PHOENIX RISING by MEERCAT RATED FRM

Other villains besides the Hood covet IR's advanced technology. When chance places Erasmus Blake near a Thunderbird rescue, he grabs Alan Tracy and spirits him away. Will the family be able to save him or will IR suffer its first loss?

CHAPTER 1: INTO THIN AIR

Scott Tracy activated the comm unit on the Mobile Control console and called into the voice mic, "Thunderbird 2 from Thunderbird 1. Virgil, what's your ETA?"

"I'm 2.5 minutes away, Scott."

"Copy that, Virgil. The mega-silo is tilting toward the northeast, so that's the most likely direction of collapse. Advise you set down in the open field on the southwest side of the structure."

"How does it look?"

The eldest son of Jeff Tracy and the pilot of Thunderbird 1 examined the disaster unfolding in front of him--an explosion at an experimental super-granary and food storage mega-silo deep in the American heartland--and replied, "Bad, Virgil. One or more of the lower level granary pods inside the mega-silo exploded, causing a chain reaction. Three maintenance workers, two men and a woman, were servicing the internal systems. They're trapped between levels 45 and 46. They can't descend using their safety harnesses because of the fire, and they can't go up because one of them broke both his legs. If that wasn't enough, the heat is melting the internal supports on one side. I estimate a maximum of ten minutes before the whole thing topples over."

"Any communication with the trapped workers?"

"A brief one, when I first arrived. Since then, nothing."

"Okay, Scott. ETA now 1 minute."

Hearing the rumble of Thunderbird 2's powerful atomic engines, Scott secured his ship against intruders. By the time Thunderbird 2 swiveled around for a landing, Scott stood on the ground next to his own vehicle, waiting.

The lumbersome dark green transport performed an unexpectedly graceful landing, touching down with a feather-light touch borne from years of experience by her pilot. The maneuvering jets turned off, leaving only a silver dust cloud in their wake. The full weight of Thunderbird 2 pressed the wheat flat.

Virgil Tracy, the third of five sons to International Rescue's founder and leader Jeff Tracy, appeared through the hatch first, closely followed by his youngest brother, Alan, who normally piloted Thunderbird 3, the space rocket of the IR fleet.

The pair--one stocky, auburn-haired and tanned, the other slender, blond and fair--took one look at the precariously tilting silo, with its billowing puffs of dark smoke and red-orange flames near its base, and hurried to meet their eldest brother. As the three men in the distinctive uniform of International Rescue came together, the crowd gathered beyond the gates that led to the narrow old commercial farm road raised a clap and cheer.

The trio risked a glance to the crowd, noting the arrival of more vehicles and persons. Among the newcomers more two Kansas State troopers, there to provide additional security and crowd control. Another vehicle contained volunteer firefighters to assist others who struggled to prevent fiery airborne embers from setting the surrounding wheat fields aflame.

Content that neither crowd nor secondary fires would pose a security threat, the brothers turned their entire concentration toward the rescue at hand.

"Any ideas, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"Only one. Our best bet is to get to them from above," Scott suggested.

"That mega-silo is 120 levels high," Alan countered, "and those people are trapped between 45 and 46. Wouldn't it be faster to go up from the bottom?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes," Scott admitted with a hint of impatience, "but the damage to the lower levels is too extensive. We can have them up and out through the top in half the time we'd waste cutting through from the bottom."

"I see," Alan said. "Okay. How do you want to play it?"

"Right then. The silo is so unstable, Thunderbird 2's maneuvering jets could bring it crashing down, so we're going to use Thunderbird 1. We'll attach repelling ropes to her underside and I'll lift you to the top of the silo. A hatch at the top leads to a maintenance ladder that descends parallel to the mechanical maintenance lift. It'll be a bit of a climb but I did a quick scan with the remote camera--there's smoke but so far no blockage and no fire. It should be a simple matter to cut through the single bulkhead that separates the ladder from the lift shaft and pull the workers through. Once you're freed them and strapped them in, I'll lift you all off to safety. Okay, let's get moving."

"Okay, Scott," Virgil said into his wrist communicator, "we're on the ground. Release the lines."

"F-A-B," Scott acknowledged and released the ropes, leaving his brothers free to turn the survivors over to more traditional rescue services.

Thunderbird 1 drifted to the right until it hovered over its original landing space. The bullet-shaped craft set down without the slightest bump. An instant before the powerful thrusters switched off, Scott caught what sounded like a single muffled noise from his wrist communicator. By the time he raised the device to face him, no hint of the transmission--if it was in fact a communication--remained.

"Virgil? Alan? Did you call?" Scott waited but received no reply from either brother. "Thunderbird 2 from Thunderbird 1, do you copy? Virgil? Alan!"

Once more Scott secured his ship and descended to the ground. He trotted toward Thunderbird 2, puzzled but not yet worried. Odds were, their communications setup was bad.

"Virgil? Alan?" Silence answered him. "Now where in the world did those boys get off to?" he muttered to himself.

Expecting to find his two brothers busy trying to escape the profuse thanks of the rescued workers, Scott walked around to the far side of Thunderbird 2. Sight of his brother stretched motionless on the ground brought him to a sudden and startled halt.

"What the--Virgil!"

Scott knelt and gently rolled him into his back. A livid bruise lay on the Thunderbird 2 pilot's temple along with a lump the size of a robin's egg. A smear of blood marred the left shoulder of Virgil's uniform, though Scott could see no sign of a bleeding injury.

Of Alan, the three victims, or anyone else who might have attacked them, there was no sign.

"Virgil! Virgil, what happened? Where's Alan?"

Virgil fought his way back to consciousness and struggled to speak, even though his mouth closely resembled old cotton. "Nnnnng, S-Sc't, wh-wh--"

"Easy, Virgil. You took a hard knock to the head. Don't move until I have a chance to examine you. Were is Alan?"

"G-gone."

"Gone. What do you mean 'gone'?"

"We landed . . . with the maintenance people . . . put them in the ambulance . . . three men . . . never saw them until they were right on top of us . . . Guns . . . Alan jumped one of them. I tried to take out another . . . but a fourth man came . . . he hit . . . there were too many of them . . . too many-"

"Are you saying someone took Alan?" Scott's whisper bled disbelief. "That he's been kidnapped?"

"I tried to stop them, Scott. I swear I tried--there were just too many-"

Scott winced at the desperation in his brother's voice. He squeezed Virgil's shoulder in sympathy.

"Easy, my brother. I know you did your best." A granite note of promise hardened the eldest Tracy son's voice. "Don't you worry. We'll get Alan back. Whoever took him will regret the day they ever heard of International Rescue."

CHAPTER 2: CALLING ALL IR OPERATIVES: CODE K

"WHAT?"

Jeff Tracy's shout brought the household running from every corner. Grandma Tracy appeared through the doorway leading to the kitchen, bowl and spoon in her hands. The fourth-youngest Tracy son, red-haired Gordon, hurried out of his bedroom clad for swimming in a gold tee-shirt and red speedo, a white terry towel over his shoulder. Brains, the exceptional mind behind most of IR's advanced technology, abandoned his latest experiment on solar power.

Jeff's manservant and old friend Kyrano entered from the balcony, his beautiful daughter Tin-Tin close behind. Around them swirled a hot, humid breeze heavy with the saline scent of the ocean. Palm fronds rustled in the wind in tune with the gentle slide of waves against the beach, normally the most soothing of sounds.

"Good heavens, Jeff," Grandma Tracy scolded her only son as she beat the cake batter inside the large stoneware bowl. "What's all the ruckus about?"

At the same instant, Gordon, the aquanaut of the organization, asked, "Is something wrong, Father?"

The silver-haired man behind the desk held up a hand for silence but his gaze never wavered from the face of his eldest, visible on the portrait wall. Five paintings, one for each of his sons, hung in a straight line. A live transmission from the cockpit of Thunderbird 2 replaced the second painting from the left.

"Repeat that, Scott. I couldn't possibly have heard you correctly."

"I'm afraid you did, Father," Scott reported. "After the rescue was complete but before Thunderbird 2 could take off, four men attacked Virgil and Alan. They left Virgil unconscious on the ground, and there's no sign of Alan. They must have taken him with them."

"Oh, my!" Grandma Tracy gasped and almost dropped her bowl. Other sounds of dismay rocketed around the room.

"We've alerted the authorities," Scott continued, "and questioned the witnesses. Several of them saw three men wearing scarves over their faces shove Alan into the back of a panel van, while the fourth man slid behind the wheel. One civilian tried to get the license plate but there wasn't one on the vehicle. I took Thunderbird 1 up within minutes but saw no sign of it. About the best description we have is a new-model Ford panel van, black, with tinted windows. The only identifying feature seems to be some kind of decal attached to the rear bumper, possibly a parking permit."

Brains asked, "W-what about th-the digital cameras on Thunderbird 2?"

"They were running," Scott replied. "We can only hope they give us some clear images of who these men are."

"What about Virgil--is he all right? How badly is he injured?"

Virgil himself leaned into the camera frame. His clothes were filthy from both the rescue and the fight. Smudges of soot shaded his cheeks, jaw, and neck. In contrast, a pristine white bandage encircled his head. Though pale and in obvious pain, he stared into the camera clear-eyed and alert.

"Other than a lump the size of an Easter egg," he said, "and just about as colorful--we won't mention the headache--I'm fine."

"Thank heavens for that," Gordon said.

"Son, can you give us any idea who might have done this?"

"I haven't the faintest, Father. I've never seen them before."

Tin-Tin asked, "Is there a possibility they are associates of The Hood? This sounds like something he would do."

Virgil shrugged and shook his head but immediately regretted both actions. He rubbed his bandaged forehead and said, "They weren't Asiatic. If I had to guess, I'd say by their accents that they were most likely Americans."

"We don't have much to go on," Jeff sighed. "Still, I'll get word out through the organization as fast as possible. Virgil, are you well enough to pilot Thunderbird 2? Should I send Gordon?"

"I'm fine, Father, really."

"Scott?" Jeff asked for confirmation.

"Like he said, sir, he's okay enough to fly home," Scott said. Even as Virgil smiled his thanks, Scott qualified his statement by saying, "Though I would suggest he goes to bed the instant he gets there."

"I don't need to go to bed like some disobedient teenager!" Virgil protested. "I need to help find Alan!"

"And you will," Jeff assured his son. "However, you won't do anybody any good if you fall over due to lack of personal care. Thunderbirds One and Two, return to base, best speed."

"F-A-B," Scott acknowledged and ended the transmission. On Tracy Island, the oil painting slid back into place with a soft click.

"Mother, Tin-Tin. Could you gather medical supplies and get Virgil's room ready?"

"Right away, Mr. Tracy," Tin-Tin bowed and disappeared into the hallway that lead to the bedrooms. Grandma Tracy hurried to put her mixing bowl back in the kitchen.

"Gordon, Brains. Man landing control, just in case Virgil has trouble. I'll join you shortly."

"Yes, sir," Gordon answered and ran from the room, Brains close on his heels.

"And what of yourself, Mr. Tracy?" Kyrano asked. "What will you do?"

Jeff Tracy turned his back to the desk and faced the communications bank that stretched from one end of the shelving unit's center level to the other. For several long seconds, his hand hovered over the transmit button.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Tracy?" the manservant asked.

"No, Kyrano," Jeff replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's just . . . when I organized our network of operatives and designed the code system, I hoped and prayed I would never have to use this one."

After a final moment, Jeff depressed the single red button on his command console and said into the mic, "Thunderbird Base to all International Rescue operatives. Code K. Repeat. Code K. Priority region Midwestern United States. Stand by for details."

Within seconds of the general broadcast, two calls arrived. The first came from John Tracy, on duty in Thunderbird 5, the orbiting space station that served as a critical communications link between Tracy Island and every aspect of the organization's activities. Jeff noted, and not for the first time, that John was an older, calmer version of his youngest, Alan.

Second, the eyes of a portrait along the ocean-side wall blinked gold. The elegant oil rendering of Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward slid down to reveal a live transmission, beamed to Tracy Island from her estate in Great Britain.

"Base here. I read both of you, John, Penny."

"I heard what happened, Father," John said. "I'm going to program the computers up here to flag any reference to International Rescue or the kidnapping. If anyone transmits so much as a single word, I'll start tracking."

"Good. Thanks, John. If our unknown villains are interested in ransom, that could come in very handy."

"This sounds decidedly serious," Lady Penelope said. "I received the Code K. Jeff, what has happened? One of the boys has been kidnapped?"

"That's right, Penny. Someone knocked Virgil out and spirited Alan away from the scene of their just-completed rescue."

"Alan," Penelope sighed then with trademark British resolve, she said, "I shall catch the fastest flight to America."

"I appreciate the offer, Penny," Jeff said, "but by the time you arrive, it will be too late. His captors could take him anywhere. We have a few leads, vague ones I admit, but you never know which will be the one clue."

Jeff turned back to John. "Let me know the instant you hear anything, son, no matter how inconsequential it might seem."

"F-A-B. You'll keep me posted?"

"Most definitely."

John's portrait slid back into place, ending the transmission.

"Jeff, are you certain there's nothing I can do?"

"I can't think of anything at the moment, but if something comes up, I'll certainly let you know. In the meantime, I would like you to keep working to find those missing World Aid famine donations. Good people donated tons of food and almost $3,000,000 to World Aid to help those starving in India. The monsoons--the worst in almost 100 years--have devastated their farming industry. Floods and mudslides have destroyed viable land. Over a million people are homeless. I want to know where the donations went and who diverted them. And I want those supplies redirected to the people who need them."

"Very well, Jeff. I suppose staying busy will be a blessing in disguise, and it is in a good cause. Do keep me informed on happenings."

"I will. Bye, Penny."

The communications ended, Jeff Tracy sat at his desk, stared at Alan's portrait, and wrestled down the flutter of worry in his chest. When Kyrano set a silver tray complete with steaming coffee pot on the edge of the desk, he favored his old friend with a wan smile before turning back once more to the picture wall.

His voice little more than a breath of prayer, Jeff Tracy whispered, "My son."

Action was needed. Worrying and fretting would not bring his child home. Jeff turned back to the communications station to distribute what little information they had to every IR operative around the world.

They must find Alan, soon. Delay was unacceptable, its result unimaginable.

CHAPTER 3: THE INTERROGATION

He awoke to pain in his head, a dull throbbing at his temple. The tympani beat radiated from one side of his skull to the other in perfect sync with his pulse. The rhythm played funny tricks on his vision, not to mention his stomach.

Alan Tracy fought down the nausea, wrestled his eyesight into alignment, and slowly raised his head. Beneath him, a bare metal floor leeched warmth from his body. His skin pimpled with the chill. A rivet line dug into his spine, but no amount of wiggling won him a more comfortable place.

Stout rope bound his hands behind his back. Alan recognized the type used on long-haul merchant ships. Additional coils wrapped his body from chest to ankles in an inescapable cocoon.

Most ominous of all, he wore neither gag nor blindfold. Could his kidnappers not care whether he saw anything? Who were they? What did they want from him? Could they be agents of The Hood? That would be very bad.

He cast off the questions for which he had no answers and studied his prison in more detail. A single door provided entry or exit and was currently closed. One side of the chamber was bare of anything except his bound body. The far wall, however, contained an array of computers, screens, and electronic panels, most of which he recognized. On the off chance he succeeded in untying the ropes, he could operate the radio and call for help.

It would be morbidly embarrassing to have his brothers charge to the rescue, but all things considered, embarrassment was preferable to any plan his captors had for him.

"Well, Dorothy," his own voice echoed hollowly through the box-like chamber, "you're not in Kansas anymore."

"No, Dorothy," a new voice added through a wall-mounted speaker, "you're most definitely not."

The door opened and a man walked into the room. Tall and beefy, with a weightlifter's rippled physique, he filled the entire chamber. He looked older than Alan, nearer to Scott or John's age, and wore an expensive silver silk suit complete with diamond-studded tie tack. Even the surface of his leather loafers glowed.

The only dark thing about him was his eyes--black pools reflected everything and betrayed nothing.

Alan recognized him--the driver of the black van. He'd worn different clothing then, more rural and less flash, but it was most definitely the same man.

Villains should be ugly, the irrelevant thought darted through the forefront of Alan's mind, not like some movie star or famous athlete.

"I remember you," Alan said. "You hit my brother."

"I most certainly did," the newcomer readily admitted as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "I only need one of you. Two prisoners would be most difficult to manage. I know. I've tried it before."

"I'd ask who you are and what you want with me," Alan said, "but I don't imagine I would get a straight answer to either question."

"On the contrary. My name is Erasmus Blake. What I want is simple enough: I will have everything you know about the technology incorporated into your Thunderbird machines." Blake threw his arms wide. "There, you see? I can be agreeable."

A shudder raced up and down Alan's spine. Was this man so confident that he dared reveal his identity to his prisoner? Such an act boded ill for his future well-being.

"I saw you eying the communications equipment," Blake said. "Don't think you'll be able to use it. I've encoded a password failsafe into the system. Enter the wrong password and the entire building explodes."

"I keep that in mind."

"And to think, just minutes before I spotted your ships, I was cursing my bad luck. Here I'd thought I'd taken a wrong turn and all the time it was the best left-instead-of-right I ever made."

"You might think that way now," Alan said, "but when this is all over, you'll be singing an entirely different tune, I can promise you that."

"Is that so, little man? And just who is going to make me sing this new song--you?" Blake threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Not likely."

"It might be me, it might not. But sooner or later, it will happen. International Rescue will see to it."

Erasmus Blake sneered at his prisoner. "I guess we'll have to wait to see who is right. In the meantime, I believe you and I have something to discuss."

"No, we don't."

"Oh, but you do."

"No. We don't."

Blake turned his back on his bound captive and stepped over to a closed cabinet. As he opened the right-hand door, he said, "How attached are you to that lily white skin of yours?"

Alan blinked and frowned at the unexpected change in the conversation. "What?"

"I asked how attached you are to your skin." Blake closed the door and turned around. He held a leather quirt in one hand, its braided end laid across the opposite palm. "How would you like to have it flayed off one tiny strip at a time?"

Alan eyed the whip but did his best to hide his misgivings behind glib words and tones. "I don't suppose I'd like it very much."

"No, I don't suppose you would. Or should I say will? Because it will happen, you will lose your hide in strips unless you tell me what I want to know."

Alan swallowed his fear, stiffened his spine as much as his bindings would allow, and said most firmly, "Never."

"We'll start with your name. That should be safe enough."

"Call me Dorothy."

His captor sighed and shook his head with false pathos. "I was hoping you would be sensible about this, but I see that isn't going to happen."

Alan tried hard not to cringe as the quirt whistled its descent.

He succeeded. Barely.

CHAPTER 4: STALLED

"Thank you, Governor Lewis," Jeff Tracy said in a voice-only transmission. "We appreciate anything you can do in this manner."

"I'm happy to do whatever I can," the Governor of Oklahoma said. "After everything that International Rescue has done for the world, this is the very least we can do. I'm just sorry it had to happen at all."

"As are we, Governor. As are we." Jeff ended the transmission and leaned away from the audio pickup.

"Well, that's almost every state governor west of the Mississippi River," Jeff sighed. "Washington State's the only one who hasn't checked in yet, and he's busy dealing with a forest fire. We've also received support from the leaders of almost every world government."

"You should get some rest, Mr. Tracy," Kyrano said. "You do neither yourself nor your sons any service by exhausting yourself past the point of action."

Jeff smiled and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed away the tired grit, laid his head back on the chair rest, and closed his eyes.

"I hear you, Kyrano. I can't rest, not yet. The family needs me to be strong."

"Surely the others are there to help you-"

"They might not say it in so many words, but Scott and Virgil blame themselves for whatever has happened to Alan. Brains has shut himself up in his lab, hoping to come up with some gadget to help us, and Mother's trying to stay optimistic by cooking a feast to celebrate his rescue. I can only pray that she doesn't over-do it."

The Malaysian manservant turned toward the balcony and the solitary figure visible beyond the glass. His only child stared toward the ocean horizon and hugged her arms tight to her chest, oblivious to the tropical winds that lifted her long, straight hair in floating black ribbons. Tears glistened in her eyes, poised to follow the tracks of those she had already shed.

"How's Tin-Tin holding up?" Mr. Tracy asked.

"It is difficult to be selflessly supportive of others when the man you love is in danger." Kyrano turned back to his old friend. "The same can also be said, I think, for fathers. Yet you manage, despite the requirements of secrecy."

"There are definite drawbacks to the demand for secrecy. One is the need to deal with crises and tragedies without any kind of external personal support system. But it's the price we pay to keep our technology out of the hands of criminals and terrorists."

"This is true, but it does make the job more difficult." Kyrano stepped closer until he rest a hand on Jeff's weary shoulder. "You bear a great burden, it is true, but you are not alone. So long as we, your family and friends, live, we are with you."

"I don't know what I'd do without you, old friend."

Kyrano grasped his hands in front of himself and bowed. "It is my duty, my oldest and dearest friend, as well as my greatest pleasure. If I can help in any way, you have but to ask."

"You're doing it already." Jeff smiled his gratitude. "Thank you."

In his laboratory, Brains tightened the casing down on one of his experimental tracking devices. On the wall before him, a communications channel was open to Thunderbird 5.

"Tha-that's good, John," Brains said. "Yeah, yeah, that should do it. We're ready down here. Or, at least as ready as we can be, g-given the circumstances. As soon as we get a signal, we can-er-start tracing it back to its source."

"Brains, is there any possibility we might have missed something on the Thunderbird 2's digital video?"

"I'm afraid not, John." Brain shook his head. "We've studied the film from one end-er-to the other, but the action happened just outside the camera's r-range. We got a faint audio, that's all."

"Is there anything there that could help us? A place, a name, anything?"

Again, Brains shook his head. "Nothing."

John gave up the idea with obvious reluctance.

"I've finished reprogramming the filters for the communications array." John Tracy's image on the wall screen looked as tired and worry-lined as the rest of his family. "It will flag every reference to International Rescue, Alan, the Tracy family, or the incident this morning."

"Fine job. How-however, we should bear in mind that something this sensational-er-will find its way into the media, m-most probably sooner rather than later."

"Yes, I've noticed. The news channels are already buzzing hot and heavy. At this point it's mostly news flashes, rehash, witness interviews, and unsubstantiated speculation. I've taken that into account. I've modified the filters to analyze the source as well as the content of every suspect communication. We'll still receive them, but the key ones will take priority."

"Now all we can do-er-is wait."

With a furious sling of his arm, Scott tossed a rock into the Pacific. It vanished beneath the waves without the slightest sound or ripple. Scott shivered--the grim correlation between the stone and his brother's abduction hit too close to home.

"I never thought I'd see the day when I'd envy Brains and John," Scott said. He worked his bare feet deep into the moist sand, desperate to leave a mark of any kind on the world around him. "At least they have something to do. This infernal wait is driving me straight up a wall!"

From his perch on a rock ledge a short ways up the beach, Virgil adjusted his sunglasses to better block the westering sun's glare and said, "I feel the same way. Helpless."

"Helpless. That's the word," Scott said. "Helpless. And angry. Definitely angry!"

Scott turned toward the house, his mind's eye on the launch bay for Thunderbird 1 hidden beneath the family swimming pool.

"Maybe I should fly back out there. We may have missed something. Some clue. Maybe we missed a witness."

"Scott-"

The eldest Tracy son threw another rock as far out into the sea as he could. "I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"We have no choice," Virgil, ever the voice of calm and reason, said. "Until something breaks, we can't do anything."

When he saw Virgil squeeze the bridge of his nose against a headache, Scott softened his voice and said, "You know, you really should still be in bed. You're going to bring the Wrath of Grandma down on your head if you're not careful."

A barked laugh escaped before Virgil could stop it. "Oh no, please, anything but that." In a more serious vein, he said, "All I do is lie there and think about the attack. About what must be happening to my brother."

"That's all you're doing out here," Scott pointed out.

"True enough," Virgil shrugged, "but at least here I have company while I'm worrying. And the view is nicer."

"Father," John reported, "there's a communication coming through from Governor Lewis. He thinks he may have something for us."

For the first time since the whole nightmare began, Jeff Tracy's face lit with hope. He pressed the button on his desk that would summon everyone to the den.

"Put him through, and stay on line to monitor the call."

"Will do, Father. Patching through, now."

"International Rescue here, Governor. Go ahead."

In audio-only mode, the Governor of Oklahoma said, "Ahh, yes. Well. I don't know if it means anything. It might not be related at all. Still, any lead is better than none at all, right?"

Jeff tried to keep any trace of impatience out of his voice. "What do you have?"

Gordon and Brains hurried into the room, followed closely by Virgil, Scott, and Tin-Tin. The others appeared just in time to hear the governor's report.

"I have reports of a black van matching your description being seen in the vicinity of Lawton, Oklahoma. That's about 70 miles southwest of OKC. There appear to have been three men, and according to one witness, the youngest was blond and dressed in blue. Too bad those pictures you'd hoped for didn't come out. Sure could have used them."

"I agree, but it can't be helped. Thank you, Governor. Please relay the coordinates. We're on our way." Breaking his end of the transmission, leaving John to take the information, Jeff Tracy said, "Scott, take Gordon with you in Thunderbird 1. This could be it."

"What about me, Father?" Virgil asked.

"Son, you're hurt. I can't ask you to-"

"You're not asking. I'm offering. I have to go. I need to go. Please."

Jeff Tracy hesitated a moment then said, "All right, Virgil. But be careful. I've never been happier to say this. Boys, Thunderbirds are go!"

The three brothers didn't hear him. They had already vanished through their respective exits--Scott down the mobile ramp, Virgil down the chute hidden behind the photo of his father's lunar rocket, and Gordon along the route that would take him to the lift.

CHAPTER 5: STUBBORN IS THE WORD

This is so not fun. Can I go home now?

His thoughts were muzzy, insubstantial, and for the most part unimportant. Each one faded away seconds after its birth but none were forgotten.

How long had Blake questioned him before he tired of beating up on his prisoner? Hours, certainly, perhaps even the bulk of an entire day. However long, it left Alan Tracy one solid bruise from crown to toe.

Alan remained in his steel box of a room. Sometime during the initial interrogation, metal cuffs and chains had replaced the ropes. He now hung by his wrists from a hook welded to the ceiling, high enough for his toe-tips to brush the floor. He'd long since lost feeling beyond his elbows--a good thing, considering the condition of his wrists.

His uniform, designed to withstand the violence of a rough-and-tumble rescue, had softened most of the whip blows but did nothing for the slaps and punches. The blue cloth hung in tatters--one sleeve completely ripped away, the other attached by an inch of material and thread. What remained barely protected his modesty. His sash, no longer white, lay on the floor, spotted with grime from the granary rescue, dirt from the fight, and drops of blood.

Blake's shoe print overlaid the extended-hand logo of International Rescue.

Please, please, don't let Tin-Tin see me like this. I'd fade through the floor. Virgil, you better not tease me about my clothes. I am so not in the mood for it. Okay? Scott, I sure could use a little help here.

His gaze roamed over the electronic equipment sitting well beyond his reach. To take his mind off the pain, he categorized the function and security of each piece and studied the readings. What he wouldn't give for a window or a skylight, anything to confirm the time of day.

Thirsty. I'm so thirsty. Sure could use some water. And a trip to the bathroom. A swim in the pool would be nice, too. Gordon, can we go swimming?

A key rasped in the lock and drew Alan's attention on the door. When Erasmus Blake strode into the room, looking both rested and refreshed, Alan cast a thought toward the ceiling.

If I shouted for help, John, would you hear me?

Before the door closed, Alan caught a glimpse through blackened, swollen eyes of empty parking area paved with gravel and another building's brick face. He strained but heard nothing to indicate the presence of people--no motor noises, voices, slamming doors, or electrical hum, not even the roar of a passing airplane or the distant sigh of a highway. Only the ominous tap of Blake's heels against the metal floor.

If nothing else, the brief glimpse of the outside gave him a vague sense of time. It felt like early morning, not long after dawn.

Blake confirmed this in his greeting. "Good morning, Dorothy. I trust you've enjoyed the night? Have you given some thought to being a little more cooperative?"

Brothers, now would be a good time--a very good time--for an heroic rescue. Cavalry charge, trumpets blaring, guns blazing.

"I'm waiting for an answer." Blake stood before Alan, arms crossed and feet braced wide.

"You . . . already have it."

"Hmmmm, I see. Disappointing but not entirely unexpected," Blake said as he unlocked and opened the cabinet. "We'll just have to work hard today to change your mind."

Blake pulled a folding card table from the storage closet and set it up nearby. On its surface he laid out the instruments he would use to coerce information from his prisoner. Alan stared at the whips, pliers, clamps, brass knuckles, and the like. He tried very hard not to give in to his fears.

Blake made a grand show out of the selection. With a flourish, he slid the brass knuckles over the fingers of his right hand and rolled his digits into a fist. Four silver arches of metal rested between his knuckles.

"Let's start where we left off yesterday, shall we?"

"I'd rather not. Yesterday . . . was boring."

"Boring? Well, we'll just have to work harder today to entertain you."

"Don't . . . put yourself out . . . on my account."

"It's no trouble for me. Except for one thing. I don't like delays. Never have. They make me angry." Erasmus Blake slammed his metal-coated fist into Alan's stomach. The pilot doubled over, retching. "You won't like me angry."

Alan struggled to draw breath. Another blow followed fast on the heels of the first. A third strike, this one to his face, multiplied his pain. Bright stars exploded behind his eyes, entire constellations of distant suns, each and every one pulsing in time with his thundering pulse beat. John would have loved the lightshow.

"Tell me about International Rescue."

"How much further, Scott?"

"I should be there in less than five minutes."

"We're right behind you," Virgil said. "Wait for us."

"Hurry up, then. I don't want to leave Alan in there a second longer than I have to."

"F-A-B."

"Tell me about your organization!"

No, I can't tell. I can't. Father, I can't--

"Where is your base of operations? Tell me how to evade its security."

Alan's ribs creaked. A few on the right side felt cracked, perhaps even broken. Every deep breath seared his lungs and stole the little air he managed to suck in.

Can't tell--Tin-Tin. He could hurt Tin-Tin. Or Grandma or Father or--ahhh, it hurts, but I can't give in!

"Why must you be so stubborn!"

"Runs . . . in the family."

"I can't believe you are resisting me like this!" Erasmus Blake stomped around the room in a rage. He threw his gloves against the wall and kicked them across the floor. "This is ridiculous."

"I couldn't . . . agree more. So why don't you . . . let me go and . . . we'll forget it ever happened."

Blake backhanded Alan as payment for the flippancy. The young pilot's already swollen lip split at the corner. Blood dripped off the tip of his chin.

"You will tell me what I want to know or you will die."

Of that Alan Tracy had absolutely no doubt.

As consciousness ebbed, like water through a sieve, Alan heard powerful jet engines high overhead.

Finally. Thank you, International Rescue.

A veil of gray clouded his vision and stole him away before he saw or heard any more.

CHAPTER 6: FALSE LEADS

High in orbit above the Earth, John Tracy rubbed his eyes, scratched the stubble along his jaw, and sifted through dozens of radio and television transmissions. Though very much aware of the rescue mission already underway, he had to stay busy. The one time he'd broken off from his work to lay down, his mind had squirreled around in endless loops of memory and emotion.

Two hours of mental gymnastics had been enough. He rose from his bed, dragged on his robe, and returned to Thunderbird 5's control room.

How many hundreds of communications had he screened? Every reporter on the face of the planet had made at least one broadcast. He'd listened to each transmission, hoping for one kernel of information, that single missing piece of the puzzle.

John groaned and stretched a knot out of his lower back. The vertebrae snapped and popped. His spine burned from standing for hours on end--he really must talk to Brains about equipping the control room with chairs.

A red light blinked on the instrument panel and signaled a hit by the predetermined filters. John glanced at the screen. The computer ruled the probably index at 27%. He decided to listen anyway, though he sincerely doubted the clue to Alan's location would be found in a public news transmission.

John transferred the broadcast to the main speaker.

"This is Morgan Roberts, Instant World News. The entire world watches and waits. Yesterday afternoon, a member of the International Rescue force was abducted from the site of their most recent and successful rescue, namely that of three maintenance workers trapped by debris and fire in a doomed mega-silo located in the wheat fields of central Kansas. The audacious attack by four masked men occurred in broad daylight in the presence of witnesses. They left another member of International Rescue unconscious on the ground then forced the other into a van. The vehicle sped away before police could give chase. Even the rapid response by the pilot of Thunderbird 1 failed to catch sight of the kidnappers."

"I bet Scott's burning himself for that," John said.

"The motive behind this bizarre kidnapping is as yet unknown. International Rescue has released a statement confirming that a member of their organization has been kidnapped. A substantial reward is offered for information leading to his safe return, however, they decline to authenticate a rumor that any ransom demand has been made."

"No, no ransom demand yet," John replied to no one in particular. "I almost wish they would ask for something. We'd have something to go on."

Morgan Roberts' voice continued, "The response of the world has been universal and profound. Thousands gather in schools and auditoriums, churches, mosques, and synagogues around the globe to pray for a favorable resolution to this horrendous situation."

John glanced up at one of the muted video screens. Some two thousand people gathered outside the Vatican, validating the reporter's words. It warmed his soul to know so many people remembered his family in their prayers, but John would gladly trade it all to have his baby brother home safe.

"Our hearts go out to those faceless heroes of International Rescue. We wish them the best as they endure this most trying and difficult turn of events."

"Thunderbird 2 from Thunderbird 1. I've reached the coordinates. Touching down about a quarter-mile southeast of the building."

Aboard Thunderbird 2, Virgil and Gordon shared heavy glances. Something in their elder brother's voice set off warnings.

"Copy that, Scott. Wait for us . . . Thunderbird 1, do you copy? . . . Scott!"

Gordon muttered an unfinished threat, "When I get my hands on him-"

The fourth Tracy brother still steamed. Despite their father's orders, Scott had taken off before Gordon reached Thunderbird 1's launch bay. The aquanaut barely made it to Thunderbird 2 before Virgil taxied out of its hangar.

"Stand in line behind me," Virgil said. "Coming up on the coordinates now. There's Thunderbird 1."

Through the forward view port, in the distance but growing rapidly larger, the sleek silver rocket sat in an open field, separated from their target location by a blacktop, one-lane rural farm road. The wood, tin, and brick structures sat by themselves in the center of the flat, unbroken Oklahoma plain at the end of a long, winding, rutted dirt road. Hereford cattle, a few horses, and a scattering of goats dotted the farthest fenced pastures.

Their daring rescue mission felt unreal in such a bucolic landscape.

Virgil pointed to the yard of the largest building, most likely a barn. "There's the van."

"And there's Scott."

Virgil followed Gordon's gesture. Scott stood beside the eastern wall of the barn, weapon drawn, his entire attention on the small collection of buildings.

Thunderbird 2 set down fifty feet from its sister ship. Before the engines had cycled down, the debarking ramp touched ground. Virgil and Gordon, the latter carrying one of the new stun rifles developed by Brains, ran across the asphalt farm road and ducked through the bob-wire fence. They hop scotched across a landscape littered with cow patties and horse droppings before they joined Scott at his watch post.

"Anything?" Gordon asked.

"Nothing's moved so far. We landed far enough away that they must not have heard us."

Virgil pressed his fingers against his bandaged forehead in a vain effort to ease the headache that drummed behind his eyes. "Any guesses as to which building Alan might be in?"

"I'd lay money on that one," Gordon answered, pointing with the rifle barrel toward the house-like structure on the southernmost end of the compound.

"I agree," Scott said even as he eyed Virgil with concern--the color leeched from his brother's skin even as Scott looked. "Are you okay, Virg?"

Stiffening his spine, Virgil answered, "I'm fine, and I'll be even better once we have Alan back safe and sound."

"All right then. Let's go get our brother."

Gordon and Virgil answered in unison, "F-A-B."

The three brothers approached the house, employing every possible ounce of caution. They reached the porch in seconds, their presence apparently unnoticed. Scott kicked in the door and raced inside, flanked by Virgil on the left and Gordon on the right.

"What in the world- Who are you? What d'you mean, bustin' in here like this!"

The door swung drunkenly on its one remaining hinge. They stood in a large living area, simply furnished but with enough knickknacks and bric-a-brac to give it a homey, lived-in feel. To the right stood a rectangular oak table, its surface covered with food. Around it stood four matching chairs, three of them occupied.

The Tracy brothers stared at each man in turn, stopping at last on the youngest of the trio. Around 22 years old, a crown of yellow-gold hair, and wearing a dark blue overall, the youth looked very much like their missing brother.

Without a word, Scott holstered his gun, turned, and stepped back into the sunlit yard. Gordon shouldered his rifle and did the same. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood there, silent, unmoving.

Virgil delivered apologies and offered the family a brief explanation. He handed over enough money to cover the cost of repairing the door then pulled the broken portal closed behind him.

"He's not here, Virgil," Gordon whispered. "He's not here."

"We're right back where we started," Scott said. His voice mirrored the horror they all felt. "We haven't a clue where to start looking."

CHAPTER 7: THE RANSOM TRANSMITTAL

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It gets darker from here, folks. This chapter definitely ain't your grandma's Thunderbirds. The PG-13 rating is now in effect. I'm tempted to make it an R because even I am not sure how far Blake will go to get what he wants!

The whip cut the air with a hiss of an outraged snake. A fresh line of blood flowed off the already plaided flesh of his captive's chest. Exhausted and in agony, Alan Tracy groaned but did not cry out.

"Damn you, boy, you'll tell me what I want to know or I'll skin you alive!"

"N-nnnnnev-errrr."

Erasmus Blake stared at his bloody captive, teeth grinding in anger. How could the boy be so stubborn? Didn't he have any sense of self-preservation? Nothing Blake had done so far had shaken his prisoner's resolve. The electric prod alone, even on its lowest setting, should have made him sing like a bird! The more Blake did, the stronger the youth's determination became.

The blond dangled from his chains, his head lolling to one side. Very little remained of either his clothing or his flesh. To protect his shoes, Erasmus dropped absorbent towels on the floor to soak up the blood.

It had become a game for Blake to find a spot that hadn't already tasted the bite of whip, cudgel, or prod.

The entire matter required a major re-think. If only he'd brought both International Rescue men instead of just one. He could have played one against the other until someone cracked. Such an advantage would have been worth the difficulty of maintaining and securing two prisoners.

Blake set aside such useless thoughts. Should-haves would not get him the information he needed. Torture apparently wasn't the answer. For one thing, it was taking way too long. He had plans for the International Rescue technology.

Confident that the boy would break quickly, he'd made speedy and, it now seemed, rash promises to several powerful organizations. The leaders of these groups would neither forgive nor forget failure.

As he'd told "Dorothy," he hated waiting.

How else, then, to get the information he wanted?

With a slight modification, the play-one-against-the-other idea might still work. If "Dorothy" would not surrender the secrets of the Thunderbirds technology, perhaps someone else in his organization might be willing to trade them for his prisoner's safe return.

Not that Erasmus Blake would even consider letting the boy live. He'd seen far too much, knew too much.

The timing must be perfect but it could be done. To protect Blake's reputation and life, it had to be done.

He hurt.

How long had it gone on? Had he said anything? Alan Tracy struggled just to open his eyes.

Through the narrow slits permitted by the swelling around his face, he watched Blake abandon his toys and turn to the communications equipment.

What was he doing? Was it finally over?

Father? Father, I'm here. Can you hear me? Please, it hurts.

I'm here, son. Hold on. We'll get to you soon.

I know. Hurry, Father. Please?

Alan's head fell forward against his chest, conscious thought a long way away.

Virgil shook his bandaged head. An obstinate expression hardened his face. "I don't need to go to bed."

"Yes, you do," Scott said. "You'll take an aspirin and rest, now."

Virgil's eyes narrowed to angry slits. "Don't mother me, Scott-"

Jeff Tracy brought the potentially violent argument to an end.

"Virgil. Scott's right. You're not helping anyone, least of all Alan, by wearing yourself down."

Tin-Tin took Virgil's arm and steered him toward the bedrooms. "Come, Virgil. You and I can talk in your room."

Virgil resisted her tug long enough to look from Scott to Gordon and finally his father. Seeing no reprieve, he surrendered to exhaustion. Head pounding and steps dragging, he let Tin-Tin guide him out of the living room and into the corridor.

"She's a good girl," Jeff Tracy said. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to his eldest son and said, "Is there any chance that place was the right one? Could Alan be there, just hidden away where he wasn't immediately visible?"

From his post beside the balcony doors, Scott shook his head. The late evening sun bathed his features in a golden-red light that only accented his exhaustion, throwing his weary features into sharp relief.

Gordon slumped in his chair, knees splayed, closer to lying on the seat than sitting on it. It was a mark of the strain placed on the family that Jeff said nothing about the pose. The aquanaut shook his head.

Scott answered, saying, "We looked everywhere, just in case. I even checked the van's rear bumper for the decal or sticker reported by the witnesses who saw the kidnapping. It wasn't there."

Jeff rested his forehead in his hands. "I don't have any ideas where to go next. What to do."

Drawn by the despair in his father's voice, Scott pushed away from the wall and took a step in his direction. Gordon pulled himself up straighter in his chair.

"Father-"

The elder Tracy raised his head. A shiver raced up both sons' spines. Neither had ever seen their father so . . . defeated. He aged 10 years in a matter of seconds.

"Even when your mother died, I was at least there to hold her hand . . . tell her I loved her." Jeff Tracy's voice cracked. "Alan-"

Scott and Gordon gathered Jeff into a mutual hug. The three knelt there, sharing their anxiety and grief, until long after the sun went down.

It took seven hours and more money than he'd planned for bribes, but at last Erasmus was certain of his security. By routing the communication through a network of towers and satellites before cutting into a dozen major news feeds, he would have plenty of time to present his demands and make a demonstration. He would be finished long before they could trace the signal.

He angled his camera most carefully, with Alan just out of its view. Blake even had a script of sorts prepared.

Appearance and timing were everything.

On Thunderbird 5, the alarm roused John from the first solid sleep he'd taken in over 48 hours.

Blinking, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, he stumbled into the control room and studied the probability index--98%, by far the highest quotient since the kidnapping. Hands trembling, John played the recording.

On the screen over his head, a visual appeared--a man, his head and shoulders draped in a tan linen hood. Of his surroundings, only a blank metal wall was visible. The man himself was big, muscular. Below the hood, he wore an expensive suit. Diamonds winked in his tie tack.

"Calling International Rescue. Don't bother trying to trace this transmission. It will do you absolutely no good. I have your man. I will exchange him for the plans to your vehicles."

This was it--the ransom demand.

Everyone on Tracy Island responded to the alert signal from Thunderbird 5. Only Scott had been awake, spelling his father on watch. By the time everyone stumbled into the lounge, John's face had appeared on the wall.

"This is the real thing, Father, no doubt about it."

"Let's hear it."

Face ashen, eyes pale with pain, John hesitated. Every ounce of healthy color was leeched from his skin. His hand, half-extended toward the console, trembled in time with the rest of his body. Jeff studied the area around his son's eyes--his skin bore the telltale red freckles of someone who had recently vomited.

"It . . . it was a visual feed. I tried to trace it using the new equipment Brains and I developed, but the signal was routed through dozens of relays and didn't last long enough. . . . It's . . . disturbing . . . to watch."

"Disturbing?" Jeff whispered. "In what way?"

"It shows Alan . . . and he . . . he doesn't look good. He . . . he's been--being--tortured."

Tin-Tin sobbed once before forcing herself to remain still and silent. Kyrano hugged his daughter close to his side. Scott and Virgil did the same with Grandma.

"Does anyone want to leave?" Everyone shifted but no one left the room. Jeff took a deep breath, braced himself, and said, "Patch it through."

The image of a man in a tan hood appeared on the video screen behind Jeff's desk.

"Calling International Rescue. Don't bother trying to trace this transmission. It will do you absolutely no good. I have your man. I will exchange him for the plans to your vehicles. To prove I am who I claim to be, I offer this proof."

The man's muscular hand rose. Across his knuckles rested the remains of Alan's once-white sash. The extended hand logo of International Rescue was visible beneath the blood and grime.

"Not enough for you? Then see this."

The man reached out and adjusted the camera.

Tin-Tin screamed once before silenced by horror; she buried herself in her father's trembling arms. Grandma Tracy sobbed and hid her face in the hem of her robe. Jeff swayed and grabbed the desk for support. His sons all reacted with cries of anger and dismay.

Bathed in blood, his skin bruised, broken, or blistered, Alan Tracy dangled from mangled wrists. Above the metal rings, his fingers lay at odd angles, swollen from obvious breaks. His head drooped forward until his chin rested against his chest. Face barely visible, only his general form and the color of his hair offered proof of his identity.

"He's alive," the kidnapper said. "For now. As you can see, we've been having some discussion on how he can best help me with the information I want. Unfortunately, he hasn't been very cooperative. I sincerely hope you'll do better."

"Damn him to hell," Scott raged. "He'll pay for this. God as my witness, he will pay!"

"Quiet," Jeff commanded.

"I will transmit again in one hour and give you the radio frequency over which you will communicate. This is your only chance. Miss me and you'll never see this boy again. And to prove I'm serious . . ."

The hooded man gathered a fist full of Alan's hair and yanked his head back. Alan grunted and struggled.

"Say hello to the camera, Dorothy."

The family watched as the youngest Tracy son struggled his way to consciousness.

"As you can see, he's alive. For now."

The man's other hand rose. In its grip he held a long, narrow electric prod, the type used to herd cattle.

"If I don't hear from you, he'll get more of this."

The prod moved beneath the camera's view. Alan screamed and bucked but couldn't escape the assault.

On Tracy Island, every man felt his own body draw up in sympathy.

"One hour," the kidnapper said and ended the transmission.

CHAPTER 8: WORLD REWARD

"This is Teresa Rawlins in the Instant World Newsroom. To recap tonight's top story, less than an hour ago, news transmissions around the world, including ours, were interrupted by an illegal broadcast from the person or persons responsible for Monday's violent kidnap of a member of the International Rescue organization. In this transmission, millions of people witnessed the horror and savagery of this man's actions. Morgan Roberts, our IWN reporter in the field, has more. To you, Morgan."

The image shifted from the beautiful blonde anchor with the rich contralto voice to the reporter in the field. Morgan Roberts stood in front of the United Nations plaza. Behind the veteran reporter, bright lights illuminated the flagpoles and their fluttering banners.

"Thank you, Teresa. This evening's transmission has left the world reeling. Reaction in every country has been universal. Horror and outrage against the terrorists--yes, terrorists--who would inflict such injury for the sake of acquiring International Rescue's secrets. There isn't a country in the world that has not benefited from the selfless and heroic actions of this mysterious and highly skilled organization. Not once, since its first appearance to rescue the maiden flight of the Fireflash, has International Rescue accepted any payment or recognition. They save lives then vanish. Success is their only reward. Always before, International Rescue has come to the aid of the world. Now, it is time for the world to come to the aid of International Rescue.

"Every major government has issued statements strongly condemning the men or organization who perpetrated this kidnapping. In an unprecedented and unanimous agreement, every member country of the United Nations has agreed to wave existing extradition laws, leaving the guilty persons nowhere to hide. This is Morgan Roberts, IWN. Back to you, Teresa."

"Thank you, Morgan. We have just received word from Oliver Wendell, President of the World Bank. According to Mr. Wendell, a reward fund has been established with the World Bank in the name of International Rescue." The logo of the World Bank, an elegantly swirled and intertwined W and B, appeared in the upper right corner of the screen. "Anyone who wishes to donate toward the reward for the safe return of this unnamed but heroic young man and the apprehension of his kidnappers is asked to contact the nearest branch of the World Bank or call toll-free 800-5IR-SAVE. Special representatives will be on hand 24 hours a day, seven days a week until this situation is resolved. Mr. Wendell pledges on behalf of World Bank the sum of $1 million. The proceeds will go to anyone who can provide information leading to the rescue of the IR pilot or the arrest of his kidnappers."

A running counter with the words "IR Reward Fund" to one side appeared at the bottom right of the screen. The dollar amount climbed from $1,000,000 to $2,570,090 in less than five minutes.

"If the kidnapper is true to his word, we should be interrupted by another transmission within the next ten minutes. Stay tune to Instant World News for further developments."

Jeff Tracy muted the volume of the television and turned back to his family.

"It's humbling, isn't it?" Tin-Tin mused. "To know how much the world loves International Rescue."

"Humbling, yes," Jeff agreed. "It also lays a heavy burden of responsibility on our shoulders. We have less than ten minutes to make a decision."

"What decision?" Scott paused his pacing long enough to ask. "We get Alan back."

Jeff studied his eldest son and asked, "At what cost?"

Scott stared back as though his father had lost his mind. "At any cost!"

"Do you really mean that, Scott? Would you surrender our most dangerous secrets to a man like that, who would use our technology to steal from others and control millions of lives?"

"Well . . . no, but . . . there must be something we can offer in place of our technology."

"We already have proof this man will stop at nothing to get what he wants," Gordon said.

Jeff nodded. "He could use our lasers to cut through any bank vault. With our rockets, he could outrun any military jet. He could hijack gold shipments or acquire nuclear devices with which to terrorize the world. He could jam radar and slip undetected into any secure facility. With the secrets of International Rescue at his disposal, he would be almost unstoppable. The damage he could inflict, the carnage he could cause, is unimaginable."

Virgil said, "Then we have to get Alan back without surrendering our technology."

"The-the question," Brains said, "is h-how."

"We can stall," Virgil said, "request time to gather the information. We can say it's not all in one place but scattered in secret locations around the world."

"The time of day could work to our advantage as well," Tin-Tin added as she pointed out the window toward the night sky. "Claim we have to wait until certain banks open."

"Brains," Jeff said, "I want you and John to be ready the instant he starts transmitting. Our only hope of finding Alan in time is to trace the signal back to its source."

"We-we're ready, Mr. Tracy."

"I suppose all we can do now," Jeff sighed, "is wait."

CHAPTER 9: NO WITNESSES

Erasmus Blake hated waiting. Even worse, he hated notoriety, especially the kind that had settled over his latest activity. What had begun as a simple kidnapping had blossomed into a world spectacle that outstripped any Super Bowl, disaster, or state funeral for sparking the world's interest.

When had he lost control of the situation? He hadn't, not really. So long as he held his prisoner, Erasmus Blake was in complete command. The publicity was a nuisance, nothing more.

A sampler on the mahogany-paneled wall caught his eye. Blake grinned as he read each entry and applied it to his current situation.

Rule number one of successful negotiation: Make the other side wait and sweat, not yourself.

His second message to International Rescue had been short and succinct: he'd given them the frequency and specified a contact time. While Blake hated waiting, he also understood the value of appropriately applied dramatic pauses. He would weaken his own position by appearing to be in a hurry.

Rule number two of successful negotiation: Protect your collateral.

He'd spent the hour between his transmissions cleaning up his prisoner and tending his injuries. Not that any of them had been immediately life threatening--Erasmus Blake had far too much experience for that. The boy looked bad and was certainly in pain, but nothing that wouldn't heal given time and treatment. Even the burns from the cattle prod were less than they might have been--Blake had kept the staff on its lowest setting.

It wouldn't do for "Dorothy" to die before Blake gained possession of International Rescue's technology.

The third and most important rule of successful negotiation: Protect yourself.

Unless someone betrayed his location, he was safe enough in his own personal bunker. Converted from an abandoned power station deep on the Kansas plains, the collection of buildings served as both a fortress and a hiding place. Seated in the living room of his opulent underground lodge, his feet comfortably buried in the plush red pile carpeting, he turned on the television and watched the reward climb to over $8 million in a matter of minutes. Within an hour, it was over $17 million and steadily climbing.

"This reward could pose a serious problem," Blake said to himself. His finger idly traced the swirls of gold thread woven into the cover that draped his recliner. "How best to protect myself . . ."

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. After a moment, he said into the receiver, "Gather the men and come to the lair. I have a job for all three of you."

Brains' laboratory resembled an earthquake zone, with mismatched bits and pieces scattered across every surface. Discarded casings lay in pyramids in the far corner, while wires rolled across work surfaces and computer boards resembled an unshuffled deck of playing cards. On every console, lights blinked or held steady with the varied colors of a Christmas tree.

Careful to keep his hands in his pocket and not to bump into anything, Jeff Tracy said, "So where are we?"

"Well, M-Mr. Tracy. We've con-contacted people in c-c-control of both military and commercial satellites. They've given us f-full a-access to their various ar-arrays. Put with the new equipment and-and programs John and I have created, i-it, uh, should be enough for us to track the next s-signal to its source."

Tin-Tin, her cheek smudged with brown grease, added, "We have received word from a technician for the Satellite One Network. He says he was bribed by someone to allow certain signals through their security. We suspect this is part of the system through which our villain is routing his communications."

"Know-knowing this," Brains concluded, "we ca-can start the trace halfway through, and c-cut the tracking time in h-half."

"That's great. Brains, Tin-tin, thank you for everything you've done."

Brains blushed before turning back to his control panel. Tin-Tin's almond eyes dipped down before she softly said, "I love him, Mr. Tracy. I will do all that is necessary to save him."

Jeff wiped the grease from her cheek with his handkerchief, kissed her forehead, and left the room. Rejoining his family in the lounge, he found Grandma had finally gone to bed, probably urged by Kyrano, who was also missing. Scott stared out at the late night ocean and Gordon idled away the time with a speedboat magazine. Virgil lay across the sofa in restless sleep; the bandage on his head had been reduced to a single gauze square taped to his temple.

Jeff deliberately did not comment on the fact that all three brothers already wore their Thunderbirds uniforms.

He stared down at his sleeping son and whispered, "Let's not wake him unless we have to. He needs all the rest he can get."

"What did Brains and Tin-Tin say?" Gordon asked.

"We're as ready as we're ever going to be," Jeff reported.

"I don't like this waiting." Scott sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know how much more of it I can take!"

"I understand the need for time to locate him," Gordon tossed the magazine aside, "but you saw how badly he's hurt. We don't dare wait too long!"

"The birds are checked and ready to go the instant we have a location," Scott said.

Jeff rested his hand on the aquanaut's sashed shoulder. "Brains, John, and Tin-Tin are doing all they can to speed things up. Right now, we're at the mercy of Alan's captors."

Visible in the faint light of pre-dawn, the plume of red dust over the road gave Blake plenty of warning. By the time the black van pulled into the dimly lit fenced yard and the three hirelings stepped out, Blake waited for them in the yard, his hands in plain sight. Typical of them to come armed and suspicious. They were, after all, the best in the business.

"We're here, Mr. Blake, as ordered. What's the rush job?"

"I need you to dispose of a threat. Follow me."

He turned to walk toward the communications building. A glance over his shoulder showed the three men trailing along, weapons held ready. His men knew him well. How best then to disarm their suspicions? Blake unlocked the door to his captive's prison and swung the portal wide.

The first direct rays of sunlight flooded the chamber and released the unhealthy smells trapped within. The door swung open to reveal Alan Tracy lying on the floor of the communications building, protected from the cold metal floor by a thin pallet of blankets. The worst of the blood and other unsavory fluids had been washed away the night before, but the chamber still reeked of abuse. Bandages swathed his chest and arms, while shapeless gray sweat pants covered his hips and legs. A single manacle around his right ankle kept him chained to a ring in the floor.

The young man moaned and turned his face away from the sudden influx of light.

The three men assumed this was the "threat" Blake wanted them to remove. They relaxed and lowered their weapons.

Before they realized their danger, Blake turned and fired three times. One man slammed back against the van and slid to the ground in the boneless way of someone who has taken a bullet to the head. The second tumbled out of the van door to the ground, writhing a moment before going still. The third dropped where he stood, halfway between the van and the door.

As he put away his gun, Blake gazed into Alan Tracy's pain-dulled blue eyes.

"You saw all that, I suppose," Blake said, waving through the open door.

"You . . . you killed them . . . your own men."

Blake shrugged, pulled the door closed, and engaged the lock.

"They were a threat. It seems the people of the world think enough of International Rescue to post an obscenely high reward for your return . . . and my arrest. I hire the best, but even the best can be seduced by more money. They were a risk I was not prepared to take. Now no one can tie me to you."

For the first time, a hint of fear darkened the young prisoner's face. "You . . . are insane."

"No. I'm a realist."

"I saw it all . . . I'm a risk, too. . . . You won't ever let me go, will you?"

Blake smiled, turned toward his equipment, picked up his tan hood, and prepared to make his next transmission.

CHAPTER 10: MURDER MOST FOUL

As time for the next communication drew near, Alan Tracy thought about his situation and how best to respond. Whether or not International Rescue surrendered its technology, Blake meant to kill him. On that point, Alan had absolutely no doubt. No secret, no bribe, no astronomically high ransom would save him. The most he could hope for was a swift end to the pain.

How best then to behave when Blake next transmitted? Should he be silent or defiant? The youngest Tracy son didn't have it in him to stay quiet when angry. Defiant he would be.

If only the transmission wasn't being beamed into almost every home around the world. There were things he wanted to say to his family that were not meant to be mass entertainment. Even a simple but heartfelt "I love you all" might be too large of a clue.

Hugging himself against the rush of cold that pimpled his skin and chilled his spine, Alan rode the wave of pain from his broken fingers and dealt with the ache in his abused skin and bruised, possibly broken, ribs. His swollen face burned like fire, the skin stretched until it hurt. At least the thin pallet of blankets kept him off the cold metal floor.

Five more minutes--he only had to hold on for five more minutes.

Initially, Alan wondered why Blake would bother to clean him up, treat his wounds, and dress him in clean clothing. After long thought, he decided the reasons didn't really matter. The positive result was two-fold--his last minutes would be spent in slightly more comfort and his family would be spared the sight of him in maximum extremis.

No, he thought. I will not give up. There's still a chance for rescue. John and Brains are even now ready to track the signal. I just have to stall--buy us all a little bit of time.

Where had Blake gone? After murdering his three accomplices, he'd adjusted his equipment and disappeared again.

Even as the thought entered Alan's mind, the door opened again. Blake stepped in, wrestling a high-back wooden chair into the room.

He dropped the chair next to Alan's pallet and said, "How would you like to greet your colleagues sitting up instead of lying down?"

"I'm . . . quite comfortable . . . down here . . . thanks a-anyway."

"No, no, I insist," Blake said in oily, false pleasantry. "You'll be so must more comfortable--and presentable--sitting in a chair."

"I'm not--merchandise--to be put on--display."

The smile never left Blake's lips but his eyes hardened in warning. "Yes, you are. Remember that or I'll be forced to remind you. A few swings of the lash ought to do it."

Blake reached down, caught Alan by the arms, and raised him bodily off the floor. In agony from the careless jostling, Alan grayed out. When he regained his senses, Blake had him propped up on the chair and was adjusting the overhead spotlights.

Blake stepped back and admired the effect of bright light and deep shadow. Proper presentation of the merchandise was, after all, a major part of a negotiation.

"It's time." Jeff looked across the room, to where Brains and Tin-Tin had set up their equipment. "Everyone ready?"

Brains nodded and said, "Ready."

Around the room, his family and friends waited--impatient, anxious, and expectant. Jeff Tracy closed his eyes, thought a prayer, and pressed the com switch.

"This is International Rescue. Are you receiving me?"

Alan Tracy absorbed the familiar, deep voice. It soaked into his skin like a soothing balm. Hearing it took away some of the pain, same as it had when as a child, the day he'd fallen out of a tree house and broken his arm.

As Jeff Tracy's voice filtered through the overhead speakers, Erasmus Blake smiled and said to his prisoner, "Ahhhh, right on time." The smile vanished, replaced by a hard glare. "Not one word but what I tell you to say. Is that understood?"

"I . . . I understand."

"I repeat. This is International Rescue. Are you receiving me?"

Blake donned his tan hood, stepped into position, and activated the video transmitter.

The television screen view of the pretty blonde anchorwoman for Instant World News vanished. The Tracy family found themselves once more staring at the tan-hooded figure of Alan's kidnapper.

"I hear you," the man said. "You know what I want, what I'm offering to trade, and what I'll do if I don't get it."

"It's not that simple," Jeff answered in the calmest possible voice. On the other side of the room, Brains and Tin-Tin huddled over their equipment, frantically starting the trace. "The plans are scattered around the world, hidden in various secret locations, including several bank vaults that won't open for hours. They can't be gathered together this quickly."

"I don't believe you."

"Our technology is far too dangerous to make it easily accessible to anyone, even ourselves. We hid it for exactly this reason, so we could not be blackmailed into handing them over without time to consider the matter carefully."

"And have you considered the matter 'carefully'? I could give you more time, you know. I can always keep boredom away by torturing your man a little more."

Jeff strained to see around the hooded kidnapper. All he could glimpse of his son was a bright halo of lighting, a single, manacled ankle, and stocking-covered foot.

"Let me see him. I want to know he's okay."

"Of course."

The man with the tan hood stepped out of camera range. Behind him, Alan leaned sideways in a chair, his face unrecognizable under the swelling and bruises. The angle and brightness of the lights accented his injuries, throwing them into harsh shadow. Bandages peeked from beneath his clothing. His son was conscious though obviously in great pain.

To Alan, he said, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, sir," Alan replied. "I--can't say I'm having much fun--but the floor show--seems to be over. For--a little while, at least."

"There, you see he's still alive." Blake moved to stand next to his hostage. "I know how quickly you can act when there's a rescue to be made. Consider this a rescue. Get me the technological plans for all of your machines. Transmit them to me within the hour or I will kill him. Slowly."

Alan struggled to sit straight. Through grit teeth, he said, "He's telling the truth. It can't be done--in less than 12 hours."

"Yes it can. And it will be. If they want you back alive."

Blake hovered over his prisoner, the gun pressed against his left temple. Anger percolated in his eyes, the only part of his captor's face that Alan could see. Blake's voice vibrated with barely suppressed impatience.

"Tell them what I'll do to you if they don't do exactly as I say."

Through swollen eyes, Alan met Blake's glare with one equally as determined. "They--already know. And it doesn't--matter. They can't--give you--what you want."

Blake backhanded Alan, almost knocking him off his seat. He swung back around to face the lens.

"Do I get your technology or not? Yes or no."

"We need time to gather it together." A trace of desperation edged Jeff's voice. "I have a counter offer for you. I can personally wire $10,000,000 to any account you specify. The World Bank ransom fund is over $27,000,000. That can be yours, as well, if you'll give us a little more time. Twenty-four hours."

Blake glowered at the camera. "I don't believe you. I think you're stalling, trying to buy time so you can trace my transmission. It won't work, I've made sure of that."

"We have every intention of doing as you ask," Jeff insisted. "We just need a little time."

The response came, not from Blake, but from his hostage. "No."

Blake stared at Alan Tracy, stunned by the rock-hard timbre of his voice.

"What did you say?"

"I said--no. Don't give him--what he wants. He's going to kill me--no matter what you do. The danger is--too great. No matter what he does, don't-give-in."

Blake forgot the transmitting camera and his worldwide audience. Ruled by anger, he tossed all caution to the wind. He rose to his feet and faced his defiant prisoner.

"Either they surrender their secrets or you die."

Alan struggled to sit straight, to better stare Blake directly in the eye. No fear clouded the astronaut's blue eyes, only a tranquil determination to face death with dignity.

"It's worth it . . . if I die--for something I believe in."

An insane rage blackened Blake's eyes. The whites disappeared under a red glare. No one ever told him no. Blake raised his weapon, snap aimed, and fired.

The impact caught Alan high on his chest. His expression more surprised than pained, he fell off the chair and onto his pallet. With a single shudder and a final sigh, he closed his eyes and stopped moving.

Blake ground his teeth and glared down at the results of his anger. Damn the boy to hell for making him lose his temper.

"No!" Jeff Tracy's cried through the speakers. In the background, other voices, male and female, rose in horror.

Blake turned back to the camera and growled, "I will get what I want. One way or another, I will have your secrets. Consider this your first payment."

Blake stormed out of the room, leaving the equipment--including the camera--in transmit mode.

CHAPTER 11: PHOENIX HOPE

Jeff Tracy sank into his chair behind the desk and stared in horror at the image on the screen. The entire family watched and prayed for some sign of movement--any hint of life--but saw none.

After a few moments, the image abruptly vanished, replaced by a return of the network signal. The switch caught the news anchor, Teresa Rawlins, completely off-guard, shock and dismay plain upon her face. An off-scene prompt brought her around.

With an emotional shiver in her contralto voice, she said, "Oh, folks. This is horrible. The worst has happened. I can hardly believe it. The young man from International Rescue has been murdered right before our very eyes. Let me be the first to express the outrage of the entire world against this horrendous and brutal act, and to express my deepest and most heart-felt condolences to his fellow members of International Rescue. We can only imagine the sorrow they face."

"Turn it off," Jeff whispered into his hands.

The image vanished, leaving a blank screen.

In the stretched silence, broken only by staggered harsh breathing and Grandma and Tin-Tin's broken sobs, Brains whispered, "We, er, we were able to trace the t-transmission. We can go-"

Raising his haggard face, Jeff faced his sons . . . his surviving sons . . . and said, "Scott. Virgil. Gordon. Get the coordinates from Brains. Take--" A shudder rocked his body. His chest felt tight, squeezed. "--take Thunderbird 2. Bring my son home."

Concerned for Jeff's unhealthy pallor, Virgil laid a hand on his shoulder. "Father?"

Jeff rallied long enough to pat Virgil's hand and reassure him with a brief glance. "I'm . . . I'll be fine, son."

"Go, Virgil," Kyrano reassured him. "I will look after your father."

Virgil nodded. He squeezed Jeff's shoulder a final time then joined his brothers.

Gordon still stared at the screen, as though not able to believe what he'd just seen. Scott got him moving with an arm around his shoulders and a gentle whisper.

As the three brothers vanished through the walls, Grandma moaned and rocked, and whispered, "Alan. Oh, please, no. Alan." The pain in his mother's voice drew Jeff out of his shock.

He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her to her feet. "Come on, Mother. Let's get you back to bed. You should rest while you can. The next few days . . . they're going to be hard for us all."

"I couldn't possibly rest, not after-" She waved a quivering hand toward the screen but refused to look that direction.

Jeff gently shushed her with a tender kiss to her forehead. "We'll get you something to help you sleep."

"This is a good idea," Kyrano whispered. "Come, daughter. We will rest as well."

Kyrano urged Tin-Tin to her feet. She fell against his side, hands clutching at him, her face buried in his mandarin collar. Moist tears quickly darkened the silk material. Her voice softly keened her beloved's name, and her legs threatened to refuse her weight. Kyrano, his own face wet with tears, wrapped his daughter in his arms and followed behind his friend.

Jeff paused in the doorway leading to the family wing and looked back toward Brains, bright moisture glistening in his eyes. "John needs to be with us. Brains, would you mind-"

"Of-of course not, Mr. Tracy. I'll go get him, er, right now."

"Thank you, Brains. For everything you've done."

Brains looked away, his eyes suspiciously bright. "I just wish it had been enough."

"It was." Jeff tried very hard to smile. Tears slid unnoticed down his cheeks. "Because of you, I know where to find my son. Many parents don't have even that small comfort."

On Thunderbird 5, John Tracy sat on the floor of the control room, his arms clenched tight across his chest, his legs stretched before him in an untidy sprawl--just as he'd landed when he'd seen his brother murdered. Eyes opened and unfocused, the droning noise from a dozen speakers passed unnoticed.

There, in the privacy of orbit, where no one could see, he hugged himself and wept.

Erasmus Blake stared through the curtains in his bunker. He snarled and watched as, seen through a veil of dirt and grass torn up by its landing retros, the gigantic green rescue craft settled onto the smooth plain outside the compound fence. The letters "TB2" were written on its tail rotor in white block letters.

A ladder descended from the cockpit area. Three men in blue uniforms, each with a different color sash, climbed down to the ground. The one in front had some sort of collapsible stretcher strapped to his back.

"Damn you, International Rescue!" Blake whispered.

After the last transmission, he'd been so disgusted with himself for having lost his temper, he'd spent the time since "Dorothy's" murder pacing and drinking. He'd yet to dispose of any evidence, especially the bodies. Hours--wasted!

His first impulse was to kill all three men for daring to find his favorite and most secretive hiding place. He'd been so careful to route his signal through an untraceable network. He'd even remembered to kill the power to end the transmission as soon as he left the building. He should have been safe. How had International Rescue found him!

His second impulse was a momentary one: perhaps these three could replace "Dorothy" as his collateral. With three hostages, the possibilities opened wide, and he'd already shown himself willing to sacrifice one or two.

Spying weapons both in their hands and strapped to their hips, Blake decided against any sort of effort to take the trio prisoner. He told himself the shiver of fear trotting up and down his spine was in fact wary caution. Rule number 3: protect yourself.

He switched off the safety of his rifle. Let them get what they came for and leave. The body was of no use to him anymore. If they came toward his bunker, he would be ready for them.

The three Tracy brothers stopped at the opening in the fence and stared at the horror before them. In the yard, two bodies sprawled next to a van, its rear and passenger side doors open. Insects dotted the air around the corpses.

Gordon shuddered and looked away. "Even The Hood was never this bad. What kind of madman are we up against?"

"The worst kind," Virgil replied. "One who doesn't care who or how many he kills."

"He's killed the last of us he's going to," Scott vowed. He firmed his grip on his rifle and carefully studied the compound. He pointed to the building with a transmitting tower beyond. "That looks like the place. Let's go. Stay alert. I don't think he'd be stupid enough to hang around after killing three people, but you never know."

The three brothers stepped up to the building and stopped. No one wanted to be the first through the door. Virgil in particular blanched and swayed. Scott rested an arm around his brother's back--was Virgil's head injury more serious than they thought?

"Virgil?"

"I don't think I can go in there," he whispered.

"You don't have to. Gordon and I-"

Gordon shook his head and took a half-step back, his own face faintly gray. "I don't think I can, either."

Scott's eyes flashed. "I'll bring him out by myself then!"

"Scott . . ."

The eldest brother sighed and hung his head. "Sorry, Virgil. It's just-"

"We know, Scott," Gordon said and hugged his brother. "We know."

Scott breathed deep through his nose, only to cough at the stench that rose from the bodies. They all recognized the smell, having seen their share of death during several horrendous rescues. But death from senseless violence--that was new.

With a final shudder, Scott Tracy reached out and opened the door.

The smell within the building was bad. Though different from the sour-sweet odor that hung over the yard, it held enough aroma of blood and other things to make the three gag and step back long enough for a breeze to draw some of the stink from the chamber.

A single shaft of light appeared in the dark room--a beam from the torch attached to Scott's forearm. The intense silver spotlight roamed the room, glistening off a dead camera lens, darkened monitors, and powerless control boards. Two more beams appeared. They saw a metal wall lined with rivets, a single overturned chair, a short length of chain--and Alan.

A tiny moan echoed in the room, though which of the brothers made the sound was unknown.

"Oh, God," Gordon breathed.

He knees gave way. He landed on the floor near his brother's feet. Scott and Virgil ranged themselves along the side.

"If it weren't for the bruises, he'd look like he was sleeping," Virgil said, his voice thick. "Like when he was a baby. Remember, Scott, how he would come into your room in the middle of the night and sleep curled up like a little squirrel at the foot of your bed?"

"Especially if there was a storm." Scott vividly recalled many such memories, each as sharp and cutting as a knife blade. "Let's . . . do what we came here to do. Let's take him home."

Scott gathered his brother into his arms. He felt so light, so insubstantial, like everything that gave weight to his spirit was gone. For the first time since the entire nightmare began, Scott Tracy allowed tears to fall.

Again, another soft moan, closer to a breath with sounds. Scott looked at Virgil, who looked at Gordon, who stared at Scott. Had they heard-

With a trembling hand, Scott rested his fingertips against Alan's throat and waited. After five breathless seconds, an electric charge shot through the eldest Tracy brother. His arms tightened around Alan and his face flooded with color.

"He's alive."

"Alive!"

"Virgil, get that stretcher ready. Gordon, get that damned chain off his ankle. We need to get him home. Now!"

A thin beam of light from Gordon's pocket laser sliced through the link of chain closest to the manacle. Virgil assembled the canvas and aluminum stretcher even as Scott wadded up his sash and pressed it down onto his brother's wound. By the time the stretcher was ready, the other two brothers stood ready to make the transfer.

"Easy," Virgil cautioned as Scott raised Alan's head and Gordon lifted his legs. "Easy!"

With Virgil steadying the middle, they quickly shifted Alan to the collapsible stretcher. Within seconds, they were out the door and on their way toward Thunderbird 2.

Racing ahead, Virgil hurried up the latter and, with a flick of a switch, activated the hydraulic legs that raised the fore and aft sections of Thunderbird 2, leaving behind the cargo pod. He hastily strapped himself in and readied the engines for takeoff.

Within two minutes, Scott's voice came over the internal speakers. "Okay, Virgil, we're aboard. Put her back together and let's get moving."

As the pod door closed and Thunderbird 2 reconnected its two sections, Gordon waved a hand toward the compound and asked, "What about-"

"We'll send for the police as soon as we're in the air," Scott answered, his hands busy trying to stem the loss of blood and install an IV line at the same time. "Those two aren't going anywhere. Virgil, call the island, let them know. Come on, move!" 

CHAPTER 12: CONDITION: EXTREME

 "Damn it," Scott snapped, "I can't find a vein. That bastard really did a number on him."

"BP still falling," Gordon said tensely, eyes on the LED screen fed by the ankle blood pressure monitor. They had been unable to use either the standard cuff or the wrist monitor because of the deep whip slashes and restraint cuts that marred the skin of Alan's upper wrists and arms.

Despite the substitution of a pressure bandage for Scott's sash as a means of controlling blood loss from the bullet wound, Alan's condition deteriorated rapidly. The sash, saturated with blood, lay on the floor in the corner, an ignored but not forgotten reminder of their youngest brother's precarious condition.

"There's nothing else for it -- we have to put in a central line," Scott said. "We've got to get his vitals stabilized."

Gordon grabbed a central line kit and tossed it to his brother. Scott took a deep breath and focused. This was way more than he would normally have done without a doctor present, but he had no choice. Alan's blood pressure was dangerously low. He had to get fluids into him to replace the traumatic loss of blood before it was too late.

While Scott worked to insert the central line catheter into Alan's subclavian vein, Gordon cut and peeled back sections of bandage on Alan's chest to attach cordless cardiac monitor leads. He winced as he caught a glimpse of the deep gashes and burns the whip and the cattle prod had left across his brother's skin. He felt a momentary wave of nausea as he remembered the ransom transmission, when Alan's kidnapper had used the prod on his brother to brutally reinforce his point. He tried to imagine Alan enduring that kind of vicious treatment for hours and hours on end. Then he tried not to imagine it.

"I'm in," Scott said at last, wiping the sweat out of his eyes with his uniform sleeve. "Hanging whole plasma and saline. Damn it, where's the O neg?"

"In the refrigerator. I'll get it."

Gordon flipped a switch. The leads he had just placed began to transmit heart rhythm, respiration, skin temperature, and skin hydration to a display screen inside the lid of the trauma case. A blood ox clamp to Alan's swollen fingertip marked his blood oxygenation level. Gordon frowned at the readings and grabbed a stethoscope from the trauma kit.

"Absent breath sounds on the left. Massive hemothorax."

"Hemorrhagic shock. He's bleeding into the chest." Just when you thought it couldn't possibly get any worse. Scott fought to subdue a moment of panic. Already the blood was everywhere. All over Alan, Gordon, himself -- dripping on to the floor. And now he was going to have to put in a chest tube or the pressure of the fluid leaking into his brother's chest cavity would stop his heart.

Dear God, he thought, would Alan survive yet another invasive procedure?

It didn't matter anyway. He definitely wasn't going to survive without it.

"We're out of our depth here," he said grimly, elbowing the communications switch on the wall while he grabbed a chest tube kit with the other hand. "Virgil -- Alan's sinking too quickly. We have to divert to the nearest trauma center."

"F.A.B." Scott could hear Virgil struggling to keep the fear out of his voice.

Monitor alarms shattered the tense atmosphere of Thunderbird 2's sick bay. "Scott. He's not breathing..."

Scott stared at the cardiac readings. "He's throwing PVCs."

His eyes met Gordon's, seeing his thoughts reflected there -- this was a nightmare, and they both wanted desperately to wake up now. Gordon shoved trembling hands into the moon-shaped, insulated mittens of the defibrillator gloves. "Ready."

"Charging to 300," Scott said.

"Clear!"

Alan's body arched under the current of the defibrillator gloves. Both brothers watched the heart output spike, shudder for a moment then scatter again.

"Again," Scott ordered. "Charging."

"Clear!" Gordon shocked his brother once more with the gloves. This time the display settled into an uneven but fairly consistent beat.

Scott ripped the covering off a syringe of epinephrine and injected a measured dose into the central line catheter. "The epi should hold him for a minute. I've got to get that chest tube in or we'll be doing this all over again."

"Scott . . . is he going to make it?"

Scott paused. He hadn't heard Gordon's voice sound like that--so small and scared--since he'd been a kid. "He's got to, Gordon," he said, staring down at the blood-soaked mess that still, by some miracle, contained the spirit of their youngest brother. "He's just got to."

"Base from Thunderbird 5."

How many times over the past years had John Tracy said those same four words? Hundreds, certainly. Yet never had he made the call while feeling such elation, such a lifting of his spirit. This time, he had good news for his family.

"Base from Thunderbird 5," he repeated. "Do you copy?"

"Base here." Jeff Tracy's image appeared on the monitor. The events of the past several days seemed to have aged John's father a firm ten years. Even Jeff's voice lacked its usual steel. "I read you, John."

"Father, I've heard from Virgil. Alan is alive." A choking noise issued from the speakers. Jeff sank into his chair. His mouth worked but emitted no further sound. "He's extremely critical, and Scott recommends diversion to a skilled trauma center, but he is alive."

"Alive. Dear God. Alive." A moment passed before Jeff's voice stiffened. "Contact Thunderbird 2. Have Virgil set a course for Houston, Texas. I'll contact the Chief of Staff for Colin Powell Trauma Center. Since the Terrorist War, that's the premier facility for torture and weapons injuries, and they'll have the security we need to protect both Alan and International Rescue."

"Will do, Father."

"Has Thunderbird 3 arrived yet?"

John studied the readings on a nearby panel. "He's in final docking maneuvers right now."

"Good. Both of you get down here as fast as you can."

Though the order gave John permission to do the very thing he most wanted, his professional side asked, "You want us to leave Thunderbird 5 unmanned?"

"I sincerely doubt the world expects us to respond to a disaster. Still, we can set the controls on automatic. If something should come up that we can't decline, we can respond from down here."

John shrugged and answered, "We'll turn right around and come straight to the island."

"Good. We'll wait for you. Hurry home, son. Base out."

Dr. Owen McCutcheon leaned against the staff room counter and enjoyed his first uninterrupted cup of coffee of the day. Maybe he could hide here for fifteen more minutes, at which point his vacation would officially begin. A quick dash to the parking lot and he would be gone, off for a well-deserved and long overdue four-day weekend with his family--himself, his wife, their two boys, a boat, and nothing but endless miles of Gulf water all around. Best of all, he would be well beyond pager range.

Between budget battles, staff conflicts, computer problems, a miscount in the narcotics cabinet on Twenty-one East, a misplaced (please God not stolen) ER crash cart, and a healthy gossip network currently teeming with outrage over the televised murder of the man from International Rescue, the Chief of Staff for the Colin Powell Trauma Center in Houston, Texas, actually found himself missing the days when was nothing more than a lowly ER trauma surgeon at the old St. Paul Hospital in Dallas.

Though the hours had been long and the pace grueling, he'd had fewer responsibilities in those early days--and a lot more hair. McCutcheon rubbed his exfoliated scalp and enjoyed the warmth that had transferred from the coffee mug to his palm. Had his hair fallen out naturally or had he pulled it out because of his job?

A soft tap against the closed door caught his attention.

"Sir?"

McCutcheon stifled a groan. No. No. No-no-no-no.

A chocolate-skinned face framed by glossy black and gold rope braids peered into the room. Half-moon reading glasses perched on the bridge of a button nose. Honey brown eyes scanned the chamber until they rested on him.

Lydia Ruth Caldwell peered around the edge of the door as though expecting to dodge a thrown object--perhaps a coffee cup. Not that McCutcheon would ever do such a thing. Still, his assistant's body language alone foretold disaster.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I have a gentleman on line 8-4-2-3. He won't give his name, but he insists it's an emergency and he has to talk to the Chief of Staff right away."

McCutcheon dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. Maybe it wasn't too late to get his old job back . . .

"Thank you, Lydee." He set the mug in the sink and moved over to the phone mounted on the break room wall next to the refrigerator. "I'll take it in here."

After a final daydream of running down the hall cackling like a monkey on meth, Dr. Owen McCutcheon pressed the blinking light beside line 8-4-2-3 and said, "McCutcheon."

"Dr. McCutcheon, thank you for taking my call," a deep, vibrant voice came over the line. By long experience, the trauma specialist caught an underlying thread of anxiety buried beneath the words.

"My pleasure. What can I do for you?"

"You don't know me, nor can I give you my name."

Wary of a sales pitch disguised as an emergency, McCutcheon said, "Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but-"

"Forgive me, Doctor. I'll explain as best I can. Time is precious. Not an instant can be wasted. I am in charge of International Rescue and I need your help."

"Don't go anywhere, Lydee."

Owen McCutcheon burst through the doors of his office, with its gold shaded carpet, mahogany paneled walls, and scenic overview of the gulf port city. His thunderous entrance startled his assistant, who was in the process of gathering her purse to head home.

On his way past her desk, headed for his interior office, the Chief of Staff said, "Get the Heads of Security, Nursing, and Radiology up here right away, and call the O.R. I want Security Theater One held on standby. Tell the scheduler I want surgical team Alpha scrubbed and prepped inside five minutes. Then call the lab. I want a chain of techs ready to draw and shuttle specimens the instant they're drawn. We'll need X-Ray and possibly the portable CT. And we should probably notify Houston P.D."

"The police!" The admin assistant froze, her arm arrested halfway through the shoulder strap of her black leather purse. "Notify them of what?"

McCutcheon hung his suit coat on a rack and shoved his arms into a white lab coat. "Colin Powell Trauma Center and its environs are about to become the center of the world."

"Coming up on Colin Powell Trauma Center, Scott," Virgil called. Far beyond the giant craft's forward view ports, visible from Thunderbird 2's great height, sunlight glittered off the Gulf of Mexico. Beneath them sprawled the megatropolis of Houston, Texas. "They've cleared the primary helicopter pad."

"Will that be big enough for Thunderbird 2?"

"It will be a squeeze, but I'll get her down. How's Alan?"

"Not good. We've had to defib him twice. His vital signs just won't stabilize."

"I see a full medical team standing by. Scott, as much as I want to stay, we can't leave Thunderbird 2 out in the open. As soon as you're out, I'll take her home and come back with Dad and the others. Keep us posted."

"F.A.B."

"Settling now."

Virgil set Thunderbird 2 down on the cement rectangle, the maneuver so smooth that his brothers had only the cutting of the landing retros to confirm their landing. Even as Scott and Gordon prepared Alan for transport, Virgil raised the fore and aft sections on their hydraulic legs and lowered the pod ramp.

The medical team, headed by an older, bald man with a nametag reading "O. McCutcheon MD PhD, Chief of Staff" pinned to his coat, rushed up the ramp.

"We've followed the situation on the television," Dr. McCutcheon told Scott before the eldest brother could even move to speak, "so we know something of what's wrong with your friend. What more can you tell us?"

"He had a massive hemothorax from the gunshot wound. We had to put in a large bore chest tube to relieve the pressure. We also put in a central line to give fluids. We couldn't find a vein anywhere. His skin is too-" Scott broke off momentarily. No. Don't think about that. "His vital signs are erratic -- last readings, BP 90/48, pulse 112, respirations 10 and shallow. We've defibbed times 2 and applied sterile and pressure bandages."

Dr. McCutcheon examined the patient and ordered, "Get him inside. Move, people!"

While the team from Colin Powell combined their equipment with that of International Rescue and transferred the patient to an antigrav gurney, Scott cast off the latex gloves and gathered up his rifle once more. He'd done all he could medically to keep his brother alive. The rest would be up to the professionals. From this point forward, he would stand guard.

He would make damn certain no bastard with a cattle prod or gun ever came close to Alan, ever again. A swift-taken glance showed Gordon standing on the other side of the great pod, also armed and ready.

The medical party hurried down the ramp, treating their patient even as they leveled out onto the helipad and trotted toward the hospital's emergency entrance. The blast from Thunderbird 2's jets drove them along at a full trot.

Even as Thunderbird 2 rose back into the air, one of the nurses hopped up on the running board of the antigrav gurney and rechecked Alan's vital signs.

"His BP's falling," she called out. "I've lost the pulse!"

CHAPTER 13: THE VIGIL

Rifle held at the ready, Gordon Tracy stood guard outside the emergency suite entrance. Beyond the closed doors, on the far side of the treatment area, Scott assumed a similar pose. Between them, doctors and nurses swarmed around the table like agitated insects, all focused on a single goal--to save Alan Tracy's life.

Thank God I can't hear what they're saying, Gordon thought. Just watching it makes me ill. God, how can Scott stand it?

The answer, apparently, was not very well. The eldest Tracy son's jaw was hard as granite, while his eyes . . . Gordon shivered. He had never seen Scott's eyes so hard or so bright. God have pity on anyone who threatened more harm to their family, because Scott had none to spare.

After a moment's thought, Gordon admitted, neither did he. The aquanaut deliberately turned his back to the high drama unfolding in the treatment room and concentrated on the task of standing guard.

The race across the tarmac would haunt Gordon's dreams for the rest of his life. A dozen people piled into the antigrav stretcher, burying Alan under their number. Doctors shouted orders to the nurses. One nurse monitored oxygen. Another administered medication. A third handed defib paddles to a doctor. At his shout, every person leapt clear while the doctor administered the charge. Before Alan stopped twitching, they had piled back on again.

An orderly scurried ahead to alert the interior teams. Another shoved the doors open. Throughout the choreographed drama, Scott and Gordon remained in position, weapons held ready.

To Scott, it still felt like a nightmare -- one of those really bad ones, where you woke up with your heart pounding and sweat pouring down your face, and it took hours to get rid of the disorienting feeling that you were half here and half somewhere else. The trip from Thunderbird Two to the trauma center had passed in the kind of slow motion people experienced in accidents, where every movement is highlighted. People's faces don't look quite real and sounds echo in an adrenaline-induced distortion.

The instant the gurney banged through the doors of the secure trauma center, a horde of people dressed in surgical scrubs converged on Alan like angry hornets. Everyone talked at once, grabbing for instruments as they headed toward the treatment room.

Dr. McCutcheon issuing the bullet. "Patient is in critical condition. Massive blood loss in the field, hang ten units of O neg. Halle, type and cross--wait a minute." He looked at Scott. "What's his blood type?"

"Uh--B negative," Scott responded automatically, eyes still on Alan as the medical personnel buzzed around him.

"Halle, you heard the man. And I need a C-spine and a portable head and chest. We can safely assume blunt trauma, possible broken ribs, chest tube in field. Marcie, call the graft lab, he's sustained first and second degree burns, severe abrasions, and lacerations over eighty percent of his body. We're going to need a ton of synthskin until we can clone what's left of his own."

Scott found it difficult to follow the hundred separate rapid-fire exchanges going on all around him.

McCutcheon's voice carried over the din. "Give me vitals."

"BP is still falling, 88 systolic. Pulse 122. Resp 15 and shallow."

"Okay, we need to get him hooked up and start transfusing."

"Heart rate's dropping. 115. 110."

"Give him 5cc's epi."

"Careful," McCutcheon scolded one of the nurses who swabbed clean a spot to start another IV. "His skin is in really bad shape, people, and he can't afford to lose any more blood."

An orderly near a wall-mounted phone called out, "ST-1 is ready. Alpha Team assembled and standing by."

"Okay, let's go--Go!"

The entourage moved as one. Between one blink and another, they moved from the treatment room into the corridor, headed for the nearest elevator. Gordon and Scott trotted to keep up with the rapidly moving gurney, riding with the medical team all the way to a surgical floor located ten levels below ground.

At a set of solid metal doors, already flanked with armed guards, Dr. McCutcheon pulled away from his patient long enough to block Scott and Gordon from passing beyond the Surgical Suite doors.

"This is as far as you can go," he said.

"The man who did this is still out there," Scott said. "We are not leaving him alone."

"You can't follow us into a sterile surgical theater," Dr. McCutcheon countered, "Especially not this one. Security Theater One is the most protected operating room on the face of the planet." Doubt still clouded Scott's eyes. The doctor added, "If the President himself came here for treatment, this is where he'd be. Your friend will be safe. After everything he's been through, I'll make damn certain of it. You have my word."

The brothers stared deep into the physician's eyes. Scott eyed the armed guards stationed outside the surgical suite. He gave a single, hard nod and backed away. The doors closed behind McCutcheon with a soft hiss of automatic air.

"Sir! Unidentified aircraft approaching from the southwest."

The captain in charge of the roof detachment shaded his eyes and stared upward. He wondered if it was them.

Soldiers knelt behind their body shields or hunkered inside an armored bunker. They disengaged the safeties from their rifles and braced themselves for the unknown arrivals.

The sleek blue-and-white, delta-winged jet streaked overhead. She banked to make a wide circle around the complex as her pilot scoped out the landing site. The jet completed her turn and swept gracefully back over the heliport, Her VTOL landing jets streaked fire as she settled to earth. The pilot cut the engines.

In the breathless silence that followed, the distant moan of a ship's horn sounded far out on the channel, a solemn and lonely sound. Dust and trash cast up by the VTOL's retros glittered in the bright lights of the landing pad like so many flakes of fairy dust.

The jet's doors opened. Two men stepped out. The rest of the passengers remained inside the vehicle. In front stood an older man, silver haired but still fit. Something about him sent a rod down the spine of every watching soldier. The second was younger, dark haired. Both wore a very familiar blue uniform, complete with cap.

The captain tapped the soldier in front and said, "Let them pass."

"Sir?" the Sergeant called back over his shoulder, though he never took either his eyes or his weapon from the debarked passengers.

The captain stared across at the younger man. Though he did not know the man's name, he well remembered the face of someone who had saved his life the year before, when his troop transport had gone down in a storm-battered rift valley, high in the Andes Mountains. This one had handled the lift equipment that had pulled the Captain and his team to safety.

"I recognize him." He radioed all the soldiers. "Stand down. Let them pass."

The captain secured his rifle and approached the new arrivals. By the time he crossed the roof, the other passengers had stepped down, among them an elderly woman complete with hat and shawl, a beautiful young Asian girl in a purple silk dress, and an Asian man in gold and black silk robes. The rest were Caucasian men of various ages and vastly differing descriptions.

The officer stepped up to the older man and presented a salute. "Captain Ryan Tyler, sir. Welcome to Colin Powell Trauma Center. If you'll follow me, we'll get you out of the way of any remote cameras. Someone will be up in a moment to guide you to a secure waiting area."

"Forgive me, Captain Tyler," the older man said even as he accepted the handshake that followed the salute, "but how do you know who we are? These uniforms could be fake."

Tyler looked to the younger man and said, "You saved my life last year."

The young man nodded. "The Andes rescue. I remember. Your man, the lieutenant--Granger? How is he?"

"Fully recovered and stationed in the Pentagon, sir."

"You're here! Finally!"

Gordon Tracy hurried onto the roof, grateful to find his family arrived and everything peaceful. He'd half feared to find them under fire from overzealous guards.

Jeff hurried toward his son, totally unmindful of the weapons that automatically rose at his sudden movement.

"How is he?"

"He just came out of surgery. They have him in the Surgical ICU. Doctor's not very optimistic but he's not doomsaying, either. It's mostly just a waiting game now."

"Take us to him."

Scott eyed the endless bank of monitors, scanners, and injectors that surrounded his brother's bed. Arms held tight across his chest, he said, "You want to know what I hate most about a bedside vigil in a surgical ICU?"

"Probably the same thing I do," Gordon replied from his place close to the room's only window. "The lights. Blinking, flashing, red, blue, green, yellow . . ."

"I can't stand the smells," John, seated on a hard plastic chair closer to the chamber's glass-walled inner door, sighed.

"Actually," Scott said, "it's the noise. Damn machines never shut up!"

Virgil laid his hand on Alan's sheet-covered shin, about the only part of his brother that wasn't swathed in bandages, sealed with stitches, or discolored with violent bruises.

"He shouldn't be here at all," he said.

Unsettled by the riot of emotions rocketing through his stomach, Gordon turned back to the window and stared across a sea of candles.

Beyond windows, pavement, and perimeter security, uniformed police officers and armed guards stood alert watch but the crowd offered no hint of threat or riot. People stood either singly or in small groups, most with blue candles in their hands. A soft murmur of sound carried through an otherwise still night, prayers and soft songs. Even the never-ending sigh of distant traffic felt somehow muted.

The crowd gathered in vast numbers. Only the roadways themselves were empty. The gathering covered every sidewalk, parkway, and swath of grass. It snaked around corners and occupied the rooftops of every building visible from Alan's ICU room window.

Gordon eyed the massive crowd and asked, "Where did they come from?"

"A better question might be," Scott countered, "will they stay out there or try to get in?"

Jeff laid a hand on his sons' shoulders. "They've been there long enough. If they'd wanted to do something, they'd have done it by now."

"Here. Use this."

Brains stepped forward and thrust forward a device the size of a book, with a raised hinged lid. Startled, Virgil accepted the machine and immediately noticed its ability to magnify distant objects onto a crystal display screen in vivid detail.

"There's Captain Hanson." Virgil pointed toward a tall, blond figure on the screen. "Remember, he commanded the Fireflash."

"And there," Scott, studying the image over his brother's shoulder, indicated another person. "Isn't that Rick O'Shea? I bet he recognized Alan as the one who saved him when his satellite was crippled."

Virgil shared his brother's smirk. "And gave him that beaut of a black eye."

"Many of them are people you have rescued," Tin-Tin said. Her hand restlessly stroked the tiny strip of Alan's hair that escaped the bandages. "They are here to show their support."

"It's humbling," John said, "to know so many people are praying. For us."

"With this much love, support, and prayer," Jeff said, "Alan has to make it."

A soft footfall and a brief clearing of a throat drew everyone's attention to the door. Dr. Owen McCutcheon studied the overfull room and reluctantly said, "I'm sorry, but you all can't be in here at the same time. The nurses have no room to work, and it really does him no good. He's in a level one coma, unresponsive to stimuli."

"People in comas still know people are there," Jeff said.

"True enough. One, at most two at a time, can stay," the doctor said. "The rest of you can use the waiting suite complete with showers and bunk beds just down the hall. You can stay with him in shifts if you like, but as I said, no more than two at a time."

Jeff studied his family. "Tin-Tin, John. You have first shift. Brains and I will relieve you in a few hours. The rest of you, clean up and get some rest."

"There is one thing." Dr. McCutcheon's words halted the reluctant exodus from the room. "I understand your need for secrecy, believe me I do. It's a large part of my own job. And I'm not asking for any detailed information. As this young man's doctor, however, it's important that I know about his medical history--his injuries or illnesses, allergies and the like. And there is the matter of medical permissions for any procedures we might have to perform. Can any of you--"

Jeff Tracy stared at his family a long moment before he answered. "I can do both. I'm his father."

"Thank you. Would you come to my office? It shouldn't take long."

Tin-Tin resumed her seat and began whispering to Alan. John nodded agreement to Scott's request to be kept posted on their brother's condition. The others quietly filed out of the room. Scott, Virgil, and Gordon, in particular, left with great reluctance.

The Tracy family patriarch laid his hand on Scott's and Gordon's shoulders, and favored Virgil with a warm smile. "You've worked very hard. Whatever small chance Alan has is due in large part to you, and I am so very proud of you all."

CHAPTER 14: THE FINAL WITNESS

"Damn! Damn, damn, DAMN IT TO HELL!"

Glass shattered against the wall next to the wide-screen television, showering the box, its cabinet, and the snowy white plush carpet with a thousand tiny, glittering shards. The gold and white wallpaper ripped, and a fist-sized dent appeared in the wall behind.

Erasmus Blake glared at the screen, unable to believe his eyes.

"This is Ned Cook with WNN news, with the latest on the situation involving the kidnap, torture, and shooting of a member of International Rescue. As many of you know, I myself owe my life to the nameless, dedicated men of International Rescue."

The reporter looked down at a sheet of paper in his left hand. "Dr. Owen McCutcheon, Chief of Staff for Colin Powell Trauma Center and the surgeon in charge of the young man's care, has released a statement. He lists the man from International Rescue to be in critical condition."

Blake waved his fist at the television. "He can't be alive. Damn it, I shot him! He should be DEAD!"

Ned Cook's next words only added fuel to Blake's icy rage. "Currently in a coma, his prognosis is, at best, guarded. Dr. McCutcheon goes on to state that the next 48 hours will be crucial. If the man from International Rescue can survive that long, his chances can only improve."

"I can't let him live. He's seen my face. He knows my name! One way or another, I have to make sure he dies!"

Blake paced in tight circles as Ned Cook's report droned on. Behind the reporter stood thousands of people, each and every one with a blue candle in hand.

"The crowd. I'll use the crowd. Use them to distract the guards. I'll get in, and I'll finish what I started."

Blake turned off the TV using the remote control then threw the black remote against the wall. Before the final piece of ruined plastic, wire, and circuitry disappeared into the carpet, he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Roused from sleep by nightmares, Jeff Tracy rolled out of his bottom bunk and gave up trying to rest. After a fast wash in the bathroom, he stepped beyond the curtained sleeping area and into a small kitchenette. The scent of strong black coffee hung heavy in the air. In the distance, he heard only the faintest echoes of hospital activity--the bing of elevators, the clatter of metal carts, and the indistinguishable murmur of voices.

Virgil, Gordon, and Brains sat at the small oval table, hands wrapped around steaming cups of coffee. Scott had just finished pouring a cup that he passed to his father. A tray of pastries sat on the table. Gordon and Brains had plates before them but only picked at the rolls and buns.

Jeff inhaled the bitter-smooth scent. "Thank you, son." After a bracing swallow of the hot liquid, he asked, "Any news?"

"On Alan, no change," Scott reported. "But something interesting has come up. Don't know what to make of it yet."

"Well, let's hear it."

"I've heard from the lab teams who examined the place where that bastard son-of-a-bitch kept Alan." Jeff turned toward his eldest and scowled his displeasure. In response, Scott made a sharp gesture in the general direction of the ICU. "What else would you call someone who could do something like that!"

"I can think of several names," Jeff admitted, "but I'd rather spend my energy worrying about Alan. What did the lab teams say?"

"They found the two bodies we saw in the yard and signs where a third man was wounded."

Jeff tensed. "But no third body?"

"Nothing. The lab team found evidence of a dirt bike in the back of the van but it wasn't there when the police arrived. There's a good chance whoever-it-was escaped on it at some point."

Brains asked, "Could it have been the man from--uh--the transmission? The one who hurt Alan?"

Standing hip-shot next to the serving counter, Scott took a sip of coffee from his "Don't Mess With Texas" mug and shook his head. "More likely it was the third man from the kidnapping. The beast who tortured and shot Alan probably tried to eliminate any possible witnesses to his part in the whole thing."

Gordon gave up any pretense of trying to eat. He pushed his plate away and leaned back until the vinyl chair back squeaked in protest.

"The World Bank reward probably had something to do with that," he said.

Virgil nodded his agreement and added, "But one of them got away."

"Any fingerprints? Any evidence that could, er, i-identify either the missing man or-or the guy in the tan hood?"

"Nothing," Scott answered. His expression turned exceptionally grim. "By the time the police got there, every building had burned to the ground."

"What!" Four voices rose.

"You mean he was there the whole time?" Virgil gasped. "He watched us carry Alan out?"

"We had our chance to catch the son-of-a-bitch," Scott glared at his father, daring him to object to the language, "and we messed it up."

"You had more important matters to tend to, son," Jeff said.

"He's right, Scott," Virgil said. "I want to catch the man responsible just as much as you do, but given the choice between catching Tan Hood and saving Alan, I choose Alan."

"Yeah, yeah," Scott sighed. "I agree. It's just . . . so damned frustrating . . . to know we were this close to him and missed! And now he's still out there. Thanks to the news media, if he doesn't already know Alan survived, he soon will. He'll come after him again. If Alan saw his face, he won't have a choice."

"We'll catch him, Scott," Jeff vowed; his voice throbbed with conviction. "He won't get near my son, ever again."

Scott tried to match his father's optimism. Failing, he set his cup into the sink and said, "I'm going to see if the doctor has any news."

"Scott-"

His eldest slipped out of the room without another word.

CHAPTER 15: TRACY VENGEANCE

Man cannot live on coffee alone, but Dr. McCutcheon was certainly going to try.

Thankfully, the pandemonium he'd feared had not materialized. Yes, a huge crowd had gathered outside the secure boundaries of the facility--far more in fact than even he had expected--but they were remarkably well behaved. According to reports from the soldiers stationed along the perimeter, the Houston police had very little to do. The crowd policed itself.

Watchful members of the crowd foiled a dozen attempts to penetrate the facility. Every effort was made not to block entries or exits, and they obeyed every request made by either the police or the military guards.

Still, no one intended to relax until the monster responsible for kidnapping and torturing his patient was captured.

Wearing an intern's olive green smock and trousers beneath a white lab coat embroidered with his false name, Erasmus Blake picked up an electronic data slate and activated the screen. Pretending to study a patient's records, he tuned into every scrap of conversation around the nurse's station. Humans, being gregarious and talkative by nature, especially when in small groups, could not resist discussing the hospital's star patient.

His own genius got him inside, disguised as a new intern. Remarkable what a lot of money and a fake ID can do. Once I've done what I've come to do, I'll have to write my congressman and express my outrage at the lax security.

Gossip would tell him where to find "Dorothy." His own skill would get him out again undetected.

After five minutes of listening to inane, irrelevant babble, he finally heard the snippet of information he wanted.

"I hear they're going to move that guy from International Rescue out of the secure wing today," a male intern, with buzz-cut red hair, said to a pretty blonde nurse.

"I wish they'd let us meet him," the nurse sighed. "It would be something to tell the family."

"What, that you've seen a guy in a stage one coma? Like we don't see that every day," a nurse with brunette curls and turquoise teardrop earrings said. "I'll wait until he wakes up and can talk straight then I'll get his autograph. Imagine what I could get for it on CelebNet!"

A second intern poked into the conversation. "I still think McCutcheon's wrong to move him out, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"C'mon, Rachel. Haven't you heard? They still haven't caught the guy who did it. McCutcheon's so sure about general security. Except for the patrols around the fence and on the roof, he isn't adding anything special for this guy."

"Yeah, like the bastard who did this has the balls to just stroll into a high-security military hospital like the Powell and say 'Can someone show me where to find my victim?'" Buzz-cut snorted. "I don't think so."

"I still think he's wrong. When it comes to security, you can never be too careful."

Erasmus silently agreed, even as another part cheered this "McCutcheon's" overconfidence.

A flash of blue caught Blake's eye. Two men dressed in the distinctive uniforms and caps of International Rescue stepped into the area, filled their mugs with coffee, and sat at a small table in front of the refreshment station.

Data slate still in hand, Blake abandoned the conversation at the nurse's station. He eased himself closer and listened in on the new discussion.

The man on the right was the pilot he'd knocked out at the start of his kidnapping plot. A gauze square taped to his forehead confirmed it. The second man was older, but Blake easily remembered the voice.

Yes! Two of them together, talking, and one of them the leader of the organization. My luck is holding.

"The missing man, the wounded one?" The younger man held his cup on the tabletop, hands trembling and knuckles white around the undecorated glaze. "He showed up at a police station in Kansas City. He's offered information in exchange for medical treatment, protection, and immunity from prosecution. Kansas City PD has promised to copy us on whatever information they get, including photos."

"Good," the older man said, his own voice heavy with strain and no small amount of satisfaction. "It should only be a matter of hours before we know the identity of Tan Hood."

Blake held down a shiver. The stakes had risen even higher. After he finished with "Dorothy," he'd have to make a trip to Kansas City. He fought the urge to sigh and shake his head. How had he left so many loose ends? None of his other operations had ever been so sloppy, a point to watch in future.

"We'd better get back. They're going to be moving him in a few minutes," the older man said. "I want to be there."

Blake slipped into their shadow, following at a fair and safe distance. He tried very hard not to smile. Let someone else walk in and ask for directions to his victim. All Erasmus Blake had to do was follow the men from International Rescue. They would lead him straight to his target.

Blake stayed with the two men down a long corridor and around numerous twisting turns. He even dared take the same elevator, again staying close without treading directly on their heels.

The two men stopped at a nurse's station manned by a single Oriental nurse and one doctor.

"He's already in the room now," the doctor reported to the two newcomers. He gestured toward the only closed door along the corridor. "The nurses have him settled. Why don't you take a break, grab something to eat? I'll let you know if his condition changes."

While the doctor held the IR men's attention, Blake eased up to the closed door and pressed against the portal. Inside, a single bed held a figure draped in sheets and blankets. Tall pieces of electronic monitoring equipment blocked his view of the patient's face until he'd stepped all the way inside. A single chair sat beside the bed, empty.

Erasmus Blake grinned down on his former hostage and whispered, "Hello, Dorothy."

Bandages encircled almost every visible inch of the young man's skin, including nearly all of his face. Limp blond hair on the pillow, however, was proof enough. Tubes snaked from beneath the sheets into receptacles for either drainage or urine. Four IV poles encircled the bed like a metal forest bearing plastic bags for fruit.

Blake had toyed with a dozen ideas before settling on his preferred method. While firing a bullet into "Dorothy's" brain might be the most pleasant scenario, Erasmus did have his own well-being to consider. The instant "Dorothy's" condition changed, alarms would sound. Blake had to be well clear before anyone responded.

He pulled a single latex glove from a wall-mounted box and slipped it on his right hand. With the protected hand, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a capped and filled 100cc syringe.

An injection of potassium into the IV tubing would serve him as well as a bullet. By the time the alarms went off and an autopsy discovered the truth, Blake would be continents away.

Erasmus Blake emptied the hypodermic's contents into the tubing. He smothered an urge to laugh. Again, his superior intelligence and advance strategy would carry him to the top.

While he might prefer to stay and confirm his success, Blake elected instead to escape. He disposed of the syringe into a nearby biohazard container, slipped the latex glove into his pocket--it would never do to leave fingerprints on the inside of the material for the police to find--and stepped out of the room.

"That's far enough, Tan Hood." The voice of IR's leader growled. "We've seen all we need to see."

Blake spun around. The "medical personnel" along the corridor faced him--each and every one aimed a loaded weapon at his heart. Additional armed guards, all in military uniforms, appeared out of the other, supposedly unoccupied, rooms.

In the corner at ceiling level, a small camera whirred and tracked his every move.

"Did you really think you could walk in here and not be noticed?" The IR leader said. His voice throbbed with barely restrained emotions. "We knew your plans five minutes after you offered your first bribe."

"NO!"

Blake threw himself to the right even as he pulled a .45 automatic from the waistband of his pants. He fired a trio of wild shots down the corridor. While his enemies scrambled for cover, he ran in the opposite direction.

He had to get to an exit. From there, he could get outside, blend with the crowd, and vanish.

He ran for the nearest stairway. Having expected no resistance, he instead collided with a metal fire door that refused to open. Frantic for a way out, Blake raced for the closest room door.

Judging by the few pieces of marine photos and paraphernalia scattered around the otherwise Spartan room, the chamber probably belonged to a member of the senior military staff. Blake grabbed up a chair and struck the window, intending to break a glass and jump to safety. Repeated blows failed to break the shatterproof glass.

Erasmus Blake's mind raced. He dared not allow himself to be cornered and he could not exit by way of a window. He threw the chair against the wall, grabbed up his gun, and raced back out the door.

A tall blond man stepped around the corner, cutting off Blake's escape. Blake slid to a clumsy stop. His jaw fell in dismay. The resemblance between this man and his victim was uncanny--the same hair, the same eyes, the same defiant glare, the same build and bearing.

Bandages encircled his arms and showed beneath a partially buttoned shirt. Blake's mind confused the two. For a fractured instant, he saw "Dorothy."

"You! But--I shot you! Twice! A bullet--the potassium! You should be dead!"

Fire flashed in the blond's ice blue eyes. A fist filled Blake's vision. The blow caught him dead center on the nose.

Erasmus Blake never heard the crack of breaking bones. His gun flew from his hand to clatter across the tile floor. He hit the wall and slid to the floor in an untidy, unconscious heap.

Virgil shouldered his rifle, stared at the man who had caused their family so much misery, and said, "Nice one, John."

John Tracy rubbed the sting from his knuckles with a handkerchief, along with blood from the man's shattered nose. The brother who alternated Thunderbird 3 and 5 duties with Alan, who had selflessly volunteered to act as decoy in his injured brother's place, looked down on Blake with righteous satisfaction.

"Definitely a pleasure."

Military guards bound Erasmus Blake and moved him into a secure holding facility to await legal proceedings. Armed with their own weapons and guarded by four alert guards, the Tracy family gathered around. Tin-Tin, Kryano, and Brains were with Alan, safely hidden two floors away.

Blake awoke to find five hard-faced men in IR uniforms standing before him in a half-circle.

"No. It should have worked," Blake moaned through his broken nose and cheek. "I had it all planned!"

Scott stood on the far right, his fists clenched at his side. He glowered down on Blake and said, "You really didn't think we'd let you get within a mile of him again, did you?"

"I was so careful. Thought of everything, down to the last detail! How did you know? How did you know me?"

Jeff Tracy opened a folder. He removed a dozen photos and fanned them out. On top rested one of the surviving hireling, safely in Kansas City police custody. Blake recognized another face, that of the man to whom he had paid an exorbitant bribe for the identity papers and scan cards necessary to enter the Colin Powell Trauma Center. Other pictures showed Blake in various situations, including images taken by surveillance cameras in and around the hospital.

"This is the most secure medical facility on earth, after all."

CHAPTER 16: DAWN

"If this were a movie," Scott leaned his elbows on the table, cradled his head in his cupped hands, and sighed, "Alan would have awakened five minutes after we had Blake in handcuffs."

"Unfortunately," Jeff Tracy said, "this is all too real."

Four days had passed since Erasmus Blake's arrest. Since then, the IR team sat round-the-clock vigil with Alan. The digital clock on the wall read 7:30 in the morning. Scott and John were due to relieve Virgil and Gordon at 8:00.

"Judge Abrams denied bail for Blake," John said as he filled a small plate from the warming salvers set up on a sideboard by the hospital's kitchen staff.

"I expected that," Jeff replied as he handed a full cup of coffee to his mother then moved to fill two breakfast plates. "Any judge who allowed a man with Erasmus Blake's access to money and history of violence to get out on bail would be committing professional suicide."

Seated in a small reading area on the other side of the room, Tin-Tin shivered, tucked her legs beneath her, and pulled her teal-colored terry robe closer around her shoulders. Brains and Kyrano flanked her and each gave her reassuring hugs.

From her place at the table across from Scott, Grandma huffed and said, "Well, I for one am glad he's staying in jail. If they let him go, I'd be sorely tempted to kill him with my own two hands." Jeff set a full plate before her, to which she said, "Thank you, son. Now sit yourself down and eat your own breakfast before it gets cold." As soon as he complied, Grandma returned to her original topic. "Not a very Christian thought, I admit, but given the circumstances, I think God would understand."

Scott squeezed the bridge of his nose to pinch off the start of a headache. "Ned Cook reported on yesterday's show, Blake is having a lot of trouble finding a lawyer. No one wants to take his case. It's starting to look like some poor schmuck of a public defender's going to get the rotten apple tossed in his lap."

"I don't envy his lawyer, whoever it is," John added from where he leaned against the counter beside the sink. "Seating an impartial jury is going to be nearly impossible."

"There will be a trial?" Tin-Tin asked, surprised.

Jeff nodded. "Blake has said he plans to plead innocent, so yes, Tin-Tin. There will be a trial. Considering the amount of evidence stacked against him, that seems rather stupid, but it is his right under the law."

"Keeping our identities secret is going to be tricky," Scott commented.

"International Rescue has engaged Fred Tabor to petition Judge Abrams to waive declaration of our identities, so long as we can find three people who can identify Alan as a member of International Rescue. Not by name, but simply as 'the man who saved my life.' I don't know how that will stand up if Blake appeals, but it buys us a little time to think of something better."

"Tabor's a fantastic attorney," John replied. "I remember how he won the case against Ruben Pharmaceuticals. He estimated their shoddy testing and eventual cover-up of Velmorin's liver-destroying side effects resulted in as many as 100 transplants and 700 deaths. I watched the trial while on duty up in Thunderbird 5. Brilliant piece of legal work."

"We're going to need the very best. Tabor will have his hands full with this one, that's for sure," Jeff said. "Not only is Blake facing assault, attempted murder, and capital murder charges, but the government is preparing to charge him with kidnapping, as well as everything they can for trespassing onto the Colin Powell Trauma Center--a federal facility. There's already a bit of argument going on about who's getting first crack at him."

Scott scrubbed his whiskered jaw. The rough, rasping sound filled the small room. "God, what a tangled mess."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better," Jeff warned, "but we'll get through it together. As a family."

<><><>

Unable to take another moment staring at the multitude of solid and flashing lights on the forest of electronic equipment that surrounded his brother's bed, Gordon Tracy moved over to the window and watched dawn rise over the megatropolis of Houston. The crowd had remained at their vigil, their ranks growing with each passing day.

The previous afternoon, Gordon overheard two of the nurses discussing the situation. Every hotel for ten miles in every direction was filled to capacity, some people sharing rooms in shifts. The Houston Police Department estimated the total size of the crowd at any given time to be somewhere around 10,000, with attendees alternating with friends and acquaintances to keep the gathering at the hospital down to a manageable size. In all, some 30,000 people kept an orderly vigil for his brother.

Local vendors and restaurants opened their doors and larders to the well-wishers, some even going so far as to set up small concession areas at various points around the hospital.

During his time serving in the WASP, Gordon Tracy had seen many dark things, many instances where men and women did unspeakable things to one another. Alan's ordeal was only one of many such memories. Considering how uncaring and unfeeling mankind could be at times, the unwavering goodwill borne from Alan's horror made Gordon sit back and see humanity in a more positive light.

A chair creaked. "You okay over there, Gordo?"

"Yeah, Virgil. Just watching the crowd and thinking."

"What about?"

"About no matter how harsh mankind can sometimes be, there's still hope for goodness in this world."

Virgil yawned and stretched. Disks in his spine realigned, clicking like Spanish castanets. "Amen to that."

Gordon turned away from the window and returned to his own chair on the other side of the bed. "Lady Penelope called last night."

"I'm surprised she's not over here."

"She wanted to come," Gordon reported, "but Father said not to. Considering she's already a well-known friend of the Tracy family, he didn't think it would be safe for her to become linked to International Rescue, as well."

Knuckles tapped on the doorframe. Virgil and Gordon looked up as Scott and John stepped into the room.

"Shift change," Scott said.

John jerked a thumb toward the door at their backs. "Breakfast is laid out back in the rooms."

Virgil overplayed his surprise, saying, "You mean Scott actually left us some food?"

As he rose from his chair, Gordon looked at his brothers. He noticed once more how haggard they looked, despite meticulous hygiene. Even with hair combed, faces shaved, and IR uniforms clean and creased, all of them still looked wilted and worn. Dark circles under every eye marked days of high alert and poor sleep. Heaviness surrounded all four brothers as anxiety pressed down on their shoulders.

A soft sound from the direction of the bed caught their attention. The four Tracy boys looked at one another. They hurried to their brother's side.

Scott stroked Alan's hair away from is face, desperate for any sign of regaining consciousness. The others ranged around the bed, all finding some unbandaged place to touch their youngest brother.

"Alan?"

Seconds passed. No response.

"Alan?" Virgil called. "Brother, can you hear us?"

They waited. Nothing.

Gordon slumped, his hip hooked on the edge of the bed, flush against Alan's left leg. "Guess it was just wishful thinking."

Two seconds later, with a barked yip, Gordon leaped off the bed and swung back around.

"What's wrong with you?" Scott groused.

"He moved! His leg, I felt it move!"

"Alan?" All four men renewed their calls. This time, they would not stop until they got a response. "Alan? Boy, can you hear me? Come on, Alan. Wake up. You can do it. I know you can."

"Alan? It's Virgil. Come on, little brother. Wake up for us. It's safe now. You're safe. We're here for you."

"Hey, Alan," John said. "I heard you were having a bit of trouble so I decided to touch ground again just for you. Can you wake up for me?"

"Yo, Al!" Gordon called. "Can you move your leg again? Let us know you're awake? Alan, move your leg."

All four brothers watched, breaths held tight in their chests, until the covers over Alan Tracy's left foot twitched.

"Yes!" Scott cheered loud enough to bring the duty nurse running.

<><><>

Three nurses and an intern hurried to the roof where they unfurled a large paper sign with two words stenciled in bright blue letters:

"He's awake!"

The crowd cheered. People cried and hugged one another--family, friends, and strangers embracing with joy.

EPILOGUE

"Finally! I didn't think this day would ever get here!"

"Ready to go home, are you, son?"

"Yes, sir!"

Alan Tracy begrudgingly allowing Virgil to help him into a pair of gray sweatpants. The task done, he sat back down on the edge of his bed. After two weeks, the bruises had faded to orange-yellow smudges and the swelling was almost gone. The more minor of his wounds were little more than pink scars that required daily oil rubs to keep the itch from driving him insane. Synthskin grew over the deeper cuts and burns. According to his doctors, even the scars would fade away in a few months.

Only the worst of it--the gunshot wound and the broken bones--remained. With his chest swathed in thick bandages and both hands, including every broken finger, locked into braces, he could do absolutely nothing for himself. Broken ribs added to his debility.

As he watched, Scott and Virgil made a game of putting socks and sneakers on his feet, one of the few areas on his body that remained free of injury or scars.

"No, no, Scott. You put the sock on first then the shoe."

"I thought it was the other way around."

"Which explains why Grandma is always complaining about how dirty you get your socks."

"It certainly does. Okay, Mr. Expert. What next?"

"You hold the sock like this. See that cuppy area there? It goes under his heel--and the part with the seam--yes, that one--goes over his toe. Okay, Now that you have the sock on--nice job, by the way--you put on the shoe."

"I think I can do this part without help."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Virgil, I'm sure."

"You know, Scott, I could have sworn Alan was old enough by now to do this for himself. I mean, he is old enough to fly a rocket ship. Has a driver's license and everything. Stands to reason he should be able to tie his own shoes."

"He's still recovering. We'll cut him some slack."

"This time. And Scott? You wrap the shoelace the other direction."

"Do not."

"Do too."

Alan shook his head and let them go about it. He'd put up with any indignity, any amount of teasing, if it would get him out of the hospital and on his way home again.

"It won't be long, son. The U.S.N. Sentinel is out in the Gulf of Mexico. They let us land Thunderbird 2 on her deck. Gordon is there, standing guard. We'll take you by helijet out to the battleship. A few minutes after that, you'll be on your way home."

Grandma stalked forward, a thick-bristled hairbrush held like a sword ready for use. Virgil and Scott parted for her like water before a ship's bow.

"You're not going out in public looking like that, young man."

"Yeah, Alan." Scott hid a grin behind false concern. "Bad case of bedhead you have going there."

"Gee, Scott." Alan glowered at his eldest brother. The effect was lost when Grandma parted his hair and spritzed hairspray on the blond curls to keep them in place. "I wonder how that happened."

"Haven't a clue."

"Don't you listen to their teasing, Alan my lad," Grandma Tracy crooned. "Just you think about Gordon waiting for you out there on that navy ship. Think about Tin-Tin, Brains, Lady Penelope, and Parker back home, getting your rooms all ready, and about Kirano preparing the most scrumptious welcome home feast you've ever tasted. Oh, I do wish John hadn't decided to go back up to the space station. It would have been nice to have all five of you boys home for once."

"He had to go, Mother," Jeff said. "The world has been quite patient with International Rescue, but we're still needed. The people have supported us through this crisis. It's only right that we live up to our obligations."

"I still say we've earned a rest, don't you?"

"We have rested, Grandma," Scott hugged her, mindful as always of his greater strength and her age-frail body. "It was time we got back to work."

"What's that noise?" Alan asked as he looked toward the window. "Sounds like...cheering?"

Jeff smiled and shrugged. "Some of the nurses probably flashed another update from the roof."

"Bet you didn't know you had a fan club, did you?"

Scott grinned and ruffled his brother's freshly ordered blond hair. By the time he finished, it looked worse than it had before Grandma's brush attack. Grandma gave her eldest grandson a harsh glare and set Alan's hair to rights once more.

Not trusting the mischievous light in his brothers' eyes, Alan Tracy moved to the window to see for himself. He hugged the IV pole tight to his side, to help him maintain balance as much as to bring it along.

He stared out at the crowd. While it had thinned considerably over the intervening weeks, a respectable gathering of some 5,000 people still remained.

"They're all here...for me?"

"For you," Jeff said, "and for us. The world appreciates International Rescue. This is their way of showing it."

Using Brains' magnifying viewer, held in place for him by Virgil, Alan studied some of the faces, grinning as he recognized some from rescues performed over the years. He was just about to return the device to his brother when one face, glimpsed for only an instant, leaped out at him.

Alan yelled, threw up his bandaged arms, and stumbled away from the window, his already pale skin lightening four shades. The viewing machine, knocked from Virgil's grip, fell to the floor with a sharp chitter of distressed electronics. It bounced twice and slid beneath a chair.

Jeff leaped to Alan's side. "Son, what is it?"

Alan shook hard enough to set the bag of IV antibiotics swinging wildly on its pole. He abandoned his hold on the metal stand and turned into his father's protecting embrace.

"Blake. I saw--he--there, in the crowd-"

Jeff hugged his injured son as tightly as he dared, careful of the remaining tubes and wires.

"No, son. He's in jail awaiting trial. The judge denied bail, remember? Erasmus Blake will never come near you again. I swear to that."

Alan clung to the assurances as tightly as he did his father's arms. He was safe inside the circle of his family and on his way home, protected by the anonymity that surrounded International Rescue and sheltered by love. Soon, an entire ocean would surround him. Blake would never find him on Tracy Island.

His family, those who loved him most, bustled around the room, gathering the last of the items he'd acquired over the previous two weeks. Get well cards from around the world had flooded the hospital mail room to the point where the staff had to bring in outside help to assist with the overflow. Select ones were displayed around his room, a new batch every day. Flowers and potted plants, baskets and balloons fought the cards for space.

He stood there, safe in his father's arms, and thought, I am safe. The torment is over. I stayed strong, and I'm safe.

If he repeated it constantly, a mantra inside his head, he might someday believe it.