The chains rattled a metallic staccato as the little yellow submersible was winched carefully out of the sea. Water dripped from her in a steady cascade, the droplets diving back to rejoin the choppy surface below.

Petty Officer First Class Mark Oliver, missile specialist on the USN Sentinel, leaned against the upper deck railing and watched as the DSV was lashed securely onto the deck. The Sentinel had already destroyed one of International Rescue's craft; allowing their sub to slip off into the murky depths of the North Atlantic would be unthinkable.

The sub was smaller than Mark had expected, yet the simple black wording on the nacelles and tail fin was enough to leave anyone awestruck. Thunderbird Four, International Rescue's submarine; fresh from its successful mission in New York City.

Few people ever got to see any of the fantastic Thunderbird machines, let alone the famous International Rescue in action. They flew in, performed miracles and flew out again. Never any fanfare, never any fuss. They were the epitome of altruism at its most unpretentious.

International Rescue had captured the public's imagination and the media had built the mystique to such a level that the organisation and its operatives were regarded as nothing short of super heroes.

It was almost surreal now to have one of their famous craft and its pilot relying on the Navy for transportation back to the South Pacific where the Sentinel was undergoing sea trials.

It was the least they could do, Mark thought wryly, since the Sentinel had been responsible for that need in the first place.

That fateful day had started no differently to any other. He'd certainly had no reason to believe that he would be responsible for downing International Rescue's giant transporter. In fact, if anyone would have had the audacity to suggest he was capable of doing such a thing, he would have laughed at them.

At the time, he'd had no inkling of the impending disaster and Mark was transported back in time as he reflected on the events of the past week...

... and his own role in them.

Chapter Two

The Sentinel, the US Navy's new strike vessel, was the fastest and most heavily armed warship ever built. Mark stood on the main deck and marvelled at her speed. He'd never served on a ship like this before and still found it hard to believe he'd been given the chance now. He certainly hadn't expected to be chosen, not when the Navy's Top Brass had hand-picked the crew themselves. It was not bad going for the son of a mechanic and teacher from a one-horse town in the American mid-west. His parents had never been more proud of him, even graduating top of his class at the Naval Academy paled into insignificance compared to this honour.

Mark would never admit it, but he was proud of himself. Warfare specialist and primary gunner on missile control. It was one thing to pepper the air with 50,000 rounds per minute, but it was more difficult to fire a single missile from a moving base, to hit a moving target miles away. He'd even surprised himself when he'd begun his training at how quickly he'd taken to it. It was uncanny; the way he instinctively knew what diversionary tactics the target aircraft would attempt. His strike record was exceptional and this was the reason he was on the Sentinel. This afternoon they would begin the final testing of the ship's readiness for active duty. As soon as these sea trials were successfully completed, the Sentinel would be deployed into the war zone where the Middle East and China were having another spat; their third such altercation in as many years. That aside, the Sentinel was far advanced to anything in any other country's armament and that made her a target herself. The crew was always on the alert for sabotage.

A sudden increase in activity had Mark heading for the nearest bulkhead hatchway. If he was to make the start of his watch on time, he needed to stop soaking up the fresh air and get himself down to the bunker. Down where the rolling of the ship was least felt, where the hull was double layer reinforced steel/titanium alloy.

Pushing through the heavy steel door, he entered the Combat Information Centre and beyond that, the radar and tracking centre. The room was constantly in semi-darkness, the only light emanating from the radars and computer monitors at each workstation. He nodded at the officer in charge who acknowledged his presence before returning his focus to his work.

Mark approached Petty Officer Second Class Tony Corday, the secondary missile gunner whose shift was ending. Tony looked up at Mark's tap on his shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Good watch?" Mark asked and Tony grimaced.

"Boring, if you really want to know. The whole area is a no-fly zone and there's nothing showing on the radar at all. It's weird. I kept running the diagnostic test to make sure the damn thing was still working. I'll be glad when they start releasing the decoys. At least then, we'll have something to shoot at." With that, he quickly logged off, removed his headphones and stood, stretching his arms above his head.

A brief look at the radar was enough to give Mark a momentary start. It was eerie to see nothing on screen; no blips signalling aircraft flying passengers along designated flight paths or smaller craft ferrying the super rich. There wasn't even a military plane buzzing around. Once the manoeuvres began in earnest though, it would be a different story. Mark took his place in the seat and logged into the computer.

"You logged on?" Tony asked. "Cool, if you're happy, then I'm off. I'm gonna try my luck with that third class from stores. You know the one, the blonde with the big..." he waved his hands in front of his chest. "Man she's hot."

"Good luck!" Mark called after him. He turned back to his monitor and smirked. Tony would need more than luck with that particular female. She'd been dating his sister for six months.

There may not have been anything to track at the moment, but Mark still checked the data readouts of Sentinel's speed and direction, the amount of ocean swell, current direction, wind speed, air temperature and weather conditions. Anything that would come into play if, or when, the missiles were fired, needed to be checked and verified. It was Mark's responsibility to know all of those variables at any given time. He wouldn't have that responsibility if he cut corners, so he began logging all the data on a chart in front of him. Whilst it was all uploaded onto computer, the Navy had gone back to using a paper backup after 2020 when a hacker got through all the security, wiped the data, and somehow got control of the missile systems.

The top brass in Washington had shit themselves for months after that particular fiasco and it was also the reason why most captains now preferred to have a crew member actually deploy their defensive missiles, rather than leave them susceptible to computer hackers.

Two hours later and Mark was counting down. He was due for a quick break in half an hour, and just another hour after that, the decoys would be released. He was looking forward to seeing something on his radar screen. The green arm swept around searching for the any aircraft in the vicinity, but the radar remained obstinately blank.

He looked over at Vince Frankton manning the console next to him. Vince, apart from sharing the same berthings room, was also Mark's closest buddy on the Sentinel. A bit of a joker off duty, 'Beans' was an anti-sub specialist. He was slumped in his seat, body language registering boredom, but his eyes were alert and focused on his own scope and data readouts. They flicked from one screen to the next in a relentless circuit, missing nothing.

A junior officer, Blithe by name if not by nature, approached and stood between the two men, drawing their attention.

"Frankton."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're on break now. Oliver. You're next."

Mark acknowledged the information as Vince handed over the relevant details to the officer. Beans stood and flashed a quick grin at Mark before heading out of the room. Mark ran his eyes back over his data systems and on satisfying himself there were no changes, sighed. Tony had been right when he'd said the shift was boring. Still, there wasn't long to go now before they would actually have something to do.

He watched the arm sweep several rotations around the screen, the radar reflecting that the no-go zone was being adhered to and the Sentinel had clear air space around her. Another circuit of the radar and an unidentified blip suddenly showed on the monitor. He screen captured the data with one hand while alerting his superior with the other. The radar swept around again and Mark was momentarily stunned at the speed at which the aircraft was flying. He'd never known a plane to travel that quickly. Not even the new Air Force strike planes with their impressive speed was a match for this thing.

Lieutenant Watson, the watch supervisor, came at a run and looked over Mark's shoulder to see the monitor.

"What have you got?"

"A bogey, sir," Mark replied without taking his eyes off the data in front of him. "Unidentified craft. Height two thousand feet. Speed five thousand miles per hour. Heading zero nine six degrees, magnetic. Coming straight for us."

"Five thousand miles per hour? What the hell is that?" Watson barked. "It's too fast for a plane and too slow for a missile." He opened the command intercom circuit which would allow both Mark and himself to communicate with the Captain, the radio room and the men on the foc'sle where the missiles were stored.

More officers arrived and crowded around the console, watching the data reflect the trajectory of the craft invading their airspace. Through his headphones, Mark heard the tone for 'General Quarters', calling all crew to their assigned battle stations. It was immediately followed by a message from central control.

"No military aircraft in the vicinity."

"Prepare interceptor missiles." The Captain's voice demanded an immediate response.

Mark checked the data was entered into his surface to air missile computer and watched as more information was uploaded from the rogue craft. It had to be some top secret aircraft from one of those Middle Eastern countries. Maybe they wanted the Sentinel? Well, they weren't going to get it, not if Mark had anything to say about it.

Yet something niggled in the recesses of his brain. No military aircraft. Was it a civilian jet? But its speed belayed the thought. It couldn't possibly be a civilian jet.

His hand hovered near the firing control. His eyes never left the radar screen. He was completely focused on the blip. The radar arm swept over the aircraft's electronic echo, flaring it into momentary brilliance. He knew what they were going to do. They were going to change course. He felt it and the next sweep of the radar confirmed his suspicions.

The Captain's voice was loud in his ears.

"Scanners, what's the new heading?"

"Zero seven five degrees magnetic, sir," he replied. That put it on a course for New York and Mark's resolve firmed. It had to be terrorists then. Despite the notorious attack on New York being a long time past, the military were still on high alert to the possibility of another. Was this it?

A slight static crackle in his headset preceded the voice from Central Control.

"No aircraft scheduled in your area. Treat unidentified craft as hostile."

"Sound battle stations," the Captain ordered. "All missile launches are to be at go."

Mark heard the 'Condition Zebra' alarm echo through the ship. The Sentinel was now in combat mode. He confirmed the change in course had been uploaded into the computer and quickly keyed in the firing sequence code. He flicked up the safety shield over the firing button and his thumb hovered over it.

He was ready.

The call came.

"Attack stations. Trigger interceptor missiles, standby."

Seven...

Six...

Five...

Four...

Three...

Two...

One...

Zero."

"Fire!"

Mark's thumb pushed the red button at the sound of the order. He watched the radar screen as it showed the rogue aircraft and his own missiles heading toward interception. Despite the two being on a collision course, he knew the missiles were going to miss and the next data upload confirmed it. The aircraft, whatever it was, had switched on its jammers and had suddenly increased its height. The missiles exploded but the aircraft continued on its course.

Mark tamped down a curse. The computers weren't always successful in anticipating a pilot's evasionary tactics. His gut burned. He hated missing. His country was depending on him to keep it safe.

"Over-ride the computers, Oliver," Watson demanded. "Use your intuition!"

Mark nodded an acknowledgement as he worked the computer. What would the aircraft do next? It would probably use the jammers again, so he set the next set of missiles on a variable frequency. The aircraft had gained height too early before; so he knew that the pilot would try a rapid ascent slightly later this time. He added this possibility into the data and let the computer work out the heading, velocity and altitude he'd need.

He heard Watson's voice through his headset as he notified the bridge of their readiness.

"Target acquisition complete."

"Trigger interceptor missiles for second attack. Five seconds," came over Mark's headset and his thumb again hovered over the button. He knew this time he wouldn't miss.

"Changing frequency to combat jammers," confirmed his changes had been noted by the officers upstairs.

The countdown commenced.

"Five...

Four...

Three...

Two...

One...

Zero."

"Fire!"

Again, his thumb sent two precision cruise missiles hurtling toward the target.

He watched the data. The aircraft had tried the jammers again but he'd been ready for that. The missiles continued unchecked, the radar reflecting how close they were to impact.

Suddenly the aircraft gained height, but not enough.

This was going to be a direct hit.

But at the last possible moment, the aircraft made another unexpected altitude change, shooting almost vertically into the sky. Mark's heart sank. Dammit! Another miss.

He continued to watch the radar as the missiles disappeared from the screen. But the aircraft, instead of registering as a myriad of small echoes expanding in a destruction bloom, remained resolutely intact. He couldn't stop another curse hissing from between his lips.

He knew he was better than this, but it was hard not to have a grudging respect for the unknown pilot.

Mark watched the data uplink and knew he had caused some damage. The aircraft was rapidly losing height, faster than a deliberate evasion manoeuvre. He'd injured it.

"It's on fire," Watson confirmed and Mark glanced briefly at the long-range video footage. A plume of black smoke billowed from somewhere over the horizon.

Time for the killshot.

Again he readied his missiles, heard the countdown and the command to fire. His thumb depressed the button as he watched the trajectory data. This time he was taking no prisoners. Mark had never needed more than two missile strikes to down an enemy before.

Whoever this guy was, he was a damn good pilot.

The emergency tone from the radio room sounded in his headset as he watched the missiles chase down their target.

"Message to Sentinel Commander. Stop attack immediately. Unidentified aircraft is a Thunderbird machine of the International Rescue organisation."

Mark's hand flew to the abort button, detonating the two missiles as the Captain ordered their destruction.

Then the second half of the message registered.

Thunderbird machine.

International Rescue.

He stared in horror at the scope. The craft was still losing height rapidly and was now veering off course. By the time the radar completed its next sweep, the aircraft would be out of range and off the scope. A second blip then showed briefly, trailing the stricken craft and Mark automatically registered its speed as much faster than the first.

Then both aircraft were gone from the radar.

Mark started when he felt someone remove his headset. It was only then that he realised he was on his feet. Watson's hand clamped around his bicep; pulled him away from the console. Mark saw his lips moving, yet no sound was audible as his mind relentlessly replayed the contents of the message.

Without knowing how he got there or how long he'd been there, he found himself sitting in the breakout room. Vince was with him, quietly watching. Mark mashed his palms against his eyes as the consequences of his actions finally hit.

They'd shot down International Rescue.

And he had played the pivotal role.

The knowledge that he had been following orders, had believed the aircraft to be a genuine threat did nothing to alleviate his guilt. He had been the one who had anticipated the pilot's evasive manoeuvres and sent the missiles on their deadly path. He was the one responsible for downing one of International Rescue's craft. And what about the pilot? Had Mark killed an unarmed peace worker? The Navy would be lynched.

"Come on, man. " Vince grabbed Marks arm and shook it slightly. "Pull yourself together."

"I just shot down International Rescue." Mark raised his head, his eyes revealing his shock.

"You were under orders. You had no choice."

"That doesn't make any difference, Beans. What if I've killed the pilot?"

"Get a grip. You've shot down enemy planes before now."

"The enemy, Beans. Not an unarmed craft belonging to the most famous organisation in the world."

"Twister," Vince captured Mark's attention by the use of his nickname and the concern in his voice. "Listen to me, the Lieutenant will be back soon and the Chaplain's on his way down with the XO. If you can't convince them you're okay, you'll get booted ashore next time we're in port. Do you want that?"

Hell no. That was the last thing Mark wanted. He'd worked too hard getting the post on this ship to lose it now. He straightened his shoulders and clamped his teeth.

"I'll be okay."

"Good. Make sure you are. Whatever doubts you've got in your head, need to stay in there. Don't let the powers-that-be see them or it could be the end of your Navy career."

Mark looked up as the door opened, admitting Lieutenant Watson, Anders, the ship's chaplain and Commander Tanner, the ships executive officer and second in command. He snapped to attention, executed an impeccable salute and steeled himself.

Let the fun begin.

Chapter Three

After the 'incident', as it was being called, Mark had managed to convince Watson, Anders and Tanner that he was fit to continue his duties. Several counselling sessions with the Chaplain and the ship's doctor later, he had been allowed to return to work. Personally he'd found it difficult; the entire episode had shaken him more than he cared to admit. His superiors were watching him closely, on the alert for any sign that he was still rattled, so Mark kept his guilt locked securely away, allowing nothing to show but calm professionalism.

Any enclosed work environment like a ship spawned an efficient grapevine and the Sentinel was no different. It seemed everyone onboard knew what aircraft they had fired at and who was responsible for that firing. While the whispers and surreptitious glances from the other crew had him constantly on edge, he could live with it. What he really needed to know was how badly the IR transporter had been damaged, but more importantly, he wanted information on the condition of the pilot.

Yet no information was forthcoming.

Then the radio room had circulated a breaking-news broadcast. During the daring move to relocate it en masse, the Empire State building had collapsed. Beneath the rubble, two intrepid reporters had miraculously survived the initial destruction, but were trapped with no hope of escape. The ground around the entire area was too unstable for conventional rescue equipment and with water seeping into the underground cavern; it seemed the reporters were doomed.

Within an hour, International Rescue had arrived on the scene, yet their specialised rescue gear could not arrive for twenty four hours. While the world speculated and questioned the reason, International Rescue had nothing to say on the subject except that Thunderbird Two was currently out of action. Further enquiries had met with a terse silence which stirred the media into a frenzy.

The Sentinel received new orders from Washington. They were to transport International Rescue's submarine to New York as fast as they possibly could and no questions were to be asked. No questions needed to be asked, everyone on the Sentinel knew the reasons behind the unusual request. So Thunderbird Four had met them where they were performing their sea trials and had been taken aboard for the twenty four hour trip.

The pilot had rarely been seen since he'd boarded the ship, rumour had him on the bridge most of the time, haranguing the captain. Rumour also had it that the Captain was mightily pissed. Mark couldn't imagine anyone getting under the skin of the Captain; he was the hardest bastard Mark had ever had the misfortune to meet.

Until he'd met the operative himself.

He'd been in the mess hall just before dawn, conspicuous as much for his uniform as the scowl on his face. He'd been sitting almost unnaturally still, arms folded across his chest, eyeballing the few sailors present. On the table in front of him was a half drained cup of coffee and a folded blue garrison hat. He looked as hard as nails and just as intimidating. Not that Mark could blame him; forced as he was to spend time on the very same ship that had downed Thunderbird Two.

Mark was unsure of the reception he would get if he tried to speak to the man; probably a well deserved bawling out at best. Yet he needed to explain himself, if for no other reason than his own peace of mind. With no small amount of trepidation, he'd grabbed his own coffee and approached the operative. Tawny eyes fixated on him before he'd taken two steps and had watched steadily as he weaved his way between the tables.

He was much younger than Mark had expected, younger even than himself. The tanned face was unlined under the early morning stubble, his mouth clamped shut, his eyes hard and watchful. This guy had obviously been through a lot in his short time, but that was not entirely surprising, given his job. He also radiated an aura that commanded respect. Even sitting in the notoriously uncomfortable chair, his bearing screamed military and he had that discernible something that identified him as an officer, despite his age. Mark had been hard pushed not to salute.

The man had appraised him, taking in the name on his shirt and the badge signalling his rank. The eyes had narrowed when they took in the insignia that specified Mark's rating and the already tense body tensed even more. Mark's heart sank. This guy knew. How he figured that out from looking at a badge was incomprehensible. Mark had heard stories of how smart these International Rescue guys were; he'd never expected them to be omniscient.

"May I, sir?" Mark indicated the chair and cringed inwardly. Sir? Where had that come from? The IR operative looked him in the eye and a muscle bunched in his jaw. Finally, he gave a terse nod.

"Weapons."

"Yes, sir." Mark nodded. So he had recognised the insignia.

"Missiles?"

"Yes, sir," Mark said, feeling rather like a new recruit hauled in front of the Captain. "Let me just say that if I'd known..."

"Save it."

"What happened to Thunderbird Two?"

"That's classified."

"What about the pilot?"

"That's also classified."

Before Mark could say any more, the red head forestalled him.

"Look, I don't want to discuss this right now. There are two reporters trapped under the rubble of the Empire State Building. If Thunderbird Two hadn't been shot down, we would have had this rescue wrapped up hours ago. Instead, I'm sitting here on my ass while the water level in that cave rises. Those men will drown if I can't get to them in time. They are my priority at the moment."

Remorse and embarrassment gripped Mark as the man stood suddenly and snatched up his hat.

"Excuse me. I need to get back to the bridge."

With that he strode out of the mess, leaving Mark alone with his coffee and guilt.

Here they were back again, the little sub and its irascible pilot, preparing for the return journey to the South Pacific. Mark had learnt his lesson, there was no way in hell he would be approaching that guy again. He'd rather have the Captain barking orders at him than have another encounter like the one in the mess.

The Captain wouldn't be barking at anyone though, at least not any time soon. He'd left the ship when they'd docked in New York and been replaced by Captain Cutler Baines. Within hours of the change, the grapevine had the former skipper leaving for an unspecified period of stress leave. Watching now as the hatch on the sub opened, Mark knew just what the impetus behind that stress was.

The aquanaut hauled himself through the open hatch and jumped lightly onto the deck. The last time Mark had seen him he'd looked smart, if slightly rumpled, in the blue International Rescue uniform with the orange sash. Now, with bare feet, tousled hair and garbed in an unassuming grey wetsuit, he looked all of twelve years old. Spontaneous applause erupted when he emerged and he grinned quickly at the crowd of off duty crew. Yep, he definitely looked twelve.

It was hard to reconcile the image of the young man now shaking hands with Captain Baines, with that of the brusque operative Mark had met just that morning.

A howl overhead distracted him and he looked up to see a long silver rocket, wings outstretched, hovering above the ship. THUNDERBIRD 1 was boldly emblazoned along the underside, from the red nosecone down to the blue jet housing. With her spindly legs reaching out for the deck and a mighty roar from her engines, she settled onto the helipad.

Mark gaped at it. He wasn't the only one. The crew gathered around the deck gaped right along with him. Beans elbowed his way through the throng of sailors to edge close to Mark.

"That's some impressive aircraft isn't it?" Beans said.

"Sure is," Mark answered. "Wonder what she's doing here?"

"Sleep debt. I was talking to Spider, you know, Webber? In radio? According to him, International Rescue's commander has grounded the pilot until he gets some sleep. Apparently he's been awake for over thirty six hours. Our Captain has been ordered to offer hospitality on behalf of the government. Or something like that. I can't remember the exact words."

"Bet he's happy about that!" Mark snorted.

"Who? The skipper or the pilot?"

Mark considered his answer as he watched the redhead on the deck below wave off a Boatswain's Mate and begin to hose down his submarine.

"The pilot, I guess. I mean, would you be?"

"Prob'ly not."

They watched the aquanaut in silence as he trained the water jet into the intake housing, forcing out a slurry of sludge and muck that washed onto the Sentinel's deck. He turned the jet off, peered into the housing and reached in, withdrawing a handful of weed. He repeated the action several more times before he seemed satisfied enough to take up the hose again.

Captain Baines, who had been quietly observing yet keeping his pristine uniform well out of splash range, turned when another man in the International Rescue uniform was escorted onto the deck. This guy was taller, had darker hair and his uniform sash was a light blue, yet he had the same bearing, the same military stance as his colleague. More so. Even from this distance, Mark could feel the authoritative aura emanating from him and a shiver snaked down his spine. If he'd thought the other guy was a hard ass, this guy looked worse.

Baines was going to be in for it, Mark thought, a smile twitching his lips. No wonder the other skipper had done a bunk.

The Thunderbird One pilot shook hands with the Captain and spoke for a short time before striding over the muddy deck to Thunderbird Four. The grey wetsuit guy straightened and turned, a blast of water catching his colleague square in the chest before he managed to turn it off. An audible gasp echoed around the deck from the sailors, yet the aquanaut was not at all perturbed, his laughter rang out clearly.

"If that had been the Captain, there'd be hell to pay," Vince leaned toward Mark, keeping his voice low.

Mark agreed, the new Captain didn't look like he would appreciate having his spotless uniform hosed down.

The two International Rescue operatives chatted for a minute before the first man gave a shrug. The second man then climbed on to the sub and disappeared down the hatchway. He emerged a few minutes later, clad in a wetsuit.

A bright yellow wetsuit.

Mark smirked as catcalls and whistles erupted around the deck.

"It takes a brave man to wear that out in public," he said to Beans.

"And a braver one to ignore the audience," Beans replied.

Yet ignore them he did. Both of the wet suited rescue specialists immediately set to work cleaning out the intake valves on the far side of the craft. They worked quickly and efficiently together and soon had Thunderbird Four sparkling. The deck was awash with mud and slime, something Mark knew the Boatswain's Mates would not be happy about. But the two men then set about cleaning the deck before shutting off the water and handing the equipment back to the deck crew waiting for it. They re-entered the submarine, emerging a few minutes later, dressed once again in their blue International Rescue uniforms with the coloured sashes. Finally, the Captain escorted them through the nearest bulkhead hatchway.

"Looks like the show's over," Mark said, stating the obvious.

"Yep," Beans checked his watch. "Just in time for chow."

Chapter Four

The next morning Mark was again sitting at his console staring at a blank radar screen. Earlier, the scope had been crowded with sonar reflections of passenger jets whizzing far overhead. Now the ship was once again ensconced in its isolation bubble and the airspace for miles around them was clear.

That was due to change soon when Thunderbird One took off though, and a few hours after that they would drop off Thunderbird Four. Mark would have liked to have found out what had happened to Thunderbird Two and its pilot, but since he'd already survived a week without knowing, he decided he didn't need to know. At least, he tried to convince himself of that, but he knew he was being a coward. He was still figuratively licking his wounds from the verbal tongue lashing the aquanaut had given him; so he didn't fancy getting one from the other guy too.

Not that Mark had been given the chance to speak to the man, even if he'd wanted to. The grapevine had the two IR men eating with the Captain and hot racking in the senior officers berthings. Neither of them had been seen by the enlisted crew.

Mark surreptitiously checked his watch. Only another six hours to go before they reached their destination and began their manoeuvres again. He couldn't wait. It would give him some sort of closure to the whole International Rescue debacle, yet not the closure he really wanted. Truth be told, he still wanted information; although if the news was bad, then less was definitely more.

Two hours later Mark was rapidly approaching brain death. He needed a coffee. He straightened his back to relieve the tension from sitting hunched over too long and started when Lieutenant Watson touched him on the shoulder.

"Oliver. Log off. Blithe will take over."

"Sir?"

This was unusual; Mark only ever logged off the computer at the end of his shift. He'd never needed to do that just for a break before. Come to think of it, the lieutenant didn't usually tell anyone when to take their breaks either. Something was afoot and Mark had an uneasy feeling that it wasn't going to be good. Lieutenant Watson's next words confirmed it.

"The XO wants to see you in his office and I wouldn't keep him waiting."

A cold dread settled heavily in Mark's stomach. Enlisted men rarely got hauled in front of the XO. At least, if they were, it went through the Command Master Chief first and you knew damn well what you'd done wrong.

He hurried through his log off and handed over control to Blithe. In his peripheral vision he could see Beans trying to catch his eye, but he refused to look his way. It must be about the 'incident' the other day. He couldn't think of anything else. But why a follow up with the XO? The Commander was too senior and too busy to be concerned with that sort of stuff. Mark had been cleared to return to work the day after the incident, so he couldn't imagine what would have changed after a week. To pull him off his watch meant it was something big. Was he about to be given his marching orders? His apprehension grew the closer he got to Commander Tanner's office.

Mark reached the door all too soon, took a calming breath and knocked.

Tanner's voice called from inside, "Come in."

Mark opened the door, took the couple of steps to the desk on his right and saluted. Standing next to the XO was the CMC.

Mark liked Command Master Chief Saunders and was glad she was there, despite what her presence meant. As the link between the enlisted men and the Captain, she was quick with the discipline and brooked no inattention to detail. She also mothered all the enlisted men, from the newest recruit to the most senior Warrant Officers. She was always ready with a smile, a word of encouragement or a friendly ear if one was needed. Although it didn't look like she had any of these with her today. In fact, Mark thought she looked downright annoyed.

"You wanted to see me, Commander?" Mark asked.

"Yes. Close the door, Oliver."

Crap. A closed door was not a good sign. He did as ordered and caught sight of someone standing on the far side of the office. Two someones, in fact. Oh shit. Whatever Mark had been expecting, this certainly wasn't it.

The presence of the two International Rescue men was an unpleasant surprise. The shorter one with the orange sash leaned against a filing cabinet, hands on hips, ankles crossed. The taller man stood beside him, his arms folded loosely across his chest. Their body language was relaxed, their gazes anything but.

"Oliver." The XO's voice garnered Mark's attention again. He snapped to attention.

"Sir!"

"These two gentlemen have requested a quick word with you," Commander Tanner indicated the men in question who stepped forward.

The one with the blue sash offered his hand in greeting, stamping his place as the senior member of the two. His face was impassive, his eyes inscrutable. A quick glance was all it took for Mark to have the impression his measure had been taken. It was a distinctly uncomfortable sensation. The other operative nodded his greeting, his face also expressionless. The familiar tawny coloured eyes were now clear and alert. And free of animosity. These guys were obviously very good at keeping all thoughts hidden away. Mark had no idea what they were thinking.

"Sit, Oliver." Tanner sat in his chair and indicated the only other seat in the room; a small metal chair close to where Mark was currently standing. Mark seated himself and glanced at CMC Saunders. She gave him a small nod and stood at ease. Tanner spoke, refocusing Mark's attention.

"We have been instructed by Washington to provide International Rescue with anything they need while they're on this ship," the XO's tone revealed what he thought of that idea and it wasn't good. "They want to ask you a few questions and you have been cleared to answer them. However, you may only do so unless the Master Chief or I say otherwise. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Mark understood all right. He was about to get a grilling.

He felt like a sitting duck, hemmed in with the XO across from him, the CMC on his right and the IR guys towering, broad-shouldered and intimidating, on the other. This wasn't going to be just a grilling. It was to be an interrogation.

"No offence, Commander," the authoritative one said putting his hands on his hips. "But this isn't going to work. Is there somewhere we can all sit down together?"

The words and the tone were polite, but the steel in the voice was unmistakable. The question wasn't a question. This guy was obviously used to giving orders and having them carried out. Despite his apprehension, Mark found himself watching the interplay between the ship's XO and the blue-sashed pilot. The Commander wasn't happy, but the pilot had a good point. The office was small at the best of times and with four large bodied men and a slightly smaller female packed in, it was standing room only.

The Commander stood and picked up his cap. Despite having at least twenty years and twenty pounds on the pilot, he was obviously the loser in this particular battle of wills.

"Fine," Tanner snapped. "We'll use the wardroom. It's usually quiet this time of day."

The officer's mess? Mark was taken aback. He was just an enlisted man; he'd never been in the officer's mess. Hell, he'd never even seen it before. The Commander strode around the desk, opened the door and stepped into the passageway. The CMC and the two IR men followed, but Mark was a bit too slow getting his feet to work.

"Move it, Oliver," Tanner barked.

Mark moved it. He scrambled behind the others, the Commander leading the way.

Chapter Five

The Sentinel was ploughing ahead at full speed on a sea stirred up by a south-easterly squall and the ship had developed a nasty roll and pitch. Mark was accustomed to the movement but he knew that people who spent most of their time on land found walking on a moving deck hard going. They usually spent more time crashing into the walls than walking in a straight line.

As he followed the orange sash in front of him, he noticed the steady tread and the way the young man strode confidently down the narrow passageway. He was obviously no stranger to ships and must have spent no small amount of time on them. Mark continued to wonder who this man was and where he came from. The thought made him speculate on the other man's origins. Had he spent time on ships too?

The Sentinel gave a shuddering lurch when a rogue wave hit broadside and Mark saw the senior operative steady himself with a hand on the bulkhead. Okay, it was safe to assume he was not as accustomed to shipboard life.

They reached the officer's mess and Mark immediately noticed it was the same size and layout as the enlisted men's lunch room. Except that the enlisted men had bench seats instead of proper chairs and they certainly didn't have navy blue table cloths, albeit elasticized to secure them to the tables.

They settled around a table in the far corner, far enough away to allow some modicum of privacy. Mark found himself seated next to the CMC and directly across from the blue sashed operative. The Commander chose to position himself at the head of the table, leaving the aquanaut to sit beside his colleague.

Thunderbird One's pilot cleared his throat, adjusted his watch so he could check the time, clasped his hands together on the table and focused his sole attention on Mark. Mark found that definitely disconcerting.

"I'm International Rescue's Field Commander, and I believe you've already met our aquanaut?"

"Yes, sir." Mark sneaked a quick glance at the aquanaut who was leaning comfortably back in his seat, watching the proceedings.

"We have been conducting our own investigations into the events last week but our Commander wants your version of them. I've been made aware of the Navy's...official...position." The young FC's gaze slid quickly over Tanner and returned. "So I'm not interested in hearing what you may have been told to say. I want to know what you actually saw and did."

"Yes, sir." Mark nodded his agreement although in reality, he had no choice.

"I've been told that you were on duty and in charge of the missiles at the time Thunderbird Two was targeted."

Mark nodded his confirmation and placed his hands on his thighs, surreptitiously wiping his palms as the questions began.

"What's your name?"

"Fire Controlman, First Class, Mark Oliver, sir. But my friends call me Twister." Why did he say that? He cursed himself for a fool and saw the field commander look at his name tag.

"Oh, I get it. Oliver Twist."

"Actually, no, sir. My family lives in Nebraska. Tornado Alley."

"Right," the dark haired man continued. "So, can I call you Mark?"

Mark nodded, though it felt strange hearing someone use his first name.

"You can call me...errr...Scott." Cagey bastard. Mark knew the guy wouldn't reveal his real name.

'Scott' appraised him from under thick black eyebrows. "When you saw Thunderbird Two on your radar, what did you think it was?"

"I really had no idea, sir. I'd never seen anything like it. The speed was too fast for any conventional plane so I thought it could have been some top secret job. I thought we were under attack."

"Why did you think that?"

"We were supposed to be in a secured airspace and this plane had no transponder. It was heading straight for us, but then it changed course and headed toward New York. That's when I thought that maybe it was terrorists."

'Scott' frowned slightly while he digested the information. He then looked toward his colleague who raised an eyebrow. Mark watched the silent interaction until both men turned back to him in synchrony.

"Alright," 'Scott' said. "So you thought it was hostile. How did you get from that point to firing the missiles?"

"Don't answer that, Oliver!" Tanner leaned forward in his chair and the look he gave 'Scott' was less than co-operative. "We've gone over this already. Central Control classed the plane as hostile. If we're under attack we defend ourselves."

"I have no problem with that, Commander. Nor do I have any real issues with the fact that Central Control is in Washington, thousands of miles from where you were. All I am trying to establish is what Mark did from that point on."

Mark watched the interchange between the two men, both accustomed to being in command and neither willing to give way. Tanner, clearly disgruntled, eventually eased back in his seat and gave a curt nod. Mark felt Scott's intense eyes refocus on him, waiting for his answer.

"When the aircraft appeared on the radar and given the speed she was flying, we only had six minutes before she would have been on top of us," Mark said.

Oh shit. He'd just let slip the range of their scanners.

The Commander shifted his weight and speared Mark with a sharp look. Mark knew he'd be reprimanded for the mistake later. But for now the damage had been done and neither of the International Rescue guys looked surprised, so he continued. "We prepared the ship and the missiles immediately, but it wasn't until after the call came through from Central Control that the Captain ordered me to fire."

'Scott' leaned back into his seat and steepled his fingers.

"At any stage, were you aware if anyone tried to contact our aircraft?"

"Well, no, sir. I had a lot on my mind. But it would have been done, it's policy."

"Policy is one thing, reality another."

The Commander sat up straight, tense in body and voice as he stared hard at the IR pilot.

"Just what are you implying?"

The two men faced off when Scott also leaned forward.

"You have heard the tapes just like I have, Commander. Did you hear your Captain check? Did you hear anyone try and contact Thunderbird Two?" The voice became clipped; his hand curled into a fist as he stressed his point. "If someone did try and check, we didn't hear the transmission. And believe me, Commander, we would have heard it."

Tanner and the field commander continued to wage a silent battle, each trying to stare the other one down. Mark was hardly aware of it as the enormity of the implication hit home. If it was true, it was a major procedural breach. But it also meant that he was off the hook, at least from the Navy's perspective. He wasn't so sure about International Rescue's opinion.

"Are you saying I fired those missiles, but the Captain hadn't checked?" Mark looked from one stern Commander to the other, seeking confirmation.

It was 'Scott' who finally relented and gave it.

"I understand what you're getting at, Mark. Don't worry; you were just doing your job. Decisions are made at a much higher level and the orders sent down the line. I can tell you that no-one at International Rescue holds you, personally, responsible."

"They don't?" Mark hadn't realised how important this was to him until now.

"No. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding that partly stems from our strict secrecy code, but yes, there's some debate on your former Captain's actions. He's been relieved pending investigation."

"Relieved?" Mark asked. "That can't be right. We were told he was on stress leave."

"Stress leave?" Scott raised a surprised eyebrow. "At his rank? I don't think so."

"Anything's possible," the aquanaut said quietly. A sharp look from is superior caused the redhead to raise his hands in surrender, an innocent look on his face. "Hey, I'm just saying."

'Scott' sighed, shook his head and then adjusted the dial on his watch again. It almost looked to Mark like he'd pushed one of the many buttons on it, but the movement was too smooth for him to be sure.

The meeting was coming to a close and Mark took the opportunity to satisfy his most pressing concerns.

"What happened to the guy I shot down?"

'Scott' rubbed his finger along the edge of the table, internally debating. He turned to his colleague who shrugged, then he turned back to Mark, his decision evidentially made.

"Officially, that's still classified. But unofficially, he'll be fine."

The aquanaut was more forthcoming.

"Yeah, he's on sick leave and hating every moment of it. He's already complaining about how much television he's watched, which proves he's okay."

Mark released his breath in a rush. The guy was alive and that was the main thing. As much as he hated to be the cause of International Rescue curtailing operations, a damaged aircraft could be rebuilt. Human lives could not. His relief was instantaneous and profound.

"I think we've got everything we need unless you can think of anything I missed?" Scott turned to his partner who nodded, raked a hand through his hair.

"Just one thing," the aquanaut said looking at Mark, who was again struck by the difference in his demeanour from their previous encounter. The man stood and extended a calloused hand. "I was a bit...abrupt...with you yesterday. No hard feelings?"

"None at all, sir." Mark also stood and shook the proffered hand in relief. "You were under a lot of stress and I chose a bad time to interrupt."

'Scott' got to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting.

"Thank you for your time Mark. Ma'am." He shook hands with Mark and the CMC and smiled, revealing deep dimples in his cheeks. "Well, I need to prep Thunderbird One for takeoff."

"I'll show you to the helipad." The Commander stood, obviously keen to see the pilot off the ship. He turned to Mark and barked an order, re-establishing his superiority. "You have a watch to finish."

"Come on, Oliver." Saunders straightened her chair and smiled. "I'll walk with you."

The Commander and the two IR men left the wardroom and made their way toward the deck ladders. Mark and Saunders headed across to the port side and down to the lower decks where they each went their separate ways. He continued down to the CIC with the spring back in his step and a smile firmly on his face.

He pushed through to the radar and tracking room where Lieutenant Watson waylaid him enroute to his console.

"Everything clear there, sailor?"

He was fishing, Mark knew. Not that he could blame him. It was rare enough to get summoned by the XO; it was even stranger to be hauled off your watch to do so.

"Yes, sir. All done and I'm ready to get back to work."

"Good. Get back to it."

Mark was keen to return to a normal routine after his tumultuous week. He relieved Blithe, logged back on to his computer and finally glanced toward Beans who had been trying to get his attention.

"You okay?" Beans asked.

"Never better," Mark said and felt it.

"What happened? You were gone so long I thought for sure you were getting your marching orders."

"Nope, everything's good." Mark debated with himself over how much to tell his friend. Although it hadn't actually been said, he knew a lot of the information he'd been given could not be repeated. International Rescue trusted him with it and he was not about to betray that trust. Mark thought it was an honour, given the circumstances and it felt damn good.

He watched the radar arm do a few rotations before the Lieutenant appeared beside him and glanced at the radar.

"Oliver. Thunderbird One is about to take off. We've had a special request from the pilot that you don't shoot him down."

Mark started, but the Lieutenant's face revealed he wasn't joking. However, Mark knew where the order had originated and what was behind it. He appreciated the sentiment and almost laughed.

"No, sir, I won't."

His headset crackled and disembodied voices spoke in his ear.

"Thunderbird One to Sentinel. Ready for takeoff."

"Thunderbird One, you are clear to go."

"F.A.B."

F.A.B? Mark wondered what that was actually supposed to mean. Obviously the International Rescue equivalent of Roger but why couldn't they just say that? He mentally shrugged and focused on his radar. On the next sweep around a green blip was illuminated, just aft of the Sentinel. Mark, Watson and Beans, leaning over from his console, watched as the blip reflecting Thunderbird One gathered speed. Within a couple of minutes it had disappeared from the radar.

"Well, that was fun," Beans deadpanned, straightening in his seat and rechecking his own data.

Mark felt a brief flash of irritation toward his buddy. He knew what Beans had been referring to, but the remark hit a little too close to home for comfort. The last week hadn't been fun at all. But he had weathered the storm and 'Scott' had given him the closure he needed. Now he would put it behind him and get on with his career.

After all, if International Rescue could forgive him, the least he could do was forgive himself.