I pressed him. I found that he had known that the building in question, Fullmer Finance, was about to topple, but he had come for us anyway.

I blurted out that he could have been killed and he looked at me wryly, saying he hadn't traveled for twenty-four hours on the Sentinel just to walk away empty-handed. He settled into his chair which he pivoted to face his controls.

He put in a call to his buddy, Scott, giving him an update on the situation. I could hear the concern in Scott's voice, and not just for Joe and I. I had a sense that these two men were close friends and I found myself wishing I could be counted as their friend also.

Finishing his call to the surface, Gordon turned back to me, and with a momentary frown stood up. I followed the line of his sight, and found that Joe was regarding me quietly. I asked how he felt and he said he was alive and that had to be a good thing. I laughed as I agreed with him.

Gordon offered Joe a painkiller, and with his usual self-deprecation, Joe told him although he usually preferred to just chew on a bullet, this time he'd make an exception. I could see the comment endeared Joe to the young man, and he again displayed that remarkable gentleness as he carefully injected the analgesic in Joe's good arm.

We both watched as Joe's eyes slowly closed. I turned my attention once again to our host. My reporter's instincts came to the fore, and I told Gordon that we had not yet been formally introduced. I said, "My name is Ned Cook. And you are Gordon...?"

It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, but I was still a touch disappointed that it didn't work. Gordon grinned, letting me know he knew exactly what I was trying, but only responded "Yup" to the question.

I returned the grin to let him know there were no hurt feelings and baldly asked him one of the questions that was a source of worldwide speculation. "So, and how did you come to join International Rescue in the first place?"

I had honed my interviewing skills over the years, and I was justly proud of my ability to get people to open up to me. I leaned slightly forward to show my interest and gave him my sincere attention. He looked at me guilelessly and answered just as sincerely. "Gumball wrappers."

My confusion had to be obvious. "What?" I asked.

"Gumball wrappers. You know, those little gumballs you get out of the machines? Well, I got one and on the wrapper it said 'Join International Rescue and see the world.' So I applied, they accepted me, and here I am."

I decided to try a different tack. "Okay. So what branch of the service were you in before you joined?"

I watched closely, but his eyes gave away nothing. He had that indefinable air of the military, and I was still trying to catch him out. He politely asked me what I meant, and I said he surely had been in the military before International Rescue.

Gordon just shook his head. "No, I was working at McDonald's when I got the gumball."

I let a hint of sarcasm show. "You were a burger flipper?"

I swear his eyes widened and he said, "Oh no! You gotta be real smart to work the grill. No, I just swept up. Squirted down the drive through. Things like that."

I heard a soft snicker from the gurney, but I pursued the issue. "So you're telling me you aren't smart enough to work a grill at McDonald's but International Rescue hired you anyway."

His response brought an out and out laugh from Joe. "Well, yeah. They only had this one uniform left and I was the only applicant it fit."

From his gurney Joe spoke up, his voice softly slurred by the drugs. "I thought you guys were benevolent aliens from Antares?"

Gordon brightened. "I loved that one! Did you read the one about the crop circles that mysteriously appear anytime Thunderbird One has been in the vicinity?"

I sighed. Joe had found a kindred spirit. I had never gotten that whole tabloid thing, but Joe just ate it up. He said to Gordon, "That was a good one, but my favorite was the one where they had found proof on a wall in a pharaoh's tomb that Thunderbird Two helped build the pyramids.

"Yeah. I liked the little hieroglyph they said was Thunderbird Two. Especially the little guy under it that they said was being beamed up." Gordon was really warming to his subject now, and I sat for the next ten minutes listening to the two grown men exchange tales of cattle mutilations and two-headed love children. I'll never understand how otherwise intelligent people could be taken in by such trash.

I was getting pretty fed up with it by the time that Gordon started laughing at Joe's assertion that he had read a story that claimed all members of International Rescue were actually Jesuit priests. Gordon had started to reply when Joe gave this funny little gasp. In a flash, Gordon was at his side, all hint of levity gone.

I held my breath as I watched Gordon's quick, sure movements. Within seconds, he had Joe on a respirator. He moved fast to attach the leads of a heart monitor. As I watched, I prayed that it wasn't in vain. After ten minutes of ferocious activity, Gordon leaned back and just stared at Joe as he slept.

I finally got up the nerve to ask him what had happened. He replied Joe's injuries were pretty bad and he needed to get him to a hospital. Gordon turned and stared out the front window of the tiny sub. I shifted to see what had caught his attention, but it was impossible to see anything beyond the veil of black silty water.

With a decisive nod of his head, Gordon asked me to keep an eye on Joe, then stepped through the hatch to the airlock beyond. After a moment, I heard a murmur of low voices. Though I couldn't make out what was being said, I recognized Scott's voice along with Gordon, and after a short discussion, a third deep-toned voice joined in.

I tried to shift on my pallet to see what was going on as the voices had taken on the tone of an argument. My own injuries made themselves known when I made the attempt. My back screamed in agony, and I cried out. Gordon was there in an instant, calling for me to lie still and take deep breaths.

When the tears of pain had cleared from my eyes, I saw that Gordon was half dressed in a gray wetsuit. As I was able to breathe again, he finished pulling on the suit. He asked if I was okay, and when I said yes, he went back to the airlock and continued his conversation with his colleagues. It was obvious he was arguing, but throughout it all, he kept his voice low. I had no clue what the conversation was about.

Eventually, the argument died down and Gordon returned to the cabin. I noticed he was red-faced and angry, but as he checked both Joe and myself, he was gentle and compassionate.

I asked him outright what was going on, and he paused. I could see a conflict move in his eyes, but he said very quietly, "Ned, Joe needs to get to a hospital. I can only do so much for him here."

That was self evident, but I knew I didn't have all of the facts yet, so I just waited. After a moment, Gordon continued. "The original plan was to wait for the water to clear, then go clear the intakes and then get out of here. Unfortunately, I don't think Joe can wait. I'm going to head out and get those intakes cleared. We'll go as far as we can, then I'll get out and clear them again. As many times as it takes."

I'll admit it. I'm not technically oriented. His talk of clearing intakes didn't tell me a thing, and I told him so. He took the time to explain that the sub was propelled by something akin to jet propulsion. He said the turbines that ran the system could be gummed up by the silt and particulate matter in the water. He was going to go out and clear the engines. By his reckoning, once the intakes were clear, he could probably travel about 500 feet before he had to stop and clear them again.

With all of the rocks still falling, it sounded like a dangerous proposition to me and I told Gordon so. Gordon agreed it was dangerous work, but then he shrugged his shoulders and said the only other option was to wait, and that put Joe's life at risk, and there was no way he was going to let that happen.

I watched as he entered the airlock. Just before he shut the hatch, he looked at me and said, "If I don't make it, just do whatever Scott tells you to do, and you'll be fine." Then with a wink, he was gone. I listened to the sound of the water filling the airlock and I had a creepy flashback to the water slowly filling that underground cavern.

I laid there in mortal fear for the next ten or fifteen minutes, wondering what was happening. Every once and a while, there was a clang or muffled thud, but I had been hearing those same sounds since I woke up. I knew now that most of those sounds came from what Gordon described as 'particulate matter.' The particles in question ranged in size from grains of sand, to basketball-sized rocks. When Gordon finally returned, it was apparent that at least one of the bigger chunks had hit him.

He entered the cabin rotating his shoulder trying to ease the sting. He didn't remove the wetsuit, so I couldn't see how bad it was, but from the way he held himself, I could see that Gordon was at least bruised. I was thankful it was nothing worse. He plopped himself down at his controls, flipped a few switches, and away we went.

Despite the lack of visibility, I could tell we were moving by the motion of the little sub. In retrospect, I probably should have been worried that we would ram into the side of the tunnel we were in. At the time, the thought never occurred to me. I just assumed that Gordon knew what he was doing.

We had been moving for less than a minute, when the engines took on a different, higher note. Gordon immediately shut the engines down, and we slowly drifted to a halt, hitting the bottom with a hollow thud. Gordon jumped up from the controls, said he'd be back in a moment and again went out to clear the intakes. This time took less than five minutes, but when he came back, he was bleeding slightly from a cut on his scalp.

When I offered to check the cut, Gordon waved me off impatiently saying it was nothing and he wanted just to get us out of there. I certainly agreed with his sentiment. I just wanted to be back on dry land. The sub seemed to get no further than the last time, but when he had shut it down, Gordon turned to me with a grin, and said, "Now we're getting somewhere."

Despite the cockiness, I saw that this time, he was moving slower as he headed for the airlock. Young and healthy though he may be, it was clear the work was taking a toll on him. Unlike the last stop, Gordon was gone so long this time, that I was seriously considering trying to get up to contact Scott. When he finally returned, it took a long time for him to get the hatch open.

At last, he cracked the hatch, and practically had to drag himself aboard. He was very pale and breathing hard. When I questioned him, Gordon spared me a glance, but determinedly set about getting us underway. When he caught his breath, he explained that his air tank had been hit by something, and had ruptured. He didn't say so, but I got the impression it was a very close call.

This time, the sub seemed to go a lot further, and I began to think we were clear. Then that higher note started again, and with an audible sigh, Gordon shut her down. As he started to get up, I tentatively suggested that we had come far enough. The silt out the front window had started to lighten, and I thought if we just waited a while, it might all clear on its own.

Gordon considered my suggestion, but looking at Joe, he shook his head and said Joe couldn't wait. I could see his reluctance to subject himself to the dangers of the water, but he steeled himself and entered the airlock. I waited with growing apprehension. I strained to listen for any sound that would tell me what Gordon was doing.

I heard a clang that drew my attention once again to the front windows, but before I could make out anything through the silt, the airlock began to cycle again. Gordon came through looking none the worse for wear, thank God.

He stood for a moment, checking some gauges, and my eyes were drawn to the International Rescue emblem on the chest of his wetsuit. I couldn't help in that moment but to think that the emblem of a hand stretched out to help a weary old world was utterly appropriate to these people.

The moment passed quickly when Gordon saw me looking at the emblem, and pulling himself tall, slapped it and said, "Beam me up, Scotty." He stood for a second with a look of anticipation on his face, then muttered "darn." Shaking his head in disappointment he turned to his controls and once again got us going.

***Ned paused in his writing, a small fond smile on his face. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he considered setting his journal aside for the night. Realizing he was nearing the end, he continued.***

This time, we were able to continue on until suddenly, there was light. I made some small sound of appreciation, and Gordon looked over at me with a smile. "We're out of the tunnel system. You just hang on a bit longer, Ned, and we'll have you back to shore, safe and sound."

The relief I felt washed over me like a balm. I could have cheered. I could have cried. What I did was just nod my head. I think I might have said okay. I wish I had said thank you.

As soon as we reached the dock, medical workers swarmed around. Scott was there to help Gordon lift both Joe and me out of the bobbing little submarine. I remember being surprised to find that Thunderbird Four was a bright yellow. I don't know why. I had heard it described more than once, but the color somehow caught me offguard.

I was still staring at it when the medical personnel took over. As quickly as that, Gordon and Scott disappeared. For some reason, I kept expecting them to show up at the hospital. I wanted, no, I needed to thank them properly. It was some time later when someone said they had seen Thunderbird One lift off that I realized I had missed my chance.

I was still dealing with that disappointment when I was settled in a clean, warm, dry hospital room. Joe, I was told was going to be fine, and I asked that we be allowed to share a room. The resident on duty said she'd look into it and left me alone.

I had hardly had a chance to close my eyes before Kevin Brazos showed up. Kevin was currently being touted as the 'next Ned Cook', and I have to admit, I found some pleasure in the comparison. Kevin was a hungry young reporter, not terribly different from how I had been fifteen years ago.

He came in with just a pencil and pad, but that determined look in his eye, and I suddenly found myself at the other end of an interview. He wanted to know the standard who, what, where, when and why, but then he pressed on, intimating that the entire rescue was just a scam. That while Joe and I were being rescued, International Rescue's accomplices had robbed the World Bank. His innuendo was both disgusting and totally off the mark. I ended up kicking him out of my room.

When he was gone, I tried again to imagine that the entire rescue was a set up. I tried to picture Scott or Gordon involved in any kind of underhanded dealings at all. The vision just wouldn't come. These two men were exactly what the world thought they were. Courageous, dedicated, heroic.

I hadn't had the chance to say thank you today, but I intend to say it on the show. The doctors have said I won't be out of the hospital in time to do my TV show, but my need to tell the world how fabulous International Rescue is will be all the impetus I need to prove the doctors wrong.

***Ned Cook looked at what he had written and slowly nodded his head. Finally setting his journal aside, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.***