CELEBRATION CHALLENGE by PURUPUSS RATED FRC

IR is preparing to celebrate an anniversary, but must deal with some challenges before the party can start. You, the reader, are also faced with a challenge. How well do you know your Thunderbirds? Are you up to the challenge? Answers to follow...

Prologue

The 30th September 1965, was a red-letter day in the annuals of television. It was the date that Thunderbirds was first broadcast to the viewing public.

In order to mark 40 years since this historic event I, with Quiller's help, have written the following story. In it I have tried to incorporate references to each television episode, the two Supermarionation movies, and even the 2004 live action movie. My challenge to you is to try and find these references. But be warned, while some are obvious, (perhaps a direct mention of the events and scenarios), others are more subtle (a character may do something that was done by another character in an episode, or mention an individual or place), and some are downright obscure. Sometimes, both intentionally and unintentionally there are two or more references to one show. And there are also a few bonus references of things not directly related to the TV episodes or movies.

Scoring: Score two points for every episode or movie reference. Score one point for every bonus reference. For instance, should someone make the comment that something was 'minty', you would know that that reference came from the episode 'Ricochet' and score two points.

Quiller and I are curious as to how you get on, so rather than leaving your answers as reviews (though we'd still like reviews), send your answers through to here.

And so the challenge begins...

How well do you (and I) know our Thunderbirds?

Most of the people, places and machines mentioned in this story do not belong to me; more's the pity. I thank those who own them (currently Granada), for allowing me to 'play' with them, and I thank those who originally created them for giving us all 40 years of wonderful escapism and a fantastically stimulating hobby. I would also like to thank Quiller for her assistance, Thunderbirds knowledge, and proof reading skills.

Enjoy.    ~Purupuss

Here is the list of episodes and the three movies for your reference:

Trapped In The Sky
Pit Of Peril
City Of Fire
Sunprobe
The Uninvited
The Mighty Atom
Vault Of Death
Operation Crash Dive
Move And You're Dead
Martian Invasion
Brink Of Disaster
The Perils Of Penelope
Terror In New York City
End Of The Road
Day Of Disaster
Edge Of Impact
Desperate Intruder
30 Minutes After Noon
The Impostors
The Man From M.I.5
Cry Wolf
Danger At Ocean Deep
The Duchess Assignment
Attack Of The Alligators
The Cham Cham
Security Hazard
Atlantic Inferno
Path Of Destruction
Alias Mr. Hackenbacker
Lord Parker's 'Oliday
Ricochet
Give Or Take A Million
Thunderbirds are Go
Thunderbird Six
Thunderbirds 2004

Are you ready for the challenge?

This chapter starts with a really obvious reference, but be warned some are much harder. See if you can score all 21 points available in this chapter.

Now let the fun begin...

Plans and Actions

The setting sun was colouring the Pacific Ocean a brilliant orange.

As he ticked off another day on his calendar, Jeff Tracy's eye caught the date. It was hard to believe that in a week's time International Rescue would have been fully operational for five years.

Five years! As he looked back over those years, even he was amazed by what his family and friends had achieved. They'd created a top-secret organisation with equipment admired by many and craved by a few. And then, almost five years ago, they'd launched themselves onto an unsuspecting world and saved the Fireflash on its maiden flight.

Since then International Rescue had rescued hundreds of people from disasters that the regular services had been unable to cope with. There had been failures too, but these had been few and far between.

Jeff felt a sense of pride growing within him.

A harsh piano chord brought him back down to earth. Virgil was getting some sheet music out from under the piano stool and had inadvertently leant on the keyboard. He looked over at his dad. "Sorry, Father," he said, as he settled down at the piano.

"You're back from Mateo Island early. How's the Mark II coming along, Son?" As he asked the question, Jeff thought he detected a slight hardening of Virgil's jaw.

The young man's reply was abrupt. "Fine. Only cosmetic stuff and some programming to do," and then, to his father's surprise, Virgil stood, left the piano, and disappeared outside.

Jeff had no time to ponder his son's actions as his oldest boy entered the room.

"Have you seen Virgil?" Scott asked. "I wanted to check something with him before he started practising."

"He sat down at the piano and then, without playing anything, headed outside."

Surprised, Scott looked at his father. "Without playing anything?"

"Yes," Jeff's bemused expression was a mirror image of his son's. "He sat down... I asked him about the Mark II... he said it was fine... and left!"

"Ah!" Understanding passed over Scott's face.

"What!"

"It was the Mark II bit that did it."

"Did what? Scott! Is there something I should know about?"

Scott looked at his father thoughtfully. "Something you should know about? Probably not. I'll go talk to him."

Jeff watched another of his sons leave the house and wondered what he'd done wrong...

Scott found Virgil on the beach skimming stones over the darkening waters. He watched as his brother spun one out over the Pacific Ocean. It skipped five times before sinking beneath the surface. "Not bad, but you haven't bettered my record."

Virgil turned. "I didn't see you there."

"I didn't think you did. I thought you were going to have a practise. What's happened? Lose the piano?"

Virgil didn't laugh as he threw another stone and watched it sink without trace. "No. I didn't feel like playing."

"That's not like you."

"So! Aren't I allowed do something different occasionally?" Virgil asked sharply, and then checked himself. "Sorry, Scott."

"That's okay." Scott thought for a moment, trying to decide on the best way for broaching what was obviously a touchy subject. "So... Virg... Looking forward to flying the Mark II?"

"I guess," Virgil mumbled.

"Not going to be the same as Thunderbird Two though is it?"

"No," Virgil admitted. "Not even close." He sat down on the golden sands and looked at the pebbles in his hands.

Scott joined him. "Give it time. You'll grow to know her just as well as you do the Mark I. After all, there's not a lot of difference between the two."

"I hope so."

"Of course you will. Before you know it, you'll be so tuned in to her you'll forget you're flying another 'plane. And you'll wonder what you were concerned about."

Five years wasn't old for an aeroplane, but Thunderbird Two wasn't an ordinary 'plane. She was the workhorse of the International Rescue fleet. She had been involved in nearly every rescue and had performed almost flawlessly in every one. She had flown thousands of miles in environments that would have knocked most other craft out of the sky. She had taken a battering and kept on going.

Her very design, while one of her strengths, was also one of her flaws. The detachable pods meant that the wings and side supports had to withstand greater forces than it was reasonable to expect. The hydraulic legs too, placed great strains on perhaps the weakest parts of the 'plane. That Thunderbird Two had lasted five years was a testament to her design and construction. Brains had been the principal designer, but Virgil had had a large input too. He'd fully utilised his Denver School of Advanced Technology training in dreaming up what Thunderbird Two would do and how they would achieve it.

Now Jeff had decided that it was time to retire the old Thunderbird Two and build a new one. The new one was to be, to all intents and purposes, the same as the old, but made with new and improved materials and with additional features.

At first Virgil had been excited by the prospect. This time he had a better idea of what the new craft should and would be capable of. Technology had moved on in five years, and he had five years under his belt learning Thunderbird Two's idiosyncrasies and devising how to improve on them. It was only now, within days of launching the new and improved Thunderbird Two, that he was beginning to feel doubts.

"What if I can't fly the Mark II as well as Thunderbird Two? I rely as much on the sound and feel of things as on the instrumentation. You're probably the same. It's what makes us so good at flying our craft. What if I can't tune in like that with the Mark II?"

"It's almost as if she's talking to you, isn't it?"

Virgil looked at his brother unable to believe how astute he'd been. "Yeah. Talking to me. Yes, Scott, that's it exactly." He paused. "How'd you know?"

"I guessed... and I guess I'm the same. If we were replacing Thunderbird One, I'd feel pretty cut up about it too. But remember; you'll 'tune into' the Mark II. It'll take time, but you will. It took you a while to get used to flying the Mark I. I remember having to replant a couple of palms, just because you got too close to the edge of the runway."

Virgil gave a slight smile at the memory. "At least I never set fire to the diving board!" Then he became serious. "But this time I won't have the time to get used to her. We could be straight off on a rescue as soon as she's been launched. And another thing, Thunderbird Two's looked after me. Even that time when I was shot down by the Sentinel, she got me home, more or less in one piece. I don't know how, I think she flew herself."

"I remember," Scott reflected. "I felt so helpless. All I could do was watch and keep yelling for you to pull out of that dive."

"Yeah. I remember that. I remember thinking 'what do you think I'm trying to do!' Partially wishing that you'd shut up, but at the same time being glad that you were there."

Scott leant back on his arms and gazed out over the Pacific Ocean. "Yeah, I was glad she was built so strong that day."

Virgil traced a pattern in the sand. "And here we are launching the new one on our fifth anniversary... I know it sounds silly, Scott, but I feel as if I'm betraying Thunderbird Two. We should be celebrating what she has achieved, not putting her on the scrapheap!"

"I understand," Scott acknowledged simply.

"Do you?" Virgil looked at Scott for any signs that his big brother was laughing at him. There were none. "You do, don't you?"

"I wish I could help. You know that for purely safety reasons Thunderbird Two has got to be replaced..."

"I know."

"...and that there'll be so many improvements to the new one, that you'll wonder how you managed to get along with out them."

"I know. I helped design them."

"Then keep thinking of those positives. You know what they say – time heals all wounds."

"I know," Virgil repeated again and sighed. "It'll be all right, won't it? It'll just be a matter of getting used to it."

"That's right."

Virgil grimaced. "I'm worrying about nothing, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't say nothing," Scott cautioned. "Just unnecessarily. You'll be all right. You both will." He took a stone from Virgil's hand, stood, and skimmed it out across the Pacific's waters. It bounced seven times and disappeared. "Too much chop."

Virgil dropped the last of his stones on the beach and rubbed his hands on his trousers. "I guess I'd better get back to my practise." He stood and started walking away from the water's edge.

"Virgil..."

Virgil turned back to his brother. "Yes?"

"When the time comes that we replace Thunderbird One, will you come and give me this pep talk?"

Virgil managed a laugh. "Sure! I'll start practicing now. What were the clichés again?"

Scott pretended to count them down off his fingers. "Time heals all wounds... Keep thinking of the positives... You'll wonder how you managed to get along without the improvements..."

There was a shout from the balcony. It was Gordon. Always boisterous; he rarely saw the need to use their wristwatch communicators if a yell would do it. "Hey, Fellas! We've got a call out."

Scott slapped Virgil lightly on the arm. "There you go. One last chance to fly her."

"Yes!" Virgil's face lit up as he ran back to the house.

Jeff was in conversation with Alan up in Thunderbird Five. "... And there's no other way of getting to them...? Hang on, Virgil! Hadn't you better find out what you're up against?"

Virgil pulled up short. In his excitement at the thought of flying Thunderbird Two one last time he already had his back to the painting of the spaceship. "Sorry, Father," he said, and looked at Scott, who winked back.

"You're up to the Arctic, Boys. There's a research sub gone down under the ice. It's lost power and there's three men on board. You'll need the arctic recovery gear and Thunderbird Four. John and Gordon, you go with Virgil. Scott, you'd better get up there and keep us appraised of the conditions."

"F-A-B, Father." Scott went to his section of the wall, grasped the twin lamps and rotated out of sight.

"Okay, Virgil, get going..." but his third son was already sliding off the painting and down the chute to his Thunderbird. Jeff shook his head in bemusement. 'He's keen today.'

"Are you comfortable, Parker?"

"Yes M'lady. H-I must say these seats are most comfy."

"Did you have any problems with FAB1?"

"A cop was nosin' round. Said 'e was checking the tax discs," Parker said huffily. "H-I told the young scallywag to learn 'is road code. H-I 'ad great pleasure in reminding 'im that cars of that year are not required to pay tax. H-I quite took the wind out of 'is sails," he finished in satisfaction.

Lady Penelope regarded her loyal butler fondly. Dressed in striped blazer, cream flannel trousers and with the ensemble topped by a straw boater, he'd made an effort to blend in with the other passengers in the Fireflash's first class cabin. He'd failed miserably, but, Lady Penelope mused, at least he wasn't wearing the gaudy outfit he'd chosen when he was on holiday in Monte Bianco. She didn't think her eyes could have withstood two hours of looking at that bright orange floral shirt.

"H-It was most kind of Mr Tracy to stand me the tickets," Parker was saying. "H-It's not often that I get to travel with the nobs... 'Scuse me," he added in horror, frightened that he'd caused offence. "Excepting you of course, M'lady. Not that you're a nob. You're diff'rent. You're a lady like..."

"It's all right, Parker. Just relax and enjoy yourself. This is meant to be a treat for us both." Lady Penelope picked up the pamphlet and began perusing it, giving her travelling companion the opportunity to compose himself.

'Fireflash,' the brochure began. 'Now, as at the time of her launch, is regarded as a state of the art technological marvel. Her speed and comfort is without peer in the world of public transport.'

Lady Penelope skipped over many of the self-congratulatory paragraphs, stopping only when two words caught her eye. She began reading again at the beginning of the paragraph.

'The Fireflash has had its share of setbacks, each of which has added to the mystic of this fabled craft. The most notable and well publicised being the dramatic events surrounding her maiden flight five years ago. As has been thoroughly documented in other publications, a bomb had been placed in the Fireflash's undercarriage, thereby preventing the lowering of the landing gear. If it were not for the heroic actions of International Rescue, the plane would have exploded, or her passengers and crew would have succumbed to radiation poisoning.'

Lady Penelope mused that if the author of this particular missive was trying to be positive about the craft, he was failing miserably.

'Later events, such the sabotaging of subsequent models of Fireflash, have ensured that the current security measures are the most stringent in the world. Each passenger, each vehicle, each piece of luggage, and the aeroplane itself, is checked and re-checked many times by many means. It is now virtually impossible for a craft of the Fireflash fleet to be targeted by those who wish her harm.

'The radiation shield has been boosted so that now not only can the atomic engines allow the Fireflash to remain airborne for six months, but there is also no danger of radiation poisoning to the craft's occupants. By choosing to travel on the Fireflash airliner you have chosen to fly on the safest, most reliable aircraft in the world's skies.'

Lady Penelope lowered the brochure and placed it back on the table in front of her. She disliked self-congratulation in the press. She looked at Parker who was pretending to be engrossed in the latest issue of 'The Times' and reflected that in a short time they would both be in the presence of aeroplanes that truly deserved the title of 'the safest, most reliable aircraft in the world's skies'. She smiled a little smile at her secret knowledge and looked past Parker to where a thickset man, with astonishingly bushy eyebrows and moustache, appeared to be regarding her from above his newspaper. Lady Penelope broadened her smile slightly and nodded in a gesture of acknowledgement.

The man hastily raised his paper again...

Virgil slid down the chute and into the cockpit of Thunderbird Two. The controls of his craft were laid out before him, as familiar as old friends. He caressed the control yoke briefly before selecting Pod Four and then leaving his seat to get changed. He completed this task in near record time and was waiting impatiently when his two brothers arrived.

"One last trip, huh, Virg?" John said as he buckled up.

"Yep," Virgil acknowledged briefly, before concentrating on steering Thunderbird Two out of its hangar and down the palm lined airstrip. In reality he could have done this with his eyes closed, but he was determined to make the most of this last trip. And he wasn't about to mark the end of Thunderbird Two's life by shearing off a couple more palms.

They reached the end of the runway and felt their centre of gravity change as Thunderbird Two's nose was tilted skywards. One final check of the radar and they were powering up into the darkening sky. Virgil felt the vibrations and listened to the sounds that his ship produced. It WAS almost as if Thunderbird Two was talking to him; he knew what each and every sound meant. And it meant that all was well.

They levelled off at a safe height and began cruising at a speed of just under 5000mph.

"How's the Mark II coming on, Virg?" Gordon asked innocently.

"Fine," was the short answer.

"Are you writing a piece of music for the celebration?" John asked.

"Yep."

"How's it coming?"

"Fine."

John and Gordon looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Deciding that Virgil was not going to be very communicative on this trip, they began to talk to each other instead.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Please fasten your seatbelts," a female voice intoned. "We will shortly be landing in Los Angles Airport."

Parker wrestled with his restraint briefly before hearing the satisfying click as it slid home. "Nearly there, M'lady."

"Quite so, Parker. I wonder who Jeff will send to meet us?"

"Didn't 'e mention h-it to you?"

"No. I suppose it depends on, ah... events and who he can spare."

"Yes, M'lady. 'Ave you decided on what you are going to do while in Los Angeles?"

"I was thinking of visiting Carole Hampton."

"The 'Ollywood actress, M'lady?"

"The same. She lives in a Hollywood villa that makes Creighton-ward mansion look positively poky in comparison."

"H-I read 'ere," Parker indicated his reading material. He'd discarded 'The Times' and had eventually settled down to read a glossy magazine that had been handed to him to the Flight Attendant. "That she 'ad taken up with Mr Chip Harrison."

"Is that the man voted the third most eligible bachelor in the world?"

"The second, M'lady," Parker corrected gently. "But it sounds like 'e's gonna lose that status."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope mused. "I wonder if Mr Harrison is aware that when Carole left England she suffered from prominent teeth, extreme myopia, and a lisp? Not to mention a rather large," she glanced at her travelling companion as she said this, "er, nose."

"H-I always see that as a sign of character," Parker said with dignity.

"Quite," Lady Penelope agreed. "Carole has worked very hard to make it to the top of her profession, helped in no small part by an inheritance from her father. She and I got up to little bit of mischief while we were at boarding school."

"H-Indeed, Madam," Parker grinned. "H-And, 'scuse me askin', but what mischief would that be?"

"Never you mind, Parker," Lady Penelope scolded him gently, but with a certain degree of affection. "Suffice it to say that the Headmistress never did discover who wrote several, ah, shall we say, 'unladylike' words on the lawn in fertiliser. By the time it became apparent that some mischief making had occurred, it was summer and we had finished for the term."

They'd been flying for well over an hour when Scott reported in. "It's a howling gale and the snow's falling horizontally. The temperature's about 40 degrees Celsius below zero. We've got 'white out' conditions, Fellas."

"Gee, and I forgot my sun block and swimsuit," Gordon quipped.

"There's already an access hole in the ice that you can utilise, Gordon," Scott told him. "It's a little small for Thunderbird Four at the moment though. We'll have to enlarge it."

"By how much, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"Not much. Couple of metres should do it."

"Or one burst of the VTOL jets," Virgil said in satisfaction.

Through the video screen he saw his brother grin. "You got it!"

"Better make sure the rest of the research team are standing well back then. Don't want to barbeque them as well."

"F-A-B."

John and Gordon grinned at each other. It looked like Virgil was finally starting to relax.

They arrived at the rescue zone and discovered that, as usual, Scott had been 100 correct. With the white out conditions it was nearly impossible to see out the windows and Virgil came in low relying totally on Thunderbird Two's sophisticated scanning equipment.

John strained to see anything outside. The scene was blank – a white canvas waiting to be drawn on. "This is weird. I can't see the horizon, or the sky, or the ground, or anything! If it wasn't for Thunderbird Two's instruments, and gravity, we wouldn't know which way was up. How far are we off the ground?"

"About ten metres," Virgil was concentrating on his controls. Gordon had already headed down into Pod Four to ready Thunderbird Four.

"Whew – that's close. Are you sure we're in the right place?" John asked.

"You want to pop out and double check?" Virgil queried, his eyebrow raised in merriment.

John looked back out into the eerie whiteness. "Ah, no thanks."

"Thunderbird Two. Good to see you – so to speak," Scott greeted them.

"Are you actually out there, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"I'll bet you've nipped home to get warm and left us to do the dirty work," John added.

"I'm 350 metres to your right, as you well know. Have you got a reading on the access hole?"

"F-A-B," Virgil was suddenly all business. "Do we know how thick the ice is?"

"Would you believe three metres?"

"Three metres! I'll give it a 10 second burst with the VTOL jets and then get another reading."

"F-A-B. Good luck, Virgil."

With pinpoint accuracy Virgil lined up the great craft so that the right front Vertical Take Off and Landing jet was positioned over the edge of the hole that was their only access to the frigid waters below. "John will keep an eye on the timer. I'll control the jets."

John was already in front of the scanner, the readouts telling him their position relative to the hole. "Ready when you are," he stated.

"Right!" As Virgil activated the VTOL jets and a burst of superheated flame shot out of Thunderbird Two's undercarriage, he briefly remembered previous times when the jets had been a hindrance, rather than a help. Such as the time they had to rescue Eddie Houseman from the side of that mountain. If it hadn't been for some slick flying on Scott's part, Eddie would have been a gonna for sure. That problem had been rectified with the Mark II. But then would he be able to complete the operation he was undertaking now with the Mark II?

"Ten Seconds!" John stated.

Virgil shut down the rockets. "How's it look?"

John was squinting into the scanner. "The diameter's right, but it's not deep enough."

"How far are we through?" Virgil asked.

"About 2 metres."

"We'll go another five metres lower."

John looked at Virgil. He had to admire his coolness. "You sure? We'll only be five metres off the ground."

"That'll be plenty." The great craft inched its way closer to the ice below.

"How's it going, Fellas?" Gordon had finished his preparations and was waiting impatiently at the controls of Thunderbird Four.

"The hole in the ice still isn't big enough for Thunderbird Four," John told him. "Just chill out until we're ready for you."

"Chill out! It'll be chilly enough when I get down there!"

"Ready, John?" Virgil asked.

"Ready!"

"Start countdown – now!"

"Five – Four – Three – Two - One – Shutdown!" John checked the scanner again. "Perfect! Scott could fly Thunderbird One through there!"

"I'd like to see you suggest that to him!" Virgil chuckled. "Okay, Gordon, we're coming in to land. Are you ready?"

"I've been ready the last ten minutes."

It was another minute before Virgil had safely landed Thunderbird Two and the great craft had risen up onto her hydraulic legs, revealing Pod Four. Not that anyone could see it in the blinding snow – most of which seemed, to Gordon, to be joining him in the pod.

He launched himself, and Thunderbird Four, into the Arctic Ocean. It was pitch black and he switched on his halogen lights and dove deeper, searching out the research sub's last known position. As he peered into the gloom he remembered something. "Hey, Virgil."

"Yes, Gordon?"

"Can you shut the pod's door, please? I don't want to come back to a refrigerator."

"Already done. The wind's getting stronger, so we've lowered back down to reduce the resistance. Two's still rocking a bit though."

"Okay, I'm starting a search pattern."

John and Virgil were watching Gordon's progress on the radar. "How deep are they supposed to be?" John asked...

Back on Thunderbird One, Scott was watching the wind gauge. He gave a long low whistle. "250km/hour. I'm not going to be able to hang about here much longer," he muttered. Even as he spoke a particularly vicious gust of wind sent Thunderbird One rocking violently. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One!"

He heard Virgil's voice reply. "Thunderbird Two. What's up, Scott?"

"The wind! If it gets any stronger I'll be rolling around the Arctic Circle. I'm going to take off and gain some altitude. I SHOULD be able to reduce the wind resistance that way."

"F-A-B. Be careful."

Deep beneath the ice pack, Gordon had managed to locate the research submarine. A quick circuit confirmed that there appeared to be no external damage to the sub. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two. Visually the sub appears to be in one piece. I'm going to scan for cracks now. If there's none I'll use the magnetic grabs and bring her to the surface."

"Understood," Virgil replied. "Any sign of the crew?"

"Negative. The sub's totally blacked out. I can't see inside. The fresh water from the ice is mixing with the sea water and making things pretty murky."

"If they haven't got power, what would their oxygen levels be, Gordon?" John asked.

"I don't know. It would depend on so many things. How the oxygen tanks operate. What the level of damage is, where it is, how many of the crew are still..." Gordon didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to. John and Virgil both knew what he was thinking.

"How about decompression?" Virgil asked. "How fast are you going to be able to get her back up here?"

"That depends too... Okay, guys, I've finished scanning. No sign of any degradation of the hull. Before we move the sub I'm going to try to contact the crew."

As Gordon lined up his own submarine so that it was facing the windows of the research sub, John once more opened the communication lines. "What's the temperature like down there?"

"Warmer than where you are. At least the water isn't frozen!"

John and Virgil looked out of Thunderbird Two's windows. Gordon was right. Up here on the frozen pack ice there was no liquid water, only snow and ice.

Gordon double-checked his position and then pressed a button on the console.

A probe extended from above Thunderbird Four's light trough. It made contact with the research vessel, effectively turning the hull of the stricken craft into a giant sounding board. Gordon made sure the setting was at its lowest and then spoke into a microphone. "This is International Rescue. We are here to help you. Can you hear me?"

He waited.

He turned the volume up a notch. "Arctic Research Submarine Three. This is International Rescue. Do you read me? Say something and I'll hear you."

Still no response.

"Anything, Gordon?" Virgil asked through the intercom.

"No," Gordon sounded deflated. "No! Wait a moment! Something's moved"

It was like a distant recording. "...R-R-Roy. C-can you hear something?"

"W-What..."

Gordon turned the volume up slightly. "This is International Rescue. I can hear what you are saying. Are you all right?"

"Inter-na-tional Res-cue?" The voice sounded thick with sleep, and Gordon was concerned about what was causing that reaction. But then, as if he'd been jolted awake the voice came through clearer, alive with excitement. "International Rescue! We can hear you... Hurry! The oxygen's getting low."

"Is anyone injured?" Gordon asked.

"Ben's got what feels to be a broken arm. Frank took a crack to the head but hasn't lost consciousness. We all have a few bumps and bruises. But the oxygen levels are dropping fast."

"What's your compression reading?" Gordon was aware that time was of the essence, but needed to know if a rapid ascent would cause more problems than it would solve.

"I-I'll get the torch." The voice was thickening again. Oxygen deprivation coupled with carbon dioxide poisoning would soon be a major problem.

It seemed an age before there was a response. "C'mon", Gordon muttered under his breath. "Find that blasted flashlight."

"S-So hot." He heard a man say.

"D-Don't talk," someone else said.

"Gordon?" John's voice, sounding so loud and strong, made him jump.

"Yes, John?"

"What's the situation?"

"They're all alive, but running out of oxygen quickly. I'm trying to ascertain their compression reading, but they have to find a flashlight to read the meter." Gordon looked at his watch. "If I don't hear from them in one minute I'm going to have to start raising them and pray that..."

"F-Found the torch," he heard.

"I'll get back to you, John. Arctic Research Submarine Three! What's your compression reading?" as he spoke Gordon mentally ran through the sequence of events that he'd have to undertake to get the sub to the surface.

The man managed to gasp out, "S-Sea lev..." before Gordon heard a thump.

"Time for action," Gordon said, his voice being transmitted both to Thunderbird Two and down the probe to the stricken Arctic Research Submarine Three. "I'm withdrawing communications now..." Once the probe had retracted he had no way of knowing the situation of the crew. "Extending grabs..." Two magnetic arms were extended from the front of Thunderbird Four and made fast on the research sub. "Adjusting buoyancy... Rising now!"

Initially he lifted away from the seabed with care, ensuring that his craft had a good grip on its charge. As he gained confidence that the research submarine was going to neither fall apart nor fall away, he increased speed.

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Four."

"Thunderbird Two. Go ahead, Gordon," Virgil replied.

"Injuries – one possible broken arm, one possible head injury – no K.O. Oxygen levels low and I think the crew may have passed out from oxygen deprivation. Compression reading was given as 'sea level', but the man passed out when giving that reading so we can't guarantee it."

"Gordon," Scott joined in the conversation. "I want Thunderbird Two to take the sub and head straight for the nearest decompression chamber. She'll get there in two minutes. I've alerted the facility and given Virgil the co-ordinates. We won't waste time with check-ups. The medical crew at the naval base can take care of that."

"What about the oxygen situation, Scott. We don't know how long they've been without..."

"I know it's an issue, Gordon. But by the time we've got it landed, opened the sub and got oxygen masks onto them, it would have taken longer than if Thunderbird Two were to head straight to the naval base. And that's without the concerns of the cold, snow and decompression. It means you're going to have to hang about here until Virgil can get back though."

"Will you need the pod, Virgil?"

"No. I'll leave it for you, Gordon, but I won't open the door until I'm leaving. We'll try to keep some of this snow out."

"Thanks. What's the weather like up there?"

"Worse!"

"Great!" Gordon said unenthusiastically "Hurry back."

Thunderbird Four had reached the hole in the ice that was their link to the outside world. Virgil and John had periodically given it a blast with the VTOL jets to ensure that it would still be big enough for both subs.

Gordon reactivated the intercom. "We're ready for the grabs."

"Okay – I'm lowering them now," John informed him.

From beneath the nose of Thunderbird Two descended a set of grabs, large enough to cradle Thunderbird Four and which would easily carry the smaller research sub. They broke through a thin layer of ice that formed over the hole and passed into the murky waters below.

Just below the ice Gordon, in Thunderbird Four, waited. When the grabs opened he carefully raised the research sub so that four claws surrounded it. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two. In position."

John confirmed this by checking sensors on the grabs and then activated them. They gently closed around the helpless submarine and Gordon moved Thunderbird Four back to a safe distance. "Okay, Virgil. Lift away."

Thunderbird Two started rising up into the air. Hanging beneath was Arctic Research Submarine Three – ice crystals forming on its exterior. John tried to adjust the monitor that would normally have given them the visual display of the grabs and their cargo, but the screen remained blank. "Can't see a thing, Virgil," he said. "But, we're carrying some extra weight, so we'll have to assume that it's the sub and not a polar bear."

Virgil gave a tight grin. "That'd give the scientists something to think about. They're expecting a submarine and three injured crewmen and instead we present them with a very angry bear." John laughed as Virgil activated the switch that reopened the door to pod four. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four. Pod Four awaits you."

"Thanks, Guys." Under the ice, Gordon swung Thunderbird Four around so that she was lined up with the ramp leading through the frigid waters from Pod Four. Setting the controls so that they would automatically send his submarine up into the pod, he completed the manoeuvre. A burst of air from the pod sent a snowdrift back outside, while the ramp retracted from the water and the pod door closed behind him.

Cut off from the outside weather, the sound of the wind dropped and the inside temperature rose. Soon it was warm enough for Gordon to climb out of Thunderbird Four and begin the task of checking his craft and cleaning her down.

They'd made it through Customs and Parker was arranging to retrieve FAB1 from the Fireflash, when Lady Penelope's personal phone rang. She answered it. "Hello, Jeff!"

"Hello, Penny. I was checking your flight on the Internet when I saw you'd already landed."

"Indeed we have. It is such a marvellous craft, and so quick."

"Any problems with Customs?"

"None at all. They were perfect gentlemen."

Jeff chuckled. "If they knew you better they wouldn't be."

Lady Penelope feigned ignorance. "Why, Jeff! I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Jeff laughed again. "You know exactly what I mean, Penny."

"How are the boys?"

"That's why I rang. They're on a job at the moment and won't be able to pick you up for some time. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. I have an old friend I wish to call on and I know Parker wanted to do some shopping. He was moaning that autumn in Britain is not the time to purchase clothing suitable for a tropical island. Also I have one or two items I should like to purchase myself. And I would imagine that when..." Lady Penelope looked around her at the crowded airport lounge, "...the boys come home, they would prefer not to have to come and collect us. We will find somewhere in Los Angeles to stay tonight."

"You're welcome to stay in my Malibu house. I'll give Maxwell a head's up so he can have everything prepared."

"Thank you, Jeff," Lady Penelope smiled. "I think we may take you up on your offer. Do you think the boys will be away for long?"

"I don't think so, but, as you know, anything could happen," Jeff told her. "I'll warn Maxwell that there's a chance that you'll be staying for more than one night."

"Better to, 'be prepared', as my old Guide Leader used to say," Lady Penelope commented.

"Huh?" Jeff sounded confused.

"I believe you call them Girl Scouts," Lady Penelope informed him.

"You were a Scout, uh, Guide?" Jeff asked. "I can't see you selling cookies."

"We would never sell cookies. We would sell biscuits."

"Biscuits!" Confusion was evident in Jeff's voice. "Did you have to bake them before you sold them?"

"No, they were baked in a factory."

"Wouldn't they be a bit stale by the time you got them? The only good biscuits I've ever had, came straight out of the oven!"

"What you are probably thinking about now are scones. Really, Jeff, I can see that I am going to have to sit you down and teach you the King's English."

"The only member of the royal family I'm interested in, Penny, is you."

"I am not royalty," Lady Penelope sounded almost exasperated. "I am a reluctant member of the aristocracy."

"And I'm a common American, Penny. You'll never change me."

"There's nothing common about you, Jeff Tracy," Lady Penelope said with some affection. "I'd better go. Parker will be waiting for me. I heard him say to Lil, my cook, that he wants to show your sons what a 'real' man dresses like."

Jeff laughed at the mental image. "Well if any of the shop assistants give either of you any trouble, just mention my name. I have a little influence over there."

"Thank you, Jeff. I will pass that on to Parker."

The trip to the medical station did indeed only take a couple of minutes. The sub was set down, with minute precision, on the back of a flat bed arctic truck. The truck drove the sub into the warmth of a hangar where engineers and medical personnel were able to attend to her and her cargo.

Typically, as soon as the tricky bit was completed, it stopped snowing.

John and Virgil returned to Pod Four and contemplated it. It was almost completely covered by snow. "What happened to the antifreeze system?" Virgil asked.

"You know," John remarked. "All we need is a giant snowball, a really big carrot, a couple of huge lumps of coal, and we could turn Gordon into the world's largest snowman."

Virgil activated the intercom. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four."

There was a moment's silence before he tried again. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four. Come in, Gordon."

The intercom burst into life. "Thunderbird Four. I was getting her secured when I heard the radio. How's things going?"

"No problems getting the sub there. Scott's monitoring the scientists and will let us know. How's things going with you?"

"Fine. After all that running round, getting rid of the snow that blew in as the ramp shut, I'm nice and toasty. When are you guys going to pick me up?"

"When we've worked out how we're going to get all that snow off you."

Gordon felt a twinge of concern. "Isn't the anti-freeze working?"

"Not fully," Virgil told him. "You'd better check the thermostat."

"Okay, hang on." Gordon disappeared from the airwaves for a short time. "Something had gone wrong with the thermostat," he said when he arrived back. "It was on desert setting. I've adjusted it manually."

"Yes, we can see that," Virgil told him. "The snow's begun to melt."

"Aww. No chance to make a snowman," John moaned theatrically.

"Huh! What's that John?" Gordon had heard the comment, but had not understood its implications.

"Oh, nothing. Just be grateful we're not near a supermarket or a coal mine."

"You sure the anti-radiation protection on Thunderbird Five is still working, John? I think something's fried your brains." Gordon's comment had both John and Virgil laughing.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil ensured that the link to Thunderbird Four was still open and then replied. "Thunderbird Two. Go ahead, Scott."

"Is Gordon listening?"

"Sure am, Scott. Why? Do you want to go to the supermarket too?"

There was a bemused silence from Thunderbird One for a moment, punctuated by more laughter from John and Virgil. "I'm sure I'll be told what you're on about sometime," Scott said, "But in the meantime I thought you'd appreciate an update on the crew you just rescued."

"We're all ears."

"They look like they're going to be fine. There were no decompression problems, and while the oxygen level in the sub was low and the level of carbon dioxide higher than normal, it wasn't critical. So apart from the broken arm and a few bumps and bruises, they're going to be okay. They send their thanks, Gordon."

"Always a pleasure."

"So now, Guys," Scott continued on, "we can head home to our nice, warm, tropical island."

"Sun," Virgil sighed.

"Sand," John echoed his brother's tone.

"And water warm enough to swim in," Gordon added. "Has the snow melted yet?"

Pod Four was a green jewel nesting in a cushion of white snow. With the ease that comes with many hours of practise, Virgil deftly positioned Thunderbird Two until she was directly above her precious cargo. Out of habit and as a result of his natural sense of caution, Virgil glanced at the sensors that told him when the great plane was in position. But if they had failed he still would have been able to position the plane accurately, so in tune was he with Thunderbird Two.

All was well. They started descending. The pod slipped into its designated cavity as easily as if the sides had been greased. The manoeuvre, as usual, was going smoothly.

The jolt was unexpected, sudden and brief. John looked at Virgil. Virgil looked at Thunderbird Two's control panel. Gordon called up on the intercom. "Hey, Guys. Did you feel that?"

"Yeah," Virgil acknowledged, his eyes darting back on forth over the control panel, searching for any red warning lights. There were none.

"What was it?"

"I don't know, Gordon. Everything seems fine."

"I wouldn't swear to it, but from here it seemed to come from the upper right quadrant of the pod."

"That's the impression I got," John agreed.

"I'll run the diagnostics programme." In reality Virgil wanted nothing more than to go outside and have a good old-fashioned look at his Thunderbird, but knew that was impossible in the wind and cold.

"Okay, while you're doing that I'll come on up."

Virgil was punching the necessary numbers into the onboard computer when he heard a noise behind him. John was securing their three arctic survival packs to the bulkhead by the emergency exit. Seeing his brother looking at him John shrugged. "Better safe than sorry." He hung polar suits above each pack.

Gordon arrived in the cockpit and saw the survival gear. "Hey, this looks serious."

"They probably won't be necessary," John said. "Just being prepared."

"Those years in the Boy Scouts came in handy then," Gordon grinned.

The computer was spitting out the numbers and Virgil read them twice. "Nothing's wrong according to this. The pod's locked securely into position. There's no damage anywhere." He frowned. "I guess this means we're safe to take off."

"So what happened?" John asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was just an extra strong wind gust." Virgil didn't sound convinced. Neither was John or Gordon. It would take a mighty big gust of wind to move the bulk of Thunderbird Two like that.

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One..." Virgil made contact with Scott and let him know what they knew.... which wasn't much. "There's no evidence of any problems, so I'll try lifting off and take it easy heading home."

"Okay, Virg. I'll keep within monitoring range. Good luck."

"Thanks, Scott."

The lift off was trouble free. No warning lights came on. No red alerts starting blaring. As Virgil gained in confidence he increased Thunderbird Two's height and speed. Gordon and John felt relaxed enough to undo their safety harnesses and look out the windows at the arctic landscape speeding below them.

Another snowstorm came up apparently out of nowhere. The wind velocity increased tenfold. Once again they were experiencing white out conditions.

"Boy, I'll be glad to get back home," Gordon grumbled. "If for no other reason than to be able to actually see some landscape."

"These are not the conditions to be attempting a little stargazing," John agreed. "It's almost like some kind of sensory depravation! Right, Virgil?"

But Virgil wasn't listening to them. He was listening to Thunderbird Two. She was talking to him and he didn't like what she was saying.

John walked up to the pilot's seat so that he was standing at his brother's shoulder. As he looked out of Thunderbird Two's windows he still could see nothing but the never-ending whiteness. "Any improvement?" he asked.

"Sit down and buckle up!" Virgil said tersely.

John glanced at the instrument panel. There were no warning lights indicating further deterioration in the weather and, to him, all seemed well with Thunderbird Two. "But why...?"

"Just do it! You too, Gordon."

With a mystified look at each other both brothers complied. With one hand, Virgil tightened his own safety harness.

"What's wrong, Virg?" Gordon asked.

"Something's not right with Thunderbird Two, I'm reducing height."

"But why?" John repeated. "Instrumentation seemed okay."

"I don't know, but..."

Thunderbird Two gave a sickening lurch and spun around. To those inside it seemed that she completed a full 360-degree turn. They felt as if their stomachs were trying to reach out of their mouths as they rapidly lost height. Virgil tried to stabilise his craft, but she was not responding. He watched in horror as the altimeter showed their rapid decent. For Gordon and John, strapped into their seats, they had no visual representation of their height and position; only the forces on their bodies told them that they were dropping from the sky.

There was another lurch and Thunderbird Two tipped nose forward. Virgil gripped the control yoke tightly, though by now he'd given up any pretence that he was able to do anything in the way of directing the great plane. He had no power over Two's horizontal and vertical movements and was beginning to think that the three of them were done for, when suddenly Thunderbird Two ploughed into a giant snow bank. A fountain of snow hammered past the windows and cascaded down the sides. Thunderbird Two teetered for a moment, completing a nose stand, before falling back to Earth with a jolt, coming to rest in an approximation of her normal orientation.

Silence descended....

So... How many references did you find?

Did you find the hidden references in the last chapter?

See how you go with this one.

Double Trouble

"Penny!"

Lady Penelope turned when she heard her name. "Bucky! Why are you here?" Both women embraced, Carole Hampton, a.k.a. Bucky, giving an exaggerated, Hollywood style kiss.

"Shhh. No one uses that name now, Penny. Except very OLD friends!"

"If I'm old, then I'm too old to change my ways," Lady Penelope rejoined. "I can't begin to think of you as anyone else, Becky Hampton... Especially as, Carole Hampton, the glamorous Hollywood star."

Lady Penelope's old school friend was tall, blonde, and showed no hint of the dental 'defect' that had earned her her nickname. A popular movie actress; she was wearing little makeup, had tied her hair back under a scarf and was wearing thick spectacles, all of which offered her a modicum of anonymity. She was also overly enthusiastic about everything she did. "I couldn't wait to see you, so I got Chip to run me over," she indicated a handsome, well-built man, wearing a Stetson, who was signing autographs for dozens of goggle-eyed teenagers. "How was the flight?"

"Boringly uneventful," Lady Penelope said.

"What? No hijackings or bombs?" Carole asked. "You must have found it deadly dull. Is your man with you?"

"Do you mean Parker? He's retrieving the Rolls Royce from the hold of the Fireflash. He always worries that someone may leave their fingerprints on the paint work."

"Is it still that garish pink colour? You must tell me everything you've been doing these last few years. Let's sit down in the lounge, Chip's going to be simply hours."

"So is Mr Harrison the new man in your life?" Lady Penelope asked rhetorically.

Carole sighed. "He's wonderful! Everything a girl could want. Tall, dark, handsome, and with a career that's heading into the stratosphere. I'm hoping he'll take me along for the ride."

"Your career seems to be progressing quite nicely on its own, Becky dear," Lady Penelope said. "I'm forever seeing your face on the cover of one publication or another."

"Isn't that a hoot," Carole giggled. "My mother has scrapbooks devoted to my career... Which reminds me, if my autobiographer calls on you..."

"Don't you mean biographer?" Lady Penelope corrected.

"No. Maurice is my autobiographer. You see I'm writing my autobiography. I'm going to be terribly witty, and charming and provocative... at least Maurice tells me I will be when he's finished writing it. I'm going to tell all about how I was shunned by English High Society, and left Old Blighty to seek fame and fortune in America. A poor starving waif with nothing to my name..."

"Apart from a title and several million pounds," Lady Penelope commented dryly.

"Shh. That's a secret," Carole said in a dramatic fashion and laughed.

"Becky? Why are 'you' writing these lies?"

"Maurice tells me they will sell. I'm already a star here so the Americans will read the book and believe every word of it. The Brits will read it and write angry letters to the tabloids about how it's not true. Either way I'll get publicity and the book will sell like hot cakes..." Carole gave one of her famous, disarming smiles. "Anyway, as I was saying, when Maurice comes to call he'll ask you for some photos of me as a child, and since all my childhood photos were lost when the family home was tragically destroyed in the fire..."

"Bucky!" Lady Penelope scolded. "The Hampton homestead is still standing."

Carole Hampton continued on as if she hadn't heard the admonishment, "...and I know you'll want to help him, so please be a dear and tell him you don't have any?"

"I have that one of you at the masquerade ball," Lady Penelope offered. "You can't see your face at all." She appraised her friend's features. "Your, er, 'new' nose suits you."

"Thank you. The old one was rather... shall we say prominent? I met this charming surgeon who..." Carole's attention wavered.

Well used to her friend's sudden changes in concentration, Lady Penelope waited patiently. Then she realised that Carole was listening to a rather interesting radio report.

"Sorry, Penny dear," Carole eventually apologised. "I heard them mention International Rescue and I simply had to listen to what was happening."

"Did I hear correctly? Are they are up in the Arctic?" Lady Penelope queried.

Carole nodded. "Some scientists have got stuck under the ice or something. Have I told you about my latest role?"

Lady Penelope shook her head.

"Do you remember when the Thompson Tower burnt down, and that family was trapped?"

"It is not something that one is likely to forget," Lady Penelope reminded her friend. "One of the tallest buildings in the world, destroyed by fire days after it was opened. The world's media were filled with nothing else for weeks!"

"They are making a movie about it, mainly about that family that was trapped. And I am playing the mother, Blanche Carter," Carole said proudly. "That's how I met Chip. He's playing one of the International Rescue men." She looked over to where the actor was swamped by fans of all ages. "You know how I like to research each role I get..."

Lady Penelope nodded. It was well documented that Carole Hampton would always research a role to death. On one famous occasion, when Carole had been playing a doctor, a member of the crew had complained of abdominal pains. Carole's diagnosis had been appendicitis. It was in fact indigestion, but the poor man had been so unnerved by Carole's assured manner and demands that he seek help, that he'd driven himself at speed to his real doctor, crashing his car on the way and ensuring a genuine stay in hospital.

"...That's why I had to listen to that radio story," Carole continued on. "I'm simply absorbing every piece of information about International Rescue that I can find."

"You could always talk to Deborah," Lady Penelope suggested. "I believe she had the misfortune to require their services."

"Really! I must give the dear woman a call."

"Tell me, Becky, how did you get the role?" Lady Penelope asked.

"Oh, it was easy. When I told them I was there when it all happened and had met those dashing men from International Rescue..."

"And had you?"

"Had I what?"

"Met 'those dashing men from International Rescue'?"

"Well..." Carole Hampton gave Lady Penelope a sideways grin. "I was there, opening one of the shops when the building caught fire, and I had to be evacuated, which was terribly exciting. So I didn't lie about that..."

"And meeting International Rescue?" Lady Penelope pressed.

Carole looked sheepish. "I heard their aeroplanes fly overhead," she admitted.

"Becky!" Lady Penelope admonished again.

"What! In this world you do what you can to get what you want, and I wanted that role. The problem with you, Penny, is that you don't get out of your social circle. What happened to that feisty girl I was at school with? The one who rode her pink motor scooter into the school hall one morning during assembly, and drove right round the hall and out again before any of the staff could catch her?"

"I don't feel the need to lie about meeting International Rescue," Lady Penelope told her.

"But wouldn't you like to meet one of them? I would! In fact I know so much about them that I would guarantee that if a man from International Rescue, in disguise, were to stand beside me I would know straight away who he was. He wouldn't be able to hide from me!"

Parker chose that moment to arrive. He doffed his cap differentially. "M'lady."

Carole didn't notice. With only a glance at the chauffeur she continued on with her recitation. "One look and bam! I'd be thinking, 'I know who you are, Mister'. And it would be bye-bye Chip. Who'd want a celluloid hero when you could have the real thing? I'd make Mister International Rescue sweep me up in his big strong arms and carry me away to wherever it is they hide out!"

It took all of Lady Penelope's self control to not burst out laughing as she said, "And you think you would recognise one of the International Rescue men as soon as you saw him?"

"Of course," Carole said confidently.

Lady Penelope managed to conceal her amusement at the irony of the situation, which was even funnier as her friend was totally unaware of it. "Parker. Er, this is Miss Hampton."

"Ma'am," Parker said.

"Parker," Carole acknowledged.

Parker turned back to his mistress. "Beggin' your pardon, M'lady, but the car h-is ready."

"Is all well?" Lady Penelope enquired.

"Yes, M'lady. The Rolls Royce 'as sustained no damage on the flight h-over."

"Perhaps you will lead the way," Lady Penelope suggested. "Miss Hampton will want to ask Mr Harrison to join us."

"Of course, M'lady." Parker began walking out of the lounge.

Carole giggled. "He sounds a character. Is he as much fun as old Jenkins?"

"More so," Lady Penelope admitted. "He has one of two little tricks up his sleeve that Jenkins would never dream attempting."

"Chip!" Carole called.

Chip Harrison returned the piece of paper he'd been signing, along with the owner's pen, and strode over to catch up with the two women. "Yeah, Honey," he drawled.

"Chip, this is my friend, Lady Penelope. Penny, this is Chip Harrison."

Chip Harrison seemed quite unconcerned as a posse of teenagers tagged along after the little group. "How do, Lady P."

Lady Penelope disliked her name being shortened in that way by strangers; nevertheless she remained polite. "Ah... Very well thank you, Mr Harrison."

"Glad to hear it. Carole here has been tellin' me all kinds of stories about what you two got up to at school."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope said as some over zealous teenager pushed her in the back. "I should take whatever Bec... ah... Carole says with a grain of salt, Mr Harrison. Shall we go? I should like to freshen up after my flight."

"Sure thing," Chip drawled. "Let's mosey." He gave a winning smile and a wave to his fans and swaggered to the door, followed by Carole and Lady Penelope.

The man who'd been reading the paper on Lady Penelope's flight watched their departure closely...

All was silent.

All was still.

The snowstorm stopped.

Virgil, amazed that they were still in one piece, forced his fingers to let go of the control yoke. That task successfully completed he turned to check on Gordon and John. They were white and green respectively.

"You all right?" Virgil tried to say, but it came out in a squeak. He cleared his throat and managed a more normal, "Are you both okay?"

John nodded slowly as Gordon found his voice, which wasn't quite steady. "Yeah... What happened?"

"I don't know..."

"Calling, Thunderbird Two. Come in, Thunderbird Two!" They could hear what might pass for panic in Scott's voice.

"Well, at least communications are still functional... This is Thunderbird Two," Virgil acknowledged. "We're okay, Scott. A little shaken, but okay."

"Thank heavens." He could see relief on Scott's face. "What the heck happened, Virgil? One minute I had you losing height on my radar screen and the next you're breaking up into three pieces."

"Breaking up into three pieces?" Virgil echoed in amazement, as Gordon and John leapt out of their seats so they could see Scott on the telelink.

"What does the instrumentation say?" Gordon asked.

Virgil cast his eye over the control panel. "I'm getting no readings from the pod back."

"So we could have lost the pod," John hypothesised.

Gordon had managed to get much of his colour back, but now blanched again. "What about Thunderbird Four?" he asked faintly.

"Had you secured it?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, ah, I think so... yeah I had."

"What was your height when you lost control?" Scott asked.

"Approximately 500 metres," Virgil told him.

"If it can survive a drop into the ocean, there's a good chance it survived a landing into a snow bank." John's attempt to comfort Gordon didn't have the desired effect.

Another voice came out of Thunderbird One's radio. "Scott!" Alan sounded anxious. "What's happened? Thunderbird Two's emergency locator beacon has been activated."

"They're okay, Alan," Scott reassured his youngest brother. "Thunderbird Two's down though."

"What happened?" Alan repeated.

"We don't know. Thunderbird Two just broke into three pieces."

"And you're sure everyone's okay?"

"We're fine, Alan!" Virgil cut in. "All three of us."

"Do you want me to let base know?" Alan asked.

"Yeah, you'd better. See if Brains has any suggestion as to what happened." Suddenly Scott let out a long low whistle. "Boy... look at that!"

"What!" He received simultaneous communications from both Thunderbirds Two and Five.

"Thunderbird Two's tail section. It's sticking out of the snow like a couple of chimneys. The left one's still firing... no, it's stopped now. I'm not getting any radiation readings so the reactor's still intact."

"Any sign of the pod?" Gordon asked anxiously.

"Negative. It's probably the section that I'm getting a reading on a couple of k's nor-west of here. I'll swing over and check it out... Hey, Virg..." Scott added as an afterthought. "...I'm getting pictures. Want to see them?"

"No thanks," Virgil sounded dour. "I'll wait 'til we get home."

"I'm not going to wait," Alan said impatiently. "Send them up here and I'll transmit them on to base. It'll give Brains something to work from."

"Okay," Scott acknowledged. "I'll see what else I can find." There was silence for a moment as he cruised across the white landscape. "There's bits everywhere... Okay, there's a wing... I'm over the pod now." Gordon waited impatiently for any reports of damage. "Boy, that's got to be the biggest igloo I've ever seen! It's totally covered in snow. Guess the antifreeze system isn't working. Looks as though it's landed the right way up."

"How is it, Scott?" Gordon pressed.

"I can't see any signs of damage."

Gordon was not reassured.

"Right..." Scott continued on his tour of the debris field that marked the remains of Thunderbird Two. "There's the other wing – looks to be the right one... I've got a visual on the front section. Everything from the pod back has gone. Looks as though you've still got structural integrity though. Great bit of flying, Virg, you managed to land in the biggest mound of snow between here and the North Pole. It probably saved your lives."

Virgil said nothing. He couldn't claim the credit for landing safely. It had been luck, pure luck.

"So can you come and pick us up?" John asked.

Scott glanced at the weather gauges on Thunderbird One. "No. There's no way I could land in this wind."

"So what are we going to do?" Gordon asked a trifle impatiently.

"I'll fly home and get the Mark II, and use it to pick up both the pod and you guys. I'll be back within three hours..."

But Virgil was shaking his head. "The Mark II's not ready, Scott. Brains hasn't programmed the guidance and weather computers yet. You'd never make it back here safely."

"How long will it take for him to do the programming?"

"Well... If he's been working on it while we've been on this rescue, it shouldn't take him long. Maybe four hours, depending on how the debugging goes."

"Okay, so I'll be back in just over six hours..."

But Virgil was still shaking his head. "You won't be able to, Scott. The Mark II hasn't been painted yet..."

Gordon had heard enough. "Oh for Pete's sake, Virgil! Is that all you're worried about? I swear sometimes that you've got oil paint in your veins. Scott - if Virgil wants to stay here in his precious, broken Thunderbird Two just because he doesn't like the Mark II's paint job, fine! Me – I want to get home, get a little sun, and check out Thunderbird Four. And I'm sure John's the same."

"That's not what I mean, Gordon!" More than a little anger was evident in Virgil's voice. "You know full well what our paint is capable of. Without it the friction will slow down any trip by at least 10 percent. That's on top of the resistance that the Mark II will experience flying without a pod. AND..." he shook his finger at Gordon for emphasis, "that paint also protects our sensors. In these conditions they'll be damaged before we even get the Mark II in full commission."

Gordon had the famous temperament often attributed to redheads. "Don't preach to me, Virgil Tracy! I know as well as you what our equipment is capable of, and if our sensors can't stand a little snow..."

"Guys, guys!" John said soothingly. "Calm down."

"Calm down?" Gordon yelled. "I have no idea what state Thunderbird Four is in and you are asking me to calm down? At least Virgil has the luxury of knowing that Thunderbird Two is history!"

Scott attempted to diffuse the situation. "Gordon – Virgil – Before you say anything else; count to ten!"

He was ignored by his brothers.

"Luxury!" Virgil yelled, jumping to his feet. "We were nearly killed! We don't know why! Thunderbird Two's in pieces! International Rescue is temporarily out of action! And you call that a luxury? Are you nuts?"

"Guys, we're alive," John said. "Nothing else matters."

He received a twin chorus of, "Shut up, John," from his younger brothers.

"D'you think that Thunderbird Two is the only craft in the International Rescue fleet capable of doing anything useful? Well let me tell you..." Gordon seemed about to continue on his rampage when a totally unexpected voice interrupted him.

"Boys! What's going on?"

All three of them looked back at the video radio link.

Their father's face was frowning at them. "Sounds like you were having an argument."

"Ah, just a discussion, Sir," Virgil said meekly.

"Yeah on the merits of International Rescue's paint," Gordon added, with pointed emphasis.

Back on Thunderbird One, Scott deactivated his links with Thunderbird Two and home, and contacted Thunderbird Five. "That was a good idea, Alan, getting Father to diffuse the situation."

"Yeah, well it sounded like it was getting out of hand. I didn't want them killing each other after surviving the crash."

Scott grinned. Every now and then his youngest brother would surprise him by actually coming up with a good idea.

"That car of yours is a monster, Penny," Carole commented as Chip went to get his vehicle. "I don't know why you don't get something nippier. Trade it in for an Aston Martin or something."

"FAB1 serves my purposes," Lady Penelope informed her. "There are some little luxuries that only the Rolls Royce can provide. I do like to arrive at a destination fully refreshed."

There was a toot and a red Ferrari convertible pulled up behind the shocking pink Rolls Royce. Chip grinned and reached across the passenger seat to push open the door. "You comin' with us, Lady P?"

It was being referred to as 'Lady P' by this loud American, as much as anything, that caused Lady Penelope to decline his invitation. "Thank you, Mr Harrison, but I am afraid that my hair would not survive a trip in your car. Marcel would not be impressed to know that I had ruined his latest masterpiece. I will travel in the Rolls Royce and we will follow you."

Chip seemed unfazed by the rejection. "Sure thing, Lady P... Hop in, Sweetheart," he said to Carole.

"Isn't he just so masterful," Carole gushed, and slid into the seat beside her beau. "See you up at the house, Penny."

"Masterful?" Lady Penelope mused under her breath as the convertible slipped into the traffic. "I have no doubts that he is full of something, but of what I am not sure... Thank you, Parker," she acknowledged as he assisted her into her car.

Parker had almost claimed his seat when someone else jumped into the back seat beside Lady Penelope. "'Ere! Wot's your game!" the cockney demanded.

It was the man with the luxurious eyebrows and moustache who'd been reading the newspaper on the plane. "You will take me to where I want to go," he said. His tone made it clear that he considered it to be an order and not a request.

"I wasn't aware that we were picking up hitch-hikers, Parker," Lady Penelope said calmly.

"We're not. So h-if you wouldn't mind..." Parker turned in his seat to confront the man... and froze.

The stranger had removed a gun from his pocket. He pointed it at the chauffeur. "Start driving... Parker."

Lady Penelope reacted as if she were being held captive by nothing more dangerous than a water pistol. "Dear me... I do hope that thing isn't loaded. I simply can't bear loud noises."

"It is loaded and it is ready to fire," the stranger informed her. "Now instruct your man to drive on."

"I detest guns." Lady Penelope explained, fiddling with her bracelet. "They tend to make such an awful mess of one's surroundings."

The stranger knocked her hand away from her wrist. "Forget your tricks!" he ordered. "They won't work this time, My Lady, for I am more powerful than your toys!"

"Toys? What to...?" Lady Penelope found herself memorised by the stranger's eyes, which had taken on an eerie glow. "Such... fac...in...ate...ing..."

Lady Penelope's mind was strong, and she fought against the man's hypnotic stare. But even her cast iron will was not enough to defeat him. She slumped back against the Rolls Royce's leather seats.

"M'lady!" Parker attempted to clamber back over his seat to assist his mistress, but stopped when he felt the gun press into his chest. "Wot 'ave you done to 'er?" he demanded. "'Oo are you!"

"She merely sleeps," he was informed. "As for my name; that is not important. There are those who know me only as 'The Hood' and that is all you need to know. Now you will do as I say and your lady may live. You will drive west."

Parker stared the gun down. "No!" he said stubbornly. "H-And you can't shoot me, 'cause you'll never be able to drive this car yerself. I'm the only one who can start h-it!"

The Hood thought for only the briefest of moments. "Very well," he acknowledged with an evil smile. "In that case, since you are so fond of this car," the gun swung back and rested against Lady Penelope's temple, "I am sure you would rather not have to clean these elegant seats. It would be a shame if I were to make a mess. And so easy to do..."

Parker swallowed as he heard a sound not dissimilar to the cocking of a gun. He turned back in the driver's seat and, without a word, started the engine.

There was a knock on the gull-wing canopy. "Penny!" Carole Hampton called. "I forgot to tell you about the road works on..." She saw the gun but had no time to react. She swayed as The Hood's hypnotic gaze took effect and crumpled to the ground.

"Weak!" The Hood sneered and prodded Parker in the back with the gun to force him to pull the car out of the car park. "Unlike your lady here..." he turned his attention to the unconscious woman beside him and ran a strand of her blonde hair between his fingers. "She is unusual. She is of a stronger makeup than others of her kind..."

"Don't you touch 'er," Parker snarled.

The Hood laughed. "Such touching devotion. And so wasted. Do you think she would be as loyal to you as you are to her, my friend? To her you are nothing but a servant. A common slave. Drive on!"

"She's not like that," Parker protested.

The gun swung back in his direction. "I said 'drive on'!" The Hood reminded him before turning his attention back to Lady Penelope, once again touching her hair. "I would like to know more about this lady. She could be of use to me..."

Parker felt a shiver of fear crawl up his spine.

John sighed. He looked at Gordon. The redheaded Tracy was staring out the window, arms crossed in anger. "Any change in the weather, Gordon?"

No reply.

John looked over to where Virgil was still seated in his pilot's seat. All he could make out was some chestnut coloured hair, poking up from behind the high-backed chair. "What's the weather forecast, Virgil?"

The reply was blunt. "No change."

John sighed again. If it was cold outside, the atmosphere in here was downright chilly. They'd been sitting for at least an hour and neither of his brothers had said more than two words.

John decided to do something about it. "You know, it's not very often that the three of us have some time to just chat."

By the silence that greeted his announcement it sounded as though this wasn't going to be one of those times either.

"I'm usually stuck up in Thunderbird Five..."

Not a murmur.

"You're back on Tracy Island, or out on a rescue..."

The snow fluttered against the windows.

"And when I am at home we're always too busy doing other things."

There was a quiet drone from some bit of equipment.

"Now would be a good time to just chew the fat..."

Something beeped on the control panel.

"...and talk. Just the three of us. You know, as brothers."

Virgil levered himself out of his seat and left the flight deck.

'Well, that didn't work,' John thought, and sighed again.

"For Pete's sake, John. Will you cut out the heavy breathing?" Gordon said irritably. "You've been doing nothing else for the last hour."

"What else is there to do?" John asked. "You two aren't exactly a barrel of laughs. I'm the only one talking and most of the time that seems to be to myself. I'm beginning to think that the only person who wants to talk to me, is me."

"Well at least you're not pining for Thunderbird Five."

"Be fair. You'd be the same as Virgil if we were going to de-commission Thunderbird Four. And look at the way you're carrying on! For all we know Thunderbird Four could be perfectly all right and you've been worrying yourself into a lather over nothing. As soon as Scott gets back in the Mark II, he'll pick up the pod, then us, and you'll be able to see for yourself that Four is okay."

Gordon pouted as he mulled over his brother's words. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right! In the meantime, how about cutting Virgil some slack? You know how he feels about Thunderbird Two. It must be killing him seeing her like this."

"Okay..." Gordon's sentence was cut off by the sound of the door to the cabin opening.

Virgil came in carrying three mugs of coffee. He handed one to John. "It's always easier to talk over a warm drink," he explained, before tentatively holding one out to Gordon.

Gordon took the proffered drink with a small smile. "Thanks, Virg. Nothing like a warm cup of coffee on a cold day to make you feel better."

"Except maybe a cup of hot chocolate," Virgil said with a smile of his own. "But I'm afraid this café can't oblige."

Gordon sipped his coffee. "This'll do."

Virgil turned back to his seat. He took a mouthful of coffee and looked at the back of the pilot's seat, then, setting his mug on the delicate instruments of the control panel, disappeared back out through the door again.

"Where's he gone to this time?" Gordon asked.

"Maybe he's got some chocolate biscuits hidden somewhere."

"You know, if either of us left our coffee there, he'd have a fit."

"Guess he's realised that he'll never fly her again."

Virgil came back in, carrying an array of tools. He disappeared behind the pilot's chair. Soon John and Gordon could hear the sounds of bolts being undone and a small laser being put to use.

John looked at Gordon with a questioning expression.

Gordon shrugged. "What are you up to, Virg?"

Somewhat abashed, Virgil's head popped up from behind the pilot's seat. "I'm, ah, getting a souvenir." He walked out from behind the seat, carrying the control yoke. He carried it over to his survival pack and strapped it on firmly. He then returned to his seat and undid the two rear bolts that attached it to the floor of the cabin. He swung the whole unit around so that it was facing his two bemused brothers and then re-bolted it in position, before finally reclaiming his coffee and sitting down.

"Comfortable?" Gordon asked.

Virgil smiled. "It'll do." He stretched out his legs. "So John, what do you want to talk about?"

"I dunno..."

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil found the one drawback to having turned his seat around. He knelt on it and looked over the backrest. "Go ahead, Scott."

Scott paused. "What the heck have you done to your seat?"

"Made it more comfortable... Where are you?"

"Just coming in to land on Mateo Island now. Brains and Tin-Tin have made a start on the computer. He thinks he can get it programmed within two hours. In the meantime Tin-Tin and I are going to give the Mark II a base coat of paint. It won't be pretty, but it'll be functional. It should be dry within four hours." Scott paused again. "Ah, how's things going?"

Virgil glanced at Gordon. "Well, we haven't killed each other yet..."

To Parker, the next hour seemed to last for days. He continuously kept checking the monitor trained on the rear seat of the car to see if Lady Penelope showed any signs of wakening, or if the goon was attempting to do more to her than just look. He was disappointed to see that she still slept and relieved that the Hood seemed to have forgotten his preoccupation with her ladyship.

Although FAB1 was equipped with a number of devices designed to combat such a situation, Parker was wary of using them. While Lady Penelope was mysteriously unconscious, he did not wish to endanger her health in any way, so he decided that the best course of action was to bide his time until she awoke.

They were in the desert now and travelling down a road that seemed to be never-ending. Around them only rocks and cacti broke up the view of the hot and dusty landscape. The car's air conditioning was working efficiently, but even so Parker was aware of the sweat that lingered on his brow and top lip. It wasn't perspiration caused by heat; it was the only external manifestation of the concern that was gnawing at his insides.

"Stop here!" The voice from the rear of the car startled him and he jammed on the brakes, hearing the sound of two bodies slither on the back seat. "Fool!" The Hood spat.

"Well, you said stop!" Parker responded. He checked the monitor again. His mistress would have slipped off her leather seat if she hadn't been securely held by her safety belt. "Where are we?"

"Where we are is not of your concern." The Hood had an electronic box in his hands and was pushing a multitude of buttons. "Drive towards the cliff on your right."

"But there's nothin' there!"

"I said drive!"

Parker decided that it was better to humour the man. He turned the Rolls Royce off the road and bumped the car across the uneven surface that was the desert sands. "'Ow far?"

"Until I tell you to stop," The Hood snarled.

"Okay, okay, keep yer 'air on," Parker muttered under his breath. They were drawing close to the wall of the cliff. "Now where?"

"Keep driving."

"Which way?"

The Hood's tone showed that he would not stand for any arguments. "Straight ahead!"

Parker decided to argue anyway. "Straight ahead! There's a blimmin' rock wall straight ahead! 'Ow am I supposed to...!" His jaw dropped as the wall of the cliff opened outwards. "Strike me!"

"If you don't obey me I will. Drive in!"

Powerless to do otherwise, Parker obeyed, driving forward into an unlit bunker. As the door behind them closed, an oppressive darkness surrounded the car before the sudden beam from a spotlight lit up the occupants of the Rolls Royce, forcing Parker to shield his eyes from the glare.

"Get out and stand with your hands against the car," The Hood ordered. "Wait until I tell you to move. And beware that you do not try anything. You are being watched at all times."

Deciding that it was safer to comply, Parker climbed out of the car. He surreptitiously looked around to see if he could spot any of The Hood's assistants, but the darkness beyond the spotlight hid its secrets well. He watched as the other man vacated his seat and strode around to Lady Penelope's side of the car, but when The Hood reached inside Parker knew he had to act. "Stop!"

The Hood straightened and glared at the chauffeur. "You are living dangerously, my friend. You would do well to keep your silence."

"Let me carry 'er," Parker demanded, determined not to let that man's large hands touch his employer's slender frame.

The Hood glared at him and then nodded slowly. "Very well, but be aware that I will be following and I am armed. Try anything and both you and your lady will die."

'Nice feller,' Parker thought sarcastically as he reached into the car and with gentle care pulled at Lady Penelope. He lifted her so she was draped over his shoulder and straightened with a little difficulty. "Now where do you want h-us to go?"

"That way," The Hood gestured with his gun towards a poorly lit hallway. "I will follow."

Parker began walking...

"I've been thinking," John said

The inevitable "That's dangerous" came from Gordon.

John ignored him. "Do you realise that the last time I was involved in a rescue was that time that we saved the crew of the 'Ocean Pioneer II'."

Gordon was chuckling to himself. "Who would've thought that dog food was so explosive?"

John continued on. "It was certainly the last time I risked my neck on a rescue. This time all I was, was the winch operator. There was nothing dangerous, if you don't count crashing into the North Pole."

"You still did an important job," Virgil reminded him.

"Yeah, I know. But sometimes I feel that my role in International Rescue is the easy one. That it would make more sense if we were to automate Thunderbird Five. It would give us more man power on assignments."

"But we need you up in Thunderbird Five," Gordon told him. "We need someone on the spot who's able to do quick repairs. And," he continued on, "you're our link with base, and it's good to have someone who's able to assess the situation without being directly involved and sidetracked by everything that's going on at the rescue zone."

"Not only that," Virgil added. "It's good having a human face to International Rescue. Take that time that Father, Brains and Tin-Tin went to check out the Pacific-Atlantic monotrain. Not an engineer on board and what a mess they got into, and all because there wasn't a human in charge."

"Yeah, and we ended up having to rescue them," Gordon added. "If it wasn't for the human touch, in the form of Brains, they all would have been killed."

John had a drink of his coffee. "You know, sometimes even I'm amazed with what we've managed to achieve. I've often sat up in Thunderbird Five and thought 'those people haven't got a snowball's chance in...'"

"Not a good metaphor at the present moment, John," Gordon grinned.

"Okay," John amended, "they're doomed. Then I think about the equipment we've got and I realise that, because of International Rescue, just maybe 'these people' can be saved."

"Because of Brains!" Virgil reminded him. "If it wasn't for him there wouldn't be an International Rescue."

"And us!" Gordon added. "We have to have the skills to be able to drive the things... Even if Virgil will persist in flying into snow banks..."

"And your skill," Virgil ignored Gordon's last remark, "is being able to ascertain the situation and then to let us know what that situation is clearly and succinctly."

"While keeping the person at the danger zone calm," Gordon finished.

There was a moment of silence.

Gordon broke it with a hypothetical question. "What would the world have been like if Brains had decided to become an evil genius?"

"That doesn't bear thinking about," John grimaced.

"I don't know what the world would be like," Virgil said as he stretched. "But I do know that I'm glad that he's a mild mannered man whose main goal in life is to build amazing craft capable of saving peoples lives."

"He wasn't that mild mannered when Dad tried to get him to build a Thunderbird Six," Gordon remembered. "He was only just keeping his temper until he got back to his lab."

"It's not even as if Father knew what he wanted in a new Thunderbird," Virgil said. "I thought he should have let Brains go on 'Skyship One's' maiden voyage. The break away from the island might have got the creative juices flowing."

"True," John agreed. "But as they say every cloud has a silver lining. At least he wasn't hijacked with the others."

"Amazing, wasn't it?" Gordon said thoughtfully. "There we were, possessors of the most advanced equipment in the 21st Century, and we had to rely on a Tiger Moth bi-plane to rescue them."

"When I heard we were going to call it Thunderbird Six, I thought it was a joke," John said. "But I see it's still got its name."

"I reckon we should change its colour," Gordon said. "We can't have two Thunderbirds painted yellow."

"We could always repaint Thunderbird Four," John suggested.

"No way! Grey, red & blue's out, that's Thunderbird One. Green's Two, orange is Three, Five is grey."

"Stardust silver and gold if you don't mind."

"Pink!" Gordon said with a grin.

"I don't think Lady Penelope would be too impressed," John noted. "Purple?" he suggested looking at his own sash.

"We could always paint the Mark II blue and make Thunderbird Six green. What do you think, Virgil? You're the artist... Virgil? What's wrong?"

Virgil's attention had been caught by an instrument on the control panel. A temperature gauge was rising alarmingly and he stood so that he could get a better look at his instruments. Punching a few buttons on the onboard computer brought up a schematics diagram of Thunderbird Two. One area was glowing red. The computer zoomed in. It was in an area a few metres below their cabin. "Fellas," he said quietly. "We've got a problem."

Both John and Gordon were on their feet looking at the monitor. "What is it?" John asked. "Fire?"

Virgil nodded. "Looks as though one of the thermalene cylinders has ruptured. The gas has permeated throughout the lower compartments..." as they watched the red glow expanded in size. "Get your thermal gear on. We're going to have to evacuate."

"Evacuate!" John hesitated. "If we go out into that cold we'll be frozen within 20 minutes!"

"And if we stay here, and the other thermalene cylinders catch fire, we'll be cooked within two seconds!" Virgil's words spurred his brothers into action.

While Gordon and John hustled into their winter wardrobe, Virgil tried unsuccessfully to raise Thunderbird Five. "Alan! Can you hear me? Come in Thunderbird Five!" He pounded the control panel in annoyance. "The fire must have damaged the communications systems."

John held out Virgil's thermal suit. "Here, put this on and I'll try to reach base." He made some adjustments. "Thunderbird Two to International Rescue. Thunderbird Two to International Rescue. Come in International Rescue."

"Anything?" Fully rigged out in his thermal clothing, Gordon threw his sash over the back of one of the passenger seats as he looked over John's shoulder.

John shook his head. "Nothing. Guess it's time to leave." He turned to face back into the cabin. "Right, Virgil?"

Virgil was standing in the middle of the flight deck of his beloved Thunderbird Two, looking about him, trying to burn its image into his memory. It was clear now that this was the last time that he would see it intact. He nodded, folded his sash carefully onto his pilot's seat, and ran his fingers over the seat's red leather one last time. He sighed. "Right, John. Let's go."

Before popping the emergency escape hatch, they briefly scanned the white landscape. There were no visible landmarks or anything that would offer any protection.

"When we hit the ground we start running, is that the plan?" Gordon asked.

"That's the plan." Virgil slammed his fist onto the button that blew the escape hatch out of Thunderbird Two. The temperature immediately dropped 65ºC and they instinctively turned away from the icy blast that bit into their faces, causing their eyes to water. They donned their protective masks as a slide inflated at their feet.

"Go, Gordon!" Virgil was pulling at the flight recorder that was housed just inside the escape hatch.

Wearing his survival pack Gordon jumped onto the slide and slid down to the frosty ground below. Urged on by Virgil, John followed behind closely.

Contrary to orders both brothers remained at the bottom of the slide to await Virgil.

"What's keeping him?" Gordon yelled above the roar of the wind.

"Dunno. He was getting the flight recorder out."

"He's not getting more souvenirs is he?"

"I..."

Virgil appeared at the top of the slide and tumbled down. He had the flight recorder held tightly in his hand. "C'mon! Run!" he yelled as he hit the bottom.

As one man, the three of them ploughed through the snow and ice, trying to get some distance between themselves and Thunderbird Two.

The remains of the great plane sat there placidly. There was no external evidence that she was now a ticking time bomb. The words "Thunderbird 2" were barely noticeable under the coating of ice that she now wore. Snow was already piling up on the escape slide and drifting into the hole that the Tracy men had just exited. The windows to the cabin started to frost up in intricate patterns that would never be found on a sun drenched Pacific island. Cups of coffee, deserted and forgotten, froze in their mugs. Red leather covered seats turned pink and then white. A layer of ice formed on the monitor screen until the schematic diagram was no longer visible. Only the ominous red glow of the fire warning, now a dull pink, showed through. It filled the hull...

Suddenly, obliterating the snow-white landscape, there was a blinding flash and a shockwave that shook the very ice cap itself...

How are you going so far? Did you manage to score all eleven points?

Are you enjoying the challenge?

Hot and Cold

"Thunderbird Five to Base!" Alan fought hard to keep a feeling of panic under control. He'd heard that signal many times, but only during exercises. Even then the very sound of it had given him the creeps. But now... Now the feeling was ten times worse.

"Thunderbird Five to Base!" he repeated again.

The sight and sound of his father went some way to relieve his anxiety. While his father was in control there was always hope.

Obviously some of his anxieties had been communicated down to earth because instead of the standard 'Go ahead, Alan,' his father greeted him with, "What's wrong, Son?"

Alan took a deep breath. Now was not the time to lose control. Now was the time for levelheaded thought. "I've received the emergency alarm from Thunderbird Two. One of the guys must have set it off!"

He saw Jeff Tracy pale slightly, but there was no noticeable change in his demeanour. They'd all practised for this eventuality. "Have you tried contacting them?"

Alan nodded vigorously. "I can't raise them."

"Had they reported any problems?"

"No."

"Okay, Alan. Keep trying. If that doesn't work try their emergency radios. I'll contact Scott and Brains and see if they've got any idea what the problem could be. It may be just a malfunction due to the crash landing."

"F-A-B."

Jeff changed frequencies. "International Rescue to Mateo Island." He felt his stomach knot as he waited impatiently for a response.

None was forthcoming.

"International Rescue to Mateo Island! ... Where are they? ... Internati..."

"Mateo Island. Sorry, Father. Tin-Tin and I were on top of the Mark II. Brains has got his nose buried in the computer and probably didn't hear you. What's up?"

"Alan's just reported that he's receiving the emergency alarm from Thunderbird Two. I was hoping that either you or Brains would have an explanation for it."

Scott paused as the news sunk in. "The emergency alarm!" he breathed. "No. I can't think of anything. Virgil didn't say they were having any problems – well, nothing technical anyway. Hold on, I'll ask Brains." Jeff heard him move to the door of Thunderbird One and then shout something to Tin-Tin. He then returned to his seat. "Tin-Tin's gone to get him. If he can't come up with a solution, what's our plan of campaign?"

"We can't effect a rescue until the Mark II is fully operational..."

"I could always fly back up there in Thunderbird One..."

"And we'd still be in the same position as we were when you were in the Arctic before. The weather hasn't improved. You wouldn't be able to do anything and with only Tin-Tin working on Mark II's paint job it'll be twice as long before it'll be operational. No, unless Brains comes up with any ideas I think we'd better stick with the current plan and hope that Alan makes contact with the boys."

Scott heard the sound of running footsteps and laboured breathing. Brains bounded into the cockpit of the rocket ship, Tin-Tin close behind him. "W-what's t-this – 'gasp' – a-about the – 'gasp' – e-emergency alarm?"

Giving the young scientist a chance to regain his breath, Jeff explained what had happened. "Any ideas as to why it's gone off Brains?"

"I-it didn't start bec-cause of the crash?"

Scott was shaking his head. "Alan reported the emergency locator beacon, but that was over two hours ago and happened instantaneously. If it was because of the crash why would it take the emergency alarm this long to activate?"

"Could it be some electrical malfunction?" Tin-Tin asked.

Brains shook his head slowly. "I-I don't see how."

Jeff sighed, and then looked away from the video console. "Just a moment, Alan is coming through." He opened Thunderbird Five's frequency. "Any news, Alan?"

"Of a sort." Alan Tracy was looking tense. "The alarm has stopped."

Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. "Good."

"No, Dad! Not so good. It wasn't switched off, it just kind of faded out."

"Faded out!"

"That means the emergency alarm computer has been destroyed!" Brains exclaimed. "Mr Tracy – S-something is s-seriously wrong w-with Thunderbird Two!"

The Hood regarded his captives thoughtfully. "She should have regained consciousness by now," he muttered. "Truly this is an unusual lady."

Parker sat on a steel chair, his hands manacled together in handcuffs behind him, which were themselves joined to the chair by a length of chain welded to the chair's stretcher. On the seat next to him, still unconscious, Lady Penelope was similarly bound.

"It is of no matter," The Hood continued on. "While she sleeps she is no trouble. I must get ready for the next stage of my plan." He cast a sardonic grin in Parker's direction. "Don't go anywhere."

Parker stared back at his kidnapper defiantly, and watched him leave the room.

"Has that dreadful man gone?"

Parker's head snapped round. "M'lady! Are you all right?"

"Perfectly, Parker. I was enjoying a little rest."

"Little rest! You've been out of h-it for at least two 'ours."

Lady Penelope gave a little laugh. "That was the impression I was intending to give. I have been, ah, playing possum. Unfortunately it hasn't assisted us with our trifling problem."

"'Ow long...?"

"Oh, since you did your most efficient braking act. I'm afraid you jolted me awake quite rudely."

"Beggin' your pardon, Madam."

"Think nothing of it. You did me a service. I was able to observe our friend and his surroundings at length, without him suspecting I was doing so. I was hoping to find the moment when I could, ah, turn the tables. I had decided that my best opportunity was when he was going to carry me."

"And I stuck me big nose in," Parker said shamefully. "Sorry, M'lady. H-I couldn't bear the thought of 'im puttin' 'is mitts all over you."

"And you gallantly came to my aid. Thank you, Parker. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I 'ope that you didn't think that I took h-any liberties meself."

"You were a perfect gentleman. And don't worry, I now believe that it would have been foolhardy for me to try anything. He was too wary of us. As evidenced by the items he removed from my person."

"I was watchin' 'im to make sure 'e didn't do any funny business. What's 'e got?"

"My hair clip, brooch, rings, necklace and bracelet."

"'E took me wallet, jacket, braces and titfer 'n all," Parker bobbed his hatless head.

"He was most thorough, but I do believe that we still hold one or two, ah, aces up our sleeves."

"Indeed, M'lady. So now what do we do?"

"We wait, Parker," Lady Penelope informed him. "We wait until that horrible little man reveals his plans for us."

John Tracy lifted his face out of the snow that had helped cushion his fall. When Thunderbird Two had exploded he'd been lifted into the air and thrown – he didn't know how far. At first moving slowly to see if he'd sustained any injuries, he remembered his brothers and sat up quickly.

About 10 metres to his right and slightly behind him he could see Gordon move gingerly and then also sit up. John waved at his brother to let him know he was okay. Much to his relief, Gordon repeated the gesture.

Cautiously John got to his feet. He was surprised, that apart from a general ache, which was undoubtedly due to being flung about like a rag doll, he was unhurt. He turned to look for Virgil.

His brother was sitting in the snow, hugging his knees, silhouetted against an inferno that burned barely 500 metres away from them. It was a sight that would forever be etched in John's mind. The great craft that had been Thunderbird Two, had been reduced down to a third of its former size, and what remained was engulfed in fire. Incredibly the fire's temperature was so hot that it was melting the polar ice cap. Thunderbird Two was slowly sinking through the ice.

John turned to Gordon who had arrived at his side. Their protective masks held microphones to enable communication, but without the signal booster that was on board Thunderbird Two, their range was limited to about five metres. "You okay, Gordon?"

He could see the flames reflected in his younger brother's visor. "I'm a little sore, but I'm okay. How about you?"

"Pretty much the same." John turned back to the scene before them. "Look at that!"

"Yeah. Virgil must be feeling terrible."

They tramped through the snow to reach their brother. "Virgil!" Gordon laid a hand on his older brother's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Virgil didn't look away from the scene in front of him. "Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I'm just fine. How're you two?"

"We're okay." Gordon straightened up again and looked back at Thunderbird Two. "Boy. Talk about going out in a blaze of glory!"

The surrounding snow and ice reflected orange and red. The landscape was surreal.

John was starting to feel cold. "C'mon, Virgil, get up. Grandma's gonna tan your hide if you get your britches wet."

"Okay." With evident reluctance Virgil got to his feet and then turned his back on what, to him, appeared to be the death throes of an old friend. He unhitched his Arctic Survival Pack off his back and started removing the control yoke. "I'd set off the emergency alarm..."

"So that's why you took so long," Gordon interrupted.

"Yes," Virgil was searching through his pack. "They'll know something's wrong..."

"And the emergency alarm will have stopped working," John guessed. "They'll be panicking now."

Gordon looked at him. "Panicking? Our family?"

"Okay," John conceded. "Expressing some mild concern then."

"That's better."

Virgil had pulled his arctic emergency radio out of his pack. He placed it on the ground as he closed his pack securely, and reattached the control yoke again. He'd just finished that task and had swung his pack back onto his back when it started snowing again. "Can't it stop that for ten minutes?" he grumbled.

His words were blown away in a sudden maelstrom of snow. They were blinded and deafened by white out conditions...

"John!"

"Gordon!"

"Virgil!"

"Where are you?"

"What?"

"Grab my hand!"

"How? I can't see you!"

"What? I can't hear you!"

"Where are you guys?"

"This wind..."

"The snow..."

Gordon was blown forwards and bumped into something. "Who's that?"

"Me."

"John? Where's..."

"I'm here," Virgil had found an arm. "Who's this?"

"Me," John repeated. "So we're all here?"

"Yep." They grouped together in a huddle.

A particularly vicious gust of wind pushed against Gordon again and his gloved fingers slipped off his brothers' jackets. He lost his grip and fell.

"Gordon!" The two older Tracys yelled. "Where are you?"

"Down here! On the ground!"

They crouched down, reaching out for him. Virgil's fingers closed about an arm. "Is that you, Gordon?"

"Yes!"

They decided it was best to hunker down low and wait out the storm.

The door to their tomb opened. "So! You have decided to join us," The Hood sneered. "A bit different than your usual bed of feathers?"

"It is not as comfortable," Lady Penelope admitted. "But then I rarely sleep during the daylight hours, so I shouldn't expect any different."

The Hood laughed. "Remarkable," he said. "I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here?"

"You're h-auditioning for a scene from a detective movie?" Parker guessed.

"Silence, Fool! This is not a time for your petty jokes. No... I understand that International Rescue will soon be celebrating..."

"Are we going to a party?" Lady Penelope interrupted. "I do so like parties."

"Don't play the fool with me, My Lady," The Hood snarled. "You were on your way to celebrate the fifth anniversary of International Rescue!"

"Parker? Did you know about this?" Lady Penelope asked.

"H-It's news to me, M'lady," her butler replied.

"You think you are clever with your lies, but I KNOW! I have an impeccable source..."

For the first time Lady Penelope felt a twinge of alarm.

"...Who tells me that International Rescue are planning a party to celebrate the anniversary. I know you are agents for that accursed organisation for we have crossed paths before. Therefore I know that you are going to join them. I propose to accompany you."

"'Ow can you go to a party wot none of us has invites for?" Parker asked.

"I will pretend to be a slave to your Lady, just as you are a slave." The Hood gave Parker a malevolent grin. "Or I could leave you buried up to your neck in the desert's sands and I could replace you as your lady's chauffeur."

Parker stared him down. "You 'aven't got the qualifications."

"True, I am not servile enough. But I am a master of disguise and I can act any part. The face you see before you is not my own. International Rescue would never know of their peril until it is too late."

"But we don't know of any party," Lady Penelope insisted. "I came to Los Angeles simply to visit an old school friend! However if you are going to meet International Rescue I should simply adore going with you," she continued on girlishly. "Becky and I were just saying this morning, weren't we, Parker, that it's every girl's dream to meet those dashing men of International Rescue. Why Becky would be simply green with jealousy if she only knew..."

"Lies!" The Hood thrust his face close to hers and it took all her courage not to recoil back. "My source tells me you will be present." He leered, and to Lady Penelope's relief, moved away. "You are curious to know who my source is, aren't you? He is someone close to International Rescue. Someone very, very close. Only the fools don't realise that I have the power over him that forces him to speak, and when I submit him to that power he cannot resist." The Hood laughed and the chamber echoed with the sound. "I will return soon and then you will tell me how we are going to the party. Till then," he made an ironic bow, "please make yourselves feel at home."

The three Tracy brothers breathed a collective sigh of relief when the storm finally abated. They stretched and shook mounds of snow off their heads, shoulders and backs.

"That wasn't very pleasant," John commented dryly. "Where's your radio, Virgil?"

"My radio?" Virgil looked downwards.

"Yeah, you know. That thing that's supposed to help us get rescued," Gordon crossed his arms and glared at his brother.

"Don't be stupid, Gordon," Virgil snapped. "If you can't say something sensible, don't say anything." He scuffed at the snow on the ground with his foot. "It should be here somewhere."

"Well, what did you do with it?"

"I put it down before the storm hit."

"Put it down? Down where?"

"On the ground!"

"On the ground? During a blizzard? Of all the dumb..."

"I didn't know the blizzard was going to hit...!"

"And you call me stupid...!"

"Guys, calm down," John soothed. "There's no need to get upset. We'll find it."

The three of them gazed at the expanse of freshly fallen snow. Even their tracks had been obliterated. "Where?" Gordon asked. "Look at it, John. We've been blown about from pillar to post. It could be anywhere!"

"Well stop moaning about it and start looking!" Virgil had already started feeling about.

Ten minutes later they'd covered a large area and had discovered nothing. Virgil stopped searching. "We'll have to face it, we're wasting time. It could have been blown anywhere in that wind. Why don't you get yours out, John?"

John was already ferreting about in his survival bag. "Here it is..." he pulled out the instrument. "Oh...!"

"What?" his brothers closed in.

"Look!" John held the radio out to his brothers. It had been reduced to a flattened mess of plastic and wires. "I thought I felt something hit me between the shoulder blades!" Putting his hand through a tattered hole, he felt around inside his pack.

"How's your back?" Gordon asked.

"Fine," John said absently as he continued feeling about the bag. "What's this?" he withdrew his hand and stared at his find. A large, jagged piece of Thunderbird Two lay on his palm. "I suddenly feel very lucky," he said quietly.

Virgil stared at what had formerly been a part of his 'plane. "I'll bet you do!"

"The radio's history though," John added.

"Rather the radio than you," Gordon noted.

"Can't you fix it?" Virgil asked.

John was examining the bits and pieces that were once a functioning link with the outside world. "If I was at home, with a full complement of spare parts... But here..." he shook his head. "No chance."

Gordon took the remains of the radio from his brother and examined it critically. "That ship of yours sure packs a wallop, Virgil."

"Oh, shut up and get your radio out," Virgil retorted taking John's mangled set to examine himself. He gave a low whistle. "Are you sure you aren't hurt, John?"

"I'm fine," John reassured him taking his radio back and placing it carefully into his tattered pack. "What's holding you up, Gordon? Where's your radio?"

"Here!" Gordon said triumphantly, pulling the instrument out of his bag. "Now we'll get some action." Confidently he flipped the switch that turned the radio on. "North Pole calling Thunderbird Five! North Pole calling Thunderbird Five. This is the three polar bears calling. Come in, Snowylocks."

Virgil rolled his eyes in exasperation but said nothing.

Neither did the radio.

"Calling, Elvis. Is anybody home?"

There was silence from the radio so Gordon tried again. "Thunderbird Five! We've got Santa here and he wants to know what you want for Christmas. If you don't answer this radio we'll tell him you haven't been good and don't deserve anything..."

There was still no response. Gordon glanced at his brothers uneasily before trying yet again. "Gordon calling Alan. Can you hear me, Alan?" He'd lost his jocular manner as he shook the radio. "Come in, Thunderbird Five..." He tried adjusting the strength of the signal. "Nothing."

"Here, let me try," John offered. He examined the radio briefly. "Looks okay..." he spoke into it. "Calling Thunderbird Five. Come in, Alan."

"What's wrong with it?" Virgil asked. "Scott was supposed to do the checks on the survival kits. When was it last inspected?"

John slid out the panel that contained the unit's inspection record. "Two days ago. Unit and batteries A.O.K. It's marked with an 'S'." He raised his hands in defeat. "It might have been fine two days ago, but it's dead now."

"So we can't contact anyone," Virgil stated.

"There's always our wristwatch telecomms," Gordon indicated his wrist. "Who's going to volunteer to risk frostbite and have their watch stick to their skin?"

"I wouldn't bother," John told him. "They weren't designed to operate this close to the magnetic poles." He looked skywards, and was just able to make out a faint, green glow. "And judging by the Aurora Borealis that's playing up there, there'd be too much interference to even consider attempting reaching Thunderbird Five. We'd be wasting our time."

"Edible transmitters?" Virgil suggested. "At least they'd know we're still alive."

"Same problem," John stated.

"So now what do we do?" Gordon asked.

"Build some shelter," John shrugged. "We could dig it out of that snow bank," he pointed to a small hillock of snow some 100 metres away. "At least we'd be out of the cold until Scott gets back."

"How big do we make it?" Gordon asked.

"Big enough for three," John told him. "This is not a time for single rooms."

"We'd better build the door away from the wind." Virgil held up a scrap of paper. "Which way is it blowing?"

"That way!" John and Gordon replied together, each pointing in a different direction.

"Thought so," Virgil grunted as the material blew out of his mittened hand and danced its way across the snow.

"The trench will block the worst of it." Gordon removed the collapsed shovel that was strapped to his pack. "Come on, the sooner we get started the sooner we can get out of this cold."

The sun was beating down onto Mateo Island and on the Mark II, which had been removed from its concealed hangar. Scott stripped off, first his overalls and then his shirt, in an attempt to keep cool. Then he thought of the associated problems of getting sunburnt and put the shirt back on again. Before long it was covered in minute dots of grey paint, courtesy of the spray gun he was operating.

"Would you like a drink, Scott?" Tin-Tin called up from below.

He was about to decline when he realised that he wouldn't do his brothers any good if he were to collapse from dehydration or heat exhaustion, so, removing his facemask, he quickly made his way down to the ground. He took the glass of iced lemonade from Tin-Tin and, trying to ignore the all-pervading smell of fresh paint, sipped it gratefully. "This is great."

"Thank your grandmother. She packed us a few things to keep us going." Tin-Tin opened a large picnic basket and Scott's eyes widened with pleasure as he looked inside. His hand stretched out for a particularly yummy looking morsel and then stopped.

"What about Brains? He's gonna need something."

Tin-Tin smiled. "He's already got his. I knew there was no way he'd tear himself away from his work, so I took some in to him. I told him it was there and he grunted at me, but I doubt that he heard me. We'll go up there later and it'll still be sitting there."

Scott grinned, the treat already in his mouth. "We're lucky to have him," he mumbled indistinctly. "Not only the brains but the dedication to do what needs to be done."

"Scott Tracy! How many times have you been told not to talk with your mouth full?" Tin-Tin scolded, acting as if she were brushing his sprayed crumbs off her overalls.

Scott hurriedly swallowed his mouthful. "Sorry, Tin-Tin. Have you had something to eat?"

"I've lived long enough with you Tracy boys to know that, if your Grandmother isn't about to take you in hand, it's first in first served." She opened a toolbox and took out a serviette. Carefully balanced on it were a number of delicacies.

"Looks like you've learnt your lesson well." Scott took another bite at something else he'd retrieved from the basket. Then his chewing slowed down. "Guess the guys aren't feeling this good."

"They'll be all right, Scott. You know that."

"Yeah I know. It's just that..." he hesitated, "...I've kinda looked out for them, ever since Ma died. And with International Rescue I'm usually AT the rescue scene. There I feel I've got some control over the situation. Back here..." he slung back the last of his drink and once again ascended to the top of the Mark II.

Tin-Tin heard the spray gun back in action again. She put the picnic basket back in Thunderbird One and returned to her post, painting one of the jet units.

The sun blazed down.

Up at the North Pole the three Tracy men had started preparing their snow cave. Together, using the collapsible shovels that had been part of their survival packs, they dug a trench in front of where the entrance tunnel was to be. As they removed the snow they piled it on top of what was to become their shelter.

When the trench was as deep as John was tall, they took a break. Gordon stretched his back. "We'll give those snow crystals a chance to bind," he said, sitting down in the shelter of the trench. His brothers followed his lead, glad for the rest.

"What have we got in the way of rations?" Virgil was delving into his pack.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"I am actually. I was too busy working on the Mark II to have lunch. Do you want anything?"

John shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He began examining what was left of his pack, trying to discover what remained in there that was still usable.

Virgil removed an energy bar from its wrapper and quickly lifted his mask enough to bite into the snack. He shivered. "Boy, the air's cold."

"We're at the North Pole!" Gordon jumped on him. "What else would you expect?"

"What I expect, is that type of answer from you, Gordon. You..."

"Guys!" John interrupted what had the potential to become another argument. "Stop this! If we're going to survive the next six or whatever hours we're going to have to work together! If you feel like arguing like little kids when we get home, then fine, you can do it somewhere where I don't have to listen to you! But in the meantime can't you at least pretend to be civil to each other? You know we're going to have to work as team to get this shelter built. So let's work as a team! Okay? Virgil?"

"Okay," Virgil muttered.

"Gordon?"

"Yeah." Gordon didn't sound too enthusiastic.

"Good!" John slapped his hands together. "Let's get started on the tunnel..."

The clock ticked on.

Brains pushed a few buttons on the console of the Mark II and the computer hummed into life. "What's the weather report for the area from point zero – 500 kilometre radius," he commanded. Alone, and while working, he rarely stuttered.

The computer accessed the world's weather satellites, Thunderbird Five's own weather seeking technology, as well as equipment located onboard the Mark II. One nanosecond later the results were displayed on the screen. 'Tropical Cyclone 300 kilometres north-north-east of present position. Heading in a southwesterly direction. First signs expected to reach point zero within three hours. 150 kilometre per hour winds and 300 millilitres of rain expected at point zero within five hours.' Brains checked his own, hand held computer, linked to the main weather station on Tracy Island. The Mark II's results were corroborated.

He activated a radio. "S-Scott, can you hear me?"

There was a moment's delay, as Scott had taken his watch off to stop it from getting covered in paint. "What's up, Brains? Have you knocked your drink into the computer?"

Brains didn't stop to hear the humour in Scott's voice. "Drink? No... I've finished programming the w-weather computer and it's telling me that there's a c-cyclone heading this way. We should be feeling its initial e-effects in about three h-hours."

Scott digested this bit of news. "So if we don't have the painting finished by then, we could be held up longer! We'll have to shift the Mark II back into the hangar!"

"I-I'm afraid so."

"How much longer will you be?"

"I-I've still got to programme the guidance computer. I-It's worked fine in the s-simulator, but I'll want to r-run some tests."

"So how long, Brains?" Scott said impatiently.

"An hour?"

"Okay, Brains, thanks. I'll let Father know."

Jeff was not pleased. "How long before you'll have finished painting, Scott?'

"Lets see... We've been at it two hours so far. I reckon we've got another 1.5 hours painting time and then we need to allow a good hour's drying time. That's without any moisture about and I want to work on her outside for as long as possible. If it starts to rain we're going to have to back her into the hangar and allow at least an extra half hour drying time."

"So that's 2.5 hours minimum, before you can even lift off... You'd be painting quicker if you had an extra pair of hands of course..."

"Of course."

"Okay, Scott. I'll get the plane out and head over there straight away... On second thoughts, by the time I've got the plane out of its hangar you could have flown Thunderbird One over here, picked me up, and got back. So we'll do that."

"Okay. I'm on my way now. Out."

Jeff ran to his room and grabbed a pair of overalls. On his way back he bumped into his mother. "Jeff! Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Already he could hear the sounds of Thunderbird One's engines. "I'm going to help with the painting, Mother. Let Alan know, will you? I'll leave you in charge of communications..."

"But, Jeff..."

He gave her a brief, but affectionate kiss. "You'll be fine. You won't have to co-ordinate any rescues. When Scott takes off in the Mark II, I'll fly Thunderbird One back here. Now if you'll excuse me – I'm wasting time."

"All right, Jeff. Good luck and take care..." she said to his retreating back.

"What do you think, M'lady? 'Oo's the squealer?"

"I don't know, Parker, but there aren't too many possibilities. I don't believe there is a large guest list. Also, from the way our friend was talking, it is possible that whoever it is probably is unaware that they are passing on secrets."

"H-It's a worry."

"It is indeed. We must escape from here and try to find the unwitting culprit and see if we can nullify The Hood's power over him."

"Or 'er?"

"You are right, Parker. We mustn't overlook any possibility, no matter how unlikely it might seem."

"H-It's probably someone who doesn't live... on the base," Parker deliberately refrained from being more specific. "Else 'ow could that geezer get the info out of 'im."

"A good question, Parker. And knowing our friend's clever trick with his eyes, I would not put it past him to have some kind of telepathic power over someone totally unexpected."

"Do you think h-it could be one of h-us then? You or me?"

"I wouldn't like to say yes, but then I hesitate to say no."

"So, we're not in the clear."

"Only the way that he was talking makes me think that he was referring to another person. The question is who? And how do we prevent it from happening again?"

Tin-Tin removed her facemask and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Then she looked at her watch, surprised at how little time had passed since she'd started this chore. She pushed a button on the timepiece. "Hello, Father."

"Hello, my sweet one."

Tin-Tin smiled at her father's Anglicising of her name. "I am sorry I am not there to care for you. I wanted to see how you were feeling."

"Do not let that worry you. I am feeling well. I have had no reoccurrence of the seizure of two days ago. What can I do to help you?"

Tin-Tin frowned at him. "Father!" she scolded. "The Doctor said you are to rest!"

"I do not like sitting round while the family works. Perhaps I could do something to do with the party?"

"Now, Father," Tin-Tin sounded exasperated. "You know Mr Tracy has forbidden you from even thinking about that. We can handle the few chores that remain. It was probably all the work and worries that brought on your attack. The way you were moaning about the celebration when I found you..."

"But I am feeling well now..."

"I know, but I don't like it when you are ill. It frightens me."

"I do not wish to frighten you, Tin-Tin, and you have no need to feel fear for me as I am rested..."

The flight back to Mateo Island was quick. Jeff stared out of Thunderbird One's window at the partially painted Mark II as Scott brought Thunderbird One in to land. "You've done well."

"We've done the easy bit," Scott told him. "If you want to take over where I left off I'll make a start on the tail section. That's going to take a bit of rope work."

"Okay, Scott. You're in charge here. Just point me in the right direction."

Scott pointed in the vicinity of the Mark II's left wing. They could see a pair of overalled legs balanced on some scaffolding. "Go see where Tin-Tin's up to. If she's nearly finished that wing you can start erecting the scaffolding to start on the other."

"Would you mind if I went and saw how Brains is getting on first?" his father asked.

"You're the boss!"

"You're the site foreman."

Despite all his worries, Scott barked a laugh and then pretended to take on a gruff tone. "Just don't take all day."

John stopped digging and stretched his back. "I need a break," he said. "I'm going to have a look around. I'll be back in a minute." He clambered out of the trench as he heard his brothers grunt their acknowledgement.

Standing by the hole they'd created, John looked about him. The sky was dark and threatening; the ground like a vast white desert, except for the now blackened carcass of Thunderbird Two. He gave a shiver, which was not totally a response to the cold. "Two's still burning," he commented.

The latest blizzard seemed to spring up out of nowhere. John, suddenly buffeted by howling winds and blinding snows, was forced off balance. He staggered, trying to retain his footing.

The snows were swirling round and round him; a dizzying effect that hid all surrounding landmarks from view. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and took a step back the way he thought he'd come.

He had no visual references – Nothing to say where he could find the body of their shelter – Nothing to say where his brothers were – Nothing to say where was north and where was south – Nothing to say which was up and which was down. He was trapped in a murky gloom that could be dusk, dawn, night or day. John was only aware of the noise of the wind and the lack of visual stimulation. The swirling snows were numbing his mind as sure as the cold was numbing his body. Deprived of all sensory evidence he fell to his knees and shut his eyes. He was lost... trapped...

"... John..."

...Alone... He could feel the snow building up against his body, but didn't care. Nothing mattered. The snow and the wind were his world now. That and that nagging voice in his mind...

"... John! ..."

Strangely he wasn't scared. It was as if all emotion had been ripped away in that first fearful gust. He could live or die, it didn't matter. He was alone in his world of snow, and wind, and never ending greyness...

"JOHN!"

His name, shouted through the headset in his mask punctured the cocoon that he'd drawn around himself, sending in a lifeline. "Virgil?"

As he regained his sensibilities he could hear relief in his brother's voice. "John, where are you?"

"I don't know. I've lost my bearings."

"Well, hold still, we'll see if we can feel you."

"Don't get out of the trench!" John ordered, fearful that one of his brothers would find themselves in the same predicament that he was in.

"We won't," Virgil reassured him. "And don't you move either."

"I won't." John waited, praying that he would feel a welcome touch. If he had the vaguest notion where the trench was he would have extended his arms in that direction, but his disorientation was total.

"It's no good," he heard Virgil's grim voice. "We can't feel you. You're going to have to take a step."

"Which way?" John asked.

"Have you got any idea which way you're facing?" now he was hearing Gordon's voice.

"No, the wind knocked me about a bit. I've no idea." John shouted over the screaming gale.

"Keep talking and take a step to the left," Virgil suggested. "If the signal gets weaker we'll know you're heading in the wrong direction."

"Be careful, John," Gordon added.

"Okay, I'm talking. I'm talking about what a weird sensation this is..." Still in a crouched position, John shuffled sideways. "... I'm talking about..."

"Stop!" Virgil yelled. "You're fading slightly. Reverse your step."

"Reversing now," John described. "Now I'm moving further to the right. How are you hearing me?"

"About the same as you were before," Virgil admitted. "Hold still a moment and we'll try to find you again." There was a moment's silence before John heard his brother's sigh. "Nope."

"Take another step to the right, John," Gordon suggested. "Keep talking."

"I'll be hoarse before you find me at this ra..."

"Stop!" The yell was in duplicate.

"Two steps to the left to get back to where I started?" John asked.

"Yes," Virgil said. "I hope you're taking the same sized steps."

"I'm trying to. Okay, I should be back where I started. Now I'll go forward. I'll take a baby step. How do I sound?"

"Slightly clearer, I think," Virgil said. "What do you think, Gordon?"

"I agree. Take another baby step, John."

"Stepping out," John did as he was told. "How am I sounding now? Clearer?'

"Definitely," Virgil confirmed. "Hold still..."

"Against this wind! That's a near impossibility. I'm on all fours and I'm still being knocked about." John felt something brush against his forearm.

"I've found something!" Gordon sounded excited. "Is that you, John?"

"I think so," John grabbed at the object held against his sleeve. It was a hand. "Hi, Gordon."

Gordon kept a secure grip on his brother. "Come on in, John."

Feeling in front of him, John crawled, still gripping tightly to Gordon's hand. In his eagerness to get to safety, his misjudged the lip of the trench and tumbled in, landing on the soft snow that had been blown in by the relentless winds.

He sensed that someone had crouched down, and in turn sat up to face the unseen person. "Are you okay, John?" he heard Virgil's voice ask.

"I'm fine," John admitted. "I didn't land on you, did I, Gordon?"

"You wrenched my wrist slightly," Gordon admitted, "but I'm okay... Is it me or is this snow easing off?"

"No, I can see you guys." John was able to make out the shapes that were his brothers. He could see Gordon's figure massaging his arm. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

Gordon flapped his hand in the air. "Honestly, I'm fine. Though I don't know that I'll be able to dig for a while," they could hear the humour in his voice.

"You're not getting out of it that easily," John told him, and struggled to his feet.

"And you're not getting out of this jam that easily either," Gordon told him. "We don't need you to going all Captain Oates on us, and disappear out into the snow... Not yet anyway." It was said as a joke, but all three men knew that it'd been a close call.

"... And that was 'Dangerous Game' by the Cass Carnaby Five..."

"How's it going, Brains?"

Brains started, turned and blinked at his employer. "M-Mr Tracy."

"Sorry," Jeff apologised. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Where are you up to?"

"I-I'm fine-tuning the radio. We're getting interference f-from a commercial television station."

"...With Rick O'Shea..." the radio said.

"Sounds like Tin-Tin's boyfriend," Jeff commented dryly.

"I-I don't know. I haven't b-been listening that closely," Brains admitted, pulling at the neck of his shirt. "It's hot," he said rhetorically.

Jeff looked around. "How's everything else coming along?"

"F-Fine. The weather computer is f-functioning perfectly."

"... In entertainment news today..." the radio burbled away.

"So I hear. How's the guidance system?"

"I'll need Tin-Tin's assistance to f-finalise that. I'm concentrating on other things until she's f-finished painting."

"... British actress Carole Hampton was found unconscious at Los Angeles airport this morning..."

"That's why I'm here, to help with the painting," Jeff said. "I'd better get out there. I'll send Tin-Tin in."

"... She is undergoing tests to discover what was the cause of her blackout. Hampton, who rose to prominence in the Cy Goldheimer sci-fi blockbuster..."

"Th-Thank you, Mr Tracy."

"... Is currently filming 'Terror at Thompson Tower', co-starring her boyfriend, Chip Harrison, best known for his role as Paul Metcalfe in 'Winged Assassin'..."

"Don't forget to have your lunch," Jeff pointed out the food and drink that Tin-Tin had left for Brains. The engineer stared at it as if it had suddenly materialised out of nowhere.

"... It was Harrison who found Hampton. He said they'd been waiting for a friend who's since mysteriously dis..."

Brains turned the radio off.

After a half hour of clearing out the snow that had blown into their trench, those trapped at the North Pole decided that it was safe to continue working on the tunnel that would be the entrance to their shelter. John took the first shift. He reached in the hole, which was level with his knees, and began digging upwards, while the other two cleared away the snow as he removed it. They worked industriously, frequently changing roles to give the one inside the cave a break.

The wind stopped blowing.

"Thank heavens for that!" Gordon clambered out of the trench, sat on the edge, took off his facemask, and wiped his forehead. "I needed some real fresh air." His words were punctuated by the puffs of steam coming from his breath.

"How cold is it?" John joined his brother and removed his own mask. He reached down to help Virgil out of the trench.

"Not too bad, though not warm enough for a swim."

"Blast!"

"What's wrong, John?" Virgil asked.

"My eye's frozen shut."

"Well, put your hand..."

"...Over my eye and don't try to pull the eyelids apart. I know the drill." John did this as he spoke and felt his eyelids separate as the warmth of his hand melted the ice that sealed it. "That's a weird sensation," he said as he put his mask back on. He glanced at the sky. "What time do you think it'll get dark here?"

"I'd say... about November," Gordon told him. "What's the matter? Been away from the stars too long?"

"No, just curious. It's a strange feeling knowing that the sun won't set for..."

"Hey look!" Gordon pointed across the landscape. Now that the snow had stopped falling and the wind had stopped blowing, they could see far into the distance. Virgil and John followed the line of their brother's outstretched hand to what appeared to be a large lump on the otherwise smooth landscape.

"What is it?" Virgil asked.

"Don't tell me you don't recognise one of Thunderbird Two's pods," Gordon said with a grin. "You know we could find shelter there, not to mention a source of heating, and food, and communications with base...."

"You want to check on Thunderbird Four," Virgil accused. "How far away did Scott say it was? It's probably farther than it looks. We could be caught in another snowstorm before we get a quarter of the way there. I think we should stay here. At least we've nearly got our shelter sorted."

"Looks like the decision's down to you, John." Gordon turned to his other brother who was starting speculatively at the pod in the distance.

"Much as I like the idea of actually having somewhere warm to hunker down..." John began slowly, "I think we should stay here. This is where Scott will be looking for us, and you can't beat the signal fire we've got going." He gestured over at the still blazing front third of Thunderbird Two. "And I've already been trapped in a blizzard twice, I don't intend repeating the experience!"

"Okay," Gordon shrugged. He knew as well as his brothers the unpredictability of the weather this close to the North Pole. Safety would have to come first.

As if to emphasise the soundness of their decision a light snow started falling. It obliterated the surrounding landscape's features.

Virgil shivered. "And I thought it was cold on Mount Arkan," he said, rubbing his arms as he slid back into the trench.

"If Brains offers to make it snow at home this Christmas I'm going to tell him 'no thanks'," Gordon said. "I've seen enough snow to last a lifetime."

"Don't say that, I missed out last time," John complained. "I was on Thunderbird Five."

"If you've seen one snowflake you've seen them all, Johnny," Gordon told him. "It's my turn to start digging, isn't it?" He clambered up the tunnel and started to remove the snow from inside the cave, pushing the snow back down to the entrance with his feet. "You know..." he puffed lightly, "...we'll have this thing finished just as Scott gets here."

"We'll need it if he gets held up for any reason," Virgil reminded him as he scraped the snow from where it fell out of the tunnel.

"Yeah. Like he doesn't like the Mark II's colour scheme," Gordon teased.

Virgil ignored him...

There's 18 points up for grabs this time.

20 points are available in this chapter.

All Creatures

Alan was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by circuit boards and other bits of equipment. While not as imbued with ins and outs of communications technology as John, he could still find his way around an electronics layout and transpose the information to the real world. He traced his finger along the schematics of a circuit diagram and then carefully compared it with the changes he'd just made to one of Thunderbird Five's computer systems. "No bugs," he said to himself.

Satisfied that he'd completed his task correctly, he replaced the plate that hid the computer's workings and pushed the remainder of the tools and excess equipment to one side to be tidied later. Then he activated the radio. "Thunderbird Five, calling Mateo Island."

It was his father who heard the call. "Go ahead, Alan."

"I've made the adjustments Brains suggested and I'm ready to try."

His announcement caused his brother and friends to stop their work. Scott removed his paint mask and abseiled down from the Mark II's tail to where his father was working. He was just in time to hear the order. "Try it, Alan."

"Yes, Sir." Alan flipped a switch and spoke into the microphone. "Thunderbird Five, calling Thunderbird Two." He amplified the signal. "Thunderbird Five, calling Thunderbird Two!" he repeated. "Come in, John?" He waited. "Can you hear me, Virgil?" Still nothing. "Gordon! Are you receiving me?" He repeated his call again.

The silence hung heavy on the airwaves.

"Anything, Alan?" His father's voice, although quiet, sounded loud.

"Negative. Only static. Maybe they didn't have time to get their Arctic survival packs. And I guess the receivers in their masks must be too weak, huh?"

Scott looked at his father. None of the Tracy men dared voice a more ominous reason for the continuing silence. It was as if they were all frightened that if someone were to suggest the worst, then it might just be proven to be true.

"Try again, Alan," Jeff requested. He listened in silence as his youngest son tried, in vain, to raise their missing kin.

"Nothing!" Alan said in frustration. "Any other suggestions, Brains?"

Unseen, apart from Tin-Tin who was assisting him in the pilot's cabin of the Mark II, Brains shook his head. "N-No, Alan. Is there anything to suggest a-atmospheric interference?"

"I'm getting a good view of the Aurora Australis," Alan said as he looked southwards out of one of Thunderbird Five's view-ports. "The way it's dancing above the Pole makes me think there must be some pretty major sun-spot activity going on."

"That's p-probably the reason why Thunderbird Five's signal isn't getting th-through," Brains suggested, trying to be reassuring. "I'm sure the boys have evacuated Thunderbird Two and have b-built themselves a snow cave."

"Well, we won't know for sure until we get back up there," Scott stated, before he ascended back up to his work area on the Mark II's tail.

Jeff pushed his feelings of concern to the back of his mind, waved a pesky fly away, and resumed his painting.

The three Tracy men had completed their snow cave and were beginning to settle down inside. Deciding to keep the walls of their shelter a safe 45cm thick they'd discovered that it was too small to build elevated sleeping platforms for all three of them. Despite that, inside, away from the biting wind, and with each other's body heat to sustain them, they were beginning to feel relatively warm. Their packs plugged the entrance tunnel, helping to trap the warm air inside their shelter, and a five-centimetre hole in the roof allowed carbon dioxide to safely escape. They even felt warm enough to remove their masks and gloves.

"This is cosy," Gordon said, as he smoothed down the ceiling above his head. "Almost like a Scout camp. Now, if I only had my guitar..." he mimed playing the instrument and began singing. "Gin gan gooli gooli gooli wat-cha..."

His brothers groaned.

"I seem to remember tents having a little more room," John grunted. Being taller than his brothers he was finding the lack of legroom a major irritation. He shifted, trying to worm a little extra space from the vicinity of Virgil's feet and grimaced as his left leg grated up against something cold and hard. "Virgil! Will you move that thing?"

"Why'd you have to bring it in here, anyway?" Gordon added.

Virgil pulled Thunderbird Two's control yoke from underneath his and John's legs and tried to find somewhere else to store it. "I wasn't going to leave it outside. It might blow away!"

"And that would be a bad thing?" Gordon asked as he fended off John's elbow. "I suppose we should be grateful that you didn't try to bring the flight recorder in as well!"

Hoping to avoid becoming caught in the crossfire of an argument between his two brothers, John diverted Virgil's attention with a question. "What do you think caused Thunderbird Two to break up?"

Virgil's thought for a moment, concentration creasing his forehead. "I don't know. The only thing I can think of is that, because the thermostat wasn't working on the pod, the upper right quadrant suffered from thermal stresses during the nucleation of ice crystals."

"In English?" Gordon requested.

"He means that the water expanded as it froze," John explained.

"Yes. We already know... knew that was a weak area," Virgil continued on grimly, "which was one of the reasons why we were replacing Thunderbird Two. If the snow that had collected on the pod hadn't totally dissipated before we picked it up, and if the thermostat failed again, the water could have been in the process of re-freezing and expanded, weakening the side strut just as we slid into position. If that side strut broke while we were in flight, the fuselage wouldn't have been able to withstand the sudden change in force..."

"And the loss of the side strut would have caused the pod to drop first," John hypothesised.

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "The sudden shift in weight would have brought unnatural strains on the rest of Thunderbird Two and the tail section would have broken away from the front section..." He reflected for a moment. "It's only a theory. We won't know for sure until Brains has the opportunity to check the flight recorder."

"And he can't do that until they've finished the Mark II." John looked at his watch. "Well, we've been stranded for nearly three hours. Only another four or so to go." He grimaced and shifted position again. "How come I'm underneath the ventilation hole?" he grumbled and looked upwards as he felt something drip onto his head.

"Because you're tallest and you were complaining about not having enough room to stretch out if you were on the side," Gordon reminded him. "Why don't we try top and tailing? Turn around, John, so your back is where your feet are."

"And have my back against the draughty tunnel? I don't think so. You turn around."

Gordon leant forward so he was able to see Virgil clearly. "I'm wedged in. How about you? If you can turn around then John can shift over slightly and then if need be I'll be able to turn... I think."

"I'll give it a go... Here, hold this," Virgil handed John his souvenir from Thunderbird Two, and, with a bit of a struggle, which included having to lean on his brothers, managed to turn round. He ended up with his back beside the entrance tunnel and his feet in the corner. "Is that better, John?"

John gave his brother the souvenir back and shuffled over so he was closer to Virgil's feet. He was now sitting at an angle across their shelter. "That's better," he breathed. "Thanks, Virg. Now I don't feel like my legs are screaming at me to let them get out and go for a walk."

On the Mark II's flight deck, Tin-Tin started when her watch beeped an alarm. She frowned as she silenced the alert, trying to remember what she'd set the reminder for. Realisation dawned and she slipped out of the cockpit so she could make a call without disturbing Brains. Then she activated the wristwatch's telecomm.

Her father's face replaced the watch dial. "How are things proceeding, my daughter?"

"Slowly, Father. We still have to paint the starboard wing and the tail, and it looks like rain."

"Then why have you called me?"

"I have a favour to ask of you."

Kyrano smiled in pleasure, eager to be of service. "How can I help you?"

"It's Alan's pygmy alligator. I promised him that I would try to feed it regularly."

"And the feeding is due now?" Kyrano asked, knowing full well what the answer was going to be. His smile disappeared.

Tin-Tin nodded. "Obviously, I can't do it at the moment... I'm sorry, I know how you feel about the animal, but would you mind feeding it... Just this once?" She favoured her father with her most beseeching expression.

Kyrano hesitated before answering. He had had dealings with the crocodilian before and the two didn't always see eye-to-eye... Teeth-to-finger was a better description of their relationship.

Tin-Tin continued talking, trying to ease any negative ideas in her father's mind. "I think it's due some ocean perch this time, so you won't have to deal with any live insects or frozen mice. You'll find the fish in the deep freeze next to the enclosure. You'll only need one. Allow it to defrost before you feed it to the alligator."

Kyrano nodded slowly.

"Don't forget to use the tongs this time," Tin-Tin reminded him. "Throw the fish towards the pool. It probably won't recognise you as a source of food..."

Kyrano doubted that. He rubbed his finger where the memories, in the shape of a series of small scars, remained.

"... So it shouldn't jump out of the water at you," Tin-Tin finished. "Please, Father. Will you do this for me?"

"For you, my daughter, I will do this. But please inform Mister Alan that I am not about to become the personal servant to his pet."

Tin-Tin laughed. "Thank you, Father. I appreciate this and so will Alan."

"Also," Kyrano continued on. "I should like to know one thing."

"Yes, Father?"

"Why could you not buy Mister Alan an animal that does not eat meat?"

Tin-Tin laughed again. "We'll talk about it later. I'd better get back to work."

"Tell Mr Tracy and Mister Scott that my thoughts are with them and their kin."

"I will, Father. Thank you..."

"Gordon!" John complained. "That's ridiculous!"

They'd decided to pass the time by thinking up, preferably plausible, rescue scenarios and coming up with suitable responses to each situation.

Gordon was getting bored, as evidenced by the fact that he was fidgety and that his scenarios were becoming more and more outlandish.

"How on earth could I end up hypnotised, stranded on an asteroid, with a damaged rocket?" Virgil asked reasonably. "That's almost as bad as your, 'what would you do if Scott had his mind taken over by aliens' scenario."

"Which in turn makes your, 'an eruption is set off by a Cobaltium 5 explosion which starts a volcanic rift the width of the Pacific Ocean, ending at Tracy Island', scenario sound almost plausible," John added.

"Until you added that 'Tracy Island was about to be destroyed by a World Navy commander who's been instructed to kick us off and use the island for explosives testing'," Virgil finished.

"Well, I had to give it some sense of drama," Gordon protested. "I thought it was a bit boring up to that point. A bit like your 'what would you do if you're clinging to a log that's floating down a flooded river.' No imagination."

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Give me strength," he muttered.

"You struggled with the 'earthquake traps a bore team building a monorail tunnel' scenario, Gordon," Virgil reminded him. "Perhaps you should be trying to concentrate on solutions to realistic problems, rather than thinking up crazy ones."

"I had other things on my mind," Gordon said huffily.

"Yeah. Like thinking up daft situations to tease us with," John scoffed.

"Didn't you like the 'Lady Penelope kidnapped by South American natives' scenario?"

"That!" Virgil stated with conviction, "has to be the most outrageous story of all!"

"Yes," John agreed. "There's no way she'd allow herself to be kidnapped, not unless it was part of her master plan... Will you keep still!"

"I can't," Gordon admitted and shifted position again. "It's this cold weather. I'm busting to..."

"Aw, no," John interrupted. "Not in here!"

"Let me out then. I won't be long."

"Can you climb over me?" John asked.

"No," Gordon admitted. "You're going to have to shift."

"Okay," John sighed. "I'll get out. Are you coming, Virgil? Safety in numbers..."

"Yes. I need to stretch my legs anyway. I'll go first?" Virgil removed their packs, rolled over and slid headfirst down the chute that was their link with the outside world. He stood in the trench, flexing his legs while his brothers followed him out.

"How cold is it?" Gordon asked as the snow began to fall again.

"Not too bad," Virgil admitted. "We're out of the wind down here."

"Well, go and get on with it," John instructed, "before we're hit with another blizzard. Only don't go too far away, we'll want to be able to find you again."

"Give me a leg up then," Gordon ordered and his brothers assisted him out of the trench. One second later he was back beside them.

John stared at him. "That was quick."

"It's too cold up there," Gordon shivered. "The wind's blowing straight off the North Pole. I vote that as soon as this snow stops we build an outhouse!"

"I'm going back inside," Virgil told him. "This time you can sit with your back to the entrance, Gordon, then you can get out in a hurry if you need to."

John was the last to re-enter. He followed Gordon up the entrance tunnel and found that Virgil clearing the ventilation hole in the roof. "Problems?"

"Not really. The snow had clogged it up slightly," Virgil explained as he settled back down with his back against the rear wall.

Gordon, resting against the front wall of the cave, looked at his brothers. "Why don't we try our wristwatch telecomms?" he suggested.

"But they won't work," John insisted.

"I know you said that. But what if they've boosted the receiving signal on Thunderbird Five?"

"They will have," John began. "But it won't be enough to reach us..."

"Sh," Gordon hissed.

"...Not with the Aurora Borealis..."

"Shhhh!" Gordon held up his hand to silence his brother.

"What?" Virgil asked.

"Quiet!" Gordon commanded. "Listen!"

His brothers listened. John and Virgil looked at each other and shrugged.

"Can't you hear something?" Gordon whispered. "It's coming from outside."

"Like what?" Virgil leant forward to try to hear the sounds better.

"It sounds like a kind of snuffling..."

"P-Parker!"

Parker's head snapped around when he heard the unfamiliar, yet unmistakable note of terror in her voice. "M'lady?"

"M-M-Mou..."

Lady Penelope was the most fearless person that Parker knew. She could stare down the gun held by a ruthless criminal without batting an elegantly made up eyelash. Disarming a live bomb was all in a day's work, to be followed by a refreshing cup of tea. She laughed in the face of danger. But Parker also knew that there was one thing that could cause a fearful reaction in his mistress. He looked at the floor.

There, beside Lady Penelope's foot, calmly washing its whiskers, was a mouse.

"Get rid of it, Parker!" she whispered.

"'Ow?" He hissed. "You're closer. Shoo it with yer foot."

"I can't move." Lady Penelope felt as if she were frozen to the chair. Her eyes were glued to the 'repulsive' creature which had switched its cleaning activities to its hindquarters. She was torn between an irresistible need to know exactly where the rodent was, and an equally irresistible desire to have it removed from her line of sight.

"'Ere!" Parker tried kicking out, but the mouse, blind to the movement, ignored him. Instead it switched its ablutions from one side of its body to the other. Lady Penelope let out a quiet shriek when its tail brushed against her foot.

The mouse stopped washing, looked about, decided that the unexpected sound was nothing to concern it, and began washing again.

Lady Penelope bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.

"Shoo!" Parker said, but to no avail. "Shoo!" he said again, this time louder.

The mouse licked down its belly.

"H-Okay, let's try somethin' you'll understand," said Parker to the mouse. "Meow."

The mouse stopped cleaning and looked up.

"Meow," Parker articulated again.

The mouse crouched, ready to flee. Its whiskers bristled, trying to sense the approaching feline menace.

"Mrreow," Parker said again. For extra emphasis he added a low growl and a sound approximating the hissing of a cat.

Deciding that its life was in mortal danger; the mouse scurried away to the safety of a crack in the wall.

When she was sure that it had gone, Lady Penelope let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Parker."

"H-It was nothin', M'Lady."

"I didn't realise that you spoke cat so fluently."

"Me Mam used to feed 'er Ladyship's cats... h-and all the neighbourhood strays," Parker explained with a touch of pride. "H-I used to 'elp 'er. It got so that I could call 'em and they'd come runnin'."

"Well, I'm glad that you sent that rodent running. Oh, my heart. I can feel it hammering."

"Take a few deep breaths," Parker advised. "You'll soon calm down. A little furry fing like that won't 'urtcha..."

"I can hear something!" Gordon reiterated. "There's something outside!"

"It can't be Scott," John was looking at his watch again. "It's too soon."

Suddenly, the middle pack of their makeshift door disappeared down the tunnel.

"What the...!" Virgil exclaimed as his pack followed its twin.

Gordon grabbed the remaining pack and thrust it down by his feet, drawing himself away from the entrance hole as he did so.

John pulled his legs up tight against his body as he stared down the tunnel. "Is that what I think it is?"

The light at the end of their entrance tunnel was obliterated. A long, white, furry paw, topped with what appeared to be meat hooks, reached inside their sanctuary.

There were three yelps of "Polar Bear!" and the Tracys backed as far away from the entrance as was possible in their confined quarters, Gordon using the sole remaining pack as a shield.

The paw probed further. Its murderous claws raked along John's boot and he suddenly discovered that he was wrong in believing that he was unable to fit himself into a smaller area. He pulled his legs in closer to his body.

The paw scratched at the snow inside the door where Gordon had been resting only seconds before. Pulling part of the interior wall back down into the tunnel, it withdrew.

As the three brothers looked at each other, unsure as to whether it was safe to breathe again, Gordon removed and extended a shovel that was strapped to the pack he was holding and held it at the ready.

Their respite was only temporary, as the bear had decided that a change in the angle of attack was in order. Another paw snaked inside and clawed at the wall, inches away from Virgil's booted legs. It snagged Virgil's souvenir, but it slipped out of the bear's claws giving him the opportunity to rescue it before it followed the two packs down the tunnel.

"What do we do?" Gordon hissed; his eyes round as saucers.

"Don't move!" John ordered from the corner of his mouth. "Don't hit it with the shovel unless absolutely necessary; we don't want to make it angry. And don't make a noise!"

The bear scrabbled about with its paw again, scarring the surface of the snow, before deciding that whatever was inside this hollow was out of reach.

Virgil felt in his pocket. He was relieved to find that a pencil-sized laser, the one he'd used to release the control yoke from Thunderbird Two, was still there. He doubted that it would be strong enough to penetrate the animal's coat, but maybe it could singe a pad, or temporarily blind the beast... if he found himself within beam range, which wasn't an appealing proposition. He clutched the tool tightly, and prayed that he wouldn't have to get that close to an angry bear.

From his position in the centre of the trio, John could see clearly down the tunnel. He discovered that he had an eye to eye view of the bear as it strained to push its head up towards its prize. Fortunately for the brothers, the animal's torso was wider than the hole, but still John could see sharp, yellow teeth and black, piercing eyes. There was a strong odour of fish before the bear withdrew its head from the chute.

"What if it's got a cub and it sends it in to get us?" Gordon asked.

They could hear a tearing sound. The polar bear was ripping open the two packs it had claimed and was trying to find something edible.

"What'll happen if it tries to climb on the roof?" Virgil whispered. "Do you think the cave will hold?"

"Possibly," John replied in a soft voice. "I hope we don't have to find out."

But it seemed that the bear had heard them. Virgil became alarmed to hear something brushing up against the exterior wall beside him. Then he heard a soft thump as the bear reared up and placed its front paws on the cave, followed by a soft creaking from the snow and ice. He shifted so that he was crouched beside Gordon and as far away from the bear as he could get.

John looked up. The polar bear was sniffing around the ventilation hole. It licked at the ice and a drop of saliva fell down the shaft and onto the snow at his feet. He saw the claws again as the animal dug at the ventilation hole briefly and without conviction before dropping back to the ground.

The brothers looked at each other wide-eyed, wondering if and where the next attack was coming from. They heard part of the trench collapse as the bear climbed into it again and Virgil decided that he'd be safer in his original position. As he scurried back, the paw re-entered their cave and made a grab for him. It missed his boots, instead managing to hook one of John's. With a yell he was pulled off balance.

"John!" There was immediate chaos as his brothers sprang to his aid. While John frantically tried to hang on to something to prevent himself from being dragged outside, Virgil grabbed him about the chest and pulled back, digging his heels into the well-compacted snow of the cave's floor. Gordon lifted the shovel as high as he could in the confines of the cave and brought it down on the paw. There was no sound from the bear, but it let go of John and retracted its paw back down the tunnel to give it a bemused lick.

Virgil took advantage of the animal's preoccupation and dragged John away from the chute. His feet slipped out from under him and he ended up sitting on the floor with John partially on top of him. The elder Tracy rolled off his brother, and pulled himself away from the door, allowing Virgil to roll the other way, onto the control yoke. He pulled it out from underneath him and backed into his corner again.

"Gimme that!" Gordon demanded and reached across John, grabbing the piece of Thunderbird Two from Virgil's hands.

"What...!" Virgil exclaimed and watched as Gordon shoved the control yoke into the tunnel, using the column of the unit to keep his hands as far away from the bear as possible. They all drew back when they saw the paw make another assault on the cave.

The yoke was slightly wider than the tunnel, and the bear's claws caught on it, pulling it down towards the entrance. It jammed. The bear tried pulling again, first with one paw and then with the other, but was unable to shift the obstacle. It dug briefly at the entrance to the snow cave, stared back up at John through the spokes of the steering unit, and then gave up on its quest and moved away.

The Tracy men waited a full five minutes, hardly daring to breathe, before they began to relax. "Are you okay, John?" Virgil eventually asked.

"Yeah." John massaged his ankle. "Probably got a few bruises that's all. Teddy must have wanted to shake hands with me."

There was a moment's silence as the ridiculousness of what he'd said sank in. Then, as one, they burst out laughing.

Gordon wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "I'm telling you guys now, I'm not leaving here until I know that Scott is standing by the door with at least one laser gun primed and ready."

John cautiously looked down the tunnel. "What do we do about the packs?"

"You could go and get them," Gordon suggested.

"I don't think so," John said darkly.

"Why not, John?" Virgil asked. "You're the one who wanted to risk your neck more."

"Though I think you've overdone it a bit this time." Gordon started ticking a list off his fingers. "You get Virgil to crash Thunderbird Two into the North Pole, then get blown up and nearly sliced in two by Thunderbird Two, then you get caught by a blizzard..."

"Two blizzards," Virgil amended.

"...Then you get caught by two blizzards, then you decide to take on a polar bear single handed. And you say you're not getting enough action!" Gordon shook his head in mock exasperation. "I don't know, Brother. You're a glutton for punishment."

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," John said. "I think I've had my quota of excitement for the day... Make that the year! I'll be glad to get back to Thunderbird Five. If nothing else I'll be warm!" He looked at his watch. "I wonder if I can get a message through to Alan."

"You said the signal wouldn't be strong enough," Virgil reminded him.

"True. But if I can cobble together our watches and whatever's still working on the radio in Gordon's pack, maybe then we'll have a strong enough signal to get through to Thunderbird Five."

Gordon started unstrapping his watch from his wrist. "Here. Do what you want with it."

"Better check that it's still operational," John turned his watch on. "Calling..." There was a loud screech of feedback and he hurriedly switched it off. "Well, that's still working."

Virgil rubbed his ear and handed his watch to his brother. "Can you find a less painful way of testing it?"

Scott stood, stretched, braced himself against the winds that were growing stronger, and squinted into the darkness, shielding his eyes against the glare of the powerful lights that bathed the Mark II. Earlier in the day he'd been briefly entertained as seagulls had taken cover on the nearby cliff face. Cursing one another as they crammed themselves into nooks and crannies, the birds had done their best to try to find shelter from the wrath of the cyclone. He had to admit that he was slightly jealous of their flying abilities as, despite being buffeted about, they had each landed with precision on their roosts.

"Scott!"

He looked over the edge of the Mark II's tail, down into the shadows, to where his father was standing on a ladder. He noticed that most of the scaffolding had been removed. "Have you finished?"

"Pretty much," Jeff yelled up, and then took a step up closer to his son. "I don't like the way the atmosphere feels. I think we'll be getting rain soon."

"I agree. It could be pouring down before the paint's had a chance to dry. We should get her under cover. I haven't got much more to do and I'll be wasting time if I get down to move the Mark II. Do you want to do the honours?"

"Will you be all right up there?" Jeff asked warily.

"Yes," Scott affirmed. "I'm tied on securely."

"Well, make sure you're sitting down throughout the manoeuvre," Jeff instructed.

Scott grinned. "This is me you're talking to, not Alan. I won't do anything stupid."

"You can be just as reckless as your brothers sometimes," Jeff reminded him. "Especially when their health is at risk." He started descending the ladder.

Scott double-checked that his safety harness was well secured and sat on the tail, his legs hanging over the side. He looked down on the Mark II. From this vantage point he could almost believe that he was astride the tail of a giant, grey whale. Then the powerful lights at the edge of the runway blanked out, and sank down into the ground.

Slowly Scott's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night. As he looked past the megalithic body of the 'plane he fancied he could see the threatening clouds racing across the sky. Then he felt a tremor run through the mighty plane as her taxiing engines came to life and the ghostly palm trees lining the runway began to move. He briefly enjoyed the sensation of watching the world around him slide by, before the hangar's entrance loomed over him and he was inside. It was like entering the gateway to a different world. Compared to the external gloom, the interior lighting appeared to be unnaturally bright.

There was a slight bump as the Mark II came to a halt and the plane fell silent. Scott stood and began his final few passes with the paint gun. He felt the temperature drop sharply and he turned in time to see the heavens open and the cyclonic rains descend to the earth.

The hangar door was closed.

"Just in time," he shouted down to Jeff.

A moth circled the solitary light bulb in their prison. Parker watched it; its hypnotic dance numbing his mind to the discomfort he was in...

"Parker!"

He shook his head to clear it. "Yes, M'lady."

"I feel we have been sitting here long enough."

Parker couldn't agree more. "Yes, M'lady," he said with feeling.

"I have been doing a stock take of our situation."

"Indeed, M'lady."

"And I have come to the conclusion that, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining."

Parker looked at his mistress in interest. "H-And that would be?"

"That would be that I have not been doomed to spend 24 hours with Mr Chip Harrison."

"You didn't like 'im?"

"I don't trust him," Lady Penelope admitted.

Parker stared at her. "You mean you think 'e's tied up with this 'Ood geezer?"

"Oh, no. Nothing so nefarious. I mean that I've known Becky Hampton for years and, wonderful girl she may be, she has a simply appalling taste in men. They have a tendency to use her and leave her and this Chip Harrison has all the hallmarks of being no different."

"Indeed, M'lady."

"I only hope that she isn't going to be hurt, yet again."

"From what I 'eard it sounded as though 'e was on a sticky wicket 'imself."

"Her recitation about the men of International Rescue?" Lady Penelope laughed. "Oh, if Becky only knew, Parker. It is shameful of me, but it was all I could do not to laugh."

"H-I found it difficult keepin' a straight face meself. Which one of 'em do you think she'd go for?"

"Oh, any of them. It's the image of the man that she's focused on at the moment. Not the personality."

Parker winked and lowered his voice. "So you think H-I might 'ave 'ad a chance?"

"Unfortunately, my dear fellow, Becky would only ever see you as a servant. She will never know your true talents."

"Just as well," Parker noted. "H-I don't fancy livin' in 'Ollywood."

Lady Penelope laughed again. "Sadly the poor girl is deeply insecure. That's why she's had all that plastic surgery. She won't find someone she's comfortable with, until she's comfortable with herself." Lady Penelope sighed. "I wish I could do more to help her, but I suppose we should be thinking about helping ourselves. Can you move your chair?"

"H-I think so."

"Good. We must move fast. See if you can twist around so your back is to me and I'll try to cut you loose with my shoes. It was nice of our friend to leave me some of my toys."

With much scraping of the floor they endeavoured to turn their heavy chairs, Lady Penelope almost overbalancing. She let out a quiet sigh of relief when she managed to remain upright.

"Are you h-okay, M'lady?"

"Perfectly, Parker. I have no intentions of knocking my chair over this time. This floor looks much harder than the one in that boathouse."

At last they were in position. "Are you ready, Parker?" Lady Penelope asked, as she used the toe of one shoe to push a sequence of the diamantes that decorated the other.

Parker braced himself by pulling his arms as far apart as the handcuffs would let him, while at the same time holding them away from his body. "Ready, M'lady."

"I shall try not to burn you..." Lady Penelope raised one slender leg and pressed the right side of her right shoe against Parker's shackles. A small laser burst into life and started to burn through the metal of the chain that held his right arm to the chair.

Parker flinched.

"Am I hurting you?" Lady Penelope asked in concern.

"The metal's gettin' a bit 'ot," he admitted.

"Sorry..." Lady Penelope concentrated on her task. "Nearly there..."

Parker's hand flew free and Lady Penelope lowered her leg. "That's better," he grunted. "Lemme have your other shoe and I'll free one of your arms."

"Thank you, Parker. That would be most kind of you." Lady Penelope extended her other leg and Parker delicately removed her second shoe, before standing and, dragging his chair behind him, moved into position so that he could use the laser in the sandal to shear through the chain that held Lady Penelope's right arm fast.

When one of her hands was free, Parker handed the laser to her. "Would you mind carryin' on yerself, while I free me other 'and?"

Lady Penelope took the shoe. "Of course, Parker. We must make haste. Our friend may return at any moment, and I fear that any pleas that he release us because we are British, would fall on deaf ears."

"Indeed, M'lady."

"This is no good," John grunted and wiped a layer of moisture off the face of the watch he was holding. He reached beneath his polar jacket and unrolled the neck of his uniform's top so that it was covering his nose and mouth. He then returned his attention to the watch.

His brothers watched him in interest. "Who is this masked man?" Gordon asked.

"I'm trying to keep my breath off the electrical components," John explained, his concentration elsewhere, as he prised the back off the watch. "The condensation will play havoc with the electronics... Especially... if it... starts to... ice up." He gently teased a tiny wire from the watch's interior with a pair of tweezers he'd found in the first aid kit.

They were utilising what little they had available. The back of their sole surviving pack had become a makeshift table, wiring was being held together with foil from energy bars and tape from the first aid kit. John's tools were the tweezers, a needle off a hypodermic syringe and a small knife. He carefully tried to connect the wire from the watch with another that had been part of Gordon's radio. He managed to hold the two of them together with the tweezers and then, using fingers that were numb with cold, tried to wrap a tiny bit of foil around them. "Hold the tweezers, Gordon."

Gordon followed his brother's lead and pulled the neck of his uniform up over his own face. He then carefully took the implement from John and tried to hold it still so that he didn't disrupt John's delicate work. John tried to seal the two wires together with some foil, but only succeeded in nudging Gordon's tweezers and dislodging their tenuous connection. He uttered a mild curse. "This is hopeless!"

"Would it be easier if you had another set of tweezers?" Virgil asked.

"Yep," John sighed, and then stared at his brother. "What are you doing?"

Virgil had picked up the shovel and was tying a piece of survival blanket, flag like, to one end. "I'm going to get the other packs."

"But what about the polar bear?" Gordon asked.

"I don't think it'll be hanging round waiting for us to become an easy meal," Virgil said, as he cut the end off a piece of string that held one corner of the 'flag' in place. "But just in case it is, I want to have plenty warning before I stick my head out that door." He waved his flag. "Hopefully it'll go for this before I get outside." He pulled at the steering column of the control yoke, which was still forming a gate against the outside world. "It's frozen in place. I can't move it!"

"Maybe it's trying to tell you something, Virg," John said. "Like don't go out."

Virgil looked at him. "Can you complete the radio without the other packs?"

"Well... No. But then there's no guarantee that I can with them."

"So our options are that we either sit here and do nothing and hope that Scott's arriving back about when we're expecting him, or I go out there and get the packs and you try to fix the radio."

"Yes," John agreed with obvious reluctance.

"Well, I'm voting that we at least try something," Virgil said and starting using his pencil laser to melt the ice around the control yoke. "What if there's a hold up for any reason? What if that bear comes back and tries to do more than 'shake paws' with you? We might need to tell Scott to forget about the Mark II and get back here in Thunderbird One in a hurry."

"What worries me is that it's not me that it's likely to be 'shaking paws' with," John said with real concern. "You're the one going out into its domain."

"Don't worry, John. I'll be fine." Virgil was halfway through his task of opening up the entrance tunnel.

Gordon pulled his shirt down from off his face and exchanged a worried look with John.

Virgil finished one complete circuit of the control yoke and pulled at the steering column. The yoke moved slightly and then stuck. "The snow's freezing again almost as soon as I melt it," he complained as he got the remains of the survival blanket, threaded it through the spokes of the yoke and handed the two ends of the blanket to Gordon. "Pull on that while I cut again," he instructed.

Gordon did as he was told, initially keeping a constant pressure on the blanket and then tugging more forcefully as the yoke came free. When Virgil had finished cutting around the circumference of the unit, he grabbed the column and pulled again. The control yoke popped free and both men fell backwards.

Virgil sat up and examined his souvenir of Thunderbird Two. "It's damaged," he said sadly. "I've burnt it and the bear's scratched it."

"Never mind, Virgil," John said. "That control yoke's saved our lives more than once today. Just think of them as battle scars."

"Yes, something extra to remember today by," Gordon added. He pulled on his fur-lined mittens.

"I guess," Virgil placed the steering unit to one side and picked up the shovel. He took a deep breath. "Wish me luck."

"Hang on, Virgil!" Gordon crawled forward. "I'm coming with you."

"You don't need to do that. I won't leave the trench."

"I'm still going to watch your back. You haven't got eyes in the back of your head!" Gordon stared defiantly at his older brother.

"Okay," Virgil said gratefully. "Thanks... See you soon, John." He turned back to the tunnel. "Here we go." His flag leading the way, he slid down the tunnel. For a short time only his feet remained inside the cave. "Can't see or hear it," he eventually said, his voice muffled by the snow. "I'm going out," and his feet disappeared.

Gordon quickly followed him...

"'Ow's it goin', M'lady?"

"Nearly through, Parker. How are you, ah, going?"

"Slowly," Parker growled. "Me laser's losin' power."

"I probably used more than I should have when I released you," Lady Penelope admitted. "There!" her laser broke through her left chain and she straightened up, examining the shackles that still encircled her arms. "These bracelets are not exactly haute couture. Francois would not approve." She handed her laser shoe to the chauffeur. "Try my other shoe. There may be more power in it."

"Thank you, M'lady." Parker discarded the right shoe and set to work with the left. "Much bet'er."

"Good. While you're finishing that task, I'll have a wander round and see if I can find anything of use."

"Very good, M'lady." Parker returned his attention to burning through the chain that still bound him to the steel chair.

Lady Penelope prowled around the room, slowly examining everything in the hope that she might find something that would assist them to escape. She bypassed an out-of-date pictorial calendar decorated with animals gambolling in a forest, and turned her attention to a cabinet against the wall.

Parker concentrated on his chore.

He hadn't achieved his goal when the door to their prison slid open. Lady Penelope turned in time to see the Hood fill the doorway, a frightening expression of complete anger on his face. "So! You think you can escape, My Lady?" he snarled.

Parker froze, still trapped by the merest slither of metal in the chain that tied his left hand to his chair.

"I do appreciate your hospitality," Lady Penelope lied. "But I do not wish to overstay my welcome."

"It is time for you to leave, My Lady," the Hood agreed. "But you will be leaving without your slave. I will demean myself and play his role until I have gained access to the base of International Rescue." Parker watched as a gun was raised in his direction and tried not to show any fear as he surreptitiously tugged at the chain. "You will be put to death, as any mangy dog should be. Be grateful that I am showing you pity and will make your death mercifully swift, for I would take great pleasure in seeing you suffer." The Hood readied the gun for firing. "It is right that you are on your knees. You should be begging for your life."

And Parker waited for what he knew must happen next...

Have you remembered to keep track of all the references? 69 points are available from these first four chapters.

Are you still trying to find the references? There are some very obscure ones included in this chapter, plus some bonuses...

Escape?

Scott Tracy paced the maintenance room, the boots of his International Rescue uniform squeaking slightly on the concrete floor. "How long does it take for paint to dry?" he demanded of no one in particular.

"Settle down, Scott. We can't rush these things," Jeff admonished him gently. He watched his eldest son pace back and forth some more. "Calm down and have something to eat. You've been on the go for at least the last six hours. And you'd put in a full day on the Mark II before we got the call out. If you're going to fly us all back to the North Pole I want you fresh!"

"I'm all right," Scott grumbled.

"Scott," Jeff leant forward and held out a chocolate bar. "Have a break. I know you're worried about them, but you won't make the paint dry any faster by stressing. Now sit down and relax."

Reluctantly Scott half obeyed the order by taking the snack and sitting down, but he still wasn't able to relax. He crossed one leg over the other knee, and then reversed position. He uncrossed his legs, and folded his arms. Then he uncrossed his arms and folded his legs. He unwrapped the sweet and bit into it without enthusiasm.

As he watched his son fidget, Jeff shook his head ruefully. "I hate to think what you'd be like if you had sisters."

Tin-Tin gave a soft laugh at the mental image. "I think I've got some idea," she admitted before turning to the agitated man at her side. "They'll be okay, Scott," she reiterated for what seemed to have been the hundredth time that day.

Scott was on his feet again. "How can you just sit there, Father? I can't think of anything worse than... than..."

"Watching paint dry?" Jeff teased.

"I don't know how you can be so calm! It's been nearly five hours since we heard from them!"

"I've had plenty of practise," Jeff informed him. "I've had five years of worrying about you boys while you've been out on rescues, not to mention the years before that as you were all growing up. And I've come to realise that there's no point in worrying, until you have a reason to worry."

"You've got three sons trapped at the North Pole, you've had no communications from them for five hours and you think you don't need to worry?" Scott shook his head in bemusement.

Brains walked from the hangar into the maintenance room. "I-I think the paint will be dry by the time we've..."

Jeff Tracy was out of his seat and through the door, Brains following him. "M-Mr Tracy..."

Before Scott had a chance to follow them both, Tin-Tin stood and took his arm, holding him back. "See! Your father does worry. He worries about you all. You don't see it because you're always out on rescue and you're one of the ones he's worrying about. But I do see it. I know when he's worried." She gave the blue uniformed arm a comforting squeeze. "He's just as worried as you are, Scott. But he's had more practise at hiding it than you."

"He does a good job of it," Scott conceded.

"They'll be all right," Tin-Tin insisted again as they began walking out of the maintenance room and into the Mark II's hangar. "You know they're not quitters... John, Virgil and Gordon won't give up at any cost. You know that."

"I know," he admitted.

"They'll be looking after each other."

"I know."

"They have the skills to survive."

"I know," Scott repeated.

"Then keep positive." Tin-Tin released his arm and stood back so he could enter the Mark II.

"Ladies first," he gestured.

"Gladly," Tin-Tin stepped inside. "I'm sick of the smell of paint."

Parker stared down the gun that was about to take his life.

As Lady Penelope tore a bead from her pale pink blouse, she gave silent thanks that she had chosen this day to wear this particular garment. As usual, the fates had been smiling on her.

There was a soft popping sound as the bead hit the Hood on his broad chest and exploded. Pungent, green fumes rose and smothered his face. Choking, his eyes and nose streaming, he staggered backwards. His finger, already tensed around the trigger, contracted involuntarily and the resulting bullet tore across the face of a leggy animal gambolling on the calendar.

Parker redirected his attention to the laser shoe in his hand and resumed attacking the final link that still bound him to the chair.

Lady Penelope took the opportunity to step between her butler and their assailant, forming a human shield.

The Hood shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His turned his bloodshot eyes back to face the two prisoners. "You can not escape that easily," he snarled, blinking against the enduring stinging pain. "No more games. Your slave will die... Now!"

"No," Lady Penelope said quietly. "I will not let you."

"You are of use to me or I would take your life too. But him..." the Hood gestured with the gun as he wiped his eyes with the back of his other hand. "He is of no use. Move aside!"

"No," Lady Penelope repeated. "I will not let you kill, Parker. Not without killing me first."

"So!" the Hood sneered through his tears. "There is some loyalty in the privileged classes towards their slaves... But it is misguided loyalty... I said get out of my way!" He stepped forward, intending to push Lady Penelope to one side.

It was the opening Lady Penelope had been waiting for. Already prepared for such a move, she kicked out, catching the Hood squarely between the legs.

He let out an unholy screech of pain.

Equal to the occasion, Parker picked his metal chair up and brought it down on the back of his would be assassin, who collapsed, unmoving, onto the floor. The force of the blow was enough to sever the final obstinate link in Parker's chain. "Thank 'eavens for that," he said, examining his freed wrist.

Lady Penelope looked down on their assailant. "I dread to think what Mother would think if she knew that I had to attack a man in such a way. She would be spinning in her grave."

"If your mother knows wot you've bin up to since she passed away, M'lady, she must 'ave spun a 'ole all the way to China," Parker grinned.

Lady Penelope replaced her shoes on her feet. "I would have thought that your most efficient, er, clobbering act would have knocked our friend out for some time, Parker. But knowing this particular gentleman I believe that there is every chance that he will regain consciousness before we manage to find our way out of here. We must make haste."

"Indeed, M'lady." Parker strode to the door and looked through. "All clear." He stood to one side. "After you, M'lady."

"Thank you, Parker."

"No," he said, with feeling. "Thank you, My Lady."

"We'll be leaving in a moment, Mother."

Mrs Tracy looked relieved. "At last!" She looked at her watch. "It's been five hours since we heard anything."

"Don't I know it," Jeff growled as he looked at her image in the telelink. "Keep your chin up. They'll be fine."

"I'm sure they will be," Grandma said with determination. "They're from good solid stock! Now, Jeff, before you head north I want you to stop off at home. I've packed some food hampers to take with you."

Jeff shook his head as Tin-Tin and Scott entered the flight deck. "Thanks, but we'd better head straight for the Pole."

"But they won't have had anything to eat for the last five hours! They'll be starving!"

"If they've got access to a survival kit they'll have their energy bars, and we've got some food on board the Mark II..." Jeff glanced over at Scott who'd slid into the pilot's seat. "I'll talk to you later, Mother."

"Be careful... All of you. And give those three my love."

"It won't be long and you'll be able to do that yourself. They'll be hanging out for something freshly baked from your kitchen." Jeff braced himself as the Mark II started rolling out of her hangar and into the pelting rain.

"Let me know when you're leaving the North Pole and I'll make sure it's ready to eat as soon as they walk into the house."

"F-A-B, Mother. We'll be in contact as soon as we hear anything." Jeff shut down the link and retreated to a seat beside Brains before strapping himself in.

"Thunderbir... Mark II to Thunderbird Five," Scott said into the microphone.

"Thunderbird Five," Alan replied. "How's it going?"

"We're about to take off," Scott told him. "Can you confirm we've got the all clear?"

"There's nothing near you except that dirty great storm cell. If any other planes are flying in that weather their pilots must be suicidal."

"Or desperate," Scott added. "We know the Mark II's handled well on short trips in fine weather, we're about to see how she goes flying to the other side of the globe in some of the worst Mother Nature can throw at her. Lifting off now."

Mateo Island wasn't equipped with the launch pad that characterised Tracy Island's runway, so Scott had no option but to take off vertically. As he fired up the VTOL jets, and the rains obscured the view through the windscreen, there was no visual evidence that the great 'plane was leaving the Earth's surface. Apart from a slight juddering sensation as the jets forced themselves against the tarmac of the runway, the Mark II's passengers had no knowledge of the exact moment when the aeroplane left the ground. To Scott it was eerily like the white out conditions he'd experienced at the North Pole.

The Mark II powered away from Mateo Island.

Lady Penelope and Parker ran through the complex, trying to retrace their steps to the Rolls Royce. They stopped short when they came up against a steel door.

"How tiresome," Lady Penelope pushed at the door. "It appears to be locked."

Parker was examining the lock. "Piece a cake," he said. "It'll be h-even h-easier than the Bank of H-England. H-And that was a doddle."

"Lord Silton would not be pleased to hear you say that, Parker," Lady Penelope admonished him.

"Well, 'e asked me for me professional h-opinion and I gave it to 'im," Parker said with dignity. "H-I can't 'elp it if 'e didn't like h-it. Now, H-I just need a bit of wire. You wouldn't 'appen to 'ave a 'airpin, would you?"

"I'm afraid I can't oblige you," Lady Penelope admitted. "He took anything that he thought could be used as a weapon." She placed an unruly curl behind her ear. "I must look a fright!"

"Doesn't mat'er," Parker had spied a solitary desk lamp on a table in an adjourning room. He unplugged it and carried it into the still lighted hallway so he could see what he was doing. Then, pulling his sleeve down over his hand for protection, he gingerly unscrewed the bulb. "'Ot, 'ot, 'ot!" he exclaimed as he juggled it between his hands.

While her butler was preoccupied with the task of releasing them from their prison, Lady Penelope spent her time examining the fixtures of the adjacent rooms. She opened a cupboard. "This is indeed our lucky day, Parker," she noted as she removed his uniform cap and jacket.

"Even bet'er," he said, examining his clothing thoroughly as he looked for some of the tools of his former, illicit trade. He found nothing. "'E's taken me kit."

"Never mind, Parker. I'm sure that whatever you have planned will work just as well."

Parker picked up the now cooled light bulb. "Mind your eyes," he instructed and broke the globe on the edge of a table. Lady Penelope continued searching as he carefully removed the filament from the shattered light bulb. "There ya are," he said with satisfaction. "One bit o' wire. We'll be out of 'ere in no time."

"Wonderful, Parker," Lady Penelope said as the lock snicked open. "I should hate to be late for Jeff's party." She reached into the drawer that she'd opened and pulled out a small satchel. "Is this what you were looking for?"

"That's it," Parker confirmed and shoved his wallet into his pocket. "That's bet'er. I felt quite naked without me tackle."

"And I without my trinkets," Lady Penelope agreed as she removed the remaining contents of the drawer.

Beyond the door FAB1 was waiting for them in all her glory. They hurried over to the car and Parker gave it a quick once over. "'E's tried to h-open h-it," he said in disgust. "'E's scratched it."

"Never mind, Parker. It's nothing that a quick touch up with some paint and a polish won't fix."

Muttering to himself about, "no respect for 'onest folk's things," Parker assisted her ladyship into the Rolls Royce. He then reclaimed his seat in the front of the car.

Ahead of them was a solid steel and rock wall. "H-I trust you don't mind the use of h-a little firepower, M'lady," Parker asked.

"Not at all, Parker. Please proceed."

"Very good, M'lady."

The slats on the radiator grill rotated open. The barrel of a gun was extended. A sniper sight rangefinder rose up out of the dashboard. Parker lined the cross hairs up with a point low down on the door...

There was an explosion and rock and steel rained down on the glass steel canopy of the car as FAB1 sedately drove forward.

"Well done, Parker."

"Thank you, M'lady."

They were barely 100 metres away when a series of subsidiary explosions started detonating in the complex behind them. "Our friend must have stored some flammable goods in there," Lady Penelope said calmly. "Most careless of him. He should have known better."

"Yes, M'lady. H-I quite agree. Very careless. Someone could get 'urt."

They drove at speed across the desert until they had reached the road, where Parker spun the Rolls Royce on to the highway heading back for Los Angeles. The resulting shower of gravel startled a snake and it slithered out from under a bush, away from the perceived danger, its winding sideways movement leaving a pattern of parallel J-shaped markings in the sand...

"Thunderbird Five calling International Rescue – North Pole," Alan tried again. He'd said those words so many times over the last five hours that he was hoarse. He took a sip of water and turned his attention to the blip on the scanner that marked the rescue aeroplane's progress through the cyclone. He changed frequency. "How's it going, Scott?"

Scott's face was grim. "We're airborne, but we're not making much headway. My scanners say we've got to climb to 7,000 metres to get above the storm. Can you confirm?"

"Affirmative," Alan agreed. "Looks like your weather computer's right as usual, Brains."

Scott adjusted the trim as the aeroplane was buffeted by the strong winds. "This is nearly as bad as it was at the Pole. I hope the fellas haven't had to put up with weather like this for the last six hours!"

There was a bang and the Mark II lost altitude briefly. Scott fought the controls, using all his considerable skill to bring the great 'plane back under control.

"Lightning strike?" he heard his father's voice behind him.

"Yep."

"A-Any d-damage?" Brains stuttered.

"Nope." Scott decided to concentrate on gaining altitude rather than continue their northbound flight. "Don't worry, Brains. Thunderbird Two could handle weather like this, and you've made this baby even stronger. We'll be all right..."

A streak of lightning flashed past the window...

John manipulated one pair of tweezers. Gordon had another pair in his hand and was keeping two wires crimped together. On John's other side, Virgil mirrored his brother in steadiness and concentration.

"Near-ly... got... it... There!" John straightened and rubbed his eyes. "You can let go, thanks, Fellas."

Carefully, so as to not undo all of John's hard work, Gordon and Virgil released their tweezers from the mess of wires and electronics that they hoped was going to be functional radio.

"Will it work?" Virgil asked as he shifted position and tried to uncramp his legs.

"Do you want me to be honest or optimistic?" John looked at his brother.

"Optimistic," Gordon requested.

"In that case. It'll work a treat."

"Honestly?" Virgil asked.

"Honestly? I don't think we've got a show in Hades. You may have salvaged my radio from what's left of my pack, but I don't know what was damaged by the bear or that bit of metal. I don't know what it was in Gordon's radio that was causing it to malfunction. And I don't think our combined watches have the necessary receptive power to transmit any further than Pod Four, even assuming that both radio batteries are still operational. That's without the concerns of the cold and ice that's got into everything."

"I think I preferred the answer you gave me," Gordon said. "You may as well try it anyway."

"At least putting it together killed about an hour," Virgil said. "They must be close to having the Mark II completed by now."

John touched two wires together. Optimistically an LED light came on and the 'radio' emitted a low hum.

"Well, we've got some power," Gordon commented.

"But is it enough?" Virgil watched his older brother attempted to initiate contact.

"North Pole to International Rescue," John said. "Come in, Alan... This is John calling Alan. Can you hear me, Alan...?"

Alan Tracy sat in the control seat of Thunderbird Five and rubbed his eyes. On a normal day he would have been following his normal sleeping patterns and would have been in bed by now. He looked at the computer console's chronograph. This was not a normal day and he had no intention of going to sleep. Not while three brothers were in danger, or worse, and the rest of his family were attempting to reach them by flying an untested aeroplane through a cyclone.

He leant on Thunderbird Five's viewport and watched the Aurora Australis dance over the southernmost pole. It was an awe-inspiring sight at the best of times, and today it was especially spectacular, probably because the Pole was cloaked in winter darkness. As he watched he couldn't help thinking about his three brothers, trapped at the North Pole and unable to communicate because of the twin of this dazzling phenomenon.

He turned his back on it when he thought he heard a welcome sound through the chatter of radio noise. He practically ran back to the communications computer and placed his ear near the speaker, straining to hear something familiar. After several minutes he gave up trying to listen to the real time transmissions and instead rewound the recording of the last ten minutes, placed headphones over his head, and sat back to try to identify what it was that he'd heard before.

After three passes of the recording he came to the conclusion that what he'd heard was only in his imagination. He was tired and desperate to hear something that would reassure him that the Mark II wasn't on its way to find something that he didn't even want to consider.

He opened the teleradio link with base. "Hi, Grandma."

"Hello, Alan, darling. Do you have news?"

"No. I needed to hear a friendly voice. I'm going stir crazy up here waiting to hear something."

"I understand. We're each trapped on an island of sorts at the moment."

Alan managed to grin at his Grandmother. "At least you've got Kyrano to keep you company. I've got the whole planet to listen to, but no one I can hold a conversation with. It's nearly as stressful as when you and I were on the San Miguel Bridge... I suppose you're cooking up a storm?"

"I've got all their favourites ready. I only need your father to give me the word and I'll put them in the oven. They'll be ready for something hot by the time they get home."

"Make sure you leave some for me, Grandma. I'll be home in a couple of days."

She gave her grandson a playful wink. "I haven't forgotten you, Alan. I'll be too busy cooking for the party when you get home, but after that's over and things have settled down again, I'll make you something special."

"After a month of my cooking, anything you cook would be special. Even if you burnt it."

"I thought Brains had designed meals that were supposed to easy and tasty?"

"They are," he admitted. "It's not my cooking so much as the food itself. I know these meals that Brains has designed are meant to be hot and nutritious, and they taste pretty good... But I wish you'd give him some lessons in presentation! The dish I had last night wouldn't have looked out of place in a field of cows!" Alan screwed up his face. "It looked revolting!"

Grandma Tracy laughed at the mental image. "I'll make you something extra special when you're home, then. And you can spend the rest of your time in space thinking about what you'd like that to be."

Alan licked his lips. "You realise you've just made these last few hours into torture, Grandma? I'll be spending my time thinking about your cooking and not listening to the radio."

"Now don't you let me cause you to neglect your duty," she scolded playfully. "You keep right on listening. John's probably making a working radio to contact you right now...."

Half an hour after they'd started, they gave up on trying to make contact with Thunderbird Five via the makeshift radio. Listening to the static had been too depressing.

The three of them sat in silence, since their topics of conversation had long since dried up.

Virgil was struggling to keep his eyes open. He tried fighting against it, but was losing the battle. When he eventually gave up and allowed sleep to overtake him, he'd doze off, his head would touch the cold wall of their shelter, and he'd be jarred awake again.

John was sitting, contemplating the radio. Occasionally he'd pull the pack/work table onto his knee and fiddle with some wire or component, but always with the same negative result. Then he'd lay the pack down again and lapse back into thought.

Gordon was bored. Bored with a capital B... He looked at his brothers. They were boring too. He needed to do something to bring some life back to the group. Something that didn't take up too much energy! Something that would annoy the heck out of his companions. Stuck for any other ideas, he began to sing. "Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall..."

His brothers looked at him. "Has Parker been corrupting you with bawdy ditties again?" John asked.

"...Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall..."

"If he sings about anything with a number higher than ten," Virgil began. "You have my permission to kill him..."

"...And if one green bottle, should accidentally fall..."

"...Slowly."

"...There'll be nine green bottles hanging on the wall..."

John looked at Virgil. "We've got nothing better to do. I guess if you can't beat 'em..."

"...Join 'em," Virgil agreed.

A shaky three-part harmony started singing the next verse. "Nine green bottles hanging on the wall..."

"Where to, M'lady?"

Lady Penelope stifled a delicate yawn. "I think, perhaps, we should go straight to Jeff's Malibu house. I'm sure Maxwell is waiting for us. He may have worried Jeff unnecessarily."

"Very good, M'lady. 'Ow are you goin' to explain this to Miss 'Ampton? That creep knocked 'er out too!"

"He did? Dear me, how tiresome. I suppose that means that the police will be involved as well. We had better think up a suitable alibi for our absence. Get your thinking cap on, Parker."

"Yes, M'lady."

Scott looked out through the Mark II's portals at the featureless white expanses of snow and ice. "Thank heavens for GPS readings. Otherwise it would be like looking for the lost pyramid of Kamandadees."

His father stood at his shoulder, straining his eyes for any sign of the front third of the downed Thunderbird. "What's that!" he pointed slightly to port, to where a plume of smoke rose skyward. "Is it the tail section?"

Scott checked his global positioning satellite readings. "No. That's further over to starboard. And it had stopped burning by the time I'd left."

An icy chill seemed to clutch at Jeff Tracy's heart. "Then where's the smoke coming from?"

Scott glanced at the GPS and then up at his father. "It's hard to judge distances out here..."

"But it's where you left the boys?"

Scott nodded. "I think so." He turned the Mark II so it was on a heading towards the smoke that rose like a flag from the snowy landscape.

"...And if that green bottle, should accidentally fall, there'll be no green bottles hanging on the wall."

As the last note of their song died away the silence returned.

"Well," John stretched. "That killed a couple of minutes. Now what?"

"How about another song?" Gordon suggested.

"Not until I'm near my piano," Virgil threatened.

Gordon ignored him. "Ten sticks of dynamite hanging on the wall..."

John chuckled. "Ten sticks of dynamite hanging on the wall..."

Virgil shrugged and completed the trio. "And if one stick of dynamite should accidentally fall. There'll be no sticks of dynamite and no bloomin' wall."

They laughed. "We'll have to get Parker to give a concert at the party," Virgil said. "He's a riot when he loosens up."

John agreed. "We'll have to get him away from Penny for a bit."

"I asked him once if there's a blood bank in England," Gordon commented. "He said, 'No, but there is a liver-pool."

His brothers groaned.

"Gordon!"

"That's terrible!"

"I asked him another time," Gordon continued on, "if he knew of any ruins in England."

"What did he say?" John asked cautiously.

Gordon made an attempt at Parker's distinctive voice. "'There's one close to 'ome, Mister Gordon. She wanted to marry me.'"

It must have been due to the stresses of the day, but both John and Virgil found that extremely funny.

When he no longer had to lean on John for support, Virgil looked over at his younger brother. "I'm glad you've still got your sense of humour, Gordon."

Gordon waited for more of this statement to be forthcoming. "Well?" he eventually asked.

John looked at him. "Well, what?"

"I'm waiting for the next bit. Virgil's glad I've still got my sense of humour because... Because, what? Because it proves I'm an imbecilic idiot? That I've got the maturity of a six-year-old? What?"

Virgil looked surprised. "There wasn't any more. That was it. I am glad that after all that we've been through today, after spending however many hours stuck here in the snow, I'm glad that you can still try to cheer us up. It's one of the things that makes you an asset to the team."

"Oh..." Gordon was nonplussed by this unexpected praise. "Thanks..." Embarrassed he looked at his hands. Then he gave one of his famous impish grins and began to sing again. "100 bottles of beer on the wall..."

"Although, if you don't stop singing songs with bottles and numbers in them I'll personally send you outside to serenade the polar bear," Virgil threatened.

"Okay," Gordon relented. "I promise that I won't sing any more songs about numbers and, or, bottles..." His grin broadened. "'This is the song that doesn't end...'"

"Yes it does!" John pulled his brother's hat over his face to shut him up.

There was a squawk from the radio. John grabbed at it and pulled the pack onto his lap. He made a small adjustment to one of the resistors.

"...ome in... Mark II calling Thunderbird Two. Come in... please..."

"Scott!" John yelled into the radio's microphone. "We can hear you, Scott."

"...Come in Thunderbird Two. Can you hear me? Calling Thunderbird Two..."

"Scott!" John tried again and listened as his older brother continued trying to contact them. "We're receiving but not transmitting," he said in frustration. "What's wrong with this thing?"

"It must be your radio, Gordon," Virgil said. "It must be the transmitter that's not working."

"That'd explain why I couldn't get Thunderbird Five..."

John had grabbed his snow mask and was putting it on. "Are you reading me, Scott?" he said into the microphone as both Gordon and Virgil donned theirs.

"John? John, is that you? Are you all right? How's Gordon and Virgil?"

"We're here, Scott," Virgil said.

"All in one piece," Gordon added.

They could hear relief in Scott's voice. "You're all okay?"

"We're fine," John acknowledged. "Where are you?"

"Heading towards Thunderbird Two..."

"Boys," it was their father's voice. "Are you sure you're all okay?"

"Cold and bored, that's all," John told him. "What are you doing here?"

"Do you think I'm going to sit at home and let your big brother take all the glory?" Jeff stated. "I wanted to see how the Mark II performed."

"And how was she?" Virgil asked.

"Faultless," Scott said. "Even better than Thunderbird Two."

"How's Thunderbird Four?" Gordon asked eagerly.

There was a moment's silence before he heard his brother's drawl, punctuated with a background of laughter. "Gee. I don't know, Gordon. For some strange reason we were more interested in finding out if you guys were actually alive. Do you want me to double back and pick her up first?"

Before Gordon had a chance to reply there was a simultaneous, "NO!" from his two fellow captives.

Scott chuckled. "Majority rules. Sounds like you've been outvoted, Gordon."

"I could say," Virgil said, "something like... 'If Gordon wants to wait here until his precious, probably un-broken Thunderbird Four is retrieved, then fine. But John and I would like to get someplace warm'... But I won't."

"Just as well you're not going to say that," Gordon said mildly. "Or else I would have to get very upset."

"Where are you guys?" Scott asked. "I take it you're not still on Thunderbird Two."

"We've dug a snow cave," John explained. "How close are you?"

"I don't know. Brains and Tin-Tin are trying to get the thermal scanners to pick you up. We're getting a lot of heat interference from Two."

Those in the snow shelter became aware of a distant rumbling noise. "Listen!" Gordon held up a hand. "I hear a crash of Thunder... and the Tracy Symphony."

Virgil was almost cheering. "That's the best music I've heard all day."

"You're close, Scott. We can hear the Mark II's engines," John began packing up the radios and shoving them into the remains of his pack.

Flying above the Arctic Circle in the newest Thunderbird craft, Brains and Tin-Tin were concentrating on the readouts from the thermal scanners. "Anything, Brains?" Tin-Tin asked.

"N-No," he said in frustration. "Th-The heat from Th-Thunderbird Two's causing too much interference."

"Same here," she admitted. "I can't see them anywh... Wait!" She pointed at the screen to an irregular shaped orange dot. "Is that them?"

Brains adjusted the angle of his scanner so it was in line with hers. "I-I'm not picking up three individual r-readings..."

"But if they're in a snow cave they'll be huddled together," she reminded him.

Jeff Tracy was on the long-range radio to Thunderbird Five. "Alan! We've found them and they're all fine."

"They are?" Alan exclaimed. "That's great! Shall I let Grandma know?"

"Yes, please, Son. Tell her to start warming up the oven. We'll give her a call when we're leaving."

"F-A-B."

"John," Scott said. "Keep talking and I'll zero in on your radio signal."

"Okay," John agreed. "I should be getting good at this by now. What did I talk about last time guys?"

"About how weird it was," Virgil reminded him.

"And how lost you were," Gordon added.

"And how cold it was... and still is! How close are you, Scott? Are you reading us yet?"

"Gotcha!" Scott said with satisfaction. "Start packing up, boys. We're going to take you home. Coming into land now." He lined up the Mark II so that its wing was sheltering the snow cave and gently brought her into land. The four VTOL jets briefly melted the snow and ice before the great plane touched down. "Okay, Fellas. We're here."

"Great! I'm outta here!"

"Do you think it's safe?"

"Would you hang round if a monster of a 'plane was going to land on you?"

"Have you got your souvenir?"

"Yep."

"Gordon! Watch your elbow!"

"Sorry."

"I can't fit everything into my pack."

"Will it hold the bigger items without falling apart?"

"Should do."

"Okay, we'll do a swap. Give me the smaller ones, I'll put them in my pack."

"Who's going to carry the flight recorder? I've got my hands full with this radio."

"Why do you want to bring that with you? It's broken."

"I want to find out what's wrong with it."

"Watch where you're putting your foot, John!"

"Sorry."

"I'll take the flight recorder."

"It's probably frozen solid in the ice."

"Will the 'ice releaser' still be working?"

"I don't know. We won't know until we get outside."

"Should be. It's not like it's your radio."

"At least I didn't lose mine."

"Are you sure it's safe out there?"

"We could always get Scott to come out with a laser gun."

"Don't worry. It wasn't there before. It must be miles away now."

"Famous last words."

"OW! I wish you'd control that thing, Virgil."

"Sorry."

"Well... Out you go."

"It'd be easier if you go first."

"Okay. Then you can hand the packs down to me."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"Stop panicking!"

"I'm not panicking. I just don't fancy shaking hands with it again."

Those on board the Mark II listened in amusement and bemusement to the conversation that was happening inside the snow cave. "I've got the feeling they've got a tale or two to tell us," Jeff noted.

"Do you think I should take out the laser gun?" Scott asked.

"What for?" Tin-Tin asked. "What on earth could frighten those three?"

Jeff frowned. "Something has."

"I-I hope they don't forget the flight recorder," Brains was staring out the window but couldn't see the cave for the bulk of the Mark II. "Are th-they coming out yet?"

Scott stood up. "I'm going to give them a hand. Anyone else coming?"

They got suited up in their winter survival gear and had only just stepped outside when they caught their first sighting of their quarry. A rescue orange box suddenly appeared from out of the ground and landed on the snow. Scott left the rest of the Mark II's crew in the shelter of the 'plane and hurried over.

A fur covered head popped out of the hole, followed by the torso belonging to someone who'd obviously been assisted out. The person steadied themselves before turning and reached down to grab something.

"Let me help you, John," Scott reached into the trench and grabbed Gordon's other hand. "Ups-a-daisy!"

"Thanks, Scott."

"Hold this, please," Virgil handed Thunderbird Two's control yoke to Scott and reached out to John and Gordon. They hauled him out of the trench. "Thanks," he said, and then held out his hand for the control yoke. Scott gave it back without comment.

"I like the umbrella," Gordon said, looking up at the Mark II's grey, unmarked, forward facing wing.

Scott grinned. "Come on, Fellas. I've got some people on board who want to say hi."

One of the first people to greet them onto the Mark II was Brains. "Ah. J-Just what I've been waiting for," he said, taking the flight recorder from Gordon.

Gordon grinned. "We've missed you too, Brains."

Brains reddened. "S-S-Sorry, G-G..."

Gordon laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's okay."

"Are you sure you boys aren't hurt?" Jeff asked.

John removed his hat and mask. "We're fine," he reiterated. "Have we missed anything?"

"Only five hours of back breaking work," Scott said.

"Do you have any idea why Th-Thunderbird Two exploded, Virgil?" Brains asked.

Virgil had divested himself of what remained of his polar survival pack, but was still carrying Thunderbird Two's control yoke. "The thermalene cylinders had ruptured, probably in the initial crash."

"Hmmm," Brains mused. "Interesting. O-Obviously a weak point..."

"We'll worry about that later when you can run the flight recorder through the computer," Jeff said. "In the meantime, Grandma's waiting for the call that we're on the way home. Let's go up to the flight deck, we've got hot drinks waiting for you boys there."

Gordon had his arms wrapped around Tin-Tin, who was giggling as she responded in kind. "Mmmn. Honey, this feels so good. Don't let me go until I get warm... Which should be about February."

Tin-Tin giggled again. "Oh, Gordon," she chided him gently. "Don't be silly."

"Hey! What about us," John protested. "We'd like to get warm too you know."

"Yeah," Virgil tapped Gordon on the shoulder. "Mind if I cut in?"

"Yes I do," Gordon had his eyes closed as he felt the warmth of his friend's body seep into his own. He began to sway as if he was in tune with some silent music, which set Tin-Tin off into another round of giggles. "Get your own dance partner. I'm sure Scott would be willing to oblige."

Scott grinned and opened his arms out to his brother.

Virgil made a face. "I think I'd rather hug John's polar bear."

"I don't know," John mused as he ran his fingers over his growing beard. "At least Scott's had a shave. That's the first thing I'm going to do when I get home; have a wash and get rid of these whiskers!"

"Mrs Tracy's cooking your favourites," Tin-Tin told him over Gordon's shoulder.

"... After I've had something to eat," John amended.

"Don't you want to see how Thunderbird Four is?" Scott asked Gordon.

"Thunderbird Four!" Gordon released his hold of Tin-Tin and practically ran to the lift that led up to the flight deck. "Come on, Guys!" When they didn't follow he impatiently closed the doors and the lift rose upwards. It was back a short time later, empty.

"Well, Tin-Tin," Jeff chuckled. "At least you know where you rate with Gordon."

"Yes," she conceded. "Lower than a submarine."

Virgil opened his arms to Tin-Tin. "My turn?" Their hug was awkward since he was still holding his souvenir. "Tin-Tin! This is better than an electric blanket."

"Why don't you put that thing down," John asked before claiming Tin-Tin's embrace himself. "You know, Gordon's right! This does feel good!"

Tin-Tin giggled again. "If it was any man other than you Tracy boys who said that..."

"We'd have to answer to Alan," John winked as he released her.

She blushed. To cover her embarrassment she slipped her arms through John and Virgil's. "Come on, let's go on up to the flight deck."

Gordon was pacing back and forth when they arrived in the pilot's cabin. "About time! Come on, Scott. Let's get this baby moving!"

"Keep your shirt on," Scott admonished him. "Do you want to do the honours, Virgil?"

"No," Virgil shook his head. "I'm still cold. I'll be shivering too much."

"Come on, Scott," Gordon urged his oldest brother again as he received a hot drink from Tin-Tin. "Start 'er up... Thanks, Honey."

Instead of sitting down in a passenger seat, Virgil had spied something out the window. He moved closer so he was pressed up against the glass. From here he had a clear view of the remains of Thunderbird Two. He gripped his souvenir tightly; his knuckles white.

His father brought a drink over to him. "Virgil?" he held the mug out to his son.

Virgil didn't notice as he looked sadly out the window. "It was only a 'plane... wasn't it? Just a lot of nuts, bolts and electronics."

"It was a very special 'plane," Jeff told him quietly. "It saved a lot of lives, including those of you and your brothers... Here," he pushed the mug against Virgil's hands and Virgil looked down in surprise, "...you need to get something warm inside you."

"Come on, Virg," John said as he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Come and sit down."

Virgil took the mug from his father with a sad smile, and allowed himself to be led to the seat beside Gordon. He balanced the control yoke on his knees as he attempted to do up his safety harness.

"I'm sorry, Virgil," Gordon said, taking Virgil's mug so his brother could complete the operation. "She was a great craft. I'm going to miss her."

"Thanks," Virgil said, claiming his mug back and wrapping both hands around it to warm them. "I hope Thunderbird Four's okay."

Gordon managed a smile. "She will be. If Thunderbird Two could manage to keep the three of us alive after a drop like that, Thunderbird Four should be just fine.

"Everyone okay?" Scott asked, and the way the question was directed made it obvious that he was talking emotionally as well as physically.

There were affirmative murmuring from everyone.

From everyone, except his father who hadn't reclaimed his seat. "I don't like the idea of International Rescue being responsible for polluting the environment here," he mused. "We'll have to do something about clearing Thunderbird Two away... but that can wait till we've had a chance to work out how. In the meantime, I'd like to stop that!" he gestured towards the stream of smoke that still wafted skywards from the downed Thunderbird. "Pity we don't have any dicetylene on board."

"We do," Scott informed him. "When I heard that Thunderbird Two's emergency alarm had faded out, I figured that there may have been some kind of fire on board, so I filled up the tanks."

Jeff favoured his eldest with a nod of approval as he sat down and strapped himself in. "That's why you're the Rescue Co-ordinator, Scott. You plan these things in advance."

While the black smoke writhed around the windows of the Mark II each person was absorbed in their own thoughts. As Scott carefully manoeuvred the Mark II into position, he reflected that it was fortuitous that he'd had the foresight to load the dicetylene... His father remembered the sight of the blackened shell that had once been Thunderbird Two, and felt an immense sense of relief that his three sons had not been caught in the inferno... Tin-Tin smiled as she imagined Alan's arms about her, blushed again and sheepishly looked around to see if anyone had noticed... John felt his sore muscles and wished they were heading straight home to his grandmother's care... Gordon was on edge, willing the dicetylene to hurry up and do its work so he could check on Thunderbird Four... Virgil stared into his mug, tried to ignore the smoke that rose from the remains of his beloved craft and tried to convince himself that he was silly being so emotionally attached to an aeroplane.

At last the scene outside the windows was clear. "That's that," Scott said as he turned the Mark II away from the danger zone. "Now home."

"We can't leave Thunderbird Four!" Gordon declared.

"I wasn't planning to," Scott reassured him. "I guess we can make one stop on the way..."

Thanks to everyone who's attempted to complete the challenge. You're all doing very well. And if you haven't tried yet, it's not too late to start.

Things are finally resolving themselves for the members of International Rescue. Have you resolved to find all the Thunderbird references?

Heading Home

Pod Four was a small white hill in the polar expanse of ice and snow. Practically glued to the window, Gordon strained to see if it had sustained any external damage.

"The outside looks okay," John commented.

He received a grunt in reply.

"You're going to have to ride down," Scott told his concerned brother. "I'm not going to risk exposing the Mark II to the ice until we actually pick up the pod." He indicated the controls for the rescue capsule. "Do you want to do the honours, Brains?"

"Of c-course, Scott." Brains stood and prepared the winching mechanism. "W-We're ready, Gordon."

Strangely, Gordon seemed to be reluctant to move towards the lift that would take him to the rescue capsule's bay. He took his time getting re-clothed in his polar gear.

"Come on, Gordon!" John prompted. "Get a move on. You want to see how she is, don't you?"

"I've only just got warm and I want to stay that way!" Gordon snapped. "I'd have thought that you, John, of all people, could understand that!"

"Okay, okay," John held up his hands in appeasement. "Sorry." He raised his eyebrows to his father.

"Could I come with you?" Virgil's question came as a surprise to everyone. "I want to check out the thermostat and get the pod defrosting while you check Four over. And if there's some damage to her I'll know how you... how to fix things."

Gordon stared at his brother, then he nodded slowly. "Yes. Thank you, Virgil," he said formally. "I'd appreciate your... help."

Virgil handed Thunderbird Two's control yoke to Tin-Tin. "Take care of that for me will you, Honey?" he asked, before pulling his polar jacket back on.

"I'd be glad to." Tin-Tin watched the two men depart the flight deck and then turned her attention to the steering unit in her hands. She ran a finger along one of the deep gouges that marred the surface and shredded the red trim. "Did this happen in the crash, John?"

"Huh?" John diverted his attention from the door through which his brothers had just departed, to his friend. "What?"

"These scratches," she elucidated. "Was it hit by something during the crash?"

"No," he explained. "It was the polar bear."

Everyone stared at him. "Polar bear!"

"And you've just reminded me," John sat down and pulled off his boot. "I'm sure I must have some whopping great bruises here." His finger went through a hole in the boot's trim. "It's punctured it!"

"What punctured it?" Scott asked.

"The polar bear..." John was removing his sock.

"Polar bear!" Scott said with concern. "You're kidding us, right?"

"It was either that or the abominable snowman," John told him. "And I've never heard anyone say that the Yeti has claws... I thought I was starting to feel a bit sore as I thawed out." He examined his ankle, noticing several red marks. "I hadn't realised that it'd drawn blood. Just as well it only caught my ankle; any higher and I wouldn't have had the protection of my boot..."

Tin-Tin placed Virgil's souvenir on the seat beside her and got the first aid kit. "Let's have a closer look, John," she said as she knelt down. She examined the wounds gently. "They don't look to be too deep, but I'll clean them to be on the safe side."

Jeff squatted beside her to see for himself. With concern he looked at the bruises and puncture marks. "And you're saying that a polar bear did this?"

"Uh, huh. If Virgil hadn't grabbed me and Gordon hadn't whacked its paw with the shovel, it would have pulled me out of the snow cave. You can ask them if you don't believe me."

"Don't worry, I believe you." Jeff straightened and looked directly at his son. "Now, are you sure you, or your brothers, don't have any other injuries you've 'forgotten' to tell us about...?"

When the rescue capsule had reached the door to the pod, Virgil looked at his jittery brother. "She'll be all right, Gordon. She's tough. Look at the pressures she has to withstand underwater. That drop won't have even knocked the gyroscope out of alignment."

"Yeah," Gordon said without enthusiasm.

"It would have been like falling into a big swell."

"Yeah."

"You'll be unlucky if there's a scratch on her."

"Yeah."

"Are you ready?"

Gordon took a deep breath. "Yeah."

Virgil pushed the button that opened the door to the rescue capsule and they felt the chill of the polar ice cap creep inside. Then he activated the switch that caused the access hatch to Pod Four to retreat. It slid open cleanly, revealing the darkness that concealed the interior of the pod. Virgil shone his torch about, checked the floor beneath his feet was clear, and stepped inside. Gordon followed him before the hatch closed behind them.

"Shield your eyes," Virgil commanded. "I'm going to turn the light on... if it works." There was a brief flicker and the unnatural glow of Pod Four's lighting system came into full force. "That's a good sign."

Gordon didn't answer. He was staring at Thunderbird Four. From here it looked like it always did, small, yellow and intact.

"I'll go and get the thermostat working, shall I?" Virgil suggested. "I'll be over here if you need me..."

"'Kay," Gordon articulated.

Virgil made his way to where the thermostat was housed, occasionally stopping to pick up the odd object that had been jarred loose. On the whole it seemed that the contents of the pod had survived the drop intact. He stepped over a fallen module and lifted the lid on the thermostat control box...

"Good day to you, Lady Penelope," Maxwell said as he held the door open. He was a Californian native who, although a trusted member of Jeff Tracy's staff, was not a part of International Rescue. "Good day, Parker."

"Howdy, Maxie," Parker said with a grin. He'd always enjoyed teasing the American servant. He placed an armload of Lady Penelope's distinctive pink luggage on the floor of Jeff Tracy's palatial home, and then retreated back outside.

"I'm sorry if we are a trifle late, Maxwell," Lady Penelope said graciously. "I'm afraid we were held up. Has Mr Tracy been asking after us?"

"No, Ma'am. I haven't heard from him since he alerted me to the fact that you might be staying the night."

"Oh, good," she said in relief. "I would so hate to worry him."

"Would you care for some dinner?" Maxwell asked.

"That sounds heavenly," Lady Penelope admitted. "It's been such a tiresome day. But first I would like to freshen up. I shall retire to my room for half an hour."

"Of course, Ma'am," Maxwell bowed and then, picking up the first load of pink suitcases, led the way up the stairs.

Parker arrived back inside with the second load just in time to see them reach the zenith of the stairwell. Determined to maintain his position as Lady Penelope's personal servant, he jogged up the stairs two at a time, arriving at the top slightly breathless but triumphant. "'Ere's the last of your bags, M'lady."

"Thank you, Parker. Put them down over there, will you?"

"Yes, M'lady."

"Will there be anything else, Lady Penelope?" Maxwell asked.

"Not until dinner," Lady Penelope admitted. "After which I simply must ring Mr Tracy and tell him that we've arrived safely."

Maxwell bowed again. "Very good, Ma'am. I shall ring the gong when dinner is served."

"Thank you, Maxwell."

Maxwell departed the room and Lady Penelope sank gracefully into a chair. "At last one can relax. It has been such a tiresome day. Firstly interrogated by that Hood gentleman and then by the police. Did they believe you, Parker?"

"I 'ad 'em eatin' out of me 'and," he grinned. "These Yankee cops are nothin' compared to the good old British Bobby. A bit 'o Cockney Rhymin' Slang and they didn't know whether they was Arthur or Martha."

"Good," Lady Penelope said. "We don't want them asking any more awkward questions about our 'disappearance' or poor Becky's unfortunate collapse." She rose to her feet. "I shall have a shower and change into clean clothes. I have a strong desire to remove every trace of that man from my person." She pulled gently at a manacle that still encircled her slender wrist. "I wonder if Jeff has any lasers in the house."

"'E probably 'as," Parker said. "The problem is workin' out what they're disguised as."

"True, and I don't want to tell him about the events of our day until after the celebration. If he knows someone has been leaking International Rescue's secrets it will spoil his enjoyment of the party."

"Or 'e might call it off altogether."

"That, I'm afraid, is a very real possibility..." She tried to slip the band of metal over her hand. "I do wish that tiresome little man hadn't welded these closed. It is much to hot to wear long sleeves. Are you sure there is nothing in the Rolls Royce that we can use to remove them?"

"'Fraid not, M'lady. The lasers we've got are too powerful. We'd probably cut our own 'ands off before we'd cut through these things."

Lady Penelope screwed up her face in disgust. "What a perfectly horrid thought... In that case I suppose we shall have to wear long sleeves until we are collected," she said regretfully.

"Yes, M'lady... Ah... Do you require my h-assistance now?"

"Thank you, but I shall be quite all right. You may relax until after dinner."

"Thank you, M'lady. I might 'ave a shower meself. That desert sand gets ev'rywhere."

"The snow's melting," Scott was watching the pod. "Looks like Virgil's got the thermostat working again."

"I hope Thunderbird Four's okay," John said. "Gordon will be devastated if anything's happened to her. I've had to put up with Virgil moping for the last six hours. I don't think I could stand two of them."

"Probably why Virgil offered to go with him, for support," Scott said, before initiating contact with Pod Four. "How's it going, Virg?"

"I don't know what's wrong with the thermostat," the occupants of the flight deck heard Virgil's voice. "Every time I change it back to the polar setting it swings back to desert. I'm having to adjust it manually. How's it look at your end?"

"Looks like the snow's almost completely melted," Scott said. "Ah... How's Thunderbird Four?"

"I haven't heard any wailing and gnashing of teeth," Virgil told him. "So I'm taking that as a good sign... Hold on. He's getting out now." He watched as Gordon clambered out of the yellow submarine, planted a big kiss on the number 4 painted on the side, and began circling the craft again, tracing his fingers along Four's exterior. "I think we have a happy little aquanaut... Gordon!" he yelled. "Is she okay?"

"Okay?" Gordon chirped and came running over to where his brother was standing. "I'll say she's okay. Not a scratch on her."

"What a relief," Virgil smiled.

"That's fantastic, Gordon," Scott added.

Gordon was all smiles, his concerns of the previous six hours vanishing. "I don't know what you guys were worried about."

"Huh?" unseen by his brother, Scott frowned.

"I could have told you she'd be fine."

"Gordon?" Virgil stared at the aquanaut.

"After all this is Thunderbird Four we're talking about. She's tough!"

"But..." Virgil tried to say.

"I always knew she'd be okay, despite what all you naysayers were saying. I wasn't worried in the slightest. I've always known that Thunderbird Four is the toughest craft in our fleet. She's... Ouch! Virgil! Why'd you do that?"

"The sad thing is," Scott heard Virgil say, "I honestly think you don't have any idea."

"Idea? Idea about what? Why'd you hit me?"

"Why do you think?"

"Virgil?"

"Gordon!"

"How's the thermostat looking, Virgil?" Scott asked, interrupting the argument.

"All clear, Scott. Bring her down."

"F-A-B. Descending now."

There was the slightest of grinding sounds as the Mark II sank down over Pod Four. "So that's what it's like from this side," Virgil commented.

"We'll have to get you down at the coalface more often," Gordon grinned.

"Coalface! I do more rescues than you!"

"As the delivery boy," Gordon teased.

"Delivery boy!"

"Why don't you stay home occasionally and let the rest of us get in a little flying time?"

"What!" Virgil spluttered.

John turned to his father. "We've got spare pods back at home. Why don't we leave those two here? If we miss them we can pick them up after the party."

Gordon was still needling his brother. "Remember? John was complaining about not getting enough action."

John reddened. "It was just after we'd crashed... I was in shock," he explained.

The clamps securing the pod to the Mark II slid home. "Are you two coming up?" Scott asked. "Because I'm not lifting off until everyone's securely buckled in and I, for one, am looking forward to getting home and putting my feet up!"

Behind him there was a chorus of, "Hear, hear!" from his father, Brains and Tin-Tin.

"Me too," John said as he rotated his sore shoulders gingerly. "I'd like to go and lie down in my own warm, soft bed and forget all about today."

Gordon and Virgil emerged into the cabin. "Thunderbird Four's fine," Gordon reiterated. "There's one or two minor faults, but I'd quite happily dive to the bottom of the Marianas Trench in her."

"Well, if you're expecting to do that on the flight home," Scott told him, "expect to stay there for a long time, because we won't be hanging around to pick you up!" He turned to Virgil. "Apart from Thunderbird Four, how's things?"

"There's a little bit of damage," Virgil admitted, "but nothing too major. Probably only a day's work." He gave his oldest brother a meaningful look. "I'm warm now."

Scott grinned. "Is that a hint?"

"Do I have to make it clearer?"

"Nope." Scott slid out of the pilot's seat. "She's your baby. You can see how she handles through cyclones."

"Unless you are going to let one of us..." Gordon was silenced by Tin-Tin pulling his hat down over his face.

"Shush," she hissed.

Scott leant closer to whisper in Virgil's ear. "What's the Mark II saying now?"

"Time to go home," Virgil grinned.

"There y'are. You're tuned in already."

Replete with a delicious meal, Lady Penelope sat in one of Jeff Tracy's overstuffed chairs and allowed herself to relax. A quiet buzzing in a neighbouring room told her that someone was trying to contact a member of the household. A short time later Maxwell entered her room carrying a portable videophone. "Mr Tracy for you, Lady Penelope."

"Thank you, Maxwell," Lady Penelope said graciously. "Good evening, Jeff."

"Evening? Is that what it is?" Jeff looked tired. "It's been such a long day that I've lost track of the time."

Lady Penelope double-checked that Maxwell had left the room. "The rescue?"

"Among other things," he admitted. "I won't bore you with the details now... Why I'm calling is to ask if you'd mind staying in L.A. for another day? The boys are pretty tired at the moment and I'd like them to have a break tomorrow. Would that cause you any problems?"

Lady Penelope shook her head. "Parker and I didn't get the chance to do the things we'd planned. We'd appreciate the extra time to do our shopping and see a few old friends."

"I guess you've had a busy day." He tried to stifle a yawn.

"Actually, we've spent most of the time sitting around," she admitted. "Go to bed, Jeff, I'll explain everything when I see you."

He blinked at her blearily. "I think I'll take your advice. The boys have already hit the sack." He yawned again. "Night, Penny."

"Good night, Jeff."

The monitor's glow bathing his face in a cold light, Gordon Tracy sat at his computer. He tapped at a few keys before hearing a quiet knock on his door. "Come in!"

The door slid back to reveal Virgil, clad in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "Couldn't you sleep either?"

"No," Gordon admitted. "It must be all the coffee I drank to get warm. Is John asleep?"

"His light's not on, but that could mean that he's got his telescope out."

"Did you see that bruise he has on his back? It's the exact shape of the radio!"

"I know," Virgil shifted some of Gordon's clothes off a chair and sat down. "He's going to be sore tomorrow."

"Tomorrow or today?" Gordon had his impish grin on his face.

Virgil flapped his hand tiredly. "Whatever. Whatever day it is, he's going to sore. What are you doing?"

"Nothin' much. Just surfing. What are you doin' wandering around the house?"

"I thought I'd go see what else has to be done to the Mark II. Scott tells me they got hit by lightning on the way out so we may have to do some repairs to the outer shell."

"I thought Dad had done a Kyrano on us and pulled us from duties for the day."

"Doesn't stop me planning what needs to be done," Virgil said. "I want to make doubly sure that the Mark II is ready should we be called out. Now that we don't have Thunderbird Two..." his words faded away.

"I know we were decommissioning her anyway," Gordon confessed, "but I'm honestly going to miss her. She was an amazing craft... and she had an amazing pilot. If you two hadn't been such a great team there's no way that us three could have survived, let alone Thunderbird Four."

"I don't deserve any of the credit. It was all luck and Thunderbird Two," Virgil admitted. "But I am glad Thunderbird Four survived the crash. I would have felt guilty it if she'd been damaged... She's a pretty special craft too..." He looked his brother in the eye. "Her captain's special too."

"Thanks." For a moment Gordon looked embarrassed, then his grin broadened. "Now we've got all that mutual admiration rubbish out of the way, take a look at this. Would it make an appropriate fifth anniversary present?"

Virgil stood and moved closer so he could see the screen. A smile spread slowly across his face. "Oh, that's good. Very good indeed."

"What do you think? Do you want to go halves?"

Virgil nodded as he patted non-existent pockets in his dressing gown, "I don't seem to have my wallet on me at the moment."

"That's okay. You can owe me." Gordon moved the pointer and clicked on 'Send to checkout'. "If we order it now it should arrive while Thunderbird Three's going to get Alan."

Virgil chuckled. "That'll be a real surprise. Wait till we see his reaction."

"Virgil," Gordon began uncertainly. "I'm sorry for everything I said earlier... Everything about you crashing Thunderbird Two. Now that I've had the chance to relax and think, I know that I should have realised that something was wrong with the thermostat and..."

"It's not your fault," Virgil interrupted him, placing a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "You had no reason to think the unit was faulty and neither did I. We'll learn from the experience, build a safeguard into all the pods and move on. Don't blame yourself." He rubbed his eyes and then yawned. "I think I might head back to bed. The Mark II can wait till tomorrow... or whenever," he amended when he saw Gordon open his mouth. "See what you can do about getting some sleep."

"Okay," Gordon agreed. "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the polar bears bite."

Virgil chuckled. "Pleasant dreams, Gordon."

Gordon watched his brother leave and then turned back to the computer screen. He resumed searching the web site before making one more purchase.

"Place your credit card in the slot and enter your password, Gordon," the computer intoned.

Gordon did as he was told. "To help you buy what you want to get... Use the last letter of the alphabet!" he chanted and punched the corresponding key.

"Thank you, Gordon. Your purchases are being despatched now," he was informed.

"Thank you," he replied to the faceless machine. "You are going to make our fifth anniversary very memorable indeed..."

Lady Penelope reclined on the sumptuous leather seats of FAB1. She languidly looked at her watch. "How unusual. Scott is one minute late."

"Maybe they've 'ad another call out," Parker hypothesised.

"Jeff said that Thunderbird One had just left when he called, and I'm sure he would have called again if there had been a diversion. No, something is not..."

"'Ang on," Parker was looking at the on-board radar. "'Ere comes somethin' now." He left the confines of the car and stepped outside the concealed hangar in which the Rolls Royce was hidden. "H-It's Thunderbird One alright!"

Lady Penelope followed him out of the hangar. Shielding her eyes from the desert sun's glare, she watched as the sleek rocket plane came in to land. The engines cut out, and as silence returned to the desolate landscape, a hatch opened and a blue uniformed figure jumped onto the dusty earth. "Hello, Lady Penelope; hello, Parker," she said to two astonished people.

"Miss Tin-Tin?" Parker choked. "You...? You're not...? Where's Mister...? Not that H-I mind, but... H-I..." He took a step backwards. "H-I'd bet'er get the bags." He hurried away.

"Tin-Tin?" Lady Penelope tried not to sound too surprised. "Why are you...?"

"Scott's gone with John to get Alan," Tin-Tin explained. "Virgil, Gordon, Mr Tracy and Brains are working on the Mark II. They're hoping to get all the heavy, manual labour finished before I get back and then I'll help Brains with what remains of the electronics. In the meantime..." she raised her arms in a gesture, "I was the only one free to collect you. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Of course not, but... No offence intended, my dear girl, but was Scott, er, happy with this arrangement?"

Tin-Tin smiled. "It was his suggestion. Though I think something Gordon said may have put the idea into his head."

Parker bought the first load of bags over to the plane and assisted Tin-Tin with the task of storing them into the hold. As she took an armload of shopping bags labelled with the names of some of Rodeo Drive's most exclusive shops, Tin-Tin nodded in approval. "You know the best places to shop, Lady Penelope."

"A lot of those are Parker's," Lady Penelope informed her as yet another load was brought out of FAB1's hangar.

"Too blinkin' h-expensive, h-if you ask me," Parker moaned. "H-If I didn't 'ave to keep h-up H-England's honour, I wouldn't 'ave bothered." He double-checked that FAB1 was securely locked away and then re-boarded Thunderbird One. Tin-Tin shut the hatch against the desert heat.

"Tin-Tin," Lady Penelope began, "you wouldn't happen to have a small laser handy would you?"

"Failin' that, h-a pair of bolt cutters?" Parker added.

Tin-Tin gave them a strange look. "Of course I do. Why?"

"Promise us you won't mention this to any of the Tracys," Lady Penelope requested. "We weren't going to mention it until after the party. We don't want to worry Jeff unnecessarily."

"You're being very mysterious," Tin-Tin got the tool kit and retrieved a small laser. "Why do you need this?" She gasped when she saw they showed her their wrists. "What are those? How did you get them?" She looked at them shrewdly. "What have you two been up to?"

Lady Penelope gave the young woman a brief summary of the previous day's events as her metal bracelets were removed. "I honestly believe that that 'gentleman' won't be bothering us again, at least in the short term, but I know Jeff would still worry."

"He would," Tin-Tin agreed, as, with a clang, the second of Lady Penelope's manacles fell to the floor of Thunderbird One. She turned her attention to Parker's chains. "And you say that this man gets his information from one of us? I can't believe it! How?"

"It is hard to believe," Lady Penelope admitted. "But that is what our friend insinuated. Of course he could have been trying to intimidate us."

"Didn't work then." Parker grunted in satisfaction as the first of his manacles hit the deck. Its partner soon followed and he rubbed at his now bare wrists. "Ta, Miss Tin-Tin. H-I'm glad to be rid of those things."

"It is indeed a relief. Thank you, my dear girl."

"It was my pleasure." Tin-Tin glanced at the bags from the clothing boutiques. "How on earth did you manage to hide them from the shop assistants?"

"We didn't. I told them that it was the latest fashion in English high society, and insinuated that America was behind the times," Lady Penelope said with amusement. "It was a symbol of our unity and showed that we were all linked together."

"Unity with what?"

"I don't know," Lady Penelope admitted. "No one asked."

"H-I told 'em the opposite," Parker explained. "H-I said that us working classes were wearing 'em as a protest, to show 'ow we're h-enslaved by our masters. H-I told 'em that, despite that, me guvn'r ain't a bad sort and felt sorry for me. That's why 'e was shouting me all this new clobber."

Tin-Tin laughed. "And they believed you? Still..." she reflected, "it's more believable than what really happened." She put the laser back in its box. "We'd better get going, I'd hate for someone to see Thunderbird One; I'd never be allowed to fly her again..." She double-checked that the door to the hold was firmly closed. "We were going to pick up Roger Lyon too, but when I heard that you were doing some shopping I thought we might not have enough room on board, so I've arranged to pick him up later." She looked at the bags that had forced their way into the cabin. "I was right."

"Oh, that's a shame," Lady Penelope settled into one of Thunderbird One's less than luxurious seats. "It will be lovely to meet up with the dear boy again... How have preparations for the party been proceeding?"

"Apart from Mrs Tracy baking herself into a frenzy, nothing's happened over the last two days," Tin-Tin said, bringing Thunderbird One back to life. "Everyone was too busy two days ago and no one had the energy to do anything yesterday."

"Jeff sounded tired when he called," Lady Penelope admitted.

"We all were. What with the rescue and worrying about the boys in Thunderbird Two, and getting the Mark II ready to rescue them, and the cyclone..."

"'Ang on!" Parker interrupted. "Wot's all this?"

"Didn't Mr Tracy tell you? Thunderbird Two crashed into the North Pole."

"Stone me!" Parker ejaculated.

"Was everyone on board all right?" Lady Penelope asked with concern.

"Perfectly," Tin-Tin reassured them. "But we didn't know that for about six hours..." She activated the VTOL jets. "...That was a long six hours..."

Thunderbird Three shot heavenwards in the dawn light - A Red Arrow shooting for what remained of the stars.

John Tracy sat back in his seat, and wished he hadn't as his bruised back complained.

Scott saw his brother's grimace. "Are you all right, John?"

"Yeah," John sighed. "I'm fine."

"You didn't have to come, you know," Scott told him. "Virgil or Gordon could have. Or Father... Or even Tin-Tin for that matter... Or..."

"You just don't like the idea of her flying your 'bird!" John accused. "Besides, Virgil and Gordon have more important things to do with the Mark II. And I've got to reset that computer that Alan reconfigured when he was trying to contact us..."

"Brains could have done that," Scott interrupted.

"And he's better utilised on the Mark II too, with Tin-Tin when she's finished her taxi service. I'm okay, Scott. It's just a few bruises. "It's not like the bear actually got a mouthful of me or anything."

Scott made a minute adjustment to Thunderbird Three's trajectory and made no comment.

For a moment John stared out of one of Thunderbird Three's viewports at the stars. "It's hard to believe that we've been doing this for five years..."

"I'll say. I also find hard to believe that we've actually managed to pull off some of the rescues that we have. At the time, when I'm giving the orders, it all seems so plausible. Then, later, when I get the chance to sit back and reflect on it, I think, 'how the heck did we do that?'"

John chuckled, then allowed his face to slide into a more serious expression. "Do you know what I've really enjoyed about these last five years?"

Scott shook his head.

"Actually it's probably a few years longer than that... What I've really enjoyed is the opportunity to work so closely with my family... even if I spend half my time 36 thousand kilometres away from you all. How many other guys my age get to do a job they love alongside the people who mean the most to them? And not just any job, but one that can actually make a difference... Know what I mean?"

"Yes," Scott nodded thoughtfully. "I know exactly what you mean. When you look at it that way, we've all been pretty lucky..."

A robotic gantry arm ran above the scar that scorched across the Mark II. A panel was removed and slid back along the gantry, revealing the internal framework of the aeroplane.

Virgil peered inside. "Looks okay, Brains," he said into the radio "But I'll run some tests."

"F-Fine, Virgil."

Gordon was working alongside his brother on top of the Mark II. He finished drilling out the rivets in the second lightning scarred panel, then, making sure he didn't snag the security harness he was wearing, got clear of the work area. "Okay, Dad. Take her away!" He waved at his father who was operating the controls of the robotic arm. There was a gentle whir and the panel was lifted clear and lowered to the ground away from the 'plane.

"Structurally intact," Virgil told the radio. "Send up the next panel, Brains."

"F-A-B, Virgil."

By using International Rescue's sophisticated robotic equipment, the four of them were able to do the work of twice as many men with relative ease. Before the morning was over the lightning damaged panels had been replaced and Virgil and Gordon were able to stand back and admire their handiwork. Ahead of them lay the broad expanse of the Mark II, marked out with a patchwork of muted silver panels against a background of matt grey.

"We'll have to undercoat those new panels," Gordon noted.

"I'll do that now," Virgil offered. "I've got some spare time before lunch. After that I want to check the engines again."

"While we paint the whole thing," Gordon said.

"Yep," Virgil grinned. "I'll leave you the fun job."

"Thanks." Gordon made a face. "What colour do you want her painted?"

"Green will do just fine. We're not repainting the pods, so we'll want to stick to the same colour scheme."

"How about brightening her up a bit? I don't mind painting purple polka dots on for a bit of variety."

Virgil shook his head. "No, thanks."

"Yellow polka dots then? Yellow and green go well together."

"No."

"White daisies?"

"No."

"Pink love hearts?"

"Gordon!"

There was an alarm from Gordon's new watch. He raised his arm. "Hi, Kyrano."

"Mister Gordon. A parcel has arrived for you."

"Great!" Gordon beamed. "I'll be right there."

Virgil grinned at him. "The gift?"

"I hope so. I can't wait to see it."

"Me neither. I'll come with you."

"I thought you were going to start painting."

"I will. But I've got to see this thing 'in the flesh' as it were. It's my money too."

"You haven't paid me yet."

They descended to the hangar floor.

"How's it looking, Boys?" Jeff asked.

"Fine," Virgil replied. "We're going to head up to the house for a moment to check the mail, and then I'll come back down and do the primer coat. It should be dry by the time we've finished lunch."

"V-Virgil," Brains stuttered. "B-Before you go, I-I want to go over th-the engine's diagnostics r-readouts."

Virgil hesitated only a second. "Sure, Brains... I'll see you shortly, Gordon. Don't let it escape."

"Okay," Gordon agreed. "See you soon." He walked quickly over to the monocar that would take him up to the Villa.

When he alighted, Kyrano was waiting for him. "Your parcel is in the lounge," the retainer stated. He paused. "It is larger than I imagined."

"I bought some other stuff too," Gordon said easily. He stopped short when he walked into the lounge and was confronted with a large cardboard box. "It's bigger than I expected too."

"Where do you wish to take it?" Kyrano asked.

"I was going to put it in my room," Gordon said a trifle reluctantly. "I'm sure it's only the packaging that's bulking it up." He examined the shipping label. "It's not heavy, but it's going to be awkward to move alone."

"I will get the trolley and I will help you," Kyrano offered.

"Thanks, Kyrano," Gordon said with gratitude. He waited until the Malaysian had left the lounge and then removed the delivery docket. "Yep, everything's here," he said to himself in satisfaction...

Thunderbird Three made good time on its flight to Thunderbird Five. The docking procedure proceeded smoothly, before the hatches between the two craft cycled open. Alan was through, almost before they had fully retracted. "C'mon, Fellas. Let's go." He hurried back into Thunderbird Five.

"You're keen," John noted as he followed his youngest brother at a more sedate pace.

"Are you kidding! I've got a party to go to. It's not everyday that Dad invites all and sundry to the island."

"Makes a change from entertaining stowaways, doesn't it?" Scott grinned.

"I see you've got everything ready," John said with more than a little sarcasm as he stared at the pile of tools and wire off-cuts that still lay where Alan had left them.

"I was going to tidy them up..." Alan stated. "When I had time..."

"'When you had time?' What have you been doing the last two days? Heading out on hot dates? Having friends over for dinner? Honestly, Alan, every time I come back here there's always some mess that I've got to tidy up."

"Don't exaggerate, John," Alan said defensively.

"Okay then... Every second time. I wish you'd remember that Thunderbird Five isn't your own private penthouse. You don't have a maid to run around after you..."

"Fellas," Scott interrupted. "Can we finish this very 'interesting' discussion later? There's a big paint job back at base that has our names on it."

"I'll bet Virgil gets out of doing any of the painting," Alan pouted. "He's an artist and it's his plane, you'd think he'd leap at the chance to decorate her."

"She needs work on the engines," Scott informed him. "That was a rough trip through the cyclone, and the couple of blizzards that we hit at the North Pole didn't do her any favours."

John was picking through the pile off tools. "Looks like all I'll need are some capacitors, and some datacomm cables..."

"What size?" Alan asked.

John was examining the computers workings. "Make it .8 and .4... No, make it .3."

"Okay," Alan starting moving in the direction of the supply room. "Anything else?"

"If I think of anything I'll call you," John told him. "I'm sure I can find a radio here somewhere..."

Grandma Tracy hummed to herself while she worked busily in her kitchen. As she opened the oven and removed one of her renowned apple pies, she allowed the aroma to waft over her and shook her head in exasperation. Fancy that son of hers talking about getting in professional caters! Ridiculous! What about security? She placed the apple pie aside to cool. Sure a little help would have been nice, especially after Kyrano had had that funny turn, and Tin-Tin had been called away to attend to other matters, but she'd cope. She hadn't spent years feeding five growing boys without learning a thing or two about preparing food! And if things got really bad she'd get John and Alan to help. They'd both complain, but five years of doing their own cooking on Thunderbird Five, even with Brains' creations, had given them more than adequate skills in the kitchen department. The other three had varying degrees of culinary skills too. No, if things got too stressful she had plenty of help she could call on...

A dull roar announced the return of Thunderbird One. Grandma put the kettle on to boil, double-checked that the silver teapot had been warmed and that the Earl Grey tea was to hand. She gave the silver tea strainer a quick polish and examined the fine bone china cups critically. By the time she had convinced herself that the tea tray was fit for a member of the British aristocracy, she could hear voices in the other room. She went through to greet her guests. "Lady Penelope. It's lovely to see you again, my dear."

"Thank you, Mrs Tracy. It is wonderful to be able to be present at such an auspicious occasion. Hello, Kyrano."

Kyrano bowed low. "Lady Penelope, Parker."

"And how are you, Parker?" Grandma enquired.

"H-I'm quite alright, thank you, Ma'am."

"Where's Roger?"

"I'm going to get him on the next trip," Tin-Tin explained. "I was just going to assist Lady Penelope with taking her things to her room."

"Now, your father and I can do that," Grandma chided. "You go down and tell that family of mine that the first of their guests have arrived and that it is nearly time for lunch. It is most rude of them not to be present when visitors arrive."

Lady Penelope gave a soft laugh. "I hope that I'm not regarded as a mere visitor," she said.

"It doesn't matter," Grandma said. "They should be here. I brought them up better than that."

As if on cue, one of her grandsons wandered into the room. "Hi Penny. Hi Parker."

"Good morning, Virgil," Lady Penelope greeted him. "You're not working at the moment?"

"I've just had a quick break to check something of Gordon's," he admitted. "I was heading back down to give the Mark II her final coat of primer."

"Not when lunch is nearly ready," Grandma scolded.

"I have to, Grandma. It needs time to fully dry before we put the final coat on. It can be drying while we're having lunch."

Grandma huffed her disapproval. "You can take Lady Penelope's bags to her room first."

In the Tracy family, Grandma's word was law. "Yes, Ma'am," Virgil said obediently and gathered up an armful of bags.

"Am I to be housed in my usual room, or with the other guests in the Round House?"

"As you said, you're more than a mere visitor, so you'll stay in this house with the family... Run along, Tin-Tin."

Having grown up practically as a member of the family, Tin-Tin was used to being treated as such. "Yes, Mrs Tracy."

"That's that!" John slapped his hands together in satisfaction and stood up, wincing slightly as the circulation returned to his injured ankle. Scott saw his reaction but made no comment. "Everything's working fine, AND I've tidied everything away."

"So can we go now?" Alan asked.

"I think so," John told him.

"Are you sure you've done everything?" Scott asked. "Put Thunderbird Five onto automatic? Powered down the life support systems...?"

Alan groaned in exasperation. "I've done everything, including putting the cat out and cancelling the paper! Come on!" he slung his carry bag over his shoulder and hurried into Thunderbird Three.

A short time later they were leaving the geo-stationary orbit of Thunderbird Five and were powering back into Earth's atmosphere.

"Did Gordon tell you about his idea?" Scott asked.

"Yep," Alan admitted. "It's a nice thought. Has the parcel arrived yet?"

"No," Scott shook his head. "We took off before the mail plane had arrived. He'll probably have it hidden somewhere by the time we get back."

Alan redirected his attention to John. "Can I see the scars?"

John frowned. "What scars?"

"The ones the polar bear left," Alan said eagerly.

"They're hardly scars," John corrected. "They're barely scratches... no pun intended."

"But can I see them anyway?"

"Alan," John said in exasperation. "I've had cat scratches that are worse than these. There's nothing to see!"

"Oh," Alan looked disappointed. "Did it use its right or left paw?"

"What?" Scott asked. "Why?"

"I was doing some research on polar bears..." Alan explained.

"Instead of tidying Thunderbird Five," John noted.

Alan ignored him. "...And apparently all polar bears are left handed... pawed."

"You're trying to tell us that an animal that lives exclusively at the North Pole is a southpaw?" Scott asked; the barest hint of a smile on his face.

"It's true," Alan insisted. "Polar bears are left handed. So what did it grab you with? It's right or left paw?"

"I don't remember," John admitted. "It wasn't high on my priorities of things to look out for."

"But you must have some idea."

"Sure, Alan. I'm being dragged outside by a hungry polar bear and all the time I'm thinking, 'Gee. The bear's left-handed. How interesting'."

"Can't you work it out?" Alan wasn't prepared to give up easily.

John sighed. "If I show you my ankle, will you try to work it out by yourself and leave me in peace?"

"Yup," Alan watched his brother remove his boot and sock. He stared at the healing scratches and blue/black discolouration. "Is that it!"

Scott laughed.

"I told you it wasn't much to look at," John reminded his youngest brother. "Happy now?"

Alan was on his knees. "If the bear was left handed, ah, pawed, it would have grabbed you like this..."

"Ouch!" John retracted his foot sharply. "Mind the bruises!"

"Sorry," Alan said as he stood up again. "I can't tell by looking at it."

"Ask Gordon. He got closer than I did when he whacked it with the shovel. In the meantime, I don't want to talk about it any more. I'll be happy if I never see another polar bear."

"I think you'll be pretty safe at home," Scott reminded him. "You don't find many polar bears on tropical islands..."

"Penny!" Jeff Tracy greeted her warmly. "It's lovely to see you again."

"Thank you, Jeff. I hear you've had a stressful few days." Lunch was being served on the Tracy Villa's patio, and Lady Penelope was already seated, enjoying the view.

"Did Tin-Tin tell you about Thunderbird Two's accident?"

"Yes. I'm glad the boys are all right."

"So am I," Jeff sat beside her and took his cup of coffee from Kyrano with a word of thanks. "How was your time in America?"

Before Lady Penelope had a chance to formulate a suitable reply, she was interrupted with a, "Hi, Penny."

"Hello, Gordon," Lady Penelope smiled at the grimy young man. "You look like you've been working hard."

"Yep," he pushed his hand through his hair. "We had to do a some repairs to the Mark II and a few minor ones to Thunderbird Four. It's been a busy morning, and it's going to be a looong afternoon, painting." He pulled a seat up to the table and sat down.

Lady Penelope noticed something in the younger Tracy's hand. "I would have thought that you would have had enough of ice, Gordon."

"Two days ago, I would have agreed with you," he admitted. "But after a morning of hard labour on the Mark II, this is what I need." He gave the multi-coloured ice cream a lick. "We were supposedly enduring the warmer months at the North Pole and we froze. We've only just entered spring here and it's hot!"

"You'll spoil your lunch," Jeff remarked mildly.

"No chance. I'm still recovering after six hours with nothing except unappetising, bear-slobbered, energy bars and snow."

"Ah... Bear 'slobbered'?" Lady Penelope enquired.

"Polar bear," Gordon explained. "When it discovered that couldn't have Tracys on ice, it made do with the contents of our packs."

"Oh, my!"

Gordon grinned at her reaction. "If you want to hear all about it, don't ask John. I've got a feeling he's sick of polar bears."

"Speaking of John, when are you expecting Thunderbird Three to return?" Lady Penelope asked.

Jeff looked at his watch. "I would think they'll be a couple of hours yet. They had a few things to take care of on Thunderbird Five before they left, but I don't think they'll be wasting time up there. They're too excited about tomorrow."

"How are preparations for the party progressing?"

"Well... I'll tell you, Penny. I found it more restful on your farm at Bonga Bonga than it has been planning all this," Jeff admitted. "In one respect I'll be glad when it's all over."

Gordon chuckled. "Don't believe him. He's as excited as any of us."

"Lunch is ready," Kyrano intruded gently into the conversation. "Where is Mister Virgil?"

"I believe he said he had to do something to the Mark II before lunch," Lady Penelope said. "Much to Mrs Tracy's disgust."

Jeff laughed. "Did it arrive?" he asked his son.

"Uh, huh. I've given it to Brains to look over. He seemed to think there shouldn't be any problems."

"Except getting it from his room without him knowing."

"You're dealing with International Rescue, Dad," Gordon grinned. "We're a resourceful bunch. It was gone before Thunderbird Three left."

Jeff winked at Lady Penelope's quizzical expression. "A little surprise we've got planned. You'll find out about it later. In the meantime we'll keep it secret."

"This sounds most intriguing," Lady Penelope noted. "I shall wait with anticipation..."

Two hours after lunch Gordon stood on the now green wing of the Mark II and rotated his shoulders to loosen muscles that had stiffened up through hard work. Then, after surreptitiously checking to make sure that he wasn't observed, he removed something from his pocket. He stood in thought for a moment before crouching down again.

"Hiya, Gordon."

Gordon jumped to his feet. "Alan! Don't do that to me!"

"What are you up to?"

"Nothin'. Welcome home."

"Thanks. What are you up to?" Alan repeated.

Gordon looked around again before replying. "I bought this new pen. They say it'll write on anything and I thought I'd check if they were telling the truth." He crouched down again.

"By writing on a Thunderbird? With a pink pen? Virgil will kill you!"

"He'll never see it, not here," Gordon insisted. He quickly scribed 'VT', drew a heart, and then added 'TB2'.

"He will see it sometime, you know that," Alan reminded him.

"It'll be too late by then," Gordon gently rubbed at his writing. "Well, what do you know? They were right. It is permanent."

"He'll kill you," Alan said again.

"I asked him it I could put pink love hearts on her and he didn't say no."

"I'll bet he didn't say yes either." Alan looked back at Gordon's writing. He sniggered. "He's going to kill you," he reaffirmed...

There's nine points up for grabs in this chapter. How many have you found?

The final chapter, and your last chance to find all the references to International Rescue's 'real' adventures.

Party Time

"Come on, Virg," Scott poked his head into his brother's bedroom. "It's time we should be down in the hangar..." he paused. "What are you looking for?"

Virgil dropped the blankets and got up from where he was looking under his bed. "Thunderbird Two's control yoke. I can't find it anywhere."

Scott stared at his brother. "You're going to a celebration and you're worried about that?"

"I'm sure I left it on that chair," Virgil pointed at the piece of furniture in question. "I'm positive I haven't shifted it."

"Have you checked your study?"

Virgil nodded. "It's weird. It's like it vanished into thin air..."

"Worry about it later. Come on..."

"But where could it have gone?"

"I don't know... Like I don't know why you're worrying about it at this precise moment..."

"I'm not worried..."

"Good! Come on then..."

Virgil scratched his head, frowned at the chair, and didn't move.

"Virgil!" Scott said in exasperation. "It's not even as if you know what you're going to do with it! It's only cluttering up your room."

"I've carted it all the way from the North Pole. How can I lose it here?"

"Look, Virg. It's been a hectic few days. You've been tired, and you probably shifted it without realising." Scott watched as his brother optimistically picked up a few books and looked underneath them. "Tell you what, once the party's over, if you still can't find it, I'll give you a hand looking... Okay?"

"Okay... Thanks..." Virgil stood in the middle of his room and looked about him. "I wish I knew where it'd gone..."

"Oh, come on," Scott dragged his brother out of the bedroom. "We've got a celebration to go to!"

They joined the rest of the household in one of the control rooms off Thunderbird Two's hangar. "Is everyone here?" Jeff asked. "Boys? Brains? Mother? Tin-Tin? Kyrano? Penny? Parker?"

Everyone was present.

"Why the secrecy, Jeff?" Mrs Tracy asked. "Everyone at the party knows who we are. Why not launch her out in the open?"

"Because releasing too much information could be dangerous," Jeff growled. "I trust every person on this island, but it would only take one slip of the tongue, intentional or otherwise, and all our hard work could be ruined. If they don't know where the hangars are, then if they are ever forced to talk they can't give away all our secrets. We'd still hold the upper hand."

"You're in a real party mood, aren't you, Dad?" Alan said. "Relax! No one here's going to give us away."

Lady Penelope and Parker exchanged uneasy glances.

"Come on, everyone," Jeff led the way into the hangar. Apart from a dim light showing them where to walk, the room was in darkness.

"Alan, leave Tin-Tin alone," Gordon quipped.

"I'm nowhere near her," Alan told him indignantly.

"Then come walk beside me, Tin-Tin," Gordon suggested.

The Tracy brothers, all except Alan, laughed. Tin-Tin was glad of the darkness to hide her burning face.

There was an indignant sound from Lady Penelope. "Who did that?"

"S-s-sorry, L-Lady P-Penelope," Brains stuttered. "I-I w-was t-trying t-to p-put a s-screwdriver away."

"Well it won't go there!"

More laughter circulated through the group.

"Calm down, Boys," Jeff Tracy's voice brought a serious tone back to the gathering. "Where's Virgil?"

"Here, Father." His voice came from the back of the group. "I'm beside the sound system."

"Well switch it on and get over here."

Virgil did as he told, managing to tread on a few toes in the process. "Sorry!"

Parker swore under his breath and started hopping about, bumping into a few other featureless bodies as he did so.

"Parker, keep still. You nearly knocked Mrs Tracy over then."

"I'm over here, Lady Penelope."

"Oh, well then who...?"

"It was me, Lady Penelope."

"Sorry, Kyrano. Jeff! Is this darkness really necessary?"

"It won't be long now... Virgil, didn't you turn the sound system on?"

"I thought I had, it's a bit hard in the dark..."

Scott found a torch, switched it on and pointed it at the control panel that was positioned at the back of the group. "No, you turned on the recorder. I hope you didn't tape over anything important." He pushed a couple of buttons and the conversation of the last few seconds was played back to them.

"Sorry!"

"#$"

"Parker, keep still. You nearly knocked Mrs Tracy over then."

"I'm over here, Lady Penelope."

"Oh, well then who...?"

"It was me, Lady Penelope."

"Sorry, Kyrano. Jeff! Is this darkness really necessary?"

"It won't be long now... Virgil didn't you turn the sound system on?"

"I thought I had, it's a bit hard in the dark..."

"No, you turned on the recorder. I hope you didn't tape..."

Scott pushed the off switch and changed tracks.

A light piece of music started playing. Hidden by the darkness Virgil grimaced as he listened. He obviously hadn't been in the best of moods when he'd started composing. He cringed at what, to him, was a cacophony of sound. The rest of the group seemed unconcerned.

"Well, Virgil?" Jeff was saying. "Do you want to do the honours?"

"Okay. Scott, where's that torch?" Virgil asked. "I don't want to hit the self destruct button by mistake." There was a titter of amusement from the assembled company. Scott prodded Virgil in the back with the torch and he took it with a word of thanks. Then he hesitated, listening. The music was more vibrant and alive now. He must have written it while he was still excited at the thought of designing the Mark II.

"Well, Virgil?" Jeff repeated.

"I think everyone should help," Virgil said. "After all, she doesn't belong to only me, she's a part of International Rescue..." he turned the torch onto a large green button on a pedestal in front of him and lightly laid his hand on it. "This is as much your baby as mine, Brains. Come and help me." He slid his hand over so that it covered the left edge of the button and Brains nervously laid his small hand beside Virgil's. "C'mon, Father. You're next."

Smiling in the darkness, Jeff Tracy placed his hand on top of his son's. "Scott."

"Yeah, sure." Scott's hand appeared out of the gloom to cover his fathers. "John..."

John, Gordon, Alan, Mrs Tracy, Kyrano, Lady Penelope joined the huddle. "You too, Parker," Jeff ordered.

"Yes, Mr Tracy." The butler's hand went topmost.

"Okay, everyone," Virgil said. "We're coming to a countdown. You'll know when to push."

They waited.

The music built in intensity, powering into a crescendo.

"Ready..." Virgil said. "Five! Four!"

They caught his tempo. "Three!" they chimed.

"Two!"

"One!"

"Thunderbirds Are Go!"

There was the crash of cymbals as they pressed the button. Spotlights burst into action, swinging around till their beams came to rest on the new aircraft in front of them. Coloured lights swirled in a dazzling rainbow display. Confetti rained down on the little group and onto the latest addition to the Thunderbird Fleet.

The Mark II was displayed in all her glory. Her new paint finish glittered in the lights. The legend "Thunderbird 2" was proudly painted just behind and below the cockpit windows.

To Lady Penelope and Parker, who had not had the opportunity to see the plans or the Mark II during construction, the climax was a bit of a let down. Apart from the fact that the craft was cleaner, shinier and newer than the old one, they couldn't see any difference.

The Tracys could all detect minor differences though and Virgil slid his hand from under the pile of others and wandered around so that he could have a closer look. He'd been so busy with the preparations that it was the first opportunity that he'd had to look at his new craft in its entirety. Now that the lights were fully on, the rest of the group were able to watch him inspect the Thunderbird.

He looked mildly depressed.

"Well, Virg?" Scott asked. "What do you think?"

Virgil turned back to his family and friends. "It's the wrong colour!"

Everyone groaned.

"For Pete's sake, Virgil!" Gordon sounded exasperated. "I said you had paint in your veins. What do you mean it's the wrong colour? It's dark green."

"But it's the wrong shade!"

"Does it matter?" John asked. "I can't tell the difference."

"You will when we get it out into daylight and you compare it with the pods. They're still the original colour."

"We'll repaint them," Jeff said, trying to be consolatory, even though, like his sons, he couldn't see what the problem was. "Apart from that, what do you think?"

"Well..." Virgil gave a wry grin. "It'll do."

He was jumped on by his brothers and wrestled to the ground.

Jeff shook his head in exasperation.

"Get up, Boys! You'll get your clothes dirty!" Grandma scolded. "Really," she huffed, "you do behave like children sometimes... and in front of guests too."

Her grandsons obediently stood and dusted down their clothes.

"Why don't you show Penny and Parker the interior, Virgil?" Scott suggested.

"I'm simply dying to see it, but shouldn't we be getting back to your guests?" Lady Penelope asked. "Perhaps when the party's over."

"We've plenty of time, and I'm sure Virgil would love to show you the cockpit," Jeff said, and Lady Penelope was surprised to see him give her a wink.

"Sure!" Virgil said. "Come on, Penny. You'll see some major changes to the flight deck. And it's guaranteed vermin free." He eagerly led the way.

As they took the lift upwards, Virgil explained about the new and improved features of his revamped craft. "So you see the Mark II's..." he hesitated for a moment. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to calling her Thunderbird Two from now on, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," his father agreed, "because no one else in the world is going to know the difference."

They didn't hear Parker mutter, "You could've fooled me."

The doors slid open to the cockpit. Everything was shiny and new and looked suitably high-tech. Virgil strode over to his pilot's seat. "We've miniaturised the piloting computer and installed a second one as back up here," he indicated the appropriate part of the flight console. "We've also been able to install more operational controls in here, freeing up space in the body of the craft."

"Your seat's already 'ere," Parker noted. "Don't you no longer slide down your chute thing from the lounge?"

"Oh, no, that's still the same." Virgil smiled. "It was the most efficient way of getting down here so we saw no need to change it. If you look up there..." he turned and pointed at the ceiling, "you can see the hatch where I..."

He stopped talking.

As Lady Penelope and Parker watched, his hand had dropped to his side. Staring at the rear bulkhead, he took a step forward, before he stopped again and turned to his family. "How...?"

They were all grinning. "What do you think, Virg?" Alan asked.

"I..." Virgil appeared to be having difficulty articulating exactly what he was thinking. He stepped forward again.

There, on the rear wall of the flight deck, bronzed and proudly mounted on a simple wooden plaque, was the control yoke he'd brought back with him from the North Pole. Gently Virgil ran his fingers around the rim of the unit before reading the inscription above it. "Remembering the original Thunderbird Two – Who ended her days as she began them – Saving lives." He turned back to his family and friends again. "It's perfect," he managed to say. "Thank you."

"Thank Gordon, it was his idea," John told him.

"Yeah. And I'm still waiting for everyone to pay me their share of the bronzing kit and the plaque," Gordon announced. "The interest is accumulating."

"So... Virg... Do you still want me to help you look for the control yoke after the party?" Scott asked.

Virgil glared at him. "You knew! You watched me look for it and you knew where it was all along!"

"Of course I knew. I was the one who smuggled it out of your room. You don't think I'd let Gordon loose in there, do you?"

"Nice!" Gordon growled. "I thought we were supposed to trust each other."

"Gordon, I would, and do, trust you with my life," Scott informed him. "But letting you roam unattended in any of our private rooms? No chance!"

"Ah!" Gordon seemed quite pleased. "My reputation stands!" He was in a playful mood. "You realise, Virg, that now you've got two yokes to carry when you crash this 'pl..."

His words were cut short when John snared him in a headlock. "You've done something pretty special. Don't spoil it by opening your mouth."

"Virgil," Brains began, "I-I've been meaning to ask you. The f-flight recorder shows that you had lost a lot of height before Th-Thunderbird Two started breaking up. It p-probably saved your lives. Why d-did you do that?"

"Oh..." Virgil hesitated. "Um... Well..."

"Yeah, that's right!" John had released Gordon. "You told me to sit down and buckle up before we even knew there was a problem."

"I didn't hear any alarms go off until after we started doing that 360," Gordon added. "But you knew to warn us! How come?"

Virgil was uncomfortably aware that his family was awaiting his response. "It seemed to be a good idea... at the time..."

"Ah," Scott understood. "You mean Thunderbird Two was talking to you."

"Yeah," Virgil turned pink and placed his hand on the bronzed control yoke. "She was talking to me. Telling me to land A.S.A.P."

Jeff stared at his middle son.

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Alan asked.

"When you're flying Thunderbird Three..." Virgil began cautiously. "Do you rely totally on your instruments?"

Alan thought for a moment. "Well... no."

Scott continued on. "You're feeling and listening to her aren't you?"

"Well... yeah."

"I'm always listening to Thunderbird Four. It's second nature," Gordon chimed in.

"Even on Thunderbird Five I know every creak and groan," John added. "I'd know the instant anything was out of the ordinary. Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah," Scott said. "Each of us is tuned into our own craft. Our Thunderbirds 'talk' to us and we listen..."

"...So we're able to react as soon as something is out of the ordinary," Virgil explained. "That's what I did. Don't ask me what I felt or heard, but something was wrong, so I took what I felt to be the appropriate action."

"Thank heavens you did, Son, otherwise the three of you might not be here with us now." Jeff Tracy put his arm around Virgil's shoulders. "Is that why you've been a little out of sorts this last week? You've been worried that you won't be so, ah, 'in tune' with your new plane?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes. It's been preying on my mind."

"Are you still worried?" Jeff asked.

"A little. But now that I've seen her in action and had a chance to fly her, I'm more confident."

"Good," Jeff squeezed Virgil's shoulders and stepped towards the door. "Come on, everyone. We've got a party to go to."

When they reached the hangar floor and then stopped to look back at the new Thunderbird Two.

"I think it looks better than the old one," Alan said.

"Only because she's not dirty yet," John said. "Wait till she's been on a few missions."

"Excuse m-me," Brains moved away from the group. "Th-There's someone I want to s-s-see." No one commented as he hurried away.

"Scott," Jeff stepped up to his eldest. "I've been thinking. We won't worry about it now, but after the celebration's over I think we'll start planning a new Thunderbird One."

Scott paled. "What?" he said faintly.

Jeff didn't appear to notice his son's change in demeanour. "The change over between the Thunderbird Twos went relatively smoothly, so I'm confident that we can do the same with Thunderbird One."

"What?" Scott repeated.

"How long do you think you'll need to come up with a report of what improvements you can suggest? A week? A month?"

Scott nodded numbly.

"Good. Don't think about it now, but you can make a start tomorrow." Jeff strode out of the hangar followed by his family and friends.

All, except for two sons. Virgil put a supportive arm about his shocked brother's shoulders. "Never mind, Scott. Think of the improvements you can come up with."

"Yeah," Scott said dully.

"When you've got them you'll wonder how you got along without them."

"Yeah."

"Keep thinking of the positives."

"Yeah."

"Like the new safety features."

"Yeah."

"And remember... Time heals all wounds."

Scott looked at his brother. Then he managed a laugh. "Now where have I heard that before?"

"Only don't follow my example and fly Thunderbird One into a mound of snow before we've finished the Mark II."

"Virgil," Scott said solemnly. "Thanks for the advice. I'll try to remember that... I won't crash her until after the Mark II's finished." He chuckled. "Come on, we're missing a party."

For the first time since they moved to their South Pacific home, the Tracys had invited a large number of people to their tropical paradise; People of many nationalities, ages, talents, and walks of life circulated and talked under the tropical sun; People who, under normal circumstances, would never have the opportunity to interact with one another; People who were united by one fact... Each person at this party was an agent of International Rescue. Every person on Earth who knew the identity of those who piloted the mighty Thunderbirds, was present on this one little island.

Gordon stood on the patio and looked down at the throng milling around the pool. "You know, if Thunderbird One were to blow up at this very moment, International Rescue would be totally wiped out in one fell swoop."

"Well, that's a cheerful thought to start a celebration with," Alan said. "I can see you're going to be the life and soul of the party."

Gordon grinned at him. "Don't worry. I'll soon warm up."

"I never realised that we had so many agents," John said. "They've all been numbers up till now. Agent Three. Agent Sixty six..."

"Agent Double O Seven," Gordon quipped.

Down in the shade of some palm trees, Lady Penelope had met up with some old friends. "Jeremiah and... ah... Mrs. Tuttle. It's wonderful to see you again. I am so glad that you were both able to attend."

"Lady Penny-lope." Jeremiah drawled as he politely raised his hat. "It's a pleasure ter mek your acquaintance agin. Ma wasn't keen on comin'. But ah said it wasn't right ter let Mister Tracy darn. Not when he offered ter fly us here 'n ev'rythin'."

"'T'ain't natural travelln' at tha' speed," Ma offered up her opinion. "Cain't be good for a body."

Lady Penelope gave a light laugh. "I'm sure the Tracys wouldn't agree with you. They would find it most difficult getting to a rescue area on time in anything slower than a Thunderbird."

"Mebbe. But mark my words, thar'll be trouble."

"I'm sure they've considered every possibility." Lady Penelope shifted the conversation to safer ground. "Are you enjoying yourself, Jeremiah?"

"Don't feel right," Jeremiah removed his battered hat and twisted it in his hands nervously. "Ah don't rightly think ah should've bin invited. Not ter a mansion like this with all these fancy folk."

"Of course you should have been invited," Lady Penelope rebuked him gently. "We are celebrating International Rescue's fifth anniversary, and if it wasn't for the pair of you, International Rescue would have ceased to exist when those two horrid men impersonated us."

"Mebbe..." Jeremiah began.

"No maybe about it," Lady Penelope corrected him. "You are an important guest at this celebration, Jeremiah, and Jeff Tracy would have been hurt if you had decided not to attend. Now, enjoy yourself," she instructed.

"Yes'm." Then Jeremiah's face broke into a beaming, toothy smile. "This is sure a purty place. I'm pickin' thar's plenty of vittels in that thar forest."

As he spoke Lady Penelope became aware of a strange ammonia type smell, which clearly came from the hillbillies. She surreptitiously took a step so she was upwind of the pair.

"Ah saw this purty burd," Jeremiah was saying. "All bright colours. Young Alan tells t'was a parrot. Only found in these here parts."

"Yes. There are a number of indigenous species on Tracy Island," Lady Penelope agreed. She took another step upwind, still trying to place the source of the mystery odour.

"'E said they don't eat 'em tho'," Jeremiah informed her. "Said they fly thar food in from th' 'Mainland'. That which Mister Kirano don't grow."

Ma Tuttle humphed. "Danged strange if you ask me. Flyin' food? Why don' they grow a few food animals, if wild uns ain't eatable?"

Trying not to be too obvious, Lady Penelope examined the hillbilly couple. Both were clearly dressed in their Sunday best, their clothes patched and worn but tidy and clean. They'd bathed and their hair was washed. "Mrs Tracy makes her own bread and pies," she said, and wished she hadn't as the odour appeared to trap itself inside her mouth. She raised her hand to her face.

"Well, th' gen'ral store ain't jus' round th' corner, Ma," Jeremiah was telling his wife. "Thar's a big body o' water out thar." He leant closer to Lady Penelope conspiratorially. "'Tween you 'n me, Lady Penny-lope, Ma ain't seen as much of th' world as we 'ave. She nev'r left th' mountin."

Lady Penelope tried not to stagger backwards as the smell washed over her. Whatever it was it was, it was coming from Jeremiah.

"'Scuse me, M'lady." Lady Penelope turned at the welcome sound of Parker's voice. "You h-are required over 'ere."

"Thank you, Parker. Do excuse me, Jeremiah, Mrs Tuttle. I do hope that we shall be able to continue our conversation later."

Jeremiah tipped his hat. "That'd be a right pleasure, Lady Penny-lope."

"Does Jeff require me?" Lady Penelope asked her butler as they walked away from the hillbillies and towards the villa.

"No, M'lady. It was a bit of subterfuge like."

"Parker?"

"H-I could see that you wanted to get h-away."

"Oh, thank you, Parker," Lady Penelope said gratefully. "They are a lovely couple, but... he... er... seemed to have rather an odoriferous problem."

"H-I thought 'e smelt a bit wiffy too," Parker admitted. "You know what h-it was, don't you?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"I 'elped 'em with their bags and 'e showed me. It's 'is aftershave."

"Aftershave? I will admit to having been in the presence of some cheap perfumes, but nothing like that!"

"'E's real proud of it. Someone brought h-it back to the States from Paris."

"As a gift? I've never smelt any Paris cologne..."

"Not as a gift, M'lady," Parker interrupted. "It belonged to a relative. He bought it when 'e was over there durin' the war."

"The war?" Lady Penelope's brow furrowed delicately. "Which war?"

"Second World War," Parker explained. "H-It's been 'anded down from father to son ever since. H-It's somethin' of a family 'eirloom, only to be used on special occasions."

"Since the 1940s? Why, it must be nearly pure vinegar. I'm surprised that... er... Mrs Tuttle puts up with it."

"To 'er, after all them animals, it probably smells like roses," Parker grinned.

"You are probably right... Still," Lady Penelope conceded, "we should be grateful for small mercies. At least she hasn't brought her exploding cans of beans with her."

"Now that'd really make the party go orf with a bang," Parker grinned.

Alan had found the one person at the party who was about his own age, good looking, and, most importantly, female. "So..." he said. "Your name's Aarna? That's a pretty name."

International Rescue's Indian agent smiled modestly.

Alan continued on with his tale. "...Anyway. I'm in this corridor. There's concrete on both sides of me and the ceiling's concrete too. I can only move forwards towards our victims or back to safety. Next thing I know this wall of fire comes towards me. I had two choices, stay and hope that my fire proof suit will withstand the inferno, or try to outrun the flames..."

"What did you do?" Aarna asked, as she looked at him wide-eyed.

"What could I do? There were people counting on me, so I stood my ground," Alan tried, and failed, to sound modest. "I could feel the heat through..."

"Alan... May I have a word?"

Alan looked at the interloper. "Ah... Tin-Tin... Uh... Have you met Aarna?"

Tin-Tin favoured Aarna with a saccharine smile. "A pleasure I'm sure. Alan, would you mind coming with me for a moment."

"Uh... Tin-Tin... I was telling Aarna about..."

"It won't take long, Alan!"

"Okay," Alan turned back to the pretty Asiatic woman. "Sorry. I'll be back soon." He jogged after Tin-Tin. "What?"

"I just wanted to warn you, Alan," she informed him.

He frowned, perplexed. "Warn me? Warn me about what?"

"I wanted to remind you that Indian gives you heart burn..."

"Huh?" he stared at her.

"And if it doesn't... Then Malaysian definitely will..."

"Tin-Tin...?" He stared at her as realisation dawned. "But I was only being friendly. She's..."

Tin-Tin stormed away.

Alan sighed, shook his head in bewilderment and turned back to Aarna.

His oldest brother had taken his place and was giving the young Indian the full force of the Scott Tracy charm. "So... You're name's Aarna? That's a pretty name. If I ever have to rescue an Aarna, I'll hope it's you. I'd love to sweep you off your feet..."

'Oh, brother!' Alan thought.

Aarna giggled. "What do you do when you're on rescues, Scott?"

"Me? I'm in charge. I'm the one who makes the life and death decisions..."

Alan sighed and decided to look for Tin-Tin again. He found her giggling coquettishly with the Ghanaian agent, a tall, dark and handsome young man who was clearly enjoying her attention.

Alan went to look for something to eat.

Scott favoured Aarna with a big smile. "Tell me about yourself," he instructed. "When you're not helping International Rescue what do you do?" He listened to her attentively for a few minutes before his 'big brother' radar kicked into action. "Excuse me, Honey. But I've got a feeling I'm going to be needed in a moment. I'll be right back." He winked at her. "Don't go anywhere."

By the pool, a stage had been set up, along with microphones and an electronic keyboard. Virgil was entertaining the guests who were standing nearby with his piano playing skills.

He hadn't stopped playing when Gordon had rushed up to him. "Virgil! He's going to his bedroom."

"Who?"

Gordon looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. "You know who!"

"What! But you said he wouldn't until after the party!"

"What am I, a mind reader? Come on!" Gordon tugged at his brother's sleeve.

"But I can't. Not until I've finished this piece," Virgil told him.

"You're going to miss him seeing it."

"Then stop him!"

"How?"

"I don't know. You're used to this type of thing. You come up with an idea!"

"Thanks!" Gordon folded his arms and glared at his brother. "You're a big help."

"Well..."

"What are you two up to?" Scott asked quietly as he stepped onto the stage.

Gordon was quick with his answer. "Nothing!"

"Sure..." Scott drawled. "I know that look, Gordon, and you've got a scheme brewing under that copper top of yours."

"Why do you think we're scheming?" Virgil asked.

"Because you're not thinking about what you're doing. You've played the wrong note twice."

"What!" Virgil exclaimed in dismay.

"Make that three times," Scott amended.

"See... You've ruined it already. No one's going to mind if you finish it to soon... So come on!" Gordon tugged at Virgil's sleeve again.

"What's going on?" Alan had decided to see why three of his brothers were on stage.

"These two are planning something," Scott informed him.

"If anything's going on, we've probably missed it!" Gordon moaned. "Are you coming, Virgil?"

"Okay." Virgil reluctantly abbreviated the tune and followed his younger brother off the stage and up the flight of stairs to the villa. Curious, Scott and Alan followed the pair of them.

Jeff had been watching the little drama unfold. "Will you excuse me a moment?" he murmured to Sir Jeremy Hodge. "I think I might be needed elsewhere."

"Of course, Old Boy. I understand perfectly..."

The fifth Tracy brother had been waylaid when his grandmother had requested assistance with the bringing out of more food. That task completed he resumed his intended journey. "Having fun, guys?" John asked as he walked past his siblings.

"Yep," they all responded.

He was nearly at his room when he realised that he was being tailed. "Is something wrong?"

"No... Nothing's wrong," Gordon replied.

John stared at him for a moment. He knew that expression of old. It meant that Gordon was up to something and he had an unpleasant feeling that it was going to involve him. Oh, well. He'd be safe in his bedroom... he hoped.

He slid the door open and stepped inside. The sight of something large, white and hairy on his bed pulled him up short. "What the...! How did that get in here!" He spun back towards the door. "Who did this?"

A look at his brothers' expressions gave him the answer. Gordon and Virgil's grins had identified them as the culprits, while Scott and Alan's expressions showed that they were as surprised as he was.

A fifth figure appeared at the door. Jeff Tracy stared at the object that dwarfed John's bed with bemusement. "A polar bear?"

"We didn't like the idea of John being lonely on Thunderbird Five," Virgil explained. "So we got him some company."

John took a step closer to the massive animal. A pair of glass eyes and lolling red felt tongue regarded him with a goofy expression. "You've given me a toy bear?"

"Yeah," Gordon said. "We figured that if you ever felt the need for some excitement, you and he could have a wrestling match."

"Arm wrestling," Virgil agreed.

"It's not as if you haven't had any experience," Gordon told him. "You could probably beat it one out of three bouts."

John threw a cushion at him.

The party was progressing smoothly. Half of the assembled guests were intent on making the most of their host's hospitality, while the other half were secretly hoping that International Rescue would be called out and they'd get to see the mighty Thunderbirds in action.

Virgil was in earnest conversation. "So... Aarna... That's a pretty name," he said. "Do you like music?"

"Yes," Aarna informed him. "I like all kinds of music. I heard you playing before. You're very good."

"I'm usually better," he confided. "Gordon spoilt it last time."

"Virgil! There you are!"

Virgil groaned. "Gordon!"

"I've talked Parker into giving us a song, but he needs you to play the piano for him."

"Can't Scott do it?" Virgil protested.

"He wants you to do it," Gordon informed him.

"But I'm busy!"

"You're also the best piano player in the family. Go on!"

"Okay," Virgil said reluctantly. "I'll be right back, Aarna. Next time I play a solo piece, I'll dedicate it to you."

Aarna beamed after him.

Gordon took his brother's place. "So..." he said. "Is Aarna your name? It's a pretty name..."

Virgil made it to the stage and found Parker in consultation with Alan. "What do you want me to play, Parker?"

"Play? I 'adn't thought about you playin', Mister Virgil, but it's nice of you to offer."

"Huh!" Virgil stared at the butler and then looked back to where Gordon and Aarna were obviously enjoying each other's company. They were laughing together and appeared to have forgotten all about him. He glared at his younger brother, who seemed totally oblivious to the daggers being sent his way. Then he turned back to Parker, "Well, I'm here now. Do you want me to play something?"

"Do you know ''Enery the Eighth'?" the Cockney asked.

"Sure. It's not a hard piece."

"Then we'll segue h-into 'Knees up Mother Brown'..."

"Segue?" Alan interrupted. "That sounds highly technical."

"H-it's somethin' us artistes h-understand, Mister Alan," Parker said with dignity. "H-Isn't that right, Mister Virgil?"

"Oh, yes," Virgil said, trying not to laugh. "Quite right."

"H-And then we'll 'ave 'Maybe it's because H-I'm a Londoner'."

Virgil made a note on some paper. "Fine..."

"I'll do the intro," Alan offered. He stepped up to the microphone. "Ladies and Gentleman. We're in for a real treat today. Here we have for your exclusive pleasure, all the way England, your friend and mine... and someone who's handy to know if you've locked yourself out of your house or car... Give it up for Aloysius Parker!"

Parker was greeted with a round of applause.

Gordon was still talking to Aarna. "We've got this system where whoever's in trouble only needs to mention International Rescue and it's picked up by Thunderbird Five. It's easier that way, because we've found some people can't spell S.O.S."

Aarna laughed obligingly. "I suppose being in charge of Thunderbird Four you get to rescue a lot of people off shipwrecks. Do ships sink often?"

"No," Gordon replied. "Only once."

As Aarna laughed again a familiar voice intruded. "Ah, there you are, Gordon."

Gordon tried not to show annoyance as he turned to his brother. "What can I do for you, John...?" Then he remembered his companion. "Sorry. Have you met Aarna?"

"No, I haven't had the pleasure yet," John smiled at her. "Hello, Aarna."

Aarna returned his smile. "Hello, John."

"What do you want, John?" Gordon asked with a trace of impatience.

"Grandma's looking for you."

"Grandma's looking for me? Why?"

"Because I've spent most of the party helping her lay out the food and she's decided that I'm entitled to a break and that it's your turn."

"But..." Gordon protested. "I'm entertaining Aarna."

"Better get over there, little brother. You know how Grandma can be."

Gordon did know. "I'm sorry, Aarna. I'll be back as soon as I can."

As he walked away from the couple he was sure he heard John say. "Aarna... That's a pretty name."

Gordon found the refreshments table. His Grandmother was bustling around it ensuring that everything was laid out just so. "What can I do for you, Grandma?"

She gave him a warm smile. "Thank you for offering, Darling, but I think everything's sorted now. You run along and enjoy yourself."

Gordon stared at her. "So you don't need my help?"

"If you really want to, you can bring out another bowl of punch, but apart from that there's nothing I need you to do. Go make some new friends. I'm sure you can find someone to talk to."

Gordon turned back to where John and Aarna were enjoying each others company and glared at his brother.

Parker was in full swing. He'd given up on 'singing' and was cracking jokes. "This h-is a bet'er party than some H-I've 'elped out at. H-I've been to some where the water was flowing like champagne."

There was a titter from his audience. Encouraged he continued on. "H-I see Mr Tracy's checkin' 'is watch. You can always tell the 'ost at parties, 'e's the one 'oo's watchin' the clock."

Jeff chuckled good naturedly.

"H-If you don't mind a bit of advice, Sir," Parker offered. "Don't try to make your guests feel at 'ome... If they wanted to feel at 'ome, they would 'ave stayed there."

There was a roar of laughter.

"Of course, bein' one of the workin' classes, H-I don't take 'ome as much bee's 'n honey... Sorry, money... as some."

"Shame!" someone yelled.

"H-It is," Parker agreed. "But when H-I'm invited to parties H-I don't like to go empty 'anded... so H-I always wear gloves."

There was more laughter. Especially from the Tracy boys. "I always thought that was so you wouldn't leave any prints," Alan called to the entertainer.

"H-I am an 'onest man, Mister Alan," Parker said with dignity, and then cracked his knuckles. "Mind you, you never know when the old skills come in 'andy. 'Specially workin' for 'er Ladyship... Of course the last time H-I was in court, the judge concluded 'is sentence by sayin' 'H-I hope that this is the last time that you'll appear before me.' 'Why?' asks I. 'H-Are you retirin'?'"

Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan, off to one side of the stage, were in hysterics and had to lean on one another for support.

John and Aarna were still deep in conversation. "Don't you get lonely, up in space all alone?" Aarna asked.

"Not really," John admitted. "I keep myself busy with my astronomy as well as International Rescue work."

"But being home with your family and being able to go out on rescues must seem to be so different from being on Thunderbird Five."

"Totally different," he agreed. "But when I'm home they know that if there's any action to be had, I'm ready to be part of it!"

"Despite the danger?" she asked.

"Danger?" John laughed in a dismissive manner. "You learn to live with it. It's all part of being an operative of International Rescue. And you never know where the danger is going to come from. Would you believe that, during my last rescue, I was attacked by a polar bear?"

"Attacked by a polar bear!" Aarna repeated in astonishment. "Were you hurt?"

John nodded. "It had claws this long!" he demonstrated with his hands, adding an extra couple of inches to the length. "It grabbed me by the leg."

Aarna looked horrified. "John!"

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. I'm standing here, aren't I? I've still got the scars, but you can't let a little thing like that knock you back. During that rescue I knew that I had to keep going, no matter what. I knew that Virgil and Gordon were depending on me."

Aarna looked at him in admiration.

"John." There was a touch on his shoulder and he turned to see his father standing there. "Sorry to disturb you, but it's time."

"Okay, Dad. I'll be with you in a moment." John turned back to Aarna. "Sorry, Honey, but duty calls. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay," Aarna replied with a smile.

"Maybe tonight I'll be able to show you the stars. They look so much bigger here in the Southern Hemisphere. The moonlight's that much brighter too. No need for a torch when you walk along the beach. We might even see a Shooting Star."

"Sounds lovely," Aarna said. "Um... Hadn't you better go? Your family are waiting."

"You are right. Duty calls," John said. "I see you later." He walked away, limping manfully.

"John!" Scott called. "Hurry up!"

John forgot his limp and broke into a run.

Parker was finishing his turn. "Thank you, Ladies n Gentleman. You've been a smashin' audience. Maybe H-I'll give up me day job yet!" He bowed, stepped off the stage and ended up face to face with his employer. "Oh! M'lady," he said sheepishly, "H-I didn't mean h-it... about ..."

"That's quite all right, Parker. You were most entertaining."

"Thank you, M'lady."

The five Tracy brothers stood on the patio and looked down into the courtyard. "Isn't Father ready to start the ceremony yet?" Virgil asked.

"No," John shook his head. "He's talking to someone first."

"Good." Scott ran his fingers through his hair. "Then I've got a moment to go and have a chat with Aarna."

"I wouldn't bother, Scott. She's not interested in you," Virgil told him.

"Who says?"

"I do. She and I were getting along quite nicely, until Gordon interrupted us."

"I wanted to stop you from making a fool of yourself," Gordon informed him. "She wanted someone who could make her laugh."

"You?" John laughed himself. "I think she wanted someone a little more intellectual than that. Someone who was able to talk to her at her own level."

"You mean you?" Gordon asked.

"I mean me," John said smugly.

Scott laughed. "Johnny, you're delusional. There's no way she'd chose you over me."

"Better get that big head of yours back down to size, Scott," Alan said. "You've been superseded by a younger model."

"Yes. Someone who can entertain her," Virgil said.

"Make her laugh," Gordon said.

"Show her the moon and the stars," John said.

"Where is Aarna anyway?" Alan asked, looking back over the patio railing, while shielding his eyes against the tropical sun. His brothers joined him in his search, scanning the pool and beachfront. They eventually found the young Indian, just in time to see her getting very cosy with...

"Brains!"

The five men watched as Aarna gave the young scientist a tender kiss on the cheek.

Gordon sighed. "She obviously goes for the intelligent type."

"Excuse me!" John said indignantly. "We're not exactly stupid!"

"Alongside Brains, Albert Einstein would appear stupid," Virgil informed him.

"But what's wrong with us?" Scott asked. "I mean look at us! We live in this tropical paradise..."

"Miles from anywhere," John reminded him.

"At home... with daddy..." Gordon added, "and our grandmother."

Scott wasn't about to give up. "We're young..."

"Well... most of us," Alan corrected his oldest brother.

"...Rich..."

"We're not exactly your stereotypical playboys who are always throwing money about," Virgil noted.

"...Handsome..."

No one was inclined to disagree with him on that score.

"...And being in International Rescue means there's the real possibility that we could be seriously injured or killed," Scott's positive outlook had evaporated. "No wonder girls don't look twice at us."

"No one that we'd be interested in anyway," John finished.

They watched as Brains tried to walk away and was impeded by Aarna holding his hand tightly.

"Well, I say good luck to him," John said firmly. "There's a lot to be said for the bachelor lifestyle."

"A bachelor's lifestyle or monk's?" Virgil asked him.

"Yes!' Gordon was agreeing with John. "No hassles. No one nagging you. No one telling you to do your chores or put out the trash."

"Grandma does that and you don't listen to her," Alan reminded him.

Aarna had finally, reluctantly, let Brains go. She let his fingers trail through her own and then gave him a little wave, as he began to mount the stairs. He was whistling happily to himself by the time he'd reached the top.

"Hello, Stud," Gordon greeted him.

Brains started, reddened, and gave a shy grin, before attempting to appear debonair. "S-Some of us have g-got it... and s-some of us d-don't." he said as he breathed on, and then polished his nails on his lapel.

The effect was spoilt by his still flaming cheeks.

"Well, I wish you'd share IT around," Alan complained lightly.

"What are you moaning about?" John asked him. "At least you've got Tin-Tin!"

"He's got Tin-Tin's what?" she said as she came up behind them.

"Gordon! Don't say a word!" Scott ordered, seeing a familiar devilish gleam appear in his brother's eye.

"I-I thought Mr Tracy was up here," Brains said in a self-conscious manner. "Th-That's why I-I left... uh... wh-what I was doing. Wh-where is he?" He peered short-sightedly into the shadows over the railing and received a wave from his girlfriend. "Aarna..." he sighed. "That's such a pretty name..."

Alan laughed. "I hope you didn't say that to her, Brains. That's SO corny." His brothers nodded their agreement.

"Boys!" There was a shout from down below. "Can you come down here please?"

Almost hidden in the quickly darkening night, Jeff was already on the stage. "I think we could do with some lights here," he said to Brains, who flicked the appropriate switch. As hot spotlights bathed the temporary stage, Jeff managed to convince his mother and Kyrano to join him and the rest of the team. "I think that's everyone... Do you all have some champagne?"

Everyone, including his sons, each took a glass. As the Tracy boys were technically still on duty, it was to be their only alcoholic drink of the day. None of them minded as they had long ago learnt that they could get enjoyment from just being in the company of loved family and friends.

"H-Allow me, Sir..." Before Jeff had a chance to move, Parker had grabbed the microphone. "M'lady," he said to Lady Penelope, before he turned back to the audience and continued with more gusto. "M'lords, Ladies 'n Gentleman! H-I think we'll h-all h-agree that we've 'ad a marvellous time 'ere today. As we repose h-under this radiant rainbow sky h-and h-enjoy the ravishing repast, this rapscallion is pleased to, in a radical way, reveal..."

"We've created a monster," Alan whispered to John.

"... That h-as h-a member of this famed family h-organisation, H-I 'ave pleasure in formally presenting h-our friend and founding father... Someone 'oo h-in my h-opinion is F-A-B!"

"Parker," Lady Penelope called softly.

"H-And now h-it's time to 'ear from the man 'oo made h-it possible, the man 'oo's opened 'is 'ouse to us all, the man 'oose generosity knows no bounds! The man 'oo's not afraid to put 'is money where 'is mouth is. The man 'oose ideals we identify with. The man 'oose raisin d'etre is to risk all to repress the irrepressible!"

"Parker!" Lady Penelope repeated in a louder tone.

Parker took the hint. 'Ere 'e is... The man 'oo gave us International Rescue..." he concluded. "Mis-ter Jefferson," he slapped his hand on the lectern in the manner of a gavel, "Tracy!"

There was a spontaneous round of applause from his audience, most of who had crowded closer to the stage.

Jeff took the microphone. "Ah... thank you, Parker. Next time I want to win my board members over to my side, I'll call on you."

"That would be quite h-in order, Mr Tracy. My rates h-are very reasonable."

Jeff turned back to his guests, flattening his notes on the lectern as he did so. "Friends... and I do count you as my friends; I welcome you here today. I've had the opportunity to talk to most of you, and if I haven't, I fully intend to do so before this day has finished. And because of that this will not be a long speech..."

"Hurray," Gordon applauded. "Let's drink to that!"

Everyone laughed.

Jeff chuckled before returning to his notes. "International Rescue has been operational for five years... Five years! I know there were people who after our first couple of rescues accused us of being some 'fly-by-night' organisation who would be gone as quickly as we appeared... If that were going to be the case then I would never have even considered creating this organisation. Those who deal with me in the business world know that I never start a venture if I don't believe that I have a real chance of pushing it through to completion. And, believe me, International Rescue was no different.

"I've also heard that there are those who doubt our motives. Those who can't believe that someone... anyone would willingly spend large sums of money to help complete strangers, and then disappear, with no desire for thanks or remuneration. I sincerely hope that over the five years we have encouraged those people to change their minds.

"We are also painfully aware that there are those out there who would give anything... risk anything... sacrifice anything, to gain our secrets. Whose single minded goal is to lay their hands on our plans and, or, equipment and use it for their own means, with no thought or care for who they may hurt along the way.

"And so today, on our fifth anniversary, I've asked you all here to help us celebrate, and to say thank you. Thank you for helping us to keep International Rescue's secrets. Thank you for keeping your eyes and ears open. Thank you for supporting us. And, most of all, thank you for keeping your faith in us, even when people have tried to abuse our good name."

"Hear! Hear!" Scott cheered and led a round of applause that started with those who stood on the platform in front of the crowd.

"I only wish I could show my gratitude in a more tangible manner," Jeff continued.

"Show us a Thunderbird!" someone shouted.

"Maybe... I'll consider it," Jeff said genially before returning to his notes. "Of course I must extend more words of thanks to the people who form the core of International Rescue. Firstly to a woman who has been my teacher, my guide, my support and has given me encouragement for more years than I care to admit. She also has a wonderful knack of bringing me back down to earth when I'm getting too big for my boots. A woman who's nurturing talents assisted me through one of the most traumatic, and ultimately inspirational times in my life, the death of my beloved wife, Lucille." Jeff turned slightly so he was facing the elderly lady at his side. "Mother, I don't know if I've ever told you how important you are to me, but I'm glad that you've been able to be part of this enterprise, even if at the beginning I think you had a sneaking suspicion that I'd gone off the rails." He gave her a fond kiss. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Jeff, for not being afraid to accept an old woman into your wonderful organisation."

"Next I must thank a man whose calm dignity and quiet manner is a wonderful settling influence when the world appears to be collapsing in on itself, and I'm stuck at home and my sons are away in possible danger. Kyrano, you've been a good friend to me all these years, and I thank you for your friendship. I also thank you for allowing me to encourage your wonderful daughter to exercise her full potential, and then make use of her skills. Tin-Tin, you have been like the daughter I never had and I am proud to call you and your father members of my family. You have a courage and intelligence that is valuable, both to International Rescue and the family. You grow more beautiful, as a person and a woman, every day... and I'm sure that Alan will agree with me."

Alan tried to remain staunch as he received several amused digs in the ribs from his brothers.

"Penny... I suppose I should call you by your formal title since this is the formal part of the occasion... Lady Penelope, and of course, Parker, you two are a team that breaks down the class barriers, despite having to keep up appearances for the sake of your cover. You've saved International Rescue's secrets and reputation, often at great personal risk to yourselves. Words can't express the gratitude we have to you for all you've done. Thank you, both of you."

"Thank you, Jeff," Lady Penelope replied as Parker tipped his straw hat in a salute.

"Now we're getting down to the business end of the operation. Firstly I should like to acknowledge the young man to whom, if I'm honest, International Rescue is indebted. If it hadn't been for his imagination, knowledge, inspiration, and, putting it bluntly, brains, we would literally have never got off the ground. And I can only say that I'm glad that he decided to throw his considerable intellect behind our venture and not..." Jeff lowered his voice in a dramatic manner, "go across to the dark side."

His audience laughed as Brains looked down at the stage modestly.

"Brains," Jeff continued on, "in the time I've known you, I've come to value you as a friend, and, I hope you don't mind me saying this, to regard you as a sixth son... although most parents would say that five boys would have been more than enough."

Brains turned scarlet.

"So, Brains, I would like to sincerely thank you for helping me achieve my dream, and thank you for being a valued part of my family."

"Th-Th-Thank you, Mr T-T-Tracy," Brains stuttered.

"Finally," Jeff was nearing the end of his notes. "I must thank five young men who I have had the pleasure of knowing all their lives. Five young men of whom I always have been, and will continue to be, immensely proud. Not only because they are my sons, but because they are resourceful, intelligent, brave, resilient, and tenacious. They are all individuals, and I respect their individuality, but for this speech I shall simply call them 'my sons', for I fear that if I were to praise each of them individually we would still be here this time tomorrow. Boys, I want to take this opportunity to say how much I respect you. I respect your past achievements, I respect you for the sacrifices you have made to be part of my dream, I respect the men that you've grown into... and I respect the fact that when I first floated this crazy idea of mine, not one of you laughed at me, nor tried to have me locked away in a padded cell."

"Don't say the thought didn't cross our minds," John told him.

"I did wonder," Jeff chuckled. "Where was I...? Oh, yes... These last five years, and the time before that when we were setting up this venture, have been wonderful years. How many fathers are privileged to work as closely with their offspring as I do...? Even if they do insist on trying to give me heart failure..."

"He means you, Virgil," Alan said. "You're the one who keeps crashing."

"And it's never been my fault," Virgil protested.

Jeff ignored the interruption. "I've enjoyed every minute of the time we've worked together..."

"I hope you're not going to tell us that you're thinking of retiring," Scott said.

"Please don't, he's already had one lot of bad news today," Virgil begged.

"Shush!" their grandmother scolded.

"No, I have no intention of retiring," Jeff reassured them and Scott mimed wiping sweat off his brow. "I was going to say that I've enjoyed every minute that we've worked together and that I hope we can continue on in the same manner for at least the next five years."

"Five years! Scott, you'll be..." Alan counted off his fingers. "Old!"

"Thanks, Kiddo," Scott growled.

"Alan, Gordon, Virgil, John, and Scott - I thank you all for being part of the ultimate family business." Jeff turned back to his audience. "And now, I would like you all to raise your glasses..."

"Whoa! Hold on!" Scott interrupted. "You forgot someone!"

"I did?" Jeff frowned. "Who..."

Scott stepped forward. "Allow me," he said, taking the microphone from his father. "I would like to, as Parker so ably said in his introduction, acknowledge the man who started this all. If it wasn't for him we wouldn't be here in this wonderful setting today... and five of us wouldn't be here at all..."

"Unless there's something you haven't told us," Gordon piped up, before ducking a cuff to the ear from his Grandmother.

There was a ripple of laughter through the audience.

"And as I've known him the longest out of us Tracy boys, they voted unanimously that I should be the one to give this speech." Scott reached into a pocket. "I've got some notes here." He pulled out some pieces of paper and quickly checked them over.

"Bear with him," John said. "He's not used to having this many people listen to him at once."

"Not unless they're waiting to be rescued," Alan added. "Make him feel at home by panicking will you? And perhaps set fire to some of the furniture..."

"Help!" someone dutifully yelled.

There was a creaking sound and a loud crash, followed by the distinctive sound of a siren. Virgil had utilised some of the keyboards sound effects.

"Have you finished?" Scott asked his brothers. "I don't need your help."

"Scott," Jeff protested. You didn't have to..."

"Shush," he was told. "You've had your turn."

"Now you know what we've got to put up with when we're on rescue, Dad," Alan informed his father.

Jeff decided that it would be easier to go with the flow.

"When you originally mooted the idea of International Rescue," Scott began. "I was in the Air Force, and at home on leave. "My first thought was, 'Okay, the old boy's lost it'. My second thought was, 'He can't be serious!' And my third was, 'This is my father who's talking here. He doesn't say anything unless he means it, so he must mean it, and I think he thinks he can actually make this insane idea work!' I hate to admit it, Dad, but for the first time in my life I doubted that you had the will or the resources to achieve something that you'd set your mind to.

"Then you showed me some plans that you'd got this guy, who was younger than me, to draw up – an ultra fast rocket 'plane, a humungous cargo 'plane, a rocket ship, a submarine, and even a satellite orbiting the Earth! And I asked you, 'Who do you think is going to be mad enough to pilot these things?' And you said, 'I was hoping it was going to be you and your brothers'. Remember?"

Jeff nodded. "I remember."

"Well, I don't know, Dad, but that streak of insanity that I thought you'd been infected with, must have been genetic because we all came on board. Your dream became our dream. All my life I'd wanted to be a pilot in the Air Force and then suddenly, here I was itching to get out of the Force and start a new job. The fact that I was going to be piloting the fasted 'plane on the planet probably had a lot to do with it. But it was more than that. It was the idea that I'd be able to do something worthwhile with my life, that I'd be able to help where there was no one else to help, that we could be part of something greater than international borders or treaties.

"And so, here we are five years after our first rescue, and no one thinks we're insane. Instead they see the words International Rescue and Thunderbird as a symbol of hope. I wish we could tell the world who the man behind International Rescue is, so that he could get the recognition that he deserves, but instead we decided to make do with a little presentation of our own. But the problem was... what do you get the man who has everything, and if he doesn't have it can afford to buy it himself...? Fellas..." Scott stepped back and Jeff turned to see Alan and John bring a covered easel to the stage. "To show how proud we are of you, how much we respect you, and how glad we are that we are part of your dream, we've created this!"

The cover over the easel was thrown back revealing an object the same size and shape as the portraits that hung in the lounge. "For those of you who aren't familiar with our other talents, and can't see because they are standing at the back, I'll give you a run down," Scott offered. "Around the outside of the painting we have a montage of the five Thunderbirds and the centre is a watermark of our International Rescue logo. I don't need to tell you who did the painting, do I?"

"No," Jeff smiled. "I'd know Virgil's style anywhere."

"The dedication over the watermark was written by John. He's the only one of us with calligraphic skills... In other words, he's the only one who can write legibly..."

"What does it say?" someone in the back asked.

"Do you want to read it, John?" Scott asked.

John nodded.

"'To Jefferson Tracy

A man who gave us the world,

And gave the world hope.'

And we've signed it, Scott, John, Virgil, Gordon, Alan and Brains."

"Brains didn't want to sign," Gordon said. "But we held his test tubes to ransom until he did."

"I'm glad you did, Son," Jeff told the scientist.

Scott continued on with his description. "Alan made the frame from the wood of one of the palm trees that we had to remove to build the complex; which explains its interesting grain..."

"It's hard to work with," Alan interrupted, "but the effect is excellent."

Scott nodded his agreement. "The paper was made by Gordon from some kind of kelp..."

"Stingray Seaweed," Gordon informed the gathering. "It's only found in this part of the world."

"And it makes a fantastic canvas for painting on," Virgil added. "It doesn't need any preparation."

"Of course, being a top secret organisation we can't leave such an object exposed for anyone not involved with International Rescue to see," Scott explained. "So Brains' contribution is to fix it so that the picture can be hidden during Operation Cover-Up. Brains, would you care to show us..."

Brains looked behind the frame and manipulated something. "I'll w-wire it into the main s-system when you d-decide where you want to hang it," he offered. Jeff nodded mutely.

A silk screen slid across the face of the picture, hiding it's potentially damaging message with a more innocuous picture of Tracy Island. "You won't be able to see from where you are, but the picture is in fact fine embroidery done by Grandma," Scott informed the group.

By now Jeff had his arm around his mother's waist and he gave her an affectionate squeeze. "It's the best you've ever done."

"Thank you, Jeff."

Scott indicated some black Malaysian script that ran down the edge of the silk. "Kyrano wrote that. Can you translate it for us, Father?"

"I hope I don't embarrass myself in front of our Malaysian friends," Jeff said. "It's International Rescue's motto, or at least part of it, 'Never give up'."

Kyrano bowed his head. "You are right, Mr Tracy."

"And Tin-Tin sewed the silk into the workings of the frame so that the whole thing slides seamlessly." Scott pointed out two Malaysian symbols at the bottom of the material. "That's Tin-Tin's signature, and that's Kyrano's..."

"The other way round, Scott," Tin-Tin told him quietly.

Scott corrected himself. "That's Kyrano's and that's Tin-Tin's."

"And what did you do, Scott?" Lady Penelope asked him.

He looked embarrassed. "Nothing. I'm not creative."

"It was Scott's idea," Alan defended his brother.

"So, this is our gift to you, Dad," Scott told his father. "And I know that I speak for my brothers and everyone else on our team that there's nothing that we'd rather being doing than standing alongside you, celebrating what we've achieved these past five years, and looking forward to a successful future together."

"Hear, hear!"

"Exactly!"

"Well said, Scott!"

When the acclamation had died down, Jeff looked at his family, eventually managing to say a choked. "Thank you." He cleared his throat. "It's a wonderful surprise. I never dreamed that you had anything like this planned."

"Well, if there's one thing we've all had plenty of practise at, it's keeping secrets," Scott reminded him.

Jeff cleared his throat again. "Is there anything else anyone wants to say?"

"I think it's all been said, Jeff," Lady Penelope told him.

"Well, in that case... will you all charge your glasses?" Jeff instructed and raised his to the night sky.

There was a whistle followed by a loud bang and a skyrocket burst into life above the villa. As the resulting fountain of red fire burned its way back down to Earth, others – blue, purple, yellow, orange, and white - blazed a trail behind it, lighting up the night sky.

Above the sounds of the explosions Jeff's voice could be heard. "Ladies and Gentlemen... I give you... International Rescue!"

Ladies and Gentlemen... I give you...

Thunderbirds!

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