Technically, I guess, it had to be Virgil's fault. One glance at my brother's sheet-white face and I thought better of mentioning that. I had more important things to think about than assigning blame – the news our spaceborne brother had just relayed top of the list.

"Are you sure?" Virgil whispered.

"Sure what the folks on the ground are telling me, or sure Thunderbird Two is actually powering up?" There was a clatter of computer keys in the background. John's voice, anxious and a little exasperated, trailed off. When it returned, the exasperation had been replaced by a grim certainty. "Both. Two's beacon is moving. I'm sorry, Virg. She's in the air."

"I locked the door." Virgil shook his head. I'd thought he was pale before. "I swear, Scott. She was locked tight!"

Worried, but painfully aware of the thundering machine all around us, I took a moment to glance over the Mole's controls. Virgil's grip on them was white-knuckled, but steady. My brother's mind might be on his stolen Thunderbird, but we were both of us too well trained to let our own troubles cripple us in a situation like this.

"If we back the Mole out now we'd have to start tunnelling from scratch." I thought aloud, as much for my own benefit as to remind John and Virgil of the facts. The buildings around here had been built on glacial gravel: loose, unstable. The Mole's tunnel was collapsing as quickly as we made it. Backing out and starting again… "The guys trapped down there wouldn't stand a chance."

Virgil glanced over at me, giving a tight-lipped nod.

"We're still fifteen minutes from breaking through." His voice was level. I couldn't help noticing though that our pace had increased, taking us marginally past 'urgent' and edging into territory we'd agreed was 'risky'. I frowned but didn't argue. I was as keen to get this rescue over with and deal with the bigger problem as my brother.

"Where is she, John?"

"Hovering. A little unsteadily. I think whoever's in there is finding Thunderbird a bit of a handful. Scott, the people on the rescue site have figured out something is wrong. The police chief you were speaking to earlier wants to know, and I quote, 'what the Hell is going on'."

"He's not the only one."

I glanced up at the curve of the Mole's ceiling, as if I might see through the metal hull and thick layer of soil above. With no victims to worry about in the surface rubble, I'd thought I could be more useful helping Virgil out here in the Mole rather than loitering at Mobile Control. I'd seldom regretted a decision more. I was as trapped as the men we were tunnelling towards, unable to react as the situation slipped beyond of my grasp. My hands clenched and unclenched helplessly. I reached, unthinking, towards the console in front of me, searching for something I could actually control, before Virgil's quick glare warned me off.

"Scott…?" John pressed.

It seems like half my life, I'm stuck in impossible situations, forced to choose between agonising decisions. I'm still sane – or close to it – for one reason only: I don't have to make them alone. I'm part of the strongest team I can imagine. Four brothers I would trust to the ends of the Earth, stunningly smart team-mates, and a father I can always rely on. Half my job as Field Commander for International Rescue is knowing when to delegate… and when I'm out of my depth.

"Virgil and I are committed for at least another two hours. We've got to focus on the rescue. John, you're gonna have to inform Base."

"Gee, thanks for that." John sounded about as enthusiastic about telling Dad we'd lost a Thunderbird as I would be. "F.A.B., and Virg…?" Our brother's voice softened. "We will get her back."

Virgil didn't respond, his gaze locked on the monitor showing our progress. As John signed off, I kept my eyes on the console too, not daring to meet my closest brother's. I'm pretty sure neither of us shared John's certainty.

Virgil was making more adjustments than strictly necessary, his agitation obvious behind a veneer of cool efficiency.

I felt much the same, helpless and useless, stuck in this claustrophobic metal cylinder when I ought to be up there – wresting back control of my brother's Thunderbird or giving chase in my own. I kept fidgeting, my hands itching for something to do, but the Mole didn't need two pilots, let alone two jittery ones.

I left the controls alone, and let my eyes rest on the thermal scanner instead. Two man-sized heat sources were visible, unmoving, in the cavity ahead, just as they had been since I'd first arrived on the scene. Above us, on the fringes of suburban Toronto, the ruins of a twelve-storey office block lay in a towering heap of rubble. No one knew who'd set off the explosives that destroyed it, or why they'd bothered to call in an anonymous tip-off first. Just as no one had been able to tell me why the two men in the basement ignored the urgent evacuation order.

"They wanted us underground." I didn't mean to speak aloud this time, and only realised I had when Virgil's worried eyes turned towards me. "Whoever did this – whoever's in Two – they cleared the building first so I wouldn't be needed for rescues up there. So we'd both be in the Mole."

Virgil's eyes flicked away from my face and towards the men on the scanner, his frown deepening.

"They're bait?"

"If they are, they're live bait." I reminded him. "And they won't be for much longer unless we get to that air pocket soon."

Virgil glanced again at his controls before turning back to me with a reluctant nod. His eyes strayed, not for the first time, to the silent communications console and he lifted one hand from the controls to run back through his dusty brown hair.

"I wonder what's happening up there."

I let him read the sympathy in my eyes but kept my expression grave.

"They'd tell us if we asked."

He lowered the hand from his hair and, for moment, it wavered towards the switch that would connect the Mole instantly to Thunderbird Five. I held my breath, letting it out as subtly as I could when Virgil's hand returned to his vehicle's controls.

He shook his head. "We have to focus," he told me. He shot me a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He knew I'd been testing him – and that he'd passed. "As you well know. Three minutes, Scott."

Despite the severity of the situation, I couldn't help a brief smile of my own. I'd never really doubted that I could count on my brother, but the confirmation still sent a wave of pride through me.

There was no time to dwell on it. Popping the seat harness, I moved to the back of the Mole, gathering the medical kit, helmets, crowbars, jacks and other equipment we might need into a tidy pile between the seats. Virgil and I were already in our mid-blue overalls, our sashes discarded and hanging from hooks beside the other protective gear. For a few seconds, I hesitated, looking at them. I felt eyes on my back as I slipped the band of sky blue fabric over my head, shrugging to settle it over the bulky overalls. I turned, Virgil's yellow sash in hand, to find my brother watching me in reflection on his still-dark monitor. His frown deepened, and I realised that my free hand had dropped to the weapon holstered on my hip, automatically checking its position.

"Trapped or not," I said quietly, "I can't help wondering why those guys were still down here when the building blew."

Understanding dawned in Virgil's troubled eyes. "I don't know, Scott. According to my radar, that basement's only half the size it used to be. And the air must be pretty stale by now."

I shrugged, making my way forward and hooking Virgil's sash over the back of his chair before dropping into mine. I reached for my safety harness, a little frustrated when I had to adjust it before it would lie flat over the sash.

"All that tells us is that, if they were involved, something went wrong."

Virgil could only shrug in response to that, giving me another of those small, reluctant nods as he agreed to arm himself. He glanced over in my direction, checking I'd sorted out the recalcitrant straps, before tightening his grip on the Mole's throttle.

"Brace," he warned quietly. There was a change in the note of the motors, and a shuddering vibration as we left the gravel-littered soil behind us and bit into the basement's two-foot-thick concrete lining. I clenched my teeth and my fists, enduring the discomfort as the Mole did her work. A moment later, the mighty auger was chewing through nothing but air and loose debris, screaming as her unloaded engines struggled to adjust. The monitor screen in front of Virgil burst into life, showing a litter of broken concrete spars, almost hidden by a dust cloud that reflected the Mole's floodlights.

Virgil powered her engines down. After more than an hour in the thundering machine, the silence was almost disorienting. Outside, nothing moved. No voice cried out in pain or relief. Virgil stood, disquiet plain on his face as he ducked his head and slipped his sash over it. He drew his pistol, checking the settings with a quick look before holstering it smoothly. I gave my own a final check before nodding.

"Let's go," I said, leading the way into what we both knew could well be a trap.

The air was stale, thick with dust and barely breathable. I covered my face with one sleeve, seriously considering ducking back into the Mole for an oxygen mask. Virgil ruled that option out, pushing past me through the Mole's hatch and into the darkness with more haste than judgement. I pulled the collar of my overalls up to cover my mouth and followed. No way was I letting my brother out of my sight until we were sure of the situation.

Both of us had flashlights strapped to our wrists, although for the moment they did little more than highlight the dust already dancing in the Mole's more powerful illumination. When we got to the other side of the basement, where the two victims awaited us, it might be a different matter. We hadn't dared bring the Mole in too close – mincing our rescuees, or showering them with head-sized chunks of flying debris, would have rather defeated our purpose in being here.

I moved cautiously, picking my path through the rubble with care and pausing at one point to run my flashlight across the concrete ceiling. It was cracked, bowed under the weight of the collapse above. The flashlight's beam shifted as I raised my hand to touch the hard hat I was wearing. Virgil paused and glanced back at me. I nodded towards the unstable ceiling and he winced, mirroring my instinctive check of my headgear with one of his own.

A fallen pillar was braced diagonally between floor and rubble pile, blocking our only obvious route through the debris. Virgil's flashlight played across twisted steel reinforcing rods that emerged from the ends of the concrete spar and were visible below its fractured surface. He paused when he reached it, letting me catch up. I think he just intended us to help one another over the unstable obstruction. I had other ideas.

I pushed past him, getting one foot up on the pillar before he could object. The concrete spar shifted a little as I put my weight on it. I could feel Virgil's irritation as he braced it with one shoulder, eyes watchful and steadying hands ready. He could rant at me all he wanted… later. If I was remembering those thermal scans correctly, we couldn't be more than a couple of metres away from our supposed 'victims'. If either of us was going to silhouette ourselves against the Mole's lights it was going to be me.

Even so, I felt ridiculously exposed as I took a moment to get my balance before dropping down into the dark cavity beyond. My flashlight cast a narrow shaft of light through the dusty air, giving me glimpses of my surroundings as it swung around, each too brief and isolated to build up into a coherent picture. Taking a slim tube from my belt, I bent it sharply and gave it a brisk shake before tossing it into a far corner. The chemical glow it cast was dim and diffuse, but it was enough to put the space around me in perspective.

I was in a small enclave at the north-east corner of the basement, away from the centre of the collapse. The gap I'd just clambered through had once been the doorway to a chamber walled off from the main space – some kind of maintenance office, maybe. At the centre of the room stood a bare wooden table, its surface littered with dust and gravel-sized debris. A layer of powdered concrete covered the two bulky manual workers who'd been sitting at that table too, almost masking the colour of their grey overalls. One, to my left, still sat upright, hands resting slack on the table, back ram-rod straight. The second had fallen, lying on his side, his body strangely rigid as if still shaped around the matchwood chair beneath him. My hand hovered above my holster, but neither man seemed hostile. In fact, neither reacted to my presence at all.

I was already feeling guilty for my suspicions, mentally diagnosing the sitting victim with shock even as I hurried to his fallen companion. I played my flashlight across the man's bearded face, my gut twisting painfully. A thin sheen of dust clouded wide-open, staring eyes. After all this, all we'd sacrificed to keep going, it looked like we were too late.

But then I saw dark pupils contracting below their dust-shroud. I saw the powdered concrete beneath the man's cheek stirred by a whisper of expelled breath. Muttering a quiet oath, I fell to my knees by the victim's side, checking his slow but steady pulse. Puzzled, I waved a hand in front of his dusty eyes before shaking his shoulder, trying to assess the man's state of consciousness. The dust in his eyes worried me and I hesitated, not sure whether leaving the lids open or easing them closed would do more harm to the dry and abraded membranes. There would be time to worry about that in the Mole; I left the eyes alone and concentrated on his shallow breathing. There was no obvious sign of injury or physical trauma, but now that I was looking for it, I made out a slight flush of carbon dioxide poisoning beneath the grey coating on his cheek. Whatever else was going on with him, the dust at floor level couldn't be helping.

The man obviously lived an active life, maintenance work giving him an impressive bulk of muscle. I had to put my back into it as I gripped his overalls and heaved him up to a sitting position. Crouched and off-balance myself, I braced him against my chest, and was more than a little surprised when his muscles held the tension and supported his weight.

On the other side of the room, Virgil was talking to his own rescuee, confusion as well as concern colouring his professional tones. I looked over to where my brother was crouched by the table, lifting my flashlight to light him a little better and to attract his attention.

"Virg?"

"I think he's conscious, Scott, but totally unresponsive. Some kind of trance…"

We'd both been talking in whispers, wary of disturbing the rubble around us. Now Virgil's voice rose in a startled oath that echoed my own cry.

Snake-like, moving in eerie silence, my rescuee had twisted, wrapping strong arms around my chest and pinning my own arms to my side. It was almost too unexpected for me to react. My gasp pulled more dust than oxygen into my straining lungs. I was coughing before I knew it, struggling to draw breath even as I twisted and turned in the grip of a man who easily out-muscled me.

My lungs burned, my eyes dazzled by my own flashlight as its beam jerked violently across bare walls. I could feel the man's grip tightening, his body unnaturally rigid against my back. Even the meagre breath I had was being squeezed from me, spots blurring my vision.

Virgil cried out again, this time in pain. The sound focused my scattered thoughts as nothing else could.

I stopped my futile struggle, stopped trying to breathe. I went limp in my captor's grasp and felt the unnatural tension relax a little as the man struggled to adjust to my shifting weight. My next move was pure muscle memory, drilled into me during my air-force days and practiced until it took no conscious thought whatsoever.

I was almost surprised to find my assailant flying over my shoulder, twisting in the air before falling awkwardly across the rubble pile spilling through the doorway. I didn't give myself time to think about it. My hand dropped to my belt, relieved to feel the pistol still safely in its holster. It was in my hand by the time I'd twisted, still on my knees. A split second was all I needed to take in the sight of my brother, wide-eyed and coughing, struggling in the cruel embrace of his own rescuee.

Half-blinded by the stray flashlights, yet to draw a deep breath of my own and hovering on the edge of consciousness, I abandoned my five senses and acted on the sixth. My gun snapped up, aimed and fired in one instinctive movement. My flashlight sent a shaft of light along the barrel of the pistol, focussed on my brother's white face, letting me see his shock as the stun pellet skimmed past his head and burst against the other man's skin.

The second rescuee dropped like a stone, and I almost followed, letting the gun drop and my hands fall to the ground so I was supported on all fours. The stale air in the storeroom was thick and heavy with carbon dioxide, doing little to ease the tightness in my chest despite my gulping breaths. A hand fell on my shoulder and I jerked back upright before some deep instinct tagged the presence beside me as familiar.

"Scott?" Virgil was red-faced too, panting and coughing.

"I'm fine, Virg."

I clambered to my feet before he could dispute the assertion. Neither of us was fine. If we didn't get out of here soon 'fine' would cease even to be an option.

Virgil let his protest slide, his expression one of total bewilderment. He looked down at the now-motionless man I'd thrown and the second he'd left by the table. "What the hell just happened? They just grabbed… They didn't say… Not a word. That guy didn't even look at me."

"Not their fault." It was all I had breath for. I'd seen the same things as my brother. Our attackers had moved awkwardly, their dusty eyes unfocused and unblinking. Whatever their problem, I was far from sure they were even aware of it. Something decidedly screwy was going on around here. To my mind, the two men lying at our feet still fell firmly in the category of victim. Even if they hadn't, even with anger rising hot and fierce inside me, we couldn't leave them here.

Virgil steadied me as we puled the unconscious man off the rubble pile between us. I ducked, ready to haul the man over my shoulder into a fireman's carry, and froze. Caught by surprise, Virgil was forced to take the victim's weight, even as his anxious eyes turned back towards me. Mine stayed glued to the underside of the wooden table and to the compact red-lit device that neither of us had noticed before now.

"Virgil! We gotta get out of here! There's a bomb!"

Desperation tapped a reserve of strength I didn't know I had. Somehow, I don't know how, the victim was draped across my shoulder, and Virgil had boosted us both over the rubble and through the doorway before I realised he was going back for the second man. The air wasn't much fresher in the larger section of basement, but every little helped. I ran, gasping and staggering, following my own footprints through the dust and into the dazzling glare of the Mole's headlights.

We'd closed the Mole's main hatch behind us, its controls an arm stretch above my head. Bent almost double under the weight of a grown man, I had no chance of reaching them. I dumped the man I was carrying to the floor beside the curved metal hull. It felt like I was moving in slow motion, forcing myself not to waste time looking back as I felt for the keypad and typed my access code. By the time the hatch spilled its warm light into the collapsed basement, and I turned to haul my victim up by his armpits, Virgil was just a few metres away, staggering under his burden.

Dumping my own man onto the Mole's deck, I reached out, ready to help my brother up through the hatch.

And that's when the fireball blossomed behind him.

It spread like the petals of a flower, billowing and blazing with a brilliance that left me blinded. I felt a weight flung into my arms and grabbed it instinctively before tumbling backwards into the cabin. Virgil yelled, I heard a clang, and then the explosion caught up with us, turning the world into a wall of noise and pressure that faded mercifully to black.

Red lights glowed around me. Alarms blared. My head was pounding. My body shivered with pain. My thoughts came in short bursts as I tried to process the situation. There was a weight on my chest, another across my legs, and from somewhere close by I could hear an insistent series of electronic bleeps.

Ears ringing, I tried to decide whether the alarms or the bleeping was more annoying. I'd have given anything for Virgil to just shut his damn machine up for a…

"Virgil!"

A limp form slid off me, slicked by a layer of fine dust, as I jerked upright. My head spun and I pressed the palms of my hands to the deck on either side as my eyes struggled to adjust to the dim emergency lighting. I'd been lying half across the man I'd carried to the Mole, and it was Virgil's victim that I'd shoved aside when I sat up. Virgil himself lay sprawled across my long legs, his own curled up just inside the hatch he'd closed with milliseconds to spare.

The shadows shifted as I moved and I realised my flashlight was still strapped to my wrist. Clenching my fist against the icy fear I felt, I twisted a little, raising the beam of light so I could see my brother more clearly. For a moment the ice spread through my chest, the glare of the torch reflecting from a face that seemed deathly-pale. Then Virgil winced, one hand coming up to shield his closed eyes from the glare. He groaned softly, and I grinned, suddenly able to breathe again and revelling in the cool, fresh air of the Mole's cabin.

I flexed my legs, disturbing him enough that his eyes opened. He took stock of his situation with the same dazed confusion I felt.

"Scott?"

"I'd kinda like my legs back, Virg."

Groaning again, he rolled clear and up onto his knees, letting me pull my numbed limbs up to my chest and massage a little life into them. The pins and needles were excruciating. I bit my lip and rode them out, shuffling over to the two rescue victims on my backside and checking them over while Virgil staggered towards the front of the cabin.

"They're still out of it," I reported after a cursory check. "Breathing a bit better now." I squinted through the red-lit murk for the supplies I'd left handy. The force of the explosion had rocked us, scattering the stockpile across the deck. I found an oxygen cylinder and mask within arm's reach almost by chance and settled it over the face of the first victim before looking around for another. "Any chance of some real light?"

"Working on it." Virgil's voice sounded as rough as mine. He seemed to realise it and reached down for the water bottle by his seat, gulping a little before tossing it back to me. "The main generator was knocked off-line. I'm re-initialising."

I took a swig of the water, stifling a cry as the painfully bright lights returned without warning. Blinking my eyes to clear them, I looked again for the second oxygen cylinder and this time found it. With both victims breathing easier, there was time to assess their other injuries. On the whole they'd come off lightly, a little bruised perhaps but largely intact. I frowned though at the dust-reddened eyes, still staring and open in the case of the stunned man, closed on the one I'd knocked out. They needed irrigating. I grabbed for the medical kit, carefully angling the head of each unconscious victim to keep their airways clear as I trickled distilled water across the irises. With dust all around, and cleansing wipes only making a bare dent in the grime covering my hands, it was as much as I dared do. I covered both men's eyes with dampened pads and bound them gently. We needed to get them to the surface, to proper treatment, as soon as possible. Even then I wasn't convinced the sensitive membranes would recover.

The deck jolted under me. One set of alarms, presumably those relating the generator, had quietened. Another, half a tone lower, was still ringing, doing nothing for my aching head. I shot an inquisitive look towards the front of the cabin, and Virgil turned, as if feeling my eyes on him. Even in the full cabin lights, he looked a little pale, smeared with dirt and with sweat streaking the layer of dust on his skin.

"Main systems check out. The auger is fouled though. I think I can wriggle us free." He raised an eyebrow. "You want to answer Johnny while I do that?"

I'd forgotten the beeping, mentally assigning it to the same category as the alarms. I'm guessing Virgil had done the same, or he'd have mentioned it sooner. Our family wasn't going to thank us. I raised my wrist-com to my lips and stilled the urgent signal.

"Mole to Thunderbird Five."

"Scott!" John's usually level voice rang with relief.

"Virgil and I are both fine." I sounded rough as Hell and the Mole's alarms provided an unmissable backing track. Despite that, my family took me at my word.

"Thank Pete for that!" Alan yelped.

"We've been trying to raise you for almost fifteen minutes," Gordon added, voice tight.

"Alright, boys." My father's deep rumble cut across the outburst. "Scott, what happened? We were getting worried, son."

"What exploded?" John added, curiosity already replacing his concern. "I was too busy tracking whoever's in Two to monitor the rescue site."

"The guy that took Thunderbird Two wanted a clean getaway." The deck lurched again, forward and then back, as Virgil tried to use the tracks in the Mole's flanks to free her. I pushed to my feet, taking a few unsteady steps before dropping into the nearest chair and reaching for the harness. "They left a surprise for us."

"The men you went after?" Father demanded, his tone grim.

"Here. Safe, but they'll need medical attention."

Virgil shuffled the Mole again, using a combination of her tracks and linear motors to try to get the nose into free air. I glanced at him, sensing an anger to rival my own in the violent motion.

"They were hypnotised. Their eyes wide open," he snapped.

According to the scanners, the explosion had pretty much finished the work of the building collapse. The cavity around us was now rather shorter than the Mole was long. Virgil made another adjustment, debris screeching against the hull. The alarms stilled. Then another roar of sound replaced them as the tip of the auger began to turn, rising through the octaves as it built up speed. Another deft touch of the controls, a scream of cahelium steel against concrete and we were on our way.

The com had fallen silent, partly in response to Virgil's statement, partly, I think, so the guys could listen to our progress. Now, our father spoke, voice uneasy.

"What are you saying, son?"

"I'm saying we know who took her, Father." Virgil glanced in my direction and I couldn't have said whether the turbulent expression in his brown eyes was exhaustion, anger or simple hurt. "We've seen this before. He's finally done it. The Hood has my Thunderbird."

"Thunderbird One calling Thunderbird Five."

The roar of my thruster rockets almost drowned out the words. As the ground dropped away, Thunderbird One's belly camera gave me one last glimpse of the Mole. The hulking machine looked forlorn and abandoned, even with a heavy police presence surrounding it and a promise from the Canadian government that it'd be fenced from view and well guarded.

I guess something of Virgil's despondent mood had rubbed off on me. My brother's expression as we locked the Mole and walked away lingered in my memory. I forced it to the back of my mind and told myself to quit anthropomorphising.

"Thunderbird One from Base." My father's voice jerked my attention back to the matter in hand. "John's busy right now."

"Busy with what?" Virgil demanded from the jumpseat at the back of the cabin. Anyone else, my little brothers included, and they'd have been on the passenger bench in Winch Control. Right now, I wanted Virg where I could keep an eye on him.

From the tone of his voice, he'd not forgiven Dad for breaking contact after he'd established our safety. Even if I was the one insisting we complete the rescue before worrying about anything else, I had to sympathise. I'd had our two passengers to focus my jitters on, but I'd watched Virgil's face grow progressively grimmer as the Mole clawed its way to the surface. Not knowing was killing us both.

Dad hesitated, taken aback by Virgil's brusqueness. I spoke into the silence.

"Just tell us where he is and what he's doing, Father. Even with this head start, Two can't keep ahead of me for long. The moment she lands we'll have him."

"She is still in the air?" This time fear replaced the anger in Virgil's question. Dad's sigh did nothing to ease my own fluttering anxiety

"Boys, I want you to head back to Base."

"No!" Virgil's protest beat mine by a split second. Both were vehement.

"What's happened?" I asked, throat dry.

"Apparently, the Hood had trouble taking Thunderbird Two supersonic."

Dead silence reigned. Thunderbird Two was quite possibly the least aerodynamic aircraft ever to make Mach speed. Only careful alignment of her flight surfaces, a very specific angle of attack, the lift generated by near-sonic shockwaves and an awful lot of simulator practice made it possible at all. Without that… In my mind's eye, I saw Thunderbird Two plummeting nose-first, her swept-forward wings torn and twisted. I didn't dare turn around, lest Virgil read the horrors in my eyes. No doubt he was seeing his own.

"There is kind of a knack to it." That was Gordon, speaking up from the lounge back home to break the tension. "Breathe, guys. He didn't crash her. He just found he had to dawdle rather than race off into the sunset. He couldn't get the hang of high altitude either."

There was an intake of breath behind me, the first I'd heard in a while.

"What happened?" Virgil echoed in a strangled tone.

"Well…" Gordon seemed to have wrestled our father for control of the mike. The fact that Gordo's drawl had a calming effect in even the worst situations may have had something to do with why Dad surrendered it. "He was crossing some pretty major flight routes, and we don't think he's found the off-switch for Thunderbird Two's danger zone approach beacon, so air traffic control knew all about it. Gave the air force base at Elton plenty of time to scramble."

I'd turned Thunderbird One's nose homewards for lack of anything better to do. Already we were well past the border and sweeping across the mid-West states, familiar prairies spread wide and open below me. Now I glanced down at my console, expecting to see a data transmission with coordinates for Elton AFB already registering. Swearing inwardly at the blank screen, I set our heading for southern Nevada from memory alone. If Thunderbird Two was still subsonic and airborne she couldn't be too far ahead of me.

"Thunderbird One, I repeat – return to Base!"

For once in our lives, neither Virgil nor I had any problem ignoring our father. Even if I'd wanted to turn back, I had the strong suspicion that I'd face a mutiny from my passenger. Virgil snapped the buckle on his harness, ignoring my glare as he came forward to the microphone. I glanced at our heading, checked for turbulence ahead, and let my brother stand. I didn't need the fight.

"You said she didn't crash," he pressed.

Gordon's hesitation wasn't what I wanted to hear. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say his landing was pretty, but to give him his due, he was being forced down at the time."

"Then she's on the ground?" I heard the clipped, efficient tone in my own voice. Mere mention of the largest air force base in the United States had snapped memories of my air force training into sharp focus. "At Elton?"

"At the Nevada Test Site," Gordon admitted grudgingly.

Virgil frowned, his confusion obvious. "We need to go get her!"

I agreed, but if it was going to be that easy, Gordon wouldn't have been trying to buffer the news. Our father wouldn't be ordering us back to Base.

I think Dad wanted to get us home and check us over before telling us the next bit. Despite his reluctance, he seemed to have realised that discipline and blunt orders were only going to get him so far. If we were going to turn our backs on our Thunderbird, we needed an explanation.

He had one.

"Boys. General Harmon from Elton Air Force Base called Thunderbird Five direct. He told John that he'd impounded an unregistered aircraft, taking an illegal flight-path across restricted air space. And that he'd shoot down any other that came the same way. Scott, Virgil, the man has more fighter jets under his command than I can count. I'm taking this all the way up to the World President, but in the meantime, I'm not having you fly into a dogfight you can't hope to win."

I wanted to argue. My father's quiet, worried tone convinced me otherwise. I could probably outpace any jet Harmon was able to field. On top form, I might even be able to out-fly his missiles. I couldn't do both at once, or escape a sky swarming with fire and danger when I was already tired and my reaction times were shot to hell. If Thunderbird One went in now, half-cocked and against a fully alert base, the best – the very best – we could hope for was to be forced down beside her sister ship.

"Virgil, sit down and strap in."

Words seemed to fail him. His protest was writ clear across his face, in brown eyes that accused me of cowardice and betrayal. I held those eyes with an effort.

"If we go in now, you're going to my 'bird blown out from under me and both of us killed." I didn't raise my voice. I kept it level and calm. The fury in Virgil's eyes made way for a flinch and a flicker of uncertainty. "They're not going to give her back without a fight, Virg."

"Yeah," Gordon's voice from the radio startled us both. "And we can't win a fair one, so we're going to fight dirty. Come on home, fellas. We're making plans."

Virgil gave the radio a frown before shaking his head. His feet were heavy as he returned to the jumpseat. I gave my silent brother a look of concerned understanding as I watched him strap in. His eyes were down, not meeting mine.

"Base from Thunderbird One. Heading home."

Chapter Two: Stalemate

Three hours to get home.

Three tense, dusty, uncomfortable hours.

Even Virgil didn't object when Dad sent us to shower before letting us join the discussion in the lounge. Twenty minutes more couldn't make any difference one way or the other.

The hot water felt good, sluicing the dirt and all-pervasive cement dust off my skin. I adjusted the faucet, dialling up the pressure until the streams of water pounded my shoulder blades and massaged my aching muscles. I'd have some spectacular bruises in the morning, and not just where the entranced rescuee gripped my arms. Virgil and I had both weathered the vibrations of the Mole, the fight, the escape and finally the explosion shockwave without serious injury. That didn't mean we weren't hurting.

I thought Virgil would beat me out easily. I was startled to run into him – literally – hovering in the corridor outside the lounge. As I reached out to steady him, he ducked his head again, avoiding my attempt to make eye contact. Perhaps his hesitation had been no more than momentary, or perhaps he'd been waiting for moral support before facing our waiting family. Either way, he stepped back and let me lead the way into the lounge.

Dad was behind his desk, frowning as he flicked through his address book. Gordon sat across from him, a notepad balanced on the corner of the desk while his hands were occupied with a reference book of some kind. A few metres away, Alan pored over the map he'd spread across a coffee table, referring occasionally to a notebook computer beside him.

They all looked up as we entered, subjecting the pair of us to an identical set of worried inspections. Thinking back, I'd seen the same looks as we rotated in – filthy, tired and heartsick – from Thunderbird One's hangar. I guess we scared them pretty thoroughly after that explosion.

Virgil didn't notice, or maybe he just didn't care.

"What's going on? What's the plan?"

"We'll come to that, son."

Dad waved us toward the sofa and I wasn't in the mood to argue. I dropped into it, Virgil settling impatiently beside me. Our father gave us another quick inspection, eyes scanning us up and down.

"Now, are you boys all right?" he asked gruffly. "You must have been out for several minutes in the middle of that rescue."

Even after the flight home and a hot shower, Virg was still pale. I knew from the mirror in my bathroom that my own eyes were underlined by deep shadows. The minutes of oxygen deprivation had seriously dented our ability to bounce back from the concussion that followed. I was pretty sure Virgil felt as rough as I did, but nowhere near bad enough to sit this one out. Father had to have realised that. He knew better than to accept our assessment of our own conditions, but he trusted us to speak for one another.

"We're okay, Dad," I told him, my voice quiet.

Virgil shrugged. "Yeah, we're fine. Now will someone tell me just what's going on with my Thunderbird? You said the World President…"

Dad's lips thinned. His expression was about as unimpressed as I'd ever seen it. "Can't come to the phone right now. I've been bounced from aide to aide and advised to go to the North American authorities. Apparently airspace violations are 'a matter of local sovereignty'." He sighed. "I'm working on it, Virgil."

"They're giving us the run-around?" I shook my head, standing and pacing. I'd known from my father's tone of voice when he called us back to Base that this wasn't going to be sorted quickly. Even so, some part of me had clung to the hope that it was all a misunderstanding and Dad would tell us to turn around and pick up Two before we even got home. Beneath my overwhelming exhaustion, I was fuming. "How long does it take to find someone who can clear this up? It's almost six hours since the Hood took her!"

"At least tell me that John locked the doors."

The understated misery in Virgil's request drained the anger from me. He turned an enquiring gaze on the portrait wall and I realised for the first time that our space monitor's portrait was active. I was more tired than I thought if I was missing details like that.

John shot a humourless grin down in our direction. "I locked the doors."

"Yup," Gordon nodded. "Old Hoodie's trapped on the flight deck. There's a dozen hatches between him and the big, wide world. He's not getting out, and the air force aren't getting in. So ease up a little, will ya, guys?"

Leaving his map to one side for a moment, Alan stretched, rolling his neck to ease the tired muscles there, and accepting a mug of coffee from Kyrano with an absent smile.

"It'll take more than they've got on that base to cut into Two." He looked thoughtful for a moment, turning back towards the desk. "Of course, they might just toss a couple of missiles at her. That could be a problem."

It was tactless, but I don't think anyone except me noticed Virgil flinch. If I hadn't been sitting beside him on the sofa, I might not have seen it either. As it was, I flashed back on the last time someone had "tossed a couple of missiles" at Thunderbird Two and shivered a little myself.

"So he's trapped?" I clarified, keen to move the conversation on.

John yawned, rolling his own neck a little as Alan's actions reminded him how stiff he was. "Since he landed. I signalled Two and asked nicely if we could have our Thunderbird back. I'm not sure what he said to me in reply, but it didn't sound very friendly, so I sent the lockdown signal before the airmen could get there."

Alan had settled back in his chair, sipping at his coffee. He frowned looking over towards Virgil and me.

"I don't get why she wasn't locked in the first place."

"She was!" Virgil snapped the words, before stopping and taking a deep breath. "The pod door was locked tight, I'd swear, but if the Hood got inside before I sealed the outer hatches…"

My brother's words died away in an anguished whisper. He glanced at our father, and then away, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, before shaking his head and going on with renewed resolve.

"Dad," he started, quiet but determined. "I'm sorry. Thunderbird Two is my responsibility. This is my fault. I've been trying to work out when it happened. I'm thinking it had to be when I rolled the Mole out. It's the only time she was unlocked for long enough to let someone in. I should have seen him. I'm sorry – "

"All right, Virgil." Our father held up a hand, stilling my brother's ongoing admission. "That's enough of that. If someone did get aboard while you were in the Mole, you could hardly have – "

"I was on Mobile Control. I should have been watching, covering for you." This time it was me who interrupted, turning to Virgil with shame written across my face. The question of how the Hood could have broken Thunderbird Two's security had been troubling me all the way home. The moment Virgil mentioned, with the Pod ramp extended and Virgil's visibility limited by the Mole itself, was the only realistic possibility. "I shouldn't have trusted the local police. I should have – "

"One of the cops you assigned as guards was found hypnotised." Gordon cut across me, his face set in a sombre expression. "His partner's still missing."

"Virgil." Our father's expression was grave. "Did you follow procedure at the rescue site?"

Virgil looked like he wanted to protest the simple question. Dad caught his eyes and he ducked his head.

"Yes, sir."

"Scott, did you follow your usual protocols?" This time I was the one who opened my mouth to object. Dad's voice hardened, took on a note of command that snapped me to attention. "Did you assign guards to the Thunderbirds and ensure they were sealed whenever unattended?"

"Yes, sir," I admitted.

"Scott, Virgil, this is an enemy who has watched us countless times and knows our methods. The time to discuss how we might have prevented this is after we've got Thunderbird Two back, not before. Understood?" He held my eyes for a long moment, and then turned to my brother. "Understood, Virgil?"

Virgil couldn't ignore the direct question. He glanced up, just long enough to nod his acknowledgement. Some of the command drained from Dad's expression, leaving weariness and concern behind it.

"Let's focus…"

We all fell silent for a few minutes as Dad's viewscreen lit up. My father's had years to develop patience and hone his negotiating skills. I have nowhere near his tolerance levels. I had to bite my tongue more than once before Dad hung up on the clueless junior minister he was speaking to. He looked at the buzzing screen for long seconds before killing the connection. He didn't sigh, but I could tell it took an effort of will.

Gordon looked at the screen too. He shook his head.

"I've been making a list of things I'd like to do to General Harmon after we get Thunderbird Two home. I think I'm going to start list number two for that guy."

Dad's gruff cough almost covered his smile.

"There's a difference between ill-intentioned and ill-informed, Gordon."

Virgil's sigh wasn't loud, but it carried nonetheless. The mood, lifted momentarily by Gordon's comment, plummeted once again.

Dad rubbed a fist across his brow, trying to smooth out the frown there. "Alright, boys. At the moment we're at an impasse. We don't have a workable extraction plan. Scott, Virgil, I want you to work with your brothers on that, but I'm still hoping reason will prevail and we won't need one. We know that there are limits to what the air force can learn from an external examination of Thunderbird Two..."

This time the distraction came in the form of a chime sounding on Thunderbird Five. John glanced off to his left, muttered something under his breath and started entering a long and involved sequence on his keyboard. I leaned forward.

"Problem, John?"

John gave a one-shouldered shrug, not looking away from his work.

"Engine warm up sequence on Two. Give me a few…" his voice faded into concentration and his fingers flew across the keys. He was working for far longer than a few seconds before he spoke again. "There. Flight computer is reinitialising with full diagnostic sequences. And… confirm engine shut down for reboot. Should keep the system occupied for half an hour or so."

His intent frown faded as he sat back. He flexed his fingers and then cracked his knuckles before looking up at the communications feed. No wonder he took a breath or two to unwind. The coding he'd just had to do was non-trivial, deliberately so, and, to tell the truth, I was a more than a little surprised to find him so fluent in it. It wasn't as if the space monitor had to remote-access, override and reboot another Thunderbird on a regular basis. Our blond brother seemed just as surprised to see Virgil and me both on the edge of our seats.

"I've got it, guys. Of course, it would be easier if the override sequence was a little shorter…"

Gordon snorted. "Hmm, let's see. Short, easily-hackable code or something that takes a little effort. Which do we think is a better idea for a command that can reboot Thunderbird Two in mid-air?"

"Gordon." Our father's quiet rebuke got an apologetic shrug from my little brother.

Virgil's focus on John didn't waver.

"This isn't the first time you've done that," he stated, and looking back at my family's reaction I realised he was right.

Alan shrugged. "Third maybe."

"Fourth," John corrected. He gazed through the comscreen, meeting our brother's brown eyes with a serious look. "And I'll do it a fifth time and a sixth. I only wish I'd had the time to do this before he took off from the danger zone. I'm not going to let him get away again, Virgil. As long as he's in the cockpit and you're not, that 'Bird is staying on the ground."

Virgil held his eyes for a few seconds, accepting the promise, before letting the slightest hint of a smile show. "Thanks, John." He closed his eyes, sighing deeply, before opening them and looking around the room. After the exchange with John, he was quite definitely the centre of the family's wary attention, and I wracked my brain for what we'd been talking about before the interruption, keen to move that attention away.

I needn't have bothered. Virgil took a deep breath. He sat back in his chair, the movement deliberate.

"Dad's right. They can't learn a lot from just staring at Two and they won't want to damage her unless they have to. We've still got time for Dad to chase a diplomatic solution." He glanced at our father with an apologetic shrug. "And for the rest of us to figure out what to do when it fails."

I could feel the stress radiating from my brother. When his eyes skittered across mine, I could see the uncertainty and pain deep inside them. I could certainly see the exhaustion. Even so, I rallied in response to his determination. I saw Gordon and Alan settle, and a little of the tension leave Father and John too.

We'd all been walking on eggshells, almost too worried to get to the heart of the problem for fear of Virgil's reaction. Virg had just told everyone to get on with it.

I stood, crossing the room to look over Alan's shoulder at the air force base map. Gordon dropped into my seat on the sofa, and started explaining one of his ideas to Virgil while Dad placed another call.

The house was quiet as I padded towards Brains' lab complex. Somewhere behind me, Dad was sipping a glass of bourbon, weary but determined to keep John company for as long as the Hood's take-off attempts needed attention. My other brothers were already in their beds and, I hoped, asleep. The melancholic nocturnes Virgil played as the planning session began to flag still echoed through my head, filling the silence. Dad had waited for the third missed chord before he ordered my brother to bed. Exhausted and frustrated with his own recalcitrant fingers, Virg barely argued.

I didn't argue with Dad's orders either, just quietly ignored them. Twelve hours after Thunderbird Two's abduction, sleep wouldn't come easily. I don't know why I can survive on a fraction of the hours my brothers need, but there have been drawn-out rescues where that trait's been a godsend. And then there were long, weary nights like this one, where it seemed a curse.

The lab was swathed in shadows, the only light spilling from a desk lamp and across a workbench. Brains himself was hunched over it, muttering under his breath as he corrected plans and annotated his own hand-written notes. There was a pile of paperwork beside him, covered in sketches and scribblings by our latter-day da Vinci. Despite that, I knew at a glance that Brains had found his independent study no more productive than our marathon brainstorming session in the lounge. There were too many barriers between us and our distant Thunderbird. Without having a man already on the inside, I just couldn't see a way around the security at Elton, or a way out through her airspace.

Brains didn't notice as I slipped into the room and riffled through his notes. Several pages were annotated maps or satellite imaging of the air force base, highlighting most of the strengths and minor weaknesses my brothers and I had spotted and a few we'd missed. There were specs for the aircraft and ground-based artillery based there, assessing their effectiveness against the 'Birds. I winced a little at that, perturbed that my own assessment had apparently erred on the side of optimism. Scattered between the more obviously relevant documents there were International Rescue designs – some upgrades for familiar vehicles and gadgets, and some more surprising.

I hesitated for a few minutes over what appeared to be the plans for a new EMP generator, frowning as I traced the circuit designs and tried to interpret the scribbled notes. Brains thought laterally about problems. It wasn't unusual for a tricky rescue to inspire the tools we'd use on a later occasion, even if their immediate relevance wasn't obvious. But in this case… my tired mind stepped up a gear, seeing potential in an electromagnetic pulse as a distraction. Then I found the warnings – advice against use with Thunderbird One nearby, cautions about the effects on unshielded weapons systems, notes about the delicacy of the device and the need for careful handling.

I leaned against the bench and sighed. Brains' head jerked up as he finally noticed my presence.

"Scott! I, ah, didn't realise anyone was still a-awake."

I'd intended nothing more than to tell Brains to turn in and get some rest. Something about the guilt in his expression derailed my thought processes before I got that far. Instincts honed by years of riding herd on four younger brothers kicked in and my eyes went to the screen behind him before I even thought about it. Anything that one of my brothers was so keen to keep hidden was something I needed to see.

What I saw were plans for Thunderbird Two, with an unfamiliar set of markings overlaid. A frown creased my brow. I traced what I knew were the Thunderbird's weak points, seeing each marked in turn. Brains' eyes pleaded with me not to look any further, even as I leaned over his shoulder trying to make sense of the diagram.

It wasn't until I saw the map of southern Nevada under Brains' spread hand, and the concentric red circles drawn across it that I understood.

Our resident genius is almost as protective of the 'Birds as we are. They're his brain-children, after all. But Brains doesn't see the world through the same emotional filters most people have. He can't hide from reality when it's staring him in the face. I took a deep breath.

"Don't let Virgil see that."

"I, ah, w-wasn't p-planning to."

I met my friend's nervous expression with sombre eyes. "So, if we have to… can we do it?"

Now Brains sat back, rubbing the back of his neck. He shook his head.

"Any blast big enough to hide her, ah, secrets…" He moved his hand so I could see the map clearly, taking in the red contours engulfing Elton and spreading out into the city beyond. The air force base lay ten miles from the city limits, not quite as close to downtown Las Vegas as the old Nellis base it replaced. Even so, half the city would feel the effects of Thunderbird Two's destruction.

"So we have to rescue her. We have no choice."

Curiously enough, as much as my skin was crawling, I was glad of the exchange. Some part of me, a part that wanted to curl up and hide rather than face my brother, had already started to think that the only way of getting out of this situation was simply to get rid of the problem.

I'm not sure Brains understood why I thanked him as I walked him to his room, before finally seeking my own bed. He'd never have to meet Virgil's eyes, putting the good of International Rescue as a whole before that of any one part of it. The realisation that destroying Thunderbird Two wasn't an option lifted a weight from my shoulders I hadn't even realised was there.

"Virgil?" My voice echoed through the cavernous space, distorting as it bounced off metal-lined walls. I walked past the empty bays belonging to the Mole and Firefly – one languishing under distant guard, the other held captive along with her parent craft. "Hey, Virg? Where are you?"

"Here."

I followed the sound with my eyes and sighed. Hefting the basket in my hands, I set out across the dimly-lit hangar floor. It seemed so much wider with Thunderbird Two gone.

Not gone, I reminded myself. Only absent. We would get her back, it was just taking longer than any of us would have liked.

My footsteps clattered on the metal stairs as I mounted the gantry against the far wall. Each sound seemed to come back magnified, twisted by jagged harmonics and a good deal more angry. I'd never realised quite how bad the acoustics were in here without enough aircraft to fill a football pitch dampening the echoes.

Virgil perched on the edge of the viewing gallery, legs hanging out over the abyss, his chin resting on his arms, and arms resting in turn on the gantry railing. Enough light spilled from the maintenance office behind him, and the Cliff House beyond, to let me see his profile. There was no sign of emotion on his face. Nothing to give me any hint of what he was thinking as he stared out across the hangar.

I guess, given the circumstances, it was no wonder my brother was worrying me. On the one hand, he seemed determined to defy expectations. He'd been the voice of reason throughout our strategy meetings, helping me past my initial angry reaction and heading off some of Alan and Gordon's wilder schemes. He'd approached the problem rationally, accepting the information we gathered with calm concentration and making intelligent suggestions.

But then I looked at how pale he still was, twenty-four hours after the rescue, at the way he was skipping meals, and the fact that I'd found him sitting gazing into the dark void Thunderbird Two should occupy, and I knew he wasn't coping as well as he pretended.

I dumped the picnic basket I carried on the metal gantry and sat down by my brother's side, slipping my legs under the lower-most crossbar of the railing so I could perch on the edge beside him. Reaching into the basket, I pulled out a couple of wrapped sandwiches, tossing Virgil one before he could object.

"If you're going to make me miss meals looking for you, the least you can do is keep me company when I find you."

Virgil glanced down at the sandwich in his hand and shook his head, dropping it back into the basket. "You didn't have to come."

Well, maybe Virg wasn't hungry, but starving wasn't going to help my concentration any. I tucked into my sandwich with a show of enjoyment. "No, I didn't."

"Is the American President taking Dad's calls yet?"

I swallowed down a mouthful before shaking my head. Raising one hand, I rubbed the back of my neck and tried to pretend what I was about to say didn't bother me.

"To be fair to the man, according to the gossip Dad and I are getting through the vets' grapevine, General Harmon isn't taking his."

That got Virgil's attention. His head snapped up.

"A rogue general?"

The trained airman in me, conditioned to trust in the unbreakable chain of command, winced. The more cynical field commander, who'd seen pressure bring out the best in people and the worst, couldn't discount the possibility.

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just giving everyone plausible deniability. As soon as the presidents – World Gov or North American – get involved, this becomes a policy decision. They'll have to decide once and for all whether to endorse International Rescue, or whether we're just the bunch of law-breaking vigilantes their chiefs of staff have always thought us."

Virgil seemed to think that over, reaching into the basket for his discarded sandwich, unwrapping it and taking a bite as he did so. I kept the grin from my face. Virgil's mind might be telling him he wasn't hungry; his body had other ideas.

"You know," he said, "technically, that's just what we are. We've got away with it because no one's dared call us on it."

"I guess so." Well, that was one way of looking at it. Once the idea would have troubled me. Today, as I searched through the basket for the chicken legs I knew were in there, it didn't even dent my appetite. This wasn't exactly new territory. Perhaps learning that Harmon was acting alone put a new spin on the situation, but it didn't change the basic facts. "You can kind of see why the military aren't fond of seeing machines as powerful as the Thunderbirds in private hands."

"Two isn't in our hands any more."

Virgil dropped that into the conversation in a deliberately neutral tone that did nothing to conceal his anguish. His eyes fell to the half-eaten sandwich he was holding, and he prised one corner up, inspecting the filling, before turning it over and over in his hands, anything to avoid meeting my sympathetic expression.

"Virgil, Johnny's got her locked tight. The air force can't get in. The Hood can't get out, and John's hitting reboot on the flight computer every time he sees any activity. Okay, they're getting a good look at her, but that's all they're getting. It's a stalemate. She might not be in our hands, but she's sure as hell not in anyone else's."

Virgil still wasn't meeting my eyes. "Not yet."

"You think they have anything on that airfield strong enough to cut into Two's hatches? It would take us a good long while, and we have Brains' oxyhydnite torches."

I was going for reassurance. Virgil was one step ahead of me.

"She's sitting on a firing range, Scott. Alan's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but he had a point yesterday. Do you really think Two's going to stand up to a direct missile strike? She didn't do so well last time, remember?"

I remembered. For a few seconds, the memory of Virgil's Thunderbird crashing in flames, with my brother inside her, engulfed me. My breath caught in my throat.

I should have guessed though that Virgil's last military encounter would be preying on his mind. It wasn't something we'd ever discussed, or anything I wanted to dwell on. I swallowed my memories down, forced my breathing to even out and avoided the subject.

"You think they're going to blow her up? Don't you think that would be overkill? They're not going to reduce one of the world's fastest aircraft to a burning hulk before they've had a good long look at what makes her tick. Even if they wanted to, do you think they'd dare? They know there's someone inside – do you think Harmon's going to countenance cold-blooded murder? They've got nowhere near grounds enough. We've already told them that we've got her incapacitated so the Hood's not any immediate threat."

My brother raised a sardonic eyebrow, and then looked away, reaching into the basket for another sandwich and a bottle of water.

"We've told them we can't unlock the doors too. All it's going to take is Johnny dozing off, slipping up just once, and they'll know..."

"Alan's en route to help John, remember?"

I glanced instinctively towards the Island's second empty hangar, the one that should house Thunderbird Three. I didn't like letting Alan fly her alone, but in the current circumstances it was the lesser of two evils. As Dad had pointed out, I couldn't afford to be unavailable. And from a personal point of view, I didn't want to be. I didn't want to leave my closest brother alone for hours at a time. More than anything else, Virgil's persistent negativity told me how much this was getting to him. Usually I could count on my brother for calm support in the worst situations. Losing Thunderbird Two seemed to have robbed him of the solid ground his confidence was built upon. And with Virgil's world trembling, mine wasn't doing a lot better. I put all the determination and certainty I could muster into my voice.

"Virg, they've seized her, sure, but they're walking on eggshells legally speaking. What right have they got even to hold her? They can cite a few traffic violations – no registration, no flight plan. At best they can claim to be liberating a stolen vehicle. You know, the last World Gov aide Dad spoke to suggested that as soon as Harmon finds the legal owner, he might just give her back?"

The haunted memories in Virgil's eyes were replaced by incredulity. He shook his head.

"And the eight-foot-high letters spelling out 'Thunderbird Two' aren't enough of a hint?"

I grinned. "That's pretty much what Dad said. It's been a while since I've seen him so unimpressed."

Virgil's amusement was fleeting, but all the more precious for that. A brief smile warmed his brown eyes. Then it was gone. For the first time since I joined him, Virgil's gaze locked with mine, demanding honesty.

"You don't think Harmon's just going to hand her over, do you, Scott?"

I couldn't lie.

"No, I don't. And that's why we're making other plans. That's why Lady Penelope will be here any minute, if she isn't already. That's why the two of us ought to get back up to the lounge. Dad won't let one of the machines go without a fight."

He nodded, reluctantly. The sigh that escaped him told me just how much help he expected Penny to be.

We climbed to our feet, gathering the remains of our lunch back into the picnic basket. I was almost at the steps, ready to lead the way back up to the house, when I realised Virgil wasn't following. His hand rested on the railing, his eyes distant as he gazed down at the bare concrete where his Thunderbird should be.

"I know," he murmured.

Stifling my own sigh, I returned to his side, leaning back against the safety rail so I could see his face.

"Know what, Virg?"

"I know she… it… is just a machine. A hunk of metal… just nuts and bolts. Replaceable. I know I should be more worried about the secrets she might give away than the 'Bird herself." He paused, turning to me. "But I can't stop thinking about her. The lives she's saved, and all the times she's saved mine. We've put her through so much, Scott. After the abuse she's taken… any normal 'plane would have given up the ghost long ago. She's given us everything she has. And if feels wrong, Scott, so wrong, to be sitting here while she's out there… abandoned."

I can't say I was surprised. As hard as Virgil found the admission, I don't think that a single member of International Rescue would ridicule him for it, Alan and Gordon included. If this went bad… if we lost the Thunderbird Two… yes, we could build another. The general public might never know the difference.

But Virgil would grieve nonetheless.

"I know," I echoed. Lost for words, I reached out awkwardly, squeezing my brother's arm in reassurance. "Let's go get her back, okay?"

He nodded. This time I let him lead the way to the stairs.

"Scott, Virgil. How lovely to see you both."

Penelope was sipping a cup of tea, still dressed for travelling and clearly not long since arrived, when we got to the lounge. Dad was seated at his desk, as he had been for most of the past twenty-four hours. Gordon stood by the portrait wall, either about to call Thunderbird Five or having just done so. I suspected the latter. If Alan was running to schedule, Thunderbird Three should have docked with the space station just a few minutes before, and, either way, John would want to know that Penelope had arrived safely.

I was about to ask Gordon for an update, as if half an hour out of the room was likely to yield major developments, when Penelope rose to her feet in one fluid motion. She stepped forward, taking my hands in hers and kissing the air above my cheek before moving on to my brother. Like everything she did, the movement was smooth and unhurried. With not a hair out of place and her beige pantsuit carefully designed not to appear rumpled after a day's travel, she was the picture of relaxed gentility.

It took a trained eye to notice the rapid inspection to which she subjected us, or to see the slight pursing of her lips as she made her assessment.

Virgil saw it. He nodded politely, easing out of her grip and passing a scatter of available seats as he retreated to the piano stool. He didn't play, leaving the cover closed, but one hand caressed the silky wood as if grounding himself in its familiarity. I don't think anyone in the room, with the possible exception of Virgil himself, missed the significance of the gesture.

I glanced at Dad, searching for something to distract attention from my brother.

"Alan reached the station yet?"

Dad nodded, and Penny sighed.

"And now, perhaps, poor John can get a little rest. The dear boy looked quite shattered."

"The Hood kept him up most of the night, Penny." Dad seemed a little defensive. I guess the situation was getting to him too.

Gordon shrugged. "The man's either semi-nocturnal or insomniac. Every time it looked like he was finally sleeping, the station woke John up to deal with another start up sequence."

"Alan's more than capable of taking over for a few hours." Our father dismissed the issue with a wave of his hand. "Boys, Penelope and I were just updating one another on the situation."

Now, that got my interest. I'd dropped into the chair closest to the piano, still tired enough to sprawl back in it. I straightened, listening, and I saw Virgil perk up too. I could have given Dad's half of the briefing myself, but if Penelope had news, it had to be something new.

The lady had settled herself back on the sofa, porcelain saucer and teacup in her hands. She took another sip before speaking.

"This unfortunate business has got the, shall we say, more secretive of my acquaintances quite aflutter. Since the World Government was inaugurated, there's been an understanding that local armed forces were maintained more for historical reasons and, perhaps, for a little local police action, rather than as serious military endeavours. That's an understanding, as I'm sure you realise, that has been notable more for its noble intent than its actual implementation, particularly in those parts of the world with particularly historic, or, I regret to say, powerful military complexes."

Sometimes I think Penelope delights in tormenting us. The measured pace of her delivery, while probably in accordance with some obscure rule of etiquette, had me drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair. Virgil's grip on the lid of the piano had tightened until his knuckles showed white. He released it with an obvious effort and then glanced at my hands. I spread them palm down on the chair-arm, sharing the ghost of a smile with my brother before giving Penny my most attentive look.

"World Government forces would not usually interfere with American military projects. However, with the technology of a Thunderbird at stake…" She let the sentence spill away into silence. "I understand the World Army are eager to investigate Thunderbird Two's potential use as a troop carrier, and the World Navy as a transport craft. Of course, it has not escaped W.A.S.P. notice that one of her primary functions is as a submarine launch vehicle, and, naturally, the ISS is more than keen to learn her secrets for the secrets' sake. Meanwhile, insofar as a mere dilettante such as I can determine, the World Gov hierarchy would appear quite determined to remain officially unaware of the entire furore for as long as possible."

Gordon's fists clenched. "It's a feeding frenzy."

Penelope gave a delicate laugh, and I felt Virgil tense from a few feet away. It was hard to take offence though. If anything, Penelope's laughter was self-deprecating – an acknowledgement of the foibles of her profession and her peers.

"As you say, Gordon. A quite indelicate free-for-all. I'm sure you won't be surprised to learn that His Majesty's Armed Forces are quite incensed that their American colleagues took advantage of your calamity."

"But not too incensed to take advantage themselves," Gordon guessed, eyes narrowed.

"Naturally not," Penny agreed. She leaned forward a little in her seat and I found myself mirroring the gesture. Something in Penelope's tone suggested we were getting near the heart of the matter. "The British Army have asked permission to send observers to Elton Air Force Base. Just a matter of routine, you understand? International Cooperation. The fostering of better ties between long-term allies under the World Government mantle. Nothing the Americans can find grounds to object to, and a request that, for political reasons, they must either accept or give reasons to refuse. Indeed, if they were to refuse permission, and so force a more direct, specific and detailed request, this might well escalate into the international incident that our colonial cousins are as eager to avoid as anyone."

"So there will be British observers there?" I echoed, trying to figure out how the fact could work to our advantage.

"And not only British," Penny agreed. "Quite a number of governments and organisations are quite suddenly finding the idea of observer status at the Elton Base rather attractive. Of course, the American government is entitled to refuse."

Dad leaned back in his chair, expression thoughtful. "But if they did, they'd have to say why."

"Indeed, and, as I've said, this is all so terribly unofficial. No one wishes to see it become anything other. As I believe you would rather colourfully put it: they'd rather have these people on the inside, ah…"

"Than the reverse. Okay, Penny. We get it."

Despite the tension in the room, Dad cracked a smile. The idea of so indelicate a phrase coming from the society beauty in front of him had a touch of the ludicrous about it. Penny smiled back.

"Within the next twenty-four hours, I expect to see quite a cadre of observers gathered. And I intend to be amongst them."

Penelope sat back on the sofa. She crossed her ankles and took another delicate sip of her cooling tea, as if unaware of the bombshell she'd just dropped. We all stared at her, waiting for her to go on. Dad broke the impasse.

"I don't get it, Penny. Just who will you be representing?"

Our visitor raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Why, that's the beauty of this situation. Don't you see, Jeff? I could be representing anyone and they couldn't refuse me. In fact, I believe I shall obtain a commission from one of our more venerable institutions – Metropolitan perhaps, or Horse and Hound. Of course, finding an appropriate angle from which to tell the story in these situations is so difficult. Our American friends, I am afraid to say, will harbour the most unjust suspicions regarding my presence, but these things simply cannot be helped."

Father's eyes narrowed. The beginnings of an angry flush started at his temples, and his voice was a low-pitched growl. "Metropolitan? You mean the press have got a hold of this?"

"They soon will. In just under an hour, upwards of twenty of our agents, distributed quite randomly around the world, will be overheard asking a friend, colleague or total stranger whether they've heard the news. Unless, of course, you rescind my order."

Dad was already reaching for his radio. I think the rest of us were simply too stunned by Penny's actions to respond. We'd asked her to work on the problem, but this…? Penelope sat up, reaching across the desk to still my father's hand. Now the mask of elegant nonchalance dropped away. Her sultry voice was suddenly rock-hard.

"Jeff, I would like you to consider this carefully. The news will leak, I can assure you of that. Too many people already know of this situation. From our point of view, the sooner and more controlled the leak is, the better. At present, the ball is in the court of the American military. As long as no one is – officially – aware that Thunderbird Two is in their possession, they are free to inspect and analyse her. Even the access of official observers is likely to be highly restricted."

She paused.

"Such observers are, nonetheless, the group with the best chance of reaching the Thunderbird without arousing suspicion. With popular opinion engaged, and International Rescue's admirable reputation, it will certainly include gentlemen – and ladies – of the Press. Faced with growing public, political and military attention, I believe General Harmon will be far less likely to make precipitous and ill-thought-out decisions. This window of opportunity – the period of stalemate during which he is reluctant to sacrifice our lost Thunderbird through national pride or sheer frustration – may be extended." Penelope had half-turned in her seat as she spoke, not precisely looking at Virgil but certainly aware of his presence. I couldn't blame her for hesitating. "I've studied the General's psychological profile. And I must advise you that tying his hands at this point is much to be preferred over leaving him free to act as a wild card."

My throat was tight. If Penny was saying what I thought she was saying, then all my assurances down in the hangar might well have been nothing but wishful thinking. Sitting on the Nevada test range, where science had once been wrought into sheer destruction, and destruction had become a science, Thunderbird Two was in real danger.

I couldn't look at Virgil. The angry note in his voice didn't surprise me at all.

"Okay, so Penny gets in. So what? I don't see what good that's going to do! You're not proposing I teach her to fly Thunderbird Two in half a day flat? I might as well try teaching her the Minute Waltz in real time!"

Virgil stood, his stool falling away behind him. He shook his head, flushed after the outburst, and rounded the piano. His eyes swept past us, his expression a chagrined mixture of frustration and embarrassment, and then he turned to the window, gazing out of it to avoid all our eyes.

Dad gave him a worried look and then Penny a questioning one. Virgil might have put it rather emotively, but he had a good point. Penelope's eyes lingered on Virgil's back for a few seconds before returning calmly to our father.

"Now, Jeff, you know Parker is quite my Man Friday, but I sometimes feel that my position demands a rather more extensive retinue. I have been considering taking on an educated young man as a secretary, and, I can't help noticing, you have rather an embarrassment of riches on that score. I was wondering… would you mind terribly lending me one of your sons?"

It was the corner piece of the jigsaw. The fragment around which a coherent picture took shape. I was on my feet before I knew it, plans fizzing through me and making me feel alive for the first time since John called with the news.

"I'll do it! Penny just has to get me inside. I know my way around an air force base. I could assess the situation. Get to Two. Deal with the Hood. Get her out of there."

Gordon was grinning at my obvious enthusiasm. Virgil just looked annoyed.

Penelope finished her tea, placing the cup gently back on the saucer before laying it on the table. She gave me a smile that was entirely too knowing for my liking before turning back to my father.

"Actually, Jeff. I was rather hoping you'd lend me Gordon."

"Gordon?" I didn't mean to sound quite so incredulous as I evidently did. Now two of my brothers were giving me irritated glares. Penelope pursed her lips in apology.

"I'm afraid, Scott darling, that your air force experience is not in your favour in this situation. You are something of a known quantity to elements of the American military, and that might prove disastrous."

Dad was giving my brothers and me thoughtful looks. I'm pretty sure he didn't consider sending Virgil for any longer than I would've. But he hesitated over Gordon.

"That's a risk with all the boys, Penny," he noted quietly.

Again Penelope shot me an apologetic glance.

"Jeff, I'm sure you're aware that Scott has a tendency to, ah, dominate situations. While admirable and quite necessary in his role as Field Commander, I'm afraid it's a somewhat less desirable trait in a secretary. I expect a certain degree of, ah, deference from my employees, Jeff, as I'm sure a man in your position must understand. I suspect that Scott would find the role something on a strain on his theatrical abilities. I think perhaps Gordon might prove better suited to my requirements,"

My indignation must have shown on my face. Gordon shot me an amused grin that faded as he processed the implications of Penny's statement. Okay, I'll admit that I can be a bit dominant, but no one has ever accused my brother of being submissive. At least not without regretting it. His eyes narrowed as he turned back to Penelope and despite the seriousness of the moment, I wondered whether I should warn our guest to watch her back.

I put the thought aside. For one thing, Penelope could look after herself. For another, Gordon's expression reminded me that his abilities extended well beyond the theatrical. His talent for creative chaos could come in very useful in this situation. Even so… any plan that put my little brother alone in a military base, attempting not only to reach our impounded Thunderbird but also to fly her out through a hostile sky, wasn't going to get by me easily. Unfortunately, judging by Dad's expression, I was going to have to come up with a convincing argument against it.

Virgil didn't give me the chance.

"I notice no one's suggested I go get my own Thunderbird?"

The precarious calm Virgil had held onto for most of the last day was back, but there was a dark undertone behind his question. He leaned back against the window glass, arms folded across his chest. The irritation he'd shown when I volunteered to go get Two was still visible in his stubborn expression.

"If anyone's going to fly her out of there safely, it's going to be me."

I came to my feet, worried. If I was reluctant to see Gordon walk into the lion's den, I was sure as Hell not letting Virg go alone in his current mindset. Penelope didn't blink.

"In point of fact, Virgil, I quite agree. I believe that you and Scott between you are perhaps the most likely to succeed in that objective. It is essential that we find a legitimate reason for you both to join the merry throng."

Dad looked tired. I wasn't sure he'd had much more sleep than John last night, and it was clear that the endless talk was starting to pall for him as much as for the rest of us. He didn't even bother to ask, just raised an expectant eyebrow as he waited for the explanation. Penny didn't keep him waiting long.

"It occurs to me, Jeff, that as the military examines Thunderbird Two – while, no doubt, assuring the public that they have no intention of turning her into a weapon – they will wish to make a show of civilian involvement. It seems likely that, sooner or later, they will call on experts in aerospace design, particularly those with military experience."

"And if the owner of a company with that kind of profile just happened to have read the papers, and makes discreet enquiries about sending a representative or two…" Dad's voice trailed off. His weariness dropped away as he ran an eye over Virgil and me. We both came to attention, our eagerness obvious. Getting someone inside the base had been the one insurmountable obstacle in most of our plans. With three of us there, we might actually stand a real chance of pulling this rescue off. Our father shook his head, chuckling. "Penelope, there are times I'm very glad you're on our side."

The ghost of a smile played around Lady Penelope's rosebud lips.

Chapter Three: Infiltration

p>The fence stretched away in both directions, towering twelve foot above the yellow dirt and topped with razor wire. We could see precious little from here. To the west I could just make out a complex of buildings that were most likely residential accommodation for the base families. Away in the distance towards the east, a fast fighter jet climbed steeply, only a few seconds past take-off. I watched it ascend for a moment, appreciating the efficiency of its lines and rate of climb. Then I followed its path backwards with my eyes, picking out a second cluster of buildings that must mark the base's main operations area. Mostly though, the fence seemed to enclose a vast swathe of brown dust-land, crossed by cracked concrete roads and dirt tracks, and dotted with thorny shrubs and the occasional pre-fabricated hut.

The red and white striped pole across the road made for an unprepossessing entrance to the base, and, at first sight, an insecure one. It wasn't until we drew to a halt mere inches in front of it that I noticed the more robust metal gates beyond, ready to be swung back across the roadway if needed. Certainly the squad of airmen standing guard weren't just there for appearances' sake. The way they gripped their rifles, not exactly pointing at us but certainly held ready for use, made that clear.

"Scott Tracy." I passed my credentials through the driver's side window and then nodded across to the passenger seat. "My brother, Virgil."

I heard a stir from the line of press vans behind me. They'd largely ignored our car as it drove up, the tinted glass windows rendering it and its occupants anonymous. The Tracy name worked its usual magic though. A sighting of any of my reclusive family could make the news bulletins, even if the alternative wasn't endless footage of ten thousand acres of desert scrub, dust roads and drab metal-framed buildings. I could almost feel the frustrated and sun-touched reporters recharging their 1000-watt false sincerity ahead of a new report.

The airman standing beside our car gave a non-committal grunt. I summoned up my most relaxed smile.

"Representing our father, Jeff Tracy. Here to see General Harmon, on behalf of Tracy Industries." Leaning back in my seat, I drummed my fingers idly on the steering wheel before glancing up again as if surprised at the delay. "Just open the gate, and I'll head on over to the control building."

Penny was right that acting isn't really one of my strengths. Any more clandestine role and I might have been worried. But while I didn't often get the chance to play billionaire's son and heir, it is something I've been doing on and off for most of my life. I've watched Dad make more business deals than I can count, and negotiated a fair few on his behalf. In many ways the rules were the same as those I applied as an air force officer and on every rescue as Field Commander: be sure of your facts, look confident whatever the situation and never doubt for a second that your orders will be obeyed.

The airman sniffed. What came across as decisive leadership in my other roles was clearly being interpreted as spoilt arrogance in this one. I could live with that. The gate guard wasn't expecting anything else. I wasn't trying to talk the man around to my point of view, or schmooze him into some kind of business deal. Charm wasn't something a businessman with my kind of resources wasted on flunkies.

Of course, if Dad really thought like that, or had trained his sons to do so, he'd never have been nearly so successful. The airman didn't know that, and today was an exercise in giving the air force precisely what they expected to see.

The guard scanned our paperwork, leaning down so he could see across the car to my passenger. Virgil raised his sunglasses, giving the man a vaguely impatient look as he was compared with his photograph. Another quick glance down at the papers, and the airman waved to his colleagues. I had the engine gunning before the bar across the road tilted back, pausing only long enough to sign a clipboard that was thrust towards me.

"The general is in the third building on the right, Mr Tracy. He's expecting you."

I waved a hand in a vague gesture of thanks, took back my wad of authorisation papers, and drove on into enemy territory.

General Harmon seemed about as impressed with us as his gate guard.

Shaking the general's hand, smiling politely and trying to ignore the hostility boiling off Virgil, I returned his frankly assessing look. Tall, balding and wiry, the middle-aged man reminded me inexorably of the flag-bearing eagle on the crest behind him. He wasn't how I'd pictured a rogue general. Given the press corps camped out on his doorstep and the crowded wardroom we'd just entered through, I could understand the weariness and irritation in his expression, but there was no lack of rationality in his grey eyes, and nothing to suggest that he was off on some power trip.

I had to consciously resist the urge to tense up. This was a man who truly believed he was doing the right thing. He might be even more dangerous than I'd thought.

"Mr Tracy."

He handed me back my paperwork with no more than a glance at the first page. The President's signature, scrawled across the same seal that hung on the General's office wall, was pretty convincing all on its own, but even so I'd have expected a man like this to read every word. Of course, I realised, a man like this would know all about us long before we walked through his door.

"General."

Harmon's decision to remain incommunicado had lasted no more than an hour beyond the news breaking. With the world's media demanding to know why the American military had impounded Thunderbird Two, continuing to deny the facts had been wildly impracticable. The official position of both government and military now was that the current situation was a stand-off between well-meaning authorities and the Thunderbird's hijacker. The fact that International Rescue had been refused permission to reclaim their craft, and that we were keeping her locked against both parties, was still no more than an unconfirmed rumour.

One with just enough credibility that Dad's carefully pitched enquiry had been seized upon. Tracy Industries had always been politically neutral, but I don't think there's been an American President in the last few decades who hasn't gone out of his way to shake my father's hand. There was never any doubt that the current President would approve his request to send representatives. Handing Thunderbird Two back to IR, or over to another civilian authority, seemed to be out of the question. A pair of undeniably civilian observers, who just happened to be from one of North America's most trusted military and aerospace contractors, came as a political godsend. It wasn't an accident that we'd been asked to drive in past the press presence rather than simply landing on base.

From the expression in Harmon's eyes I was guessing his own opinions on the matter hadn't factored.

"I was expecting Tracy Aerospace to send experts," he noted.

"And you got them," a new voice declared.

We were in trouble.

Virgil knew it too. The tension I'd felt from him changed, grading into a shiver of alarm that I hoped the general wouldn't notice.

I'm sure the surprise showed on my face as I turned towards the doorway.

"Colonel Casey! It's great to see you again." I stepped forward, smiling and extending a hand as I lied through my teeth. "I thought you were working for the WAF over in Europe?"

Tim Casey's salt-and-pepper hair was perhaps a little more salt and a little less pepper than it had been the last time I saw him. Its military-short trim kept it well away from his neatly-pressed collar. His smile was probably more genuine than mine, but there was a curious stiffness to it.

"I'm told the Red Arrow project can do without me for a while." He didn't sound all that enthused by that idea. "I've been seconded back here to take a look at the beauty we've got sitting out there on the range. I'm surprised to see you boys here..."

"Colonel?" The General's voice held the special quality unique to senior officers on the ragged edge of holding their temper.

"Ah… sorry, General. Jeff Tracy's an old friend, sir. And I happen to know that he's sent you two fine young engineers, not just his sons. Virgil here graduated…"

Casey's explanation died away at a glance from Harmon. I don't think any of us doubted that Harmon had already read our public records cover to cover. Still, having a serving colonel, himself an aircraft design expert, vouch for us was probably a good thing… up to a point.

I held the General's eyes with my own, giving him total sincerity.

"General, believe me, we're as eager to see the Thunderbird as anyone here. And we'll know what we're looking at when we do."

The general's upper lip curled, as if the idea left a bad taste in his mouth. Casey slapped my shoulder amiably.

"I have no doubt you will, son."

I didn't even think about the comment until I saw Virgil's worried glance past my shoulder. I twisted, just enough to see Casey's face. The faint smile there could have meant anything. The general didn't seem to notice it.

"Well, Mr Tracy, I've been told to offer you and your brother every facility. I trust you will repay that hospitality with dedication to the task. This is a rare opportunity to study one of these craft and I intend to make the most of it – doing my duty by our fine country." It was the first time I'd heard strong emotion in his voice – a mixture of pride and scepticism. I met his piercing gaze with an effort. "I'm told you can help with that. I expect you to do so. Our time may be limited, so make the most of it." He nodded, courteous without being friendly. "Colonel. You'd better bring our guests up to speed. Group One."

I know a dismissal when I hear one. Part of me wanted to snap to attention. Another part wanted to punch the man for his dismissive tone. General Harmon didn't spare us a second glance as Colonel Casey led us out of the room.

Virgil waved a hand in front of his face as he stepped out into the corridor, studying it carefully. Despite the situation, I couldn't help but shoot him a grin.

"No, you've not turned invisible."

He gave an exasperated snort and dropped his hand to his side.

"I was wondering. Did that guy even notice I was there?"

I glanced across my brother's shoulder, my eyes meeting Colonel Casey's for a brief moment.

"He noticed everything, Virg. Believe me. Colonel, ah, Group One?"

Casey was leading us along a short corridor and up a staircase. He nodded behind us toward the crowded wardroom and made no attempt to hide his contempt. "That lot are Group Two – the mob of 'observers' sent by our World Gov allies to make sure they get their snouts in the trough, and the journalists trying to keep them honest. We'll stick them on a bus in the morning and drive them out to gawk at the Thunderbird."

Virgil and I sported identical frowns.

"The general may like you boys even less than Virgil likes him, but he's not underestimating you. Group One get privileged access."

Virgil's frown deepened at the thought of anyone getting 'privileged access' to his 'Bird. I couldn't say I liked the idea myself, but my unease had rather a different focus. Virgil's antipathy toward the general had been obvious to me, but I didn't like how easily Colonel Casey picked up on it.

This was why neither Virgil nor I had been glad of the familiar face. Our strategy rather depended on no one putting us, or our motives, under close scrutiny. As one of our father's oldest friends, Tim Casey had to be wondering why Jeff Tracy had set aside his principles to give this technology-pilfering exercise even the merest hint of legitimacy. And, as someone who'd known my brothers and I for most of our lives, he wasn't going to fall for the arrogant rich-kid façade. Or for even the best constructed of false identities.

Casey's face was blandly amiable as he opened the door to a second, smaller meeting room that opened off the base's main command centre and introduced us. We nodded politely to a colonel from the American air force's training academy, the white-haired man with his short-cut hair and neatly trimmed moustache vaguely familiar from my own long-past theory classes. We exchanged a few words of greeting with a too-senior-to-ignore general from the World Army's air division, and a pair of Elton-based tech guys who looked unnerved by the company. The small woman in a grey suit was apparently some kind of negotiator sent out from Washington, and the man beside her, a remarkably unmemorable guy called Langdon, turned out to be a special investigator sent by the ISS. It was gratifying that even one of the world's top secret agents gave us the brief, dismissive look we expected from anyone who'd seen nothing more than our playboy public profiles, but that didn't stop it grating, or rubbing against my brother's already taut nerves.

With an effort, both Virgil and I held our smiles in place, going through the intricate etiquette of both meeting and sizing up our opposition, all the while aware of the time bomb ticking away on the other side of the room.

"I believe you know Lady Penelope."

"Of course! Scott, Virgil darling, how lovely to see you both. Is your father well?" Penny came forward, movements smooth and precise, to offer her hand.

"Lady Penelope." I took the hand and kissed it, the manoeuvre honed by years of practice. I put a twinkle in my eye to hide the concern and played along. Penelope's friendship with our father was hardly a secret. Half the people in the room had no doubt read the press speculation that followed Dad's visit to the London Air Show. Usually it was something we simply wouldn't comment on in public. Penelope had already decided though, and Dad had reluctantly agreed, that in this context the more decidedly unprofessional the relationship was believed to be, the better. "I'm sure he'll be all the better for knowing you asked."

I was startled when Penny flushed prettily, and averted her eyes, apparently overcome with modesty. Casey gave her a speculative look, and then raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"And I guess you know her secretary, 'Mr Charles,' too."

I heard the quotation marks falling into place around the name. Gordon, poised at Penelope's shoulder, didn't miss a beat.

"Actually, I don't think Her Ladyship has visited the Tracys since she took me into her service."

Technically true. I studied my brother's face searching for any hint of how he was dealing with this situation and what Casey thought was going on. Gordon's pale brown eyes practically radiated sincerity as he extended a hand towards us, shaking first Virgil's hand and then mine.

"I've heard a lot about you, of course." Gordon smiled disarmingly. His usual relaxed drawl had been replaced by a more precise, clipped tone with a hint of an east-coast accent. "But I'm being indiscreet. And impolite. Gordon Charles. Pleased to meet you."

We shook our brother's hand, murmuring inconsequential greetings. Casey watched the whole thing with well-concealed amusement, and I felt the tension in my back ease a little. The first hurdle seemed to have been navigated. Casey's eyes were brimming over with questions but he hadn't blown Gordon's cover out of the water simply through surprise.

"Well, I'd better get both Mr Tracys settled. Scott, Virgil, we have a room set aside for you. You'll have to share, I'm afraid. Guest quarters are in rather high demand. If you'll follow me?"

"Ah, can I grab a lift back to the guest block, Colonel? I kind of forgot something and I don't really want to wander across the base without an escort."

Casey's second eyebrow climbed to join the first.

"You know, Mr Charles, that's probably a good idea."

He held his tongue beyond that, leaving Virgil and me to trail him down to a waiting jeep, with Gordon deferentially bringing up the rear. It wasn't until we were underway, trundling along the tarmac road with me in the passenger seat beside him and the others in the back, that Colonel Casey drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and turned a piercing gaze in my direction.

"Well, Scott, do you want to tell me what's going on?"

I'm generally pretty good at thinking on my feet. Right now though, there was nothing – literally nothing – I dared say without knowing what Gordon had already told the man. I opened my mouth, not knowing what would come out of it. Fortunately, my little brother came to my rescue, jumping in before I could say a word.

"It's just as I said, Colonel."

Casey slowed the jeep, glancing up into the rear-view mirror as Gordon leaned forward.

"Dad wants us to get some more business experience, from the bottom up. Real ground-level, everyday stuff, you know? And it's kind of hard for one of Jeff Tracy's sons to be anything but a Tracy Son. That's why he sent me to Penny when she was looking for a P.A. to manage her estates. None of her people know who I am, and Penny's tough enough not to care. Dad figured it would be good training. I guess that's why he sent Scott and Virg out too." Gordon turned to us, surprise written across his features. "I wasn't expecting to see you guys here?"

Virgil shrugged. "Guess he got tired of having us all sitting around the Island."

I echoed Virgil's shrug, letting his words speak for us both, before twisting to see my brothers better. "But likewise: what're you and Penny doing here, Gordo?"

Gordon gave me a beatific smile that wouldn't fool anyone and wasn't trying to. "Penelope wants to write an article, for Metropolitan I think. When she heard about this, well: 'A Thunderbird, stolen? How shocking! I simply must find out what's happening. I'm sure Metropolitan readers would find it quite the thrilling adventure story, and it just wouldn't do to be short of an anecdote when I dine at the Palace next month.'"

Gordon's imitation was cuttingly well-observed and funny as hell. Virgil and I both stared at him in horrified admiration.

I shook my head, struggling against the grin that tugged at the corner of my mouth. "If Penny hears you talking like that, Dad can quit worrying about you squandering your inheritance and start worrying about funeral expenses."

Casey snorted, then drummed the steering wheel again.

"Of course, if any of you believes that cockamamie story about a magazine, then your dad wasted a hell of a lot of money on all that fancy education. Jeff Tracy is many things but naive is not one of them. Okay, so Gordon needs to brush up on his admin skills, but don't tell me that was all Jeff had in mind when he apprenticed his boy to one of the world's most mysterious freelance spies."

Gordon batted his eyes. "Why, Colonel! As I told you before, I really don't know what you mean."

Casey rolled his eyes into the mirror and then glanced at me. "The ISS big-wig Langdon wandered through the mob in the wardroom this morning, took one look at the lady and asked to see the general. Ten minutes later, our reporter friend and her secretary here are in Group One, where we can keep a real close eye on her." He raised his eyes to the mirror again. "You could just make life easy for everyone, Gordon, and tell us who she's working for."

"She could be telling the truth," Virgil offered tentatively.

Casey glanced over his shoulder at Virgil, and then back towards me.

"And you two haven't explained what you're doing here yet. Now, Jeff and I might not have talked that much in the last couple of years, but one thing I do know – he has a hell of a lot of respect for those International Rescue boys. The way he spoke that time I came to visit, well, I find it kind of hard to believe he'd condone what's going on here." He gave us another of those searching looks, his tone changing subtly. "I always kind of wondered what you boys found to occupy yourself on that island of yours… and what it would take to get you off it."

We were obviously taking the long way to the guest quarters. Casey had driven almost to the boundary of the base proper, swinging us around onto a dust-coated perimeter road. He stopped the jeep, gesturing at something through the windscreen away to our right. Just a few feet beyond the concrete paving there was a razor-wire-topped fence, decorated with warning signs indicating an electric charge. None of us focused on it. We looked out across the coarse scrub and the bare desert soil, stretching for miles beyond the air force base's boundary. High above us, storm clouds were gathering in the clear sky. Far below, dancing in the heat haze on the distant horizon, I could just make out a shimmer of emerald green.

It took all the control I had to look away and back at Casey. Virgil was rigid with tension, his eyes locked on his distant Thunderbird. Gordon dragged his gaze away with an effort that looked to match mine and gave Virg a nudge in an effort to rouse him.

"Dad keeps us busy." My own voice sounded strange in my ears. "If there's technology in that aircraft that could make the world a better place, he wants to see it used in the right way."

"And not in the wrong hands?" Casey asked quietly.

I met the Colonel's eyes.

"Well, I guess that's a judgement call someone's going to have to make. Sooner or later. You've not said why you're here either, Colonel. After what International Rescue did to clear your name..."

This time it was Casey who looked away. "You think I'm not grateful? If it was up to me… Hell! If it wasn't for those guys I'd be kicking my heels and brushing up on my fishing technique. But I'm not. I'm here, and I'm under orders to discover that Thunderbird's secrets as quickly as possible. Orders are orders, Scott. I know you understand that."

He shook his head

"International Rescue's made a lot of friends over the years." He looked up again, catching my eyes with his and holding them. The gentle drawl in his accent couldn't disguise the sincerity as he went on. "It's a hell of a thing those men do. I know a lot of good people in the air force who'd like nothing better than to sign up, and not just so they can get their hands on a couple of sweet aircraft. I'm guessing you three feel the same." The comment was delivered in a casual tone but there was something hard as diamonds in Casey's searching eyes. I'm pretty sure my expression was one of polite interest, but I had to suppress the urge to turn around and check what my brothers were showing the colonel. Casey's gaze was on the jeep's central mirror. He reached up and adjusted it before going on with no change in inflection. "But I can't deny there are others just looking for an excuse to hunt those folks down. Harmon wasn't the only high-ranked officer more disappointed than pleased to see their name cleared over that impostor business."

This time I glanced back at Gordon. He could only shrug. Neither of us knew where Casey was going with this.

"What about you, Colonel?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral and my own opinions on the matter from showing too overtly. "Do you think they're a threat, or have they earned some show of faith in their good intentions?"

Casey's indecision was obvious. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as his eyes once again made an inspection tour: Gordon, then Virgil, and back to me before moving on to the green speck on the horizon.

"The idea of craft that powerful in private hands – well, it's a lot to take on trust." He gave me a searching look. "It's the responsibility of a government – World, American, whatever – to protect its citizens. Is closing our eyes to the technology in that Thunderbird really doing that?" He shook his head. "I can't help thinking Harmon's got a point. I might think impounding the craft was going a bit far, but now she's here, don't we have a moral obligation to look her over?"

Gordon leaned forward, pulling Casey's eyes back to him. "The Canadian Government aren't studying the… the digging machine International Rescue left up there."

"Right," Casey snorted. "Only our cousins up north could make a moral statement out of building a shed."

Not a bad description, but the wooden fence and sheet-metal roof the Toronto authorities had thrown up to shield the Mole from sightseers amounted to more than just an enormous 'shed'. They were a promise made solid.

"Canada has given International Rescue free passage," I observed quietly. "Okay, maybe the World Government and the one here in the States never have, but the politicians in Washington have never objected to a rescue on American soil – not that I ever heard, anyway. Isn't it a bit hypocritical to capture the aircraft they need to do it?"

Casey looked away from me, not quite meeting my eyes. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Thunderbird Two.

"There aren't many men I'd be comfortable handing a behemoth like that over to."

"Even fellas who do 'a hell of a thing'?" Gordon echoed Casey's own words. The colonel gave him a sharp look, turning in his seat and holding Gordon's gaze for a few moments. My younger brother had spoken in his accustomed casual drawl, but his pale brown eyes were intent and Casey seemed to recognise the serious undertone to Gordon's question.

"Boys, this situation could go south at any time. The International Rescue guy up in the space station, he says they've got this Hood character locked tight." The colonel wasn't looking at me, so he didn't see me go pale. I was hoping he didn't hear Gordon's gasp either. The colonel had heard John over the radio? Or maybe even Alan? Had he recognised the voices? "But the guy's got an evil reputation from what I'm hearing. The two men International Rescue pulled out of that basement up north might never see again, and they're just the tail end of a charge sheet as long as my arm. What if he gets loose? By all accounts the Thunderbird is a powerful craft. Kind of dangerous to be in any civilian hands, and a nightmare in untrained ones. If International Rescue were here, now, ready to take her back…?"

Casey hesitated, sweeping us with his eyes. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "But I know what Harmon would say. What he's already said. You've probably heard that International Rescue have asked permission to intervene more than once. God knows what the media will make of it if they ever find out the truth about that. With all the press scrutiny this base is under, I'm guessing the General won't get long to take a close look at her."

The colonel paused, looking around. We were probably a good half-mile from the nearest building, alone in the jeep, but he still lowered his voice. I could see him struggling to voice his doubts. Years after my own brief air force career it still felt odd to talk of a commanding officer behind his back. To a career officer like Casey it must feel like something akin to treason. I got the distinct impression though that Casey's unease with the situation had been building for some time. The colonel had the air of a man wanting to get something off his chest. No doubt he'd rather be talking to Dad than my brothers and me, but regardless of what he thought of our separate covers, the three of us were the closest he had to a sounding board on the base. He studied my face for a moment, and glanced at my brothers before making the decision to go on.

"I've not worked with Harmon before, but I've got a feeling he's not happy about anyone walking away with this aircraft. He's already trying to get that arbitrator woman from Washington sent home. Another couple of hours without direct contact from the Thunderbird and he'll succeed. Harmon doesn't want a negotiated surrender. I wouldn't be surprised if he thinks the Hood just 'blowing himself up' might be the best solution for everyone."

I might have imagined the quotation marks. I might have. But if I did, Virgil read my mind. He looked away from the test range, a horrified expression all too obvious on his face as he took in Casey's warning. Gordon poked him again, glaring until Virgil managed to tone his reaction down to something like mild dismay.

"Well," I said. "Our father sent Virgil and me to take a good hard look at the situation and see what we could do."

Casey gave me a final, searching look. He kicked the jeep into gear and turned back towards the guest quarters.

"Jeff generally has a good reason for what he does," he noted with finality. He glanced at his watch, confidences forgotten. "Twenty minutes until meal call. I'll just drop you off at the guest block. The other observers will join you there for lunch. Gordon can show you the way. And after that we'll get down to real business."

"Sure," I agreed, still reeling a little. Casey drew the jeep up in front of the block with a neat swerve to put us on the threshold.

"You know, when this is all over, I think I might visit the island again. Mighty fine place you've got there. If it hadn't been for the Red Arrow business it would have been a damn near perfect visit. I ended up kicking myself though – for not getting the chance to see International Rescue in action."

I stopped, my door open and one foot already on the ground. Behind us, Gordon stumbled and almost fell out of the back seat.

"What do you mean?"

Casey gave me a guileless look. "Just that if I'd been in radio contact, I'm sure my people in London would have kept me in the loop. Shame about that. Mind you, not many people would object to spending a day with your Tin-Tin. Pretty girl. Wouldn't think it to look at her, but I guess she's pretty smart too. Give her my best when you see her. Tell her I've been doing a bit of research… about Water Mambas."

The jeep pulled away, the door I held swinging shut as it slipped between my fingers. My brothers looked at me in silence.

Gordon worried at his lower lip and ran a hand back through his copper hair.

"He knows."

"He doesn't know." I shook my head. "Not for sure. He doesn't want to. If he knew for sure he'd have to make a decision. All he's got is a pile of things that don't make sense and a few damn strong suspicions. That's the way he wants to keep it."

"Will he give us away?" Virgil's practical question was the only one that mattered.

I shrugged, uncertain. "He hasn't yet. That's all we can be sure of."

Sighing, I waved Gordon forward to lead the way into the guest block.

Chapter Four: Distractions

"I wonder if this thing has force-fields."

Virgil's tone was so thoughtful, so matter of fact, that I almost started to give the idea serious thought. Ranged around the table, our fellow diners paused, forks poised, with expressions ranging from excited to incredulous.

A long afternoon poring over photographs and laser-ranging measurements had given most of the group something akin to cabin fever. The occasional and increasingly bizarre suggestions my brothers were throwing out just added to the confusion. Even Gordon was looking askance at this one. A little creative misdirection might have been part of the plan, but not if it got us thrown out of the privileged access group. Time to reassert our credibility. I laid down my silverware and shook my head.

"Oh, come on!"

"I'm serious, Scott." Virgil was noticeably more relaxed since a bus trip took us to within half a mile of his Thunderbird – wary of John's warning that the Hood might be able to access her small-arms, but still close enough for Virgil to be confident she'd suffered no major damage. The obvious bafflement of our fellow 'experts' regarding most of Two's major innovations had helped too. We were both feeling a little more at ease, even given the tricky extraction still hanging over us. I looked into my brother's guileless eyes and saw a spark of mischief there. Sipping from my water glass, I shook my head.

"There's no such thing."

Virgil just raised an eyebrow. Attention was fixed on us from around the officers' dining room. People were actually listening to Virgil's theory. Both my brother and I had contributed enough by way of insightful comments to establish our authority. We'd not shared anything the assembled aviation experts couldn't guess for themselves given the information at hand, of course, but our discussion on the curious architecture of Two's tailplane would have gone over the head of most pilots and even escaped most aircraft designers. I rolled my eyes slightly, but waved a hand for Virgil to go on. I trusted him not to take this so far.

"I'm serious," he repeated. He threw up his hands. "We've been arguing over this friction coefficient problem for three hours. With that sort of profile she should burn her skin off before she hits Mach One. These people do have some pretty fancy technology. What if they use some sort of electromagnetic field to protect the hull? How else would you explain it?"

With a very precise and detailed pattern of grooves, ranging from microns to a centimetre in depth, exploiting turbulent instabilities to trap a second, constantly heated, stripped and renewed skin of air over Brains' unique alloys and protective coatings. But the measurements we'd been shown, taken from outside gunshot range, were nowhere near detailed enough to see that, and I wasn't about to volunteer the information aloud.

I didn't need to. My old air force tutor, Colonel Robins, seemed ready to take Virgil's suggestion and run with it.

"It's not out of the question." He glanced at the ISS agent, getting a nod of agreement as he went on. "Didn't I hear that they have artificial gravity on their spaceship?"

Even Virgil blinked at that leap in logic. The pair of us sat back, listening in bemusement as the aviation and tactical experts around us discussed hypothetical technologies that would unite the gravity generators on Three and Five with Virgil's non-existent forcefield. Apparently they suspected us of actually discovering the grand unified theory that had eluded physicists for a century or more. Brains is good, very good, but still…

"You know, my cousin saw that 'plane when it was in New York one time. Said the thing sort of glimmered in the shadows." Gordon dived merrily into the confusion and added to it. The World Army general sitting beside me shot 'Mr Charles' an irritated look and I saw Harmon, sitting at the other end of the table, purse his lips. Gordon's cover as a mere secretary gave him license to make suggestions that even he knew made no sense whatsoever, and he'd shown no mercy in doing just that as the afternoon went on. It was a measure of how misled everyone was that Gordo's latest bizarre observation merited serious discussion, regardless of the fact that our artificial gravity shared nothing with Thunderbird Two's hull-protection beyond Brains' genius.

Satisfied for the moment with the course of the debate, I dedicated myself to my food for a while, stoking up on the energy I was going to need for the night ahead. The whole of International Rescue was still waiting for me to call 'go' or 'no go' on Thunderbird Two's rescue. Realistically, there was little choice. The shadows were drawing in outside. It was eight hours since Virgil and I drove into the air force base, almost fourteen since Penny and her entourage had arrived. Thunderbird Two had been sitting out on the firing range for more than two days, with her abductor growing steadily more frustrated and the verbal abuse fired at John increasingly fierce as time went by. It hadn't helped that Thunderbird Two's flight deck was notably devoid both of a water fountain and the necessary facilities to follow. As far as I knew, and I might well be behind the times, John and Alan were still keeping the Hood confined, but had opened the bulkheads between Two's cockpit and living quarters out of simple humanity. It was too much to hope that they could close those hatches again behind him. The Hood might have the same basic needs as the rest of us, but he was more than bright enough to wedge the cockpit door open before attending to them.

The Hood was a problem we still had to deal with. I had no doubt that he would kill to make his escape, and we were keeping him in the 'Bird as much to protect the airmen guarding her as out of a sense of justice. While John was erring on the side of caution when he warned of gunfire from the Thunderbird, it was actually a non-zero risk. I strongly doubted though that it would keep the air force at arm's length for another day.

I shivered. A prickle along my spine told me I was being watched, and I'd long since learned to trust my instincts. I let my eyes drift upwards from my plate, glancing casually around towards the ISS agent Langdon. I'd caught his watchful eyes on me more than once over the course of the day, no doubt confused as to where the reclusive but notoriously ethical Jeff Tracy stood on this situation. Dad kept himself to himself. I doubted if half the world's generals and politicians even realised quite how much power he could wield if he chose to throw the weight of Tracy Industries behind his opinions. The World Government's secret service was apparently well aware of just that.

Just now though Langdon seemed entirely absorbed in the debate between one of the Elton techs, Abrams, and the World Army's General Archer. Either the man had seen me tense in time to cover himself or he wasn't the culprit this time. I let my eyes drift further around the room, startled and a little alarmed when they locked with a grey-steel gaze totally lacking in any warmth.

General Harmon was not a happy man. Our host at this meal had summoned us to table by marching into the wardroom assigned to us and barking at his techs, demanding a report. From the way Bailey and Abrams paled, I'd thought the two junior officers were going to pass out under the pressure. To their credit, they'd managed a report simultaneously jargon-free enough to pass muster in front of their superior and complex enough that it almost concealed our lack of any real progress in getting to grips with the Thunderbird and her abilities.

I wasn't at all sure 'almost' was good enough. Harmon had not scowled or grimaced. Instead, his hard grey eyes inspected each of us in turn as we piled into the cars that brought us to the mess block, and continued that inspection over the meal. Evidently it was my turn. I could feel myself being assessed, my contributions weighed and a decision made as to whether I could be made useful or was just a dead weight holding the important work back.

Casey's oblique warning rang in my ears. If General Harmon was so ready to remove a problem like Thunderbird Two, I had few illusions as to what he'd do to maintain the integrity and pace of this assessment exercise. With that in mind, the looks I'd caught directed at Gordon had me more than a little concerned. The last thing I needed was for the general to decide I was a liability too. I met Harmon's eyes with an ice-cold gaze of my own. I was a decorated air force veteran, a qualified test pilot and the heir to one of the world's largest fortunes. This man was attempting to intimidate me and had belittled my brothers, both knowingly and unknowingly. Even allowing for his ignorance of International Rescue and indifference to the courage and skill of every member of my family, that was unforgivable.

Perhaps challenging Harmon on his own territory was a bad idea, but Scott Tracy wasn't about to back down under pressure. I wouldn't be my father's son if I had.

I studied Harmon with the same air of calm detachment I bring to my analysis of every rescue scene. I assessed him openly, an expression of indifference on my face. I held his eyes until I saw a flush rise in his cheeks and his knuckles whiten around the stem of his wine glass. And then, casually, I looked away, telling him that he wasn't even worth the effort of staring down.

No one appeared to notice the exchange, or the expression of sheer fury that twisted Harmon's face for the few seconds before he mastered it. They noticed the General coming to his feet, rapping his knuckles on the table when the movement alone wasn't enough to command immediate silence.

"Gentlemen." He didn't spare Penny a glance, and her ladyship's ice-blue eyes narrowed at the slight. "If I understand correctly all the expertise assembled in this room has proven inadequate to the task. Near forty-eight hours of analysis and all you can tell me is that a genius built that 'plane and it would take a brave man or a fool to fly it." He paused, and even my brief amusement to hear Virgil described that way couldn't relieve my anxiety at Harmon's tone. "This is unacceptable! I will not tolerate this aircraft in unknown and dangerous hands! I will not allow her secrets to escape when they are in front of us for the taking. I have a responsibility to the men of this base, of this fine nation, and – whether our political masters realise it or not – of the whole world! At this moment that aircraft is a lethal weapon in the hands of a dangerous criminal and known murderer. A moment's lapse in vigilance and the Thunderbird could cause catastrophe on an unimaginable scale."

It wasn't just Virgil who bridled at that. It took all the self-control I've learnt at Mobile Control to keep my reaction hidden. Never mind that Thunderbird Two had saved more lives than Harmon could imagine. Never mind that it wasn't Harmon's vigilance keeping the Hood in check, but John's and Alan's. Never mind that we could have taken Thunderbird Two back days ago if the general had only allowed it. None of that mattered to General Harmon and I couldn't allow it to matter to me. I had to focus on the task at hand. One that was about to get still more urgent.

"Gentlemen." Harmon's voice dripped with scorn and scepticism. "I not only expected you to find me a solution to this problem. I expected you to do so with far more urgency than you have shown to date. I can offer little motivation, beyond your patriotic duty, but I can offer a deadline. This stand-off will not continue. I have ordered an assault squad prepared. If this 'Hood' is not removed from the Thunderbird before first light tomorrow, I will take whatever steps I deem necessary to neutralise the threat it presents."

There was an uneasy stir. The World Army general – a match for Harmon in rank if not in immediate authority – was the first to find his voice.

"You can't mean to destroy Thunderbird Two?"

Harmon swept the table with cold eyes.

"Whatever steps I deem necessary," he repeated, standing above us.

A two-tone chime, identical to the tannoy announcement in any of a thousand shops and airports across the planet, filled the air

"This is International Rescue, Thunderbird Five." John's voice burst from the radio handset hanging at Harmon's side, from one carried by the Elton-based tech guys, from the video-phone on the wall and even from entertainment system by the door. Harmon couldn't hide his frustration, scowling into nowhere for a few minutes before reseating himself with deliberate indifference as my brother went on.

John had placed a call to Elton AFB every half hour for the last two days and talked Alan into doing the same during his brief rest periods. At first they'd stuck to a simple request – approach and landing permission for Thunderbird One – and to the radio frequency of the base communications centre. After twenty-four hours, they'd broadened that to receiving systems across the whole of Elton. Just lately, John seemed to be upping the ante. He'd adopted the mind-blowingly irritating public announcement chime sometime this morning, and he hadn't stopped there. For the last three hours, since the only trained negotiator in this group had been escorted off the base, John's initial introduction had been followed by a variant of the same message in whatever language tickled his fancy at the time, explaining when queried that he thought Elton must be having trouble understanding his request in English. This latest sounded like something African that might well not be spoken by anyone within three thousand miles of southern Nevada.

Casey was looking in my direction, glass raised to his mouth to cover his smile. He knew. As soon as he heard John, he had to have known.

Penny shot me a look too, probably expecting me to rebuke my brother for antagonising our hosts when I got the chance. I had no real intention of doing so. Harmon had made it pretty clear he wasn't prepared to talk, and had actually got the negotiator sent to deal with the situation recalled, but it wasn't as if anyone could accuse us of not trying. I wasn't going to criticise Alan or John for doing as Dad had asked and keeping a dialogue open. Not even if I suspected them of listening in on our wrist-coms and selecting the most inconvenient, deflating or downright annoying times to call.

My blond brothers shared more than their looks and love of space. Both got tetchy when deprived of their sleep.

The meal didn't last long after that. Between Harmon's ultimatum and John's neat move to puncture his bubble, all the conviviality had drained from the group. It was perhaps quarter of an hour before I pushed back my chair, bracing myself for another long, dull session back in the headquarters building, and thinking hard as I planned my next move.

Virgil was stiff in the seat opposite, not looking at me, saying nothing, but demanding action so loud and clear he might as well have screamed it at me. Gordon was jittery, glancing in my direction more often than he should as he itched to find out what I was planning. Penelope sipped the last of her tea, laid down the cup, and stood, gracefully accepting Gordon's courtesy as he held her chair for her. She gave me an inquisitive look too, her head tilting as her eyes asked the question. John and Alan had heard Harmon's threat, and I had no doubt that by now our father knew all about it. John's incomprehensible call had ended with a single sentence back in English, and it was aimed squarely at me: 'International Rescue is standing by'.

And still I had one major flaw in my plan.

Harmon led the group to the door and the cars waiting outside. I hung back a little, and tilted my head in invitation. Penelope eased to my side, slipping between the milling experts like a lioness prowling through high savannah grass.

We hadn't dared speak since Virgil and I arrived, not at anything more than a superficial level. Now I had to take the chance. I hit a switch on my wrist-com, triggering a burst of white noise too low-pitched for the human ear but sufficient to drown out any bugs in our immediate vicinity.

"I need Gordon and Virgil free to move around within the next hour – officially off-base if we can manage it." My low murmur reached her ears and no further. "I think I can get one of them out, but not both."

Penelope nodded, her relaxed expression giving no hint of the tension between us.

"Leave it to me, Scott. I should be able to cover a discreet withdrawal for both the boys, if you and Virgil react as I believe comes naturally to you." I had to strain to hear her voice. "John, darling? If you're listening, please inform Parker that I require a 'newt' as soon as possible."

My wrist-com pulsed against my wrist and I gave Penny a tight nod, sorting through the contingencies my brothers and I had discussed ad infinitum before leaving the island.

"You've got John's code into the computer system, right?" I hadn't seen her do it, and couldn't imagine how she could have, but had no doubt she'd accomplished her task, even before she nodded to confirm it. My hand dropped to my side, patting my pocket to check on the small, matchbox-sized device concealed there. Everything was in place. I made my decision. "Tell Gordon we're going with plan three, and to listen for further instructions."

"F.A.B." If possible, Penelope's murmur dropped still lower. "And, Scott, please be careful. Harmon is a dangerous creature to be poking with a stick."

Penelope eased from my side as we reached the outer hallway of the officer's club, her tinkling laughter suggesting some witticism I was far too tense to have actually made.

"Really, Scott!" she laughed, loud enough to draw eyes towards us. Then her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed, the alteration so dramatic that it took me a couple of seconds to realise her gaze had slipped past me. I couldn't help feeling sorry for its subject. "Parker!"

Parker's hat was perched at a jaunty angle, his collar unfastened. His chauffeurs' jacket was done up, but unevenly, so a button hung loose at the top right and a neatly sewn button-hole was vacant to the bottom left. The man's eyes were unfocused as he stepped into the hallway through a different door. Penelope's exclamation stopped him in his tracks and he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, before focusing on his employer with careful deliberation.

"M'lady?"

"Parker, have you been drinking?"

Parker winced at her needle-sharp tone, straightened, and tugged ineffectually at his lopsided jacket.

"Just the one, m'lady. With dinner, y'know?" His winsome smile might have earned him a little credit if he hadn't wobbled – only a little, briefly, but distinctly nonetheless – as he took a step forward. He seemed to realise that some heavy duty grovelling was in order, and snatched the hat off his head, fumbling slightly. "I assure you, m'lady, I'm still quite c-capable. A breath of fresh air and I'll be as right as rain."

He made it to the outer door, and we followed, watching him critically as he walked in a very-nearly-straight line towards the waiting FAB1. He wouldn't be the only one who'd had a glass of wine with the meal, although I'd have held back even if I wasn't an assigned driver. If that was the result of one drink though, Parker was more of a lightweight and far less skilled an actor than I thought.

Penelope's lips pursed. I was frowning, and I wasn't the only one. Virgil's eyebrows almost met across his furrowed brow, and a couple of the air force officers had hung back while the others climbed into the two jeeps waiting for us. Harmon was already in his staff car, and, as I watched, he waved for his driver to move off, his scorn obvious. The rest of us were less indifferent. Even knowing Penny and Parker as I did, certain that this had to be part of our larger plan, I couldn't help feeling nervous. After all, one of my brothers was going to be in that car with them.

"Ah, Lady Penelope, perhaps you and Gordon should ride with…"

A languid wave of the hand dismissed Colonel Casey's suggestion before it was completed. Penny ran her eyes across the mud-streaked jeeps and gave a discreet shudder before smoothing her couture skirt.

"Really, Colonel, I wouldn't dream of it." The lady's voice was as calm as ever, but she folded her arms across her chest, and her foot was tapping as we watched Parker open the Rolls Royce and activate her lights. "There's hardly room, and I'm sure none of you would want me sitting on your lap."

Her light tone ridiculed the idea, although a glance around the group told me that she wouldn't lack for volunteers.

"Or me," Gordon added, his grin a little forced as he eyed Parker. This time the body language was a whole lot less encouraging.

Penny shook her head.

"Besides, there are estate matters that I really must discuss with my secretary." She sighed. "Parker, I am most displeased. You will drive us – slowly – back to the command building and then you will find a darkened room in which to consider the error of your ways until I require you further. Is that understood?"

Parker, pale, chagrined and still looking decidedly the worse for wear, mumbled something.

"Mr Charles, if you would…" Penny gestured to the big car, her expectant gaze turning on Gordon.

"Uh… yes, m'lady."

My little brother was suitably deferential, but that didn't stop him sounding worried as he opened FAB1's gull-wing door and handed Lady Penelope into the vehicle. His eyes drifted between Penelope and Parker as he tried to work out what they were up to. I was wondering the same thing, but I swallowed down my misgivings and gave a short nod when Gordon's nervous gaze flicked in my direction. That got Virgil's attention too. The rest of our colleagues were already turning away, oblivious, but my brother's expression was both concerned and inquisitive as we watched Gordon climb into the bubblegum-pink Rolls.

Now wasn't the time to talk about it.

"Later," I promised in an undertone, gesturing him to the front passenger seat of the lead jeep. I rounded the vehicle, heading for the driver's seat, but my eyes were glued to FAB1 as her engine roared into life.

I was a little on edge, I'll admit, waiting for Penny to make her move. I had no idea what she had planned, but I couldn't spare too much thought for speculation. Driving an unfamiliar jeep, along unfamiliar and unlit roads, was taking pretty much all my concentration. The road was paved in concrete, cracked by the heat of Nevada summers, and strongly cambered in case of the occasional but intense downpours common in this part of the world. Deep gullies ran along either side of the pavement to collect run-off, making the worn road a narrow safe passage between two lurking hazards.

I followed FAB1's impressive array of tail-lights and concentrated on steering the vehicle in a straight line. A task complicated, I slowly realised, by the fact that the big Rolls Royce had begun to weave alarmingly from side to side of the road. The pink monster was slowing, the gaps between Penny's car, mine and the jeep behind narrowing the whole time.

Casey leaned forward between Virgil's seat and my own, a frown growing on his face.

"How much did that man drink?"

I'd started to wonder the same. This had to be on Penny's instruction, surely? Rationally, I knew that Parker rarely drank more than a single pint, and never indulged at all while on International Rescue business. The one time he had drunk to excess while in nominal control of FAB1 – at the launching of Ocean Pioneer II – Penny's rebuke had scared the man tee-total for his next two visits to the island.

There was no way I could believe that the wandering Rolls was Parker's fault. Even so, I couldn't ignore it.

"Sit back please, Colonel."

I glanced at Virgil, checking he was braced, worried by the lack of seatbelts in the military vehicle. Parker was picking up speed again, a little recklessly, but I couldn't help being nervous of his erratic style. I needed these gaps larger. I touched my brakes, watching my mirrors the whole time to check that the driver of the jeep behind me was on the alert. Satisfied, I switched my full attention back to the road ahead, just in time to see an accelerating FAB1 drop a wheel into the left-hand gully.

There was a sense of inevitability to the unfolding disaster as the big Rolls tipped and rolled. Frozen in an infinitely-long moment, I watched her skid forward on her roof canopy, sparks flying from the stone-littered ground as the toughened shell and metal frame dragged across it. She must have travelled tens of meters from the road, carried by her massive forward momentum, before she ploughed through a patch of tough desert scrub and began to rotate, pivoting on her roof until her axis was at right angles to her direction of travel. She must have hit another gully, or boulder, or something. There was a shudder and with the last of her momentum, she tipped back onto her wheels and settled there, rocking from side to side as her shock absorbers tried to absorb the energy.

That was wrong.

I knew it even as I stood on the brakes.

Virgil was out and running before I had the jeep at a full halt. I was moments behind him, racing through the sparse desert scrub, feeling its thorns tear through my corduroy pants and scratch my legs.

There was no way FAB1 should have rolled like that. She might look like a top-heavy beast, but she was a Thunderbird in all but name. She'd travelled landscapes that made these little roadside ruts look like Black Rock Sands.

But that wasn't important now because I was running along a furrow of ploughed ground and torn vegetation, and ahead of me the big, pink car sat silent, still rocking and steaming gently in the moonlight.

Virgil skidded to a halt, already pulling at the door closest to him. Beyond, I could make out a blonde figure, stirring feebly. I left Penny to Virgil's care and slid across the car's broad bonnet. Swinging my legs around, I hit the ground still moving at speed and hauled at the rear passenger-side door.

"Hi, Scott."

Gordon gave me a weak grin. His eyes were wide, darker than normal against his very pale skin. I squinted at my little brother, trying to examine him in the headlamps of the two jeeps. Moving slightly so my shadow no longer blocked the light, I watched his pupils for dilation as he winced in the glare.

"Gordo?"

"Calm down, Scott!" Gordon hissed the words. The two Elton techs, younger than our fellow experts and still hard in training, were almost at the Rolls Royce now, Casey hard on their heels. My eyes narrowed as I squatted by my brother's side, leaning through the door to scan him up and down. Gordon was sitting hard back against the seat, his spine supported against the contoured leather. A flicker of movement caught the corner of my eye and I sat back on my heels, drawing my first deep breath since I saw FAB1 begin to tip.

Part of me had always known that if the Rolls lived up to its name, it had to be under Parker's direct control. I even knew about the jacks under the car that could boost her upwards, and the shoulder harnesses that kept her passengers secure through even the roughest manoeuvre before retracting out of sight. Virgil and I must have been quicker than I thought if we'd beaten FAB1's release and reset system.

I was feeling calmer as I helped my brother out of the car, but still not happy. Maybe Gordon isn't really as fragile as I tend to think of him, but that tumble couldn't have been much fun, even with warning and the harnesses to prevent injury. I was ninety-percent certain that Gordon's pallor was real, and my little brother looked pretty shaken up. I was too. I'd expected something interesting from Penelope. I hadn't expected a crash that brought memories of Gordon's hydrofoil disaster and subsequent hospitalisation into sharp focus.

"Ooohh… lummee..."

The tech guy, Bailey, had got FAB1's front door open, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar latch. Parker groaned as he lifted his head from the steering wheel, peering up blearily at his rescuer.

"What 'appened?" Parker's eyes widened. "M'lady?"

"Parker," Penny's voice quavered. She was on her feet beside the car now, leaning heavily against Virgil as she played out the role of a damsel in distress. "You and I will be having words."

"Oh, cripes!"

Virgil's arm tightened around Penelope's waist as she draped herself artistically across it. His concerned eyes assessed the red mark across Parker's forehead – banged against the steering wheel, most likely deliberately. Parker and Penny never did anything by halves. Parker leaned back against his head-rest, groaning softly.

"Gordon." Casey rounded the car to join us, his expression worried. "Are you all right?"

Gordon had been leaning against the car, both elbows on FAB1's transparent canopy. He turned towards the familiar voice… a little too fast. He wobbled, and then my brother's knees buckled, his body going entirely limp. I caught him on pure instinct, my arm going around his chest and pulling him against me rather than letting him hit the ground.

"Gordon!"

Gordon's eyelids fluttered, and there was a definite wink somewhere in the middle of the movement. His muscle tension returned, and I felt a momentary urge to drop him in disgust. Okay, it was nice to know my brother had such confidence in my reactions, but I had better things to do than play trust-games in the cold desert scrubland. I held onto him anyway, easing him down to sit on the edge of FAB1's passenger seat. The total collapse was feigned. I strongly suspected the initial wobble hadn't been.

"Okay now?" I asked softly, hand still on his shoulder.

"Uh… I guess so, Mr Tracy…er… Scott."

There was quite a crowd around us now, as the other Group One experts hurried up. Penny and Gordon might not have weighed in with heavyweight aeronautics expertise, but both were charming and polite. They'd lightened the mood through the long day and made friends among our companions. A third jeep was bouncing along the road from the command centre, sent to investigate the disturbance, and, in the distance, I could see Harmon silhouetted against the lights of the control building, standing on its threshold and looking in our direction.

"No one's seriously hurt," I announced for the late-comers, glancing at Virgil and then at the tech Bailey to check their assessments matched mine. "Just a bit shaken up."

There was a general lessening of the tension. Someone whistled through their teeth.

"The way this thing rolled…"

The ISS man, Langdon, rubbed at a patch of dirt on the car's trunk, shaking his head as he studied the un-dented paintwork beneath.

"She's got to be built like a tank."

Penny raised a hand, pressing the back of it delicately against her forehead.

"I think…" her voice trembled, still far off its usual confidence. "I think perhaps I should lie down. My hotel…"

Bailey glanced anxiously at Parker, who had closed his eyes, wincing in apparent pain. "We could make up a room for you here on base, your ladyship?"

Penelope straightened a little, not clinging so tightly now to Virgil. Her strength seemed to return along with her haughteur. "I have already informed your General that the accommodation here is quite unacceptable! I must insist…" her voice trailed off, a wince crossing her perfect face and a hand going up to her temple. The piercing tone was replaced by a quaver. "I really should lie down. Parker, please drive… ah, no…"

"Perhaps someone else could drive this?" The second Elton technician, Abrams, waved a hand at FAB1. "I can't see any real damage. I guess it's stick-shift…" He leaned past Parker to peer at the dashboard, and his question faded into stunned silence. Parker didn't have every control panel at his disposal open and active, but it had to be a fair fraction of them. At least two thirds had nothing whatsoever to do with driving the vehicle. Even those providing useful information to the driver weren't strictly necessary. Abrams couldn't be expected to know that. The technician looked subdued. "Looks a bit, ah, European."

Casey grunted, leaving Gordon's side and peering through the side window. "I've spent a fair bit of time over there. What do you…" he stopped, blinking, "… mean? Oh, well, I suppose I've never driven a Rolls Royce."

Gordon seemed steadier in his seat now, and he raised a hand to my arm to push me away. Nodding, I headed back around the front of the car, a little wary of so much attention focussed on the Rolls. Virgil edged forward too, blocking the dashboard from the view of most of the crowd.

"Scott, I think I'd better take Penny and her people back to their hotel."

Casey raised an interested eyebrow.

"You can drive this, Virgil?"

Virgil leaned into the car, encouraging Parker to slide along the bench seat. He glanced up at his audience.

"Parker gave me a few lessons last time Dad and I were in England."

I smothered my urge to smile. Virgil's words were innocuous but there was something about his tone that invited speculation regarding just what Penny and our father had been doing to fill the time. Well, Penny had wanted their relationship kept ambiguous. Virgil's eyes sparked with mischief but he gave no hint that he might have spoken out of turn as he slid into the driver's seat and looked up at me.

"I think you're going to have to count me out of the analysis. I'll stick around at the hotel for a while – just to make sure everyone's really okay." He threw a worried glance at Penny and then another over his shoulder at our still-pale younger brother, only partly for Casey's benefit. "Dad would expect it, Scott."

Whether Penelope managed to whisper something to Virg while draped across him, or whether he was just going on his own instincts, her ladyship didn't seem to have any objections. I hesitated. We'd always planned to separate at this point in the evening. The only question had been how.

Leaning over my brother's shoulder, I scanned the dashboard displays for any fault indicators, and saw none. Virgil gave me a peeved glance, shifting in the seat to settle himself, and running his hands over the wheel to get a feel for it. I yielded. I'd worry about my brothers every minute they were out of my sight, but I'd feel better knowing they were watching out for each other.

"Okay, Virg." I patted his shoulder. "Call if you need me."

Penelope inclined her head, beckoning me towards her. I shut the door on Virgil and was glad to see the spectators had moved back a little in the face of our brisk decisiveness. It gave me room to move around and squat by Penny's side. She leaned out of the car, and reached up to stroke the side of my face.

"Please don't worry your father about this, Scott darling. I'm sure I shall be quite as right as rain come morning."

It's a good thing I was facing into the car and away from our audience. I gritted my teeth and tried not to scream. The miniaturised radio receiver Penny had just dropped into my ear was the size of a grain of rice. The counterpart of our edible transmitters, it was virtually undetectable, vibrated against the ear-drum itself and ran off body heat alone. In theory the devices were a miracle of micro-engineering, made possible by Brains' genius at Penelope's direct request. Officially, it was the fact each cost a small fortune that made us cautious of over-using them. The fact that every one of my brothers loathed them as much as I did had nothing to do with it.

"Give me some room here, okay, Scott?" Virgil called over his shoulder. "And if someone could call ahead to the gates and get us waved through, it would help. It's been a while since I drove this thing. I could do without complications."

I straightened, glaring at Penelope as I shut FAB1's door. Her complaint to Virgil about the glare of headlights floated through the night air and a moment later the canopy darkened, hiding the car's occupants from sight. To my left, the tech Bailey was already speaking into his radio, doing as Virgil asked.

I realised I was rubbing my ear and made myself stop, trying to ignore the sensation that some bug had crawled inside and was still wriggling around in there. The radio would settle in a few minutes, but in the meantime it was both uncomfortable and unnerving. There was a snap in my voice as I pretty much ordered my temporary colleagues back to the jeeps. Senior as they were, they responded to my voice of command. I think the rest of Group One interpreted my abruptness as worry. Casey was the only one to know the truth about Gordon, but they could all see my acknowledged brother trying to drive a twenty-foot-long, triple-axled tank with which he was apparently only marginally acquainted.

In any case, no one argued too much as I herded the crowd back to the road. FAB1 throbbed and rumbled behind us. Casey hesitated on the edge of the pavement, watching as Virgil put the big Rolls in gear. She roared, lurched forward and stalled. Silence descended over the barren expanse of the base's scrubland.

I sighed and put the jeep in gear, still squirming and growing tired of the melodrama. Virg had to put on a show, but my brother was more than capable of driving FAB1, even without a perfectly fit Parker beside him.

"Get in, Colonel," I ordered, with more of a snap in my voice than I'd usually dream of using on an old family friend. Casey didn't argue, climbing into Virgil's seat, but both of us watched in the rear mirror as the Rolls restarted and began to edge back to the road. She headed unsteadily away from us towards the distant gate, stopping and starting as she went, with only her sidelights to mark her progress.

"Scott, can you hear me?"

I jumped despite myself. I'd been expecting the call ever since I'd hit a button on my watch to acknowledge the test tone more than forty minutes before. Even so, John's murmur caught me by surprise. I mastered the impulse to turn and check he wasn't actually standing behind me, but it took an effort.

I laid down the coffee jug I'd been raiding and drifted over to the small, pitch-black window. Cupping my mug in both hands, I peered out into the darkness and gave John my full attention.

"Hmmm."

"I'll take that as a yes, shall I?" My spaceborne brother sounded tired, but focused. "All right. First off, Virg says to tell you Gordon's fine." The simple statement relieved a niggling tension in my muscles that I hadn't even registered. My brothers knew me better than I knew myself sometimes. "In case you're not sure, they were both out of the Rolls long before FAB1 went off-base. Penelope planted the virus I gave her before she went, so I've got access to most of the base systems. Not all of them, but I'm working on that. Penny and Parker are standing by a few hundred metres beyond the perimeter if you need them. You told Penny plan three, so the guys have been agreeing on a target for the first phase."

I listened hard. Our plans called for someone here in the control centre to keep an eye on Harmon, gauge his responses and provide tactical oversight and real-time intelligence when necessary. That was my role and I knew it, but this was as difficult as any rescue spent directing my brothers from Mobile Control. More so. Here I felt like I was starving for information. I might have been annoyed with Penelope for planting the ear-receiver without asking permission, but truthfully this was far more secure and infinitely more useful than oblique radio broadcasts or snatched whispers via my wrist-com. I hung on John's words.

"They're reporting ready. Virg says it's looking good. We're still forty-two minutes from the guard change, so Gordon plans to go with it in thirty, or on your word if sooner."

"Hmmm," I agreed, pleased to find my brothers ahead of schedule.

"Something interesting, Scott?" For the second time in under a minute, I jumped, my coffee splashing in its mug. With all my concentration on John, I hadn't noticed Tim Casey detach himself from the argument around the table and join me at the window. He nodded past me into the darkness, his expression inquiring.

"I was just thinking about Gordon and Virgil," I answered, not entirely dishonestly.

"Indeed." Yet again, Casey's raised eyebrow gave his acknowledgement an entirely more sceptical meaning. "Impressive car that. And you and Virgil reacted pretty impressively too."

I was almost starting to wish Casey would come out and admit to his deduction instead of just dropping heavy hints. Okay, hand on heart, he'd still be able to swear that he hadn't knowingly helped International Rescue, but this was getting to the point where 'plausible deniability' was being stretched to its very limits.

Even so, I had to keep up the pretence, if only because I couldn't be sure who else was listening.

"Guess air force training takes a while to wear off," I shrugged.

"And Virgil?"

"With adrenaline-junkie brothers like mine, Dad thought first aid training might come in useful for all of us."

John snorted quietly in my ear, still giving me the creepy impression he was standing just behind me. He'd fallen silent to let me concentrate on Casey, but now the colonel gave a 'Hmmm' of his own and moved off towards the coffee machine. John waited a few seconds before going on.

"Virgil and Gordon have briefed Father about that. He says to keep an eye on it, but that Tim Casey's not our main concern. Dad will talk to him later."

I drifted away from the window, back toward the table covered in long-distance photographs of my brother's Thunderbird.

"Okay, Scott. That's all for now. I'll make sure you're in the loop when there's anything to hear and I'm keeping your wrist-com set to broadcast. Alan and I are listening in and standing by. Twenty-seven minutes or on your command."

I settled back into my place at the table, keeping a wary eye on the door that connected this wardroom with the base's main command and communications post. Harmon had been appearing through it at regular intervals through the day, demanding updates and, just lately, reminding us of the first-light deadline. At a guess we had twenty minutes or so before his next appearance. If I could time this right…

I'd just started to sink into a mind-numbing discussion centred around Two's exhaust gases when the door opened and Harmon stood silhouetted against the brighter lights of the command centre. Through the door behind him, I could see screens that monitored the base, a military radio console and computer interfaces, men and women wearing a half-dozen different designs of headsets, and the big wall-display of Elton airspace and her larger patrol zone. It was well into the evening shift, and at least half of the activity out there had to be a direct result of Thunderbird Two's presence. Even so, the noise that drifted through the door was a gentle murmur, the rhythm of the room calm and sedate.

Half the men around the table stood as Harmon entered, others remained firmly seated. I was one of the latter group, but I used the cover of the movement to comb my left hand back through my hair. My voice was hardly more than a shaped breath as I whispered into my wrist-com.

"Thirty seconds."

"F.A.B." John's acknowledgement was equally faint. Harmon had stepped up to the table, looking in irritated frustration at the gas chromatograph measurements that the technician Bailey tried to press on him. I came to my feet as John gave me a fifteen second warning, leaning across the table with the others around me as we all tried to see the same small-print readouts.

At ten, I gave the room a quick inspection, making sure that no one was too close to the window, checking for hanging dangers overhead, just in case, and glancing to my left to be sure the door was still open. I didn't need John's five-second countdown. I was counting in the silence of my own head, bracing myself against the table as I tried to anticipate what was coming next.

I'd left what was coming to Gordon's discretion and the exigencies of the moment. I trusted my brother, but I was still starting to regret that decision.

Then the sky flashed gold-red, the building shuddered and thunder rolled across us.

Chapter Five: First Moves

I was going to kill my little brother, if he hadn't already managed to do it himself.

Harmon turned and dived for the door. I hesitated only long enough to scan the room for injuries before following on his heels. I was surprised and angry at the scale of what my brothers apparently considered a 'distraction', but truthfully the blast had been more showy than destructive, at least from this distance. I'd planned the timing to give me an excuse to relocate to the control post, I couldn't pass that up.

"Wow." Alan's dry observation in my ear did nothing to make me feel better. I needed information not exclamations. "Gordo says sorry. That was bigger than he expected. He and Virgil both report they're uninjured, by the way."

Right, I was going to kill my little brother, and Alan had better start explaining or I was going to go for the double.

"Gordon spotted a rack of depth-charges in one of the storage sheds. He has a moral objection to that sort of thing. Turns out they had friends."

I gritted my teeth and tried to look as confused as everyone around me. The base's evening routine had been replaced by a sort of organised chaos. Officers and NCOs reported the status of their divisions aloud, trying to pin down what had happened and what they needed to do around it. The other Group One experts tumbled into the room after me, looking shocked, but too inquisitive by nature to sit this out. Good, they'd make my presence less obvious.

Thunderbird Two was sitting on open ground ten miles from the nearest structure. Anything approaching other than guards' vehicle was going to set off alarums and excursions to rival this one. I'd asked Gordon for a diversion large enough to distract Harmon and his people from any disturbance as my brothers replaced the next guard shift. I hadn't reckoned on his flare for the dramatic.

Right now, the situation was bad enough to go one of two ways. Either Harmon would cancel the imminent shift-change completely or…

"Reinforce the guard on the Thunderbird!" Harmon's sharp order cut through the sea of reports. A quiet click in my ear as he went on confirmed John and Alan were listening, and would relay the information. "Someone tell me what exploded!"

"Looks like one of the weapons stores, sir."

No kidding. Outside the window, I could hear sirens as the base's emergency services responded, and my rescue-trained ears picked out their reports from the radio chatter that filled the room.

"…Base command, fire crew one on station. Requesting all auxiliary fire crews mobilised. This is a big one…"

"…Fire crew one, Base command. Mobilising…"

"…Acknowledged, and thanks. We could have unexploded munitions here…"

Harmon ignored the reports.

"Which store?"

"Ah… anti-submarine weapons, sir. A rack of depth charges, several mines and two larger torpedoes kept crated. It's a pretty isolated building. Just some old store-sheds nearby."

"Have all the perimeter defences reported in?" Harmon demanded. "Is this an attack?"

"Uh, one moment, sir."

Junior officers hurried from desk to desk, their heads together as they compared notes. One uniformed figure stood unmoving in the chaos. Casey looked at me. Just looked at me, his expression torn between anger and doubt, near certainty in his eyes. I met his gaze steadily. This was precisely the situation Dad had tried to avoid all these years – confronting the colonel's air-force loyalties with his conscience. Dad's instructions were not to worry, but I didn't have that luxury. The wrong word from Casey now and I'd count it a victory simply to get my brothers out of here alive. His lips thinned, but his silence held… for now.

"Scott." I could feel every muscle fibre in my back as I suppressed my impulse to jump violently. I'd have sworn Virgil was just inches behind me. Thunderbird Five's relays were always crystal clear. Just this once I wished for a little static to shatter the illusion. My brother's voice was harsh with the effort of keeping it to the barest whisper. "In position. There are six new guards. Reckon it'll be easier to deal with them when we get out to Two rather than bluff our way past the gate in an empty truck. Gordon and I are going to hide in the back."

I didn't like it. I'd reckoned my brothers would be two on two against the guards, with the benefit of surprise and sleep-gas canisters in their pistols. This was a whole different ball-game. For a few seconds I bounced on the balls of my feet, trying to figure out how to get out to join them. There was simply no way to do it without declaring myself and getting the three of us caught. Gordon was WASP-trained, and Virgil could handle himself. They'd deal with it. My head believed it. My heart thought I was a damned liar.

Reluctant, but knowing Virg was waiting, I hit a switch on my wrist-com and sent a tone that could mean 'yes' or 'acknowledged' or 'will comply' or any of the hundred meanings we usually wrapped up in a brief 'F.A.B.'. The line closed as silently as it had opened, but I could feel a sudden sense of aloneness, and loathed it almost as much as I had the whisper in my ear.

"Sir, all perimeters report secure. Intruders unlikely. The air patrol and radar have reported clear. No sign of missile activity. Looks like a simple malfunction" The officer presenting the report, a lieutenant colonel, looked relieved. One glance at his superior's face and the emotion vanished. "Ah, those were some of our older, less-well used weapons, General."

"Sub-busters not in big demand in southern Nevada." I might have imagined the amusement in Langdon's mild tone as he murmured the words by my side. "Who'd have thought it?"

"The last inspection was almost eighteen months ago, sir. It's possible that…"

A flush of anger appeared high on Harmon's pale cheeks, but he didn't lash out or explode with rage. He became cold.

"If this is incompetence…" He glanced, just once, towards his audience of aviation experts. His voice could have chilled the sun itself. "Have the arsenal inspection records reviewed, and the relevant personnel will report to me at first light. Double the guards on all external gates. I want reports from the fire crews as soon as possible. I want to know what triggered this."

I edged away from Langdon and toward the nearest window, making a show of trying to get a better view of what was going on. There were more personnel out and moving around the base than I'd seen since my arrival. On the monitor screens, and through the command centre's panoramic sweep of windows, I saw barrack buildings evacuated, the men reporting to their superiors and forming up in divisions for assignment.

Gordon and Virgil had chosen a remote hut for their target, but it was like kicking away just part of a termite mound. Soon the entire thing would be swarming. My mind on my brothers, I studied the map on the wall in front of me, trying to decide whether or not the perimeter access leading to the missile range would be considered an external gate.

"…TB guard relief requesting gate clearance. TB guard reinforcement requesting gate clearance…"

I'd been listening out for the report and nearly missed it even so. Harmon didn't even glance away from the map in front of him. I hesitated long enough to hear clearance granted before concentrating again on the sporadic reports coming in from the base fire commander.

It would be close to twenty minutes before the guards' truck carrying my brothers reached Thunderbird Two. Time enough to deal with the mess they left behind them.

"…Base command, fire crew one. Urgently require civilian support. Base crews insufficient to prevent secondary flare-ups. Fire already spreading…"

"…Fire crew one, Base command. No civilian access to Elton at this time. Make best effort…"

A familiar rising chime was precisely the last thing Harmon wanted to hear at that moment.

"Thunderbird Five to Elton AFB."

I tuned out the rest of John's call. It was perhaps fifteen minutes since the initial explosion. The first flurry of rapid assessment had settled into the still-urgent but more controlled pattern of a base on high alert. My brother had given the air base time to get its emergency services in place and its division commanders opportunity to report their men accounted for. I had no doubt that even now he was watching for complications and would clear the channel should he see any. In the meantime, a little extra disruption wouldn't hurt.

Truthfully, while the fire was a major one, without any sign of external factors there was nothing for the bulk of the base's personnel to do. Even Harmon was drumming his fingers impatiently on the nearest desk, making a show of ignoring Thunderbird Five's routine nuisance call.

The general scowled. "Get one of the hawks in the sky. I want the base searched for heat sources where they shouldn't be."

With a heat flare that size not half a mile from the centre of the base? I shook my head without thinking, and felt a momentary chill as Harmon's eyes flicked towards me. The glacier gaze moved on, and I breathed again, forcing myself to think. We'd wanted a solid distraction, but the scale of the fire out at the weapons store was making me uneasy. Even if the store was a small one in relative terms, secondary explosions could still put the fire crews at risk. That certainly wasn't what any of us had intended.

John signed off, and a few seconds lately, the radio chatter resumed. I drifted closer to the desk that seemed to be coordinating the fire-control effort, making my own assessment of the reports as they came in.

"… All base fire crews now deployed. Working to control fire. Suspect presence of fuel in store as accelerant. Please confirm?…"

'Working to control fire'. Not a happy phrase. As long as the inferno remained out of control it also remained near-impossible to predict. Even from this distance, I could tell the blaze was spreading.

"What direction is the wind coming from?"

The officer in charge of launch clearance was perhaps the least busy person in the room, observers excepted. The young lieutenant looked startled to be addressed, and uncertain whether to respond to my abrupt question. She glanced around, looking for guidance, and found it in Casey's nod. He might not be in her direct chain of command, but evidently the Colonel's uniform spoke for itself.

"Ah, almost due west, sir?" she offered, glancing at her monitor for confirmation. "Gusting a little erratically."

Swearing inwardly, I looked again at the monitor and then around the room. The two Elton-based techs, Bailey and Abrams, had left to report to their immediate superiors. The World Army general Archer stood to Harmon's left at the table, either deliberately ignoring our host's cold irritation or too thick-skinned to notice it. Colonel Robins, always more of an academy engineer than tactician, had already gone back to studying Thunderbird Two's plans. He'd left the door to the wardroom open, but the chaos of the control room behind him. That only left Langdon and Casey as loose cannons.

The secret agent Langdon had found himself a chair at a disused desk and was sitting back, one knee crossed carelessly across the other and hands in his lap. He looked more amused than disconcerted by the explosion and resulting furore. His eyes swept the room constantly, assessing and evaluating everyone's reactions. I was pretty sure mine hadn't yet gone beyond 'concerned citizen', externally at least. I'd have to be careful to keep it that way.

Casey had never stopped watching me, his expression a little sick. Looking up into the colonel's intent blue eyes I knew I was walking a tightrope.

"Something wrong, Scott?"

"The prevailing wind here is southwest. I don't think the fire commander is taking the shift into account." I gestured up at the wall map. "A lot of sparks and debris are falling on sector A7."

Casey squinted up at the map and shrugged at me. The sector I'd named was all but empty, barren of anything but dirt, dry grass, sparse clumps of thorny desert shrubs and a few disregarded storage huts.

"So?"

"That stuff's tinder-dry. It's going to go up unless it's damped down." I reasoned out the situation as I spoke. Looking at the map, it was obvious to me that the fire crews were in danger of being cut off or worse by a blaze that could spring up at any moment. At ground level, already overstretched and confused by darkness, spreading flames and thick smoke, I'd lay even money that the base fire chief hadn't noticed. It took all the data at hand and a field commander's training to recognise the danger. Certainly it took more experience than I was meant to have. For the moment the risk was still only theoretical. I couldn't throw everything away for that. I couldn't stay silent either. I looked meaningfully at Casey, putting all my concern into my voice. "They're over-extended. They need support. Can you get civilian crews in here from the city?"

Casey looked again at the map, obviously not quite seeing why I was so worried. Given what he suspected though, he had to take me seriously, and he knew it. He gave me a sidelong glance and then turned towards the centre of the room.

"Mr Tracy's nebulous concerns are noted." Harmon didn't even look up from the table on which he was charting out his resources. "I am not permitting civilian fire appliances onto this site until I am certain this isn't an International Rescue ruse," his tone suggested that condition might never be satisfied. "The base fire crews will deal with the surrounding area after the weapons store is declared safe."

That was a mistake. A big one. And I had no way of making Harmon see it. Protest further now and he'd just dig in his heels. I might as well ask permission to toddle along and fetch the Firefly from Thunderbird Two.

"Scott, I'm scanning the site." I could always rely on John's cool efficiency. "Most of the secondary fires are confined to within a hundred metres of the seat. The pitch roofs on two of the neighbouring sheds are starting to smoulder. It'll take a while for them to take hold properly – a scrub fire is definitely the more serious threat. Those men could end up circled or backed up against the boundary fence. If there's another blast from the weapons store…"

On cue, a fireball lit the night sky, spreading as it escaped the thick walls of the weapons store and rose on fire-driven thermals. It expanded like a mushroom cloud, lighting the base and sending long shadows dancing across the command centre, before fading slowly. A new cloud of sparks rose in its wake, falling like rain over the two nearby store-buildings and the dry scrubland in between.

John was silent for a couple of seconds. "Most of that explosion blew away from the fire crews. No major injuries. Seeing increased rate of secondary outbreaks. They're in trouble, Scott. They just don't know it yet."

There was a new flurry of reports and activity as the fire chief confirmed that his men were unhurt after this latest blast, and everyone else demanded explanations. I took advantage of the new furore to drop back, leaning against the wall of the room and scanning it with my eyes. There was perspiration on my brow, as if I could feel the flames even from this distance. Just at the moment, I was far from sure how we were going to get out of this one with our skins, our reputation and our consciences intact.

"Status?" I muttered under my breath.

"Gordon and Virgil: ETA at the 'Bird one minute. Base suggests that Two's fire suppressants may prove useful, at your discretion. Penny and Parker are standing by. Response time estimated at four minutes. Oh, and I'm sending Alan back down." Despite the situation, I couldn't help feeling a flicker of amusement at John's afterthought. Either the space monitor thought I might need Thunderbird One ferried out to me, or our youngest brother was getting intolerably jittery. I was betting on the latter.

My amusement didn't last long. The knowledge that Virgil and Gordon were about to make their move sent shivers down my spine. I needed to be ready to cover a disturbance, but I couldn't abandon the fire-crews out there, even now. I had to find some way of convincing the general of the danger – evidence he would believe.

The hawk Harmon had sent up – an unmanned aerial vehicle capable of overflying the base silently and at low altitude – was still in the air. An NCO hunched over a desk to my left, gripping a joystick, his eyes glued to the aircraft's thermal imaging scan. The sergeant winced every time a careless manoeuvre brought the flare of the fire into the UAV's field of view. The white-out that filled his screen lasted several seconds, and it took longer each time for the camera persistence to fade out and a focussed image to return. Since the sensitive instrument was swamped anywhere within half a mile of the anti-sub store, the embattled man was flying blind a good half the time.

I could do something about that.

I was pushing away from the wall when…

A flurry of noise, cries, a burst of gunfire and the whine of our gas pistols. So close. Echoing through my head…

I held my breath, counting the seconds away before I heard Virgil call out to Gordon, and our younger brother's brisk response. Far too many seconds. I had to gasp to ease the pressure in my chest.

"Scott? What is it?" Casey dropped his voice to a whisper as he stepped to my side, taking my elbow. He threw a worried glance towards the panoramic sweep of window, but towards the captive Thunderbird rather than the fire. I needed to stop that. I concentrated, steadying my breathing.

"That thermal imager is a Tracy Industries model, isn't it?"

"Five guards subdued." There was a military snap in Gordon's report. "Three more took off behind the 'Bird. Pursuing. Interference generators deployed."

I told myself to ignore the distraction, to make my own. I marched briskly to the hawk control desk, leaned over and tapped a button on the touch-screen.

"What…? Hey!" The sergeant flinched, and I reached around to clamp a hand over his on the joystick, holding the remote-controlled aircraft steady.

"Whoa! Watch it. I'm sorry. I should probably have asked." I tried to project well-meaning thoughtlessness. I'm not sure I managed it. Half the room turned to watch… just as I had intended. "You had the intensity scale on linear. I just switched it to logarithmic."

Another burst of gunfire. Another pop of gas pellets. Another heart-stopping silence.

"That's six down. Virg, you okay?

"Fine! Unlock her, John. Now!"

"… heard gunfire!…" The barely-audible radio report came from a speaker behind me somewhere. I deliberately shifted my weight, leaning slightly against the hawk operator, trying to keep the attention on us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the two guards standing just inside the room take a half-step forward, his hand dropping to his firearm. Whoa, maybe pushing this was a bad idea.

The sergeant glared at me, his hand and shoulder pushing against mine, his tone barely polite. "Just back away, sir."

I glanced at the screen, making sure the UAV was stable before raising my hands and taking a step back.

"Just trying to help. The screen… see?"

"Virgil! Gordon! The Hood's not answering. Not from the cockpit or crew quarters. And I've lost the internal cameras. I've got to open the inner hatches to release the lockdown. He should still be up in the cabins, but I can't be sure…"

"Got it, John." Virgil's impatience was obvious in his harsh whisper. "Thanks for the warning. Now get those doors open!"

The Hood loose? In theory he should get no further than the outer hatch and the handprint scanner there. But by the same theory, he should still be where John had held him for the last four days. My heart raced, but I kept my expression mildly bemused.

Concentrate. Concentrate.

Harmon was glaring.

"Mr Tracy, will you please let my officers do their work without interference?"

"Okay," I shrugged, making a show of indifference. "But look, you can actually see what's going on now."

I gestured at the screen in explanation. The image had faded at first but then come back, less over-exposed and with more clarity. The most intense heat source – the weapons-store fire – was still enough to swamp the screen, but only when viewed directly. The new scaling – one I routinely employed on Mobile Control – enhanced the weaker signals instead.

The sergeant blinked at the screen in obvious surprise. Casey came up beside me, with Langdon beside him. I could feel Harmon's eyes on my back. Good that's where I wanted them. Behind me I could hear one of the middle-ranking officers asking someone for confirmation. Hopefully, with all the fire-driven confusion it would take a few minutes.

"How did you…?"

"It's a TI design. I helped beta test these things."

I reclaimed the step between me and the hawk control panel, reaching out to tweak the intensity scale, and then, with a sideways glance at the bemused sergeant for permission, to switch the device into its mapping mode. Random views were all very well, but now that the glare problem was under control, we really needed a systematic sweep to get an overview of the situation.

Casey pulled up a rolling chair from the next desk along and waved me into it, glancing in Harmon's direction. The general was still watching, looking a little put out by my unexpected competence as I sent the hawk across sector A7. The screen reconfigured itself, a panel opening to display the map data as it came in stripe by stripe.

It was a good few minutes now since John told me the fire crews were in trouble. I'd heard their increasingly worried calls for myself, as a background to both the command centre and the radio relay from my brothers. This was the first time I'd had a really good overview for myself though. I didn't try to hide my grimace, looking up at the sergeant beside me. The fires were even more widespread than I'd feared.

"They're cut off!" I took a deep breath and turned around, trying to keep my tone submissive. I didn't need Harmon taking a matter of life and death as a personal challenge. "General, the fire…"

"Sir, I'm getting reports of gunfire from the Thunderbird!"

The urgent call overlapped with mine. There really was no competition between them.

Harmon stood ram-rod straight in the centre of the room. Turning to the window facing the test range, he reached for the radio that hung at his waist.

"Guard detail report!" The radio crackled and spluttered into silence. Harmon dropped it in disgust. "Get that hawk out there!"

I didn't move, keeping my voice and posture as unthreatening as I could, my eyes still on the screen as the map formed. I couldn't blame Harmon for wanting the aerial view of Thunderbird Two and her surroundings, but he seemed to be missing something.

"I think a couple of your fire crews are trapped, sir."

Casey was still behind me. His hand dropped to my shoulder, squeezing as he felt the tension there. He must have wondered about the report from Two, but he didn't hesitate to back me up.

"General, he's right. If we don't get help out to the fire site we're going to lose them."

"That hawk. The Thunderbird. Now."

On the other side of the room, I could hear warnings already being passed on to the fire crews. They weren't going to do any good. In fact, I realised with a sick feeling, the scrubland fires were joining up to form a belt several hundred metres wide. Even if Harmon let the civilian crews in immediately I suspected it was already too late.

"General, if you don't help those men right now, you're going to end up calling International Rescue yourself, asking for help."

"Damn. Really?" John sounded distracted. Worried even. "F.A.B."

Harmon turned to face me, the movement slow and deliberate enough to draw every pair of eyes including mine.

"Mr Tracy, let me make this clear. I will not ever, under any circumstances, be asking an illegal organisation for assistance."

The general turned to one of his subordinates, an air force major, waving a hand towards the window and the fire beyond.

"Deal with that," he snapped, clicking his fingers as if his mere order would make the problem disappear. He turned to me, and I didn't argue, rolling my chair back from the desk and letting the sergeant retake the controls. The man saved my now-complete map of the fire and sent it to a spare screen, throwing a glance back at me, before redirecting the remote aircraft.

Nodding an acknowledgement, I pulled my chair towards the new screen, lifted a hand to begin tracing possible escape routes and froze.

The burst of automatic gunfire was close, far too close, and seemed to go on forever. Someone was panting nearby, the breaths harsh and weary. There was a scrabbling noise, and the high-pitched sound of ricochets off Thunderbird Two's hull.

"These last two have us in a crossfire, Virgil!" Gordon sounded tense, any hint of his relaxed attitude to life deeply buried beneath a familiar professional demeanour. "One of us has to get to the hatch!"

"Too dangerous." I knew that tone in Virgil's voice too. My brother was out of ideas, thinking hard and keeping calm for Gordon's sake. "We're pinned down."

"Hey! Where did that one come fr…?"

My mind raced, going into overdrive as I tried to figure a way to help my brothers. Perversely, I found myself willing the thermal imaging hawk to make up the distance faster, wishing I could at least see what Virgil and Gordon were facing. And then it all became horribly clear.

"Stop!" The deep, heavily-accented voice was one I'd heard before, and hoped never to hear again. "Behold my power!"

Chapter Six: Rescue

Pained cries in the night.

A faint groan I identified as Gordon.

Overlapping thuds as bodies hit the sun-baked dirt.

Then silence. Dead silence.

Heavy footfalls, growing louder until it seemed that their owner must be standing over me, not looming above two of my brothers, many miles beyond my protection.

"Now what have we here?"

The movement stopped. The silence stretched out for another long moment.

"International Rescue!"

I'd harboured an irrational hope that the Hood would overlook my brothers, or assume they were just another pair of soldiers. I'd known it was a distant hope at best. Gordon and Virgil weren't in uniform, but the Hood was one of the few people in the world to know us all by sight – all close friends or close enemies.

"International Rescue." He rolled the words around his tongue, stretching them out. "At my feet. At my mercy."

The man had none. I had to get out there.

I'd never be in time.

"Weaklings. Mere children. Shall I kill you now? Reach out and snap those feeble necks?"

No! Everything inside me cried out for action. I had none to take.

"Perhaps I should simply walk away. Or perhaps whisper a suggestion in the ear of your friends over there: leave you to be riddled by bullets when these guards awaken? Without me you would already lie cold and bloody on the ground. Who am I to stand in fate's path?"

My imagination provided an endless stream of horrors – what the Hood could do to my brothers, what the airmen could do, what I'd sent them into.

"Three days you have held me captive." He spat. "Fools! You have cost me this Thunderbird, and for what? I knew I need only bide my time and wait for my path to become clear. Did you expect the outer hatch to hold me? Did you imagine that a door opened once could not be opened a second time? Foolish dolts! I would revel in your deaths and send you to the cursed graves you deserve."

I heard another thud that my mind insisted I couldn't identify, but my heart told me must be a kick aimed at my helpless brothers.

"And yet you rob me of such sweet revenge!" Anger rippled through every word. "Curses on you for bringing me to this indignity! Are you listening, International Rescue?"

Until that moment I'd thought our enemy was monologuing. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that he'd always known he was speaking to an audience. I glanced down at my watch. The Hood had seen me use it often enough to recognise that we'd be listening through my brothers'.

"Do you hear me? Ah!" He cleared his throat, spitting again as if the words tasted bad in his mouth. "Thank me as you curse me, for I shall be magnanimous in victory. Better worthy opponents than the blight of rigid minds and chained souls. Your men will rouse when I have left this place – before these military fools begin to stir. If I am to be denied the Thunderbird, then better you should guard her than these slave-minds. What value a secret lost to us all? There will be other battles for us to fight, International Rescue. We shall meet again."

I don't think I breathed between first hearing the Hood's voice and his declaration that my brothers would wake up. Relief left me weak-limbed. My chest ached with fear and impotence.

"But know this, International Rescue. Even today, I depart from here the victor. So long you have denied me the photographs that betray your secrets. I leave today with my pride, and my camera, intact, blessed in the eyes of the gods."

If the Hood worshipped any gods but his own greed and arrogance, I'd never seen any evidence of it. My fists clenched at my sides. We'd always known photographs were going to be an issue – for everyone here. I had something up my sleeve, or rather in my pocket, that should deal with that. But not now, not yet. There was no way on Earth I was going to anger this man while my brothers lay defenceless in front of him.

Laughter, long, deep and fading as the Hood moved away.

"Scott?" Casey hissed my name urgently. The colonel had moved up close behind me, all but blocking me from view. His hand was once again at my shoulder, gripping so tightly I could feel the fingers digging into the muscle. The pain helped ground me – separating the fact of my presence in the control room from the eerie illusion that the Hood had spoken mere inches behind me.

Casey's expression was worried, his eyes darting from side to side before looking down again towards me. He looked relieved when I met his eyes, and then the concern returned as he took in my expression. I took a deep breath and pulled a neutral mask back across my face.

"Scott, what's wrong?"

I shook my head at Casey, willing him not to draw attention towards us.

A quick glance around, checking on the spy Langdon in particular, told me I'd been lucky. Half the base personnel, well-trained for any situation, were still glued to their own displays, tuning out the chaos. A few were clustered around the major assigned to 'deal with' the fire. I could hear the distant wail of sirens as the civilian crews the local Fire Department were finally let through the perimeter. Even so, a few seconds of overheard discussion made it clear they were running out of options fast. Everyone else, my fellow observers included, stared up at the main screen where the hawk UAV was finally relaying the thermal image they'd all been waiting for.

Still forms lay scattered around the front of Thunderbird Two, some of them half-hidden under her scan-reflecting wings or under her bulky curves. The heat signatures told us that all were still alive. The lack of movement implied all were unconscious.

"Eight… nine…" Langdon counted aloud. "Is that another tucked under there?"

"That's more than just the guard detail," one of the base officers commented. "Our people have got to have taken down some of the attackers too."

"But did they get all of them?"

Harmon didn't listen to the speculation. His focus was narrow, determined and starting to verge on the obsessive.

"Assault Group Alpha, move out! Prep the 64th for immediate launch. I want the standby interceptors in the air two minutes ago!"

"Sir!" Someone pointed up at the screen. "Movement!"

The jeep must have been tucked right up under Two's wing. It bolted out as if aware of the surveillance, already travelling at a pace unwise across the uneven ground. I expected it to bolt for the deserted Nevada hills. It took me a few seconds to figure out what the Hood was doing as he turned back towards Las Vegas and the anonymity of a crowd. One vehicle alone in the hills could be tracked trivially, one amongst many would be a nightmare. John must have had a view as clear as the hawk's. This time there were no chimes, nothing to distract from the terse warning.

"Elton, Thunderbird Five. Elton AFB from International Rescue Thunderbird Five. Be advised we have reason to believe The Hood is free and leaving the Thunderbird. Repeat: the Hood is no longer confined. Extreme caution advised!"

John's clipped tones hid his worry far better than I could. Casey gave me a look of wide-eyed concern and then looked up again at the still bodies on the screen. There was no way to tell their conditions from the heat signatures alone. For all he knew they could have been riddled with bullets and slowly bleeding out, or so battered they might never recover.

I could hear the throb of the assault team's big helijet starting up outside the control building, and the higher whine of fighter jets being prepped. I fingered the small box in my pocket, gauging the distance between the Hood and Thunderbird Two with my eyes. Still too close. I couldn't leave it too long, or the bastard would be out of range, but if he realised and doubled back… I shook my head. If the guys didn't wake up soon, this was going to get really…

"Uh… oooohh…"

"Gordon?"

"Oh… Oww! Did'ya get the number of that truck? The headlights… no… eyes! His eyes! Where…?"

"Gordon, this is John. The Hood's gone! Calm down, Gordy. I need you to listen to me! Can you see Virgil? Is he okay?"

"Uh…. What? Ah, oh, Virgil? Virg? Hey, Virg, wake up!"

"Mmm… Go 'way, Gordon."

I was confusing the hell out of Tim Casey. The colonel still had a hand resting on my shoulder. He looked down, feeling the tension drain from my taut muscles. I shot him a quick, reassuring grin. We weren't out of the woods, not by a long shot, but just hearing my brothers' voices made me think we might possibly be on the right road.

On the tarmac in front of the command and control building, a dozen heavily armed marines were jogging towards an armoured helijet. Two fighter jets were already in the air, launched from their standby positions. Another dozen were lit up by floodlights and surrounded by scurrying technicians as they were checked and prepped for launch.

The hawk UAV was tracking the Hood back towards the base perimeter so there was no way for Harmon and his people to see what I could hear – Virgil and Gordon picking themselves up and dragging the still-unconscious airmen out from under Thunderbird Two's blast zone.

"Right, that's them out of the way. Look her over, will you Gordon? You've got the scanner Brains gave us, right? I don't think anyone's had a chance to booby trap her, but let's be sure. I'm going to go start warming her up."

I hadn't heard Virgil so calm and in control for days.

I hid my smile, slipped my hand into my pocket, and palmed the compact device concealed there. Virg had his 'bird back. Now we just had to make sure he kept her. I had to pick my moment. I kept an eye on the Hood's progress and on the assault being prepared against the Thunderbird, all the time listening to my brothers' rapid inspection and listening too for altitude reports from the two airborne jets. I concentrated, calculating, angles, distances and speeds. Now. With an enormous amount of satisfaction, I slid open a panel on Brains' newest gadget with my fingertip and pressed the button beneath.

The helijet choked, spluttered and died on the tarmac. The whine of jet engines faded into silence. The lights overhead blinked out, and all around me, screens flickered, corrupted and then imploded into pinpoints of light. For a few seconds, the base power supply fought against its back-up generator, both disrupted by the EMP and trying to pick up the load at the same moment. The lights flared, flickered and then steadied, leaving us all blinking.

"Great timing, Scott!"

It seemed an age since that night in Brains' Lab when I glanced over the blueprints of this device and thought it might be useful.

"Confirming the Hood was in range of that burst. His film is toast. The camera films on the base too. I'll get the digital versions when you're clear."

I'd been pleasantly surprised to be handed the compact gadget as I climbed into the family jet. Even more so to find a photographic neutraliser had been blended into the standard electromagnetic pulse. There were times I loved having Brains on our team.

"Fighters in the air didn't have too much of a problem – you judged that safety margin just about perfectly. The ones on the tarmac are going to take at least five minutes to reset. The helijet more like ten. That UAV's out of the way for good."

And in the distance, Thunderbird Two's thrusters flared into life.

The control room was still filled with a chaos of reports and requests for information after the EMP. It took a few seconds for anyone else to notice what I'd seen immediately – the tiny speck of flame on the horizon that marked Thunderbird Two's ascent. It took a radio call from the two circling interceptors before Langdon hurried to the window, scooping up a pair of binoculars from the sill and fiddling with the focus.

"The Thunderbird is in the air!" He glanced back at the control desk, a little wide-eyed. "Just what kind of range has that thing got?"

The World Army observer standing at Harmon's left exchanged a glance with Colonel Casey.

"You think this is some kind of electronic countermeasures?" General Archer demanded. "That the Thunderbird can send out an EMP strong enough to hit us here?"

"Why not?" I couldn't resist throwing in my two cents. I was, after all, here to offer my opinions. "We think she has a force-field, don't we? Got to be something along the same lines."

A snort in my ear from John told me that someone got the private joke. The way Casey's eyes narrowed suggested he was less impressed. Casey was right. This wasn't the time or place for self-indulgent humour. I pushed away from my chair, striding across to join Langdon at the window with the colonel following me.

Harmon was calling out orders to his fighter squadrons, looking increasingly frustrated as his subordinates reported back delays and problems. Already he had his assault team scrambling to a land vehicle while the helijet's onboard computer rebooted. That didn't worry me too much – they'd find nothing but a neat arrangement of sedated guards. Thunderbird Two would be long gone. Of more concern was the pair of fighter jets already in the air and still under Harmon's direct command. Thunderbird Two wasn't built with air-to-air combat in mind, and my brother's training was limited at best.

"Elton C-in-C, Charlie six-niner. That bird is holding steady at a hundred feet. We could go for a ground strike but we're picking up heat signatures almost below her. Risk of collateral losses." The report crackled in, distorted by the radio channel and by the pilot's oxygen mask.

As far as I could see Virgil was holding Thunderbird Two in a hover, no doubt running the engine check sequences that could only be done with the thrusters active. After the strain the Hood had put on her, I'd want to be sure of her status before pushing the limits too. And he was certainly going to have to push her.

"Damn." That was one of Harmon's subordinate officers, shaking his head and cursing softly as he looked up at his commander. "They're right over our guard detail. We're going to have to wait for them to move off."

"Elton C-in-C, Charlie six-niner, requesting confirmation of rules of engagement."

"Charlie six-niner, Elton command." Harmon's voice was crystal clear. His pilots had to be hearing his determination even across the crackling radio channel. "Engage Thunderbird at earliest opportunity. Use of all available weapons systems authorised. Under no circumstances allow target to vacate Elton air space."

Already I could see Virgil hesitating as the two fighters circled far overhead. I needed to feed him information, and fast.

"Those fighters are more manoeuvrable, but I'd bet the Thunderbird can outpace them." I spoke aloud, half-turning so I could be talking to Langdon or to Casey. "What's the ceiling on that kind of jet – sixty thousand? Seventy maybe?"

Langdon was still focused on Thunderbird Two, adjusting the focus on his binoculars and ignoring me completely. Colonel Casey's worried eyes flicked from me to the distant column of flame that supported my brother's aircraft. I was done with hiding secrets from Tim Casey. I let him see my worry, and put a plea for help in my eyes.

"Sixty-two," he spoke slowly, before sighing and turning around to face me. "But that's a push. And only a whisker above Mach One."

I could have laughed with relief. I'd have rambled on alone if I had to, but this was so much easier.

"But I guess the Thunderbird's got to watch out for those AAMs."

"You think so?" Casey gave me a sideways look. "The air-to-air missiles? I'd have thought the pilots would try to force her down with rifle fire first."

"From above and behind?" I tilted my head as if considering the problem, hoping that Virgil was getting all this. Both Casey and I had lowered our voices, wary of drawing too much attention from our companions, but equally cautious of sinking into clandestine whispers. I shook my head and kept my tone level, letting it become lost in the animated conversations around us. "Maybe, but kind of hard to swarm the Thunderbird with just two 'planes in the air, and the wing-canons those interceptors carry might as well be pop-guns against something designed to fly past exploding volcanoes. The air-to-air missiles have got to be the bigger threat."

Casey gave me a curious look. I could see the man's mind working furiously, extrapolating from my 'speculations''. Truthfully, I was guessing Thunderbird Two could probably take a hit from the low-yield AAMs the interceptors carried without too much trouble. Even so, the risk of repeated hits, or a single lucky strike, was too high to ignore. There was no way to explain that to Casey now even if I was so inclined.

"Only if the Thunderbird stays in range for long enough," he offered.

"A wing-mounted missile's got an awful lot less mass to accelerate than Thunderbird Two." Casey gave me a wry look. I winced mentally. Nothing like stating the obvious to an expert. "Okay, their range is pretty limited, but over short distances, they can outpace the jets by a long margin. Might be enough to catch the 'Bird."

"So get out quick, go high and go fast?" Virgil murmured in my ear. He didn't sound convinced. "Scott, we're not done here."

"Elton C-in-C, Charlie six-niner, that thing's just sitting there. We don't have a clear shot."

"Charlie six-niner, Elton command." The emotion in Harmon's voice had been replaced by a calm determination. Whatever anger and frustration he'd been feeling before had been smothered beneath his dedication to a single all-important goal: to keep Thunderbird Two out of 'enemy' hands. The man might have been ordering a pizza for all the feeling he showed as he gave the order to put his own guard unit in the firing line. "Engage Thunderbird immediately. Repeat immediately."

"Roger that, Elton command."

"Thunderbird Two needs to start climbing." To all appearances I was still talking to Casey, but my comment was a command and both Casey and Virgil knew it. "Now!"

This time my brother didn't argue. The mighty aircraft rose into the air impossibly fast, as if fired from a giant cannon. It was almost a minute before I heard thunder rolling in across the base: the mighty roar as Virgil threw full power behind his 'Bird's VTOL thrusters.

The two interceptor jets had been marking out a circle some five miles in diameter, the high speed aircraft not really designed for hovering over a fixed point. I was pretty sure they'd expected Thunderbird Two to climb at a shallow angle, clawing her way into the air and minimising the stall risk on her swept-forward wings. This vertical ascent surprised them. They broke their pattern, both jets diving towards the centre of the circle and sitting on their tails as they started a power climb. Virgil was still on thrusters but pretty soon now, he was going to have to tilt her nose up and pile on the thrust from her main engines. Then it would be a simple question of who could climb fastest and longest. I was betting on the jets for the former, but Two for the latter.

"Thunderbird Two, this is interceptor commander Charlie six-niner. Return to the ground immediately!"

Conversations were muted as the pilot's call echoed through the command centre. At the central desk, Harmon and the other senior officers watched a projection from the base tracking system, following the tiny blue blips as they caught up with and began to harass the much larger Thunderbird.

"Thunderbird Two, desist and land or I am authorised to open fire."

"Thunderbird Two, Charlie six-niner. This is your final warning. Return to ground level, at once."

"Firing."

There was a worryingly familiar rattle over the radio.

"Small calibre gunfire." Virgil's report provided the other side of the story, one my current companions would give a lot to be able to hear. "Not a problem. Thirty thousand feet. I know I'm a long way below our ceiling, but the cloudbase is just above me – pretty low for Nevada. John, what kind of column have I got on the clouds here?"

"Almost ten thousand. Storm system's been building all day."

"Fine. Entering clouds. Time to lose these guys."

"Entering cloudbank." The pilot's comment over the radio echoed my brother's. "Visual contact lost. Instrument trace remains clear. Continuing to climb." His tone changed, from brisk report to hard threat. "Thunderbird Two, this is Charlie six-niner. If you do not surrender and return immediately to ground level, I will be forced to employ air-to-air… Hey! Contact lost!"

The pilot's exclamation was echoed by others from around the control table. Harmon remained an icy rock in the centre of sudden chaos, only his eyes betraying his anger.

"Where did it go?"

"That thing's radar-invisible! How did they…?"

"Danger zone beacon off." Virgil's report verged on the smug. "Putting in a little distance and hovering at 37k. This cloud's pretty solid. Those interceptors don't have a clue where I am."

"Unless they fly smack-bang straight into us."

Virgil might be happily back in control, but he'd had a rough few days. Gordon's cheery thought was met with an audible scowl.

"You'd better watch the scanners then, hadn't you?" Virgil paused. "Scott, we can't just sit up here for ever."

"Whoa. They've fired off a sidewinder. Well wide of us. Looks like the exhaust baffles are keeping our heat signature down."

Virgil didn't even bother to acknowledge Gordon's comment. He was still talking to me, looking for instructions. "This cloud's thick, but if they get more jets in the air, I really will have to watch out for collisions or even a chance line-of-sight. I don't want to risk them boxing me in and forcing me down."

Every instinct I had said I should tell Virgil just to run for home. I knew why he hadn't, and why he was still hovering above the base he'd technically just escaped.

"You've got to give me a chance to get to those fire crews."

"Two minutes 'till Elton gets the rest of its fighters launched, Virgil." John's warning held a note of deep concern. "And, Scott, can you see what that helicopter is doing?"

The question confused me. My gaze swept past the huddle at the control desk, Langdon now amongst them, before moving on. The worried expressions on the group to my left caught my attention. They were poring over the outdated thermal imaging map I'd made of the fire, and centred around the major assigned to the problem. More worryingly they appeared to be in contact not only with the increasingly desperate air force emergency response teams, but also with the crew of a small, old-fashioned helicopter being prepped for some kind of rescue.

I admired the courage of their pilots. Their ingenuity in resorting to a helicopter, when the complex helijets were more badly affected by the EMP, was genuinely impressive. But even so…

"They're going to fry!" I strode across the room towards the officer in charge. "The temperatures above those flames are way outside the specs for that chopper. She'd never get close enough to your men to winch them clear. She's not designed to handle the thermals!"

The major looked up at me with a sick expression that said he already knew everything I'd said. He was asking the helicopter crew to risk their lives on an attempt almost certainly doomed to failure.

"What's the situation?" I lowered my voice, but kept the snap of command I'd instinctively put there in place. My status here was more than a little ambiguous, but of all the dignitaries and senior officers in the room I was the only one paying attention to the fire situation rather than the apparently long-gone Thunderbird Two, and my trick with the UAV had left its mark. "Major…?"

"Derby, sir. About half our personnel dealing with the fire got trapped by it." Derby sighed. "The civilian crews and a team from the 563rd can get to most of them, but we have six men trapped in a fire pocket no one can reach."

I glanced over a printout of the thermal imaging map, and winced as I saw the huddle of symbols representing the trapped men. The way the fire had been growing since the map was taken, the fire chief and his crew had to be surrounded by a band of flames almost a hundred metres wide. There couldn't be much oxygen left in the middle of that firestorm, and the heat would be reaching critical levels.

Outside, jet planes whined as they taxied towards the runway. I was still thinking as I took another quick survey of the display screens, slipped my hand back into my pocket and hit the base with a second electromagnetic pulse.

Jet engines, designed for fly-by-wireless and computer-controlled to their cores, died. Computer monitors flickered into darkness. The helicopter merely coughed, but if they followed procedure its crew would still wait for final clearance over the temporarily-silenced radio. Major Derby swore vehemently beside me, rubbing his eyes as he stood to glance out of the window, first towards the hangars and then to the ruddy glow of the fire. I could see why he was upset, but there was no use throwing more lives away. This would buy us a few minutes. We were fast running out of them.

"John?" I muttered under cover of the resulting uproar.

"No one there is going to get to those six, Scott. The imaging I have from here doesn't paint a pretty picture of that fire. I picked up a weak radio call a few minutes back, but I'm not even certain they're still alive to be rescued."

"It'll take International Rescue to get those men clear." This time I spoke aloud, letting Derby assume I was talking to him. The officer didn't speak but glanced back towards the central desk, his obvious agreement warring with loyalty to the chain of command.

"Yeah," John agreed quietly. "Scott, Dad wants your call on this. If Thunderbird Two goes back down at Elton now…"

There were times being the decision maker in the field left me twisted with uncertainty. This wasn't one of them. I could taste my own fear at the back of my throat, but I'd seldom been more certain of what we had to do.

"If Thunderbird Two doesn't try to save the lives International Rescue have put in danger, then she might as well let those jets shoot her down right now. If the organisation is putting its own craft above the people they can save then it doesn't stand for anything at all."

"F.A.B." Virgil's support came without hesitation, and Gordon's acknowledgement overlapped it.

John took a moment longer before he sighed. "Agreed."

Major Derby gave me a tired look, hearing only my statement and not my brothers' replies. The officer in charge of the fire effort sat back in his chair, tilting his head and rolling tired shoulders. "Yeah, but who knows what goes through the heads of those guys? Why the hell do they keep throwing us offline like this? Don't they know I've got men dying out there? Don't they care? I mean what kind of person signs up for that job in the first place?"

"If they had any sense of right and wrong they'd hand themselves in voluntarily. Stop this vigilante nonsense." That was General Archer, looking over from the control desk. Harmon was still bent over his maps, snapping out orders to his officers as he ordered up satellite tracking and tried to rally aircraft from neighbouring bases to cover likely escape routes. His personnel raced to keep up with their furious commander. Langdon, Casey and our World Army colleague Archer were all looking in my direction, apparently realising that the fire was now a more immediate concern than attempting to trace an aircraft that had proven untrackable many times before.

"It's all academic now." Langdon sighed, a little regretful. "The Thunderbird is probably two states away already."

"Somehow I don't think even Thunderbird Two has an EMP generator that powerful." Casey studied me. I listened to Virgil counting off his decreasing altitude and met the colonel's eyes with unashamed pride and more concern than I could hide. "I think the pilot of that craft knows exactly what he has to do," he observed, and for the first time I heard the scepticism and chagrin in his voice replaced by a note of respect.

No one else had noticed it yet, but I could hear the distant rumble of Thunderbird Two's engines. Virgil and Gordon were already fifteen thousand feet below the cloud-base, with reflected flame-light glinting faintly off her underside, before a report from one of the more alert guard units brought the room to a standstill.

I didn't move, but my eyes were glued to the screens as various base cameras slewed to pick up the Thunderbird. She was coming down as vertically as she'd gone up, descending directly over the fire and so quickly that half the men in the room held their breaths. It seemed impossible that she'd stop, and when she did, it was a mere fifty feet above the ground. Dicetylene gas and a stream of foam sprayed from her. Her water cannons blasted the edges of the inferno, not touching its core. Flames licked the underside of the pod, and the huge bulk of the 'bird was nothing but a rippling silhouette, distorted by the roiling air.

"Get those interceptors back here!" Harmon saw none of the majesty in the sight. His eyes glittered with a blinkered determination that apparently made him blind to what my brothers were trying to do. Orders burst from him in a staccato stream, some of them practical, some of them incomprehensible, but all aimed at surrounding the Thunderbird without any reference to the fire she was fighting.

"Looks like they're all unconscious. Got to be the heat." Virgil sounded calm, but I had no doubt his grip would be white-knuckled on Two's controls. The turbulence above those roaring flames had to be fierce.

"Ah." There was a thin note of worry in Gordon's tone. "So I'll have to drag them into the rescue capsule and winch them up? Six men? That's three trips. It'll take time."

"We don't have time and nor do they." I heard a soft noise as Virgil drummed his fingers against the controls, thinking. "Get suited up, Gordon, but leave the winch alone. I'm taking us down."

I sucked in a sharp breath. There was no way Virgil had found a fire-free pocket big enough for Thunderbird Two. He was talking about putting her down on the burning scrubland itself, flattening the vegetation and smothering the flames with her bulk.

"She's landing!" Langdon was back at the window, once again scooping up the binoculars and squinting as he tried to see past the furnace-glow. "She's actually landing in the middle of the fire!"

Archer whistled through his teeth. "How much heat can that thing deal with?" the General mused with interest. "Maybe the force field they use to strengthen the hull acts as a heat dissipater – lets the plane re-radiate heat efficiently?"

How much could she take? Barely enough, if I was any judge. Gritting my teeth, I bit back my instinctive response and made myself shrug. How anyone could still be treating this situation as an exercise in assessing the Thunderbird's capabilities escaped me.

"Touch down. Gordon, they're going to be to your left. Sixty degrees off your centre-line. About five metres out."

I was impressed. That was a precision landing.

"F.A.B." Gordon's breathing sounded harsh, roughened by fear and echoing inside the hood of his thermal suit. "Opening hatch."

The heat and the awesome sight of Thunderbird Two descending into the flames, rather than any orders Harmon issued, had driven the civilian fire appliances and the base's own rescue crews back. The waves of dicetylene still blasting from emitters around Thunderbird Two's hull were having an effect, dulling the glow immediately around the 'bird and bringing the eastern half of the inferno under control, even if they weren't making much of a dent on the seat of the fire. There was probably no one within half a kilometre of Thunderbird Two except the men she was trying to rescue. Outside that though…

A ring of vehicles was forming up to make a loose perimeter, jeeps bouncing over the rough desert wasteland, armoured trucks flattening it under their caterpillar tracks and jogging troops silhouetted against the flames. I could hear jets and helijets going through their third warm-up cycle out by the hangars. Within minutes Harmon was going to have Thunderbird Two boxed in, not in the distantly-polite stand-off of the last few days, but in a tightening vise that held an imminent threat.

The expression on Harmon's face - a tight, predatory grin - was making me more than a little uneasy. His last few orders had been an indecipherable alphabet soup of command codes and weapons specifications. I'd caught enough of the syntax to realise that the base was preparing a serious assault against my brothers. The jargon was sufficiently obscure that I had very little idea what form it would take.

"Status, Gordon?"

"Urgh… right, that's, ah, two in through the hatch. Getting there."

"Fast as you can, okay? I'm seeing rising cabin temperatures."

"Wanna trade places?" Gordon sounded more than a little breathless. Even in the fire suit, the heat had to be cruel out there. "Crank up the air-con and quit complaining. I'll be done when I'm done."

The room's main video display showed a real-time image of Thunderbird Two, glimpsed as a blur of dark green almost lost in the smoke. Through the windows I could just make out the 'Bird herself, outlined by reflected flame-light. I found myself drifting towards that window, moving up beside Langdon as I tried to get a better view. I cast a worried look back towards the control table. Casey had fallen into place beside his current superior, his expression concerned but apparently as non-plussed as I was by the locally-defined codes Harmon was using.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, I waited, knowing I could do nothing but react when the situation became clearer.

A flicker of activity on a monitor screen off to my far left caught my eye, and I frowned at it, struggling to make sense of the obscure information streaming past on a command-line interface and the status reports being called out by the officer seated in front of it. Distracted, I almost missed the movement in the darkness. I turned back to the windows, squinting hard against the light of the command room and the ruddy glow from the fire site. Two long, low trucks had edged their way out of a reinforced bunker not far from the control building and were deploying stabilising jacks. I could hear men shouting as they pulled back canvas covers, revealing the trucks' flat beds and deadly cargo. Stubby cylinders tilted upwards, rocking the vehicles despite their stabilisers as the metal framework supporting them rotated and rose.

My guts twisted. This was what I've been afraid of since we started the rescue, and terrified of since seeing the fire. It was the one thing we really had no way to defend against.

If all had gone to plan, Elton's fighters would have been grounded. Thunderbird Two would have outrun any already in the air, or outclimbed them, and been long gone before Harmon could go this far. If all had gone to plan, she wouldn't be swathed in flames, saving lives that our own actions endangered.

Of course, if Harmon were entirely rational, he wouldn't dream of firing on a ship fighting to rescue his own men.

Ifs weren't going to change the lethal threat in front of me.

"Missiles!"

Chapter Seven: Endgame

"Missiles!"

I made it an exclamation of surprise rather than the urgent warning I intended it to be.

"What are those? They look ballistic, but I'd bet they can heat-seek too." I directed my comments towards Langdon. He ignored me, his attention firmly caught by whatever he was seeing through the binoculars. I went on anyway, hoping that my brothers heard the concern I was hiding from the ISS agent. "Pretty high yield, I guess. Short range? Even so, they're going to have to climb pretty steeply to come down that close to the launchers!"

"I'm working on it! They're on an independent system! I can't get in." The report was punctuated by a staccato clatter as John programmed at speed. He didn't sound hopeful, and his voice trailed off as his typing continued to accelerate.

"How's it coming, Gordon?" On the face of it, Virgil sounded a lot calmer than I felt, but I could hear his fingers drumming nervously against his control yoke.

"Getting… there." From the strain in Gordon's voice and the grunt that followed, he was having to haul the victims back to Two's hatch bodily. There was a thud and he spoke more clearly, although still panting harder than I liked. "Only half-way through, Virg. I… I can't go any faster."

"F.A.B."

Virgil's simple acknowledgement said everything. There was no point in urging Gordon on. He was already suffering in the heat and sounded exhausted. And without Gordon and the six men my brothers were there to rescue on board, there was nothing Virgil could do but sit and wait for impact.

I spun away from the window, unable to keep silent any longer. I was startled to find that I wasn't the only one. While I'd been focussed on my brothers, the atmosphere in the command centre had gone from edgy to downright rigid with tension.

"Are you insane?" The World Army general, Archer, was leaning forward over the table in the centre of the room, his hands pressed palm down on the piled plans and maps. He stared at Harmon, his face distorted with incredulity. "Those are your own men out there!"

"Sir, that's barely two miles from here. And less than a mile from the residential zone!" Casey chimed in. "You can't do this! We don't even know if those ARM2s will even dent the Thunderbird. If they go astray or – Hell! – bounce off, we won't just lose the fire crews!"

Harmon might have been a statue. He stood rigid, his blinkered eyes on the main monitor as it switched to a tactical display that had to be coming from the missile control trucks. The protests of his senior observers, and the uncertain looks he was getting even from his own subordinates, didn't seem to register at all.

"International Rescue to Elton Air Force Base."

I'd been vaguely aware of keyboard keys clattering across my open com-link with John as he tried to override the missile system. Even knowing our space monitor was busy, Alan's voice caught me by surprise. I hadn't given my youngest brother another thought since John kicked him off the space station. Quite honestly I was surprised he wasn't already back at Base. It took me a moment to remember that as far as everyone else in the room was concerned he was still on Thunderbird Five. I doubted anyone but me would notice the subtly different hum of Thunderbird Three's systems in the background of Alan's call.

"International Rescue has detected distress calls from a time-critical situation in your area. We are responding. Thunderbird Two is an unarmed craft engaged in rescue operations – do not attack. Repeat, we are engaged in humanitarian rescue efforts at Elton AFB in direct response to distress calls picked up by Thunderbird Five – hold your fire!"

It was a good effort, and if nothing else, it laid down our position for the record. I didn't hold out much hope of it actually working, any more than the local protests had.

"General, this would be murder." Langdon didn't show any sign of anger, his voice calm and his eyes intent on Harmon's pale face. The ISS agent's expression was inscrutable, giving no indication of his own preference in the matter. He simply stressed the facts. "Under international law, you can't interfere with a vehicle answering an S-O-S."

He paused, waiting for an answer, but looking unsurprised when he didn't get one. Casey had less patience. He closed the space between himself and Harmon, taking the general by one arm and shaking it.

"For God's sake! Harmon, think about what you're doing!"

I was stealing another glance out of the windows, so I didn't see quite what happened next. One minute Casey was confronting his current superior. The next minute he was hard against the wall, gasping to catch his breath and staggering a little as he tried to catch his balance.

Harmon raised an eyebrow. "Are the interceptors clear?" he asked, an undercurrent of anger adding a snap to his words.

"Ah… yes. They report that they're outside the five mile exclusion zone." The lieutenant reporting the fact didn't sound happy about it, his eyes on the wheezing colonel. Harmon couldn't have been more indifferent to the emotion behind the report; he only cared about its content.

The general had been still for so long, I was taken by surprise when he took three steps to his right. He reached past an uneasy-looking lieutenant colonel before I could even think of reacting, and flipped a switch. He voiced his order as he carried it out: "Fire!"

Through the wide sweep of windows, I saw a new blaze of flame, flaring and then fading quickly. My eyes traced twin columns of orange-light through the night sky as the missiles climbed on a near-vertical trajectory.

"No!" My cry wasn't the only one. They merged into a chorus of impotent protest.

"Gordon, get back inside!"

"There… there's still… one out there."

God, that heat must be fierce. Even in his protective suit, Gordon sounded barely with it. Virgil repeated his order, urgent and as clear as possible.

"Close that hatch! I'm not taking off, but I need that hatch closed!"

"Kill that missile!" Casey gasped, bypassing Harmon entirely and looking to the base's executive officer.

Harmon's hand dropped to his side-arm, his eyes never leaving the tactical display.

"I will personally restrain and then court-martial any man who moves."

The missiles were slowing now, approaching their apex height before turning over to fall dangerously close to their launching point. Far too close to my brothers.

Thunderbird Two's reinforced hull should take one strike, but not without damage. Two warheads the size of these… My mind worked at top speed, trying to find a non-existent solution. I could hear John working quickly, but if he'd even been close to a solution, he'd have said something by now. I clenched my fists and started praying. There was nothing else I could do.

"Gordon!"

"Just… one… more…"

"Radar contact: sector 8, altitude fifty-eight thousand… fifty… forty… descending rapidly!"

"What…?" Already a rumble of sound was growing behind the exclamation.

I wasn't the only one to rush to the window. The new contact was just a trail of rocket flame, arcing down to intercept the rising missiles, but I knew those engines. It wasn't until she was at the bottom of her dive, blasting the missiles with her exhaust before accelerating skywards, that pale moonlight and the orange-red flame glow reflecting from her hull identified her.

"Elton Air Force Base, Thunderbird Three." Alan sounded grim. "I think I'll take these with me."

"Alan!" Virgil's cool escaped him.

The base's executive officer pushed past his stunned superior, scanning the monitor screens. "She must have some kind of jamming beam! The ARM2s have reverted to heat-seeking. They're following the exhaust trail. Thunderbird Three climbing rapidly…"

"Alan, what on Earth…?" John exclaimed, fingers still flying.

"Whoa…" The light display in the sky above him seemed to have distracted Gordon too. "Alan's gone nuts."

"Just get that last one in," Virgil urged. "I want to get out of here!"

I gripped the window ledge with white knuckles, trying to calculate accelerations and altitudes on the fly and failing as my mind locked up with fear. I'd thought Alan at least was safely out of this.

"Thunderbird Three now out of radar range. Contacting IRAD for orbital tracking." Reports flew around me. "She might outrun them yet. It'll be close. Missiles still climbing…" Through the corner of my eye I saw the executive officer flip up the cover on the remote destruct and flick it backwards and forwards. My own gaze stayed locked to the point where my brother's spaceship had vanished from sight. "Damn! That jamming beam's scrambled the circuits. Override negative."

Casey stepped up to the man's side. "You've got to find a way to stop them!"

The XO shook his head in frustration. "They're on auto… Hold on… Missiles approaching edge of their fuel capacity… flame out… the missiles are falling… Yes! Automatic self-destruct confirmed on both ARM2s!"

If I'd had any doubts about the balance of sympathy in the room, they were dispelled. A spontaneous cheer broke out from a dozen throats.

"Alan, report!"

"Thunderbird Three in orbit. All systems green. Calm down, Johnny. No way those things could keep up with my baby!"

I drew in a ragged breath and looked up to see Casey rubbing his brow.

"If that young man was under my command, I'd ground him for a stunt like that."

I met Casey's eyes across the room.

"His commander will want a word." I choked out something between a cough and a laugh. "I'm sure of that!"

"Yeah. Me too. Alan, are you insane?" John demanded.

"You're quite welcome." Alan sounded peeved and entirely unrepentant. "Virg, you're clear."

"Thanks, Alan." Virgil spoke slowly and sincerely, meaning it. "Gordy, how's it coming? It's getting hot up here and I don't just mean figuratively."

"Uh… Give me a few minutes, Virg."

"Step away from that board."

The blunt order from here and now dragged me away from the exchange between Thunderbirds. Somehow, in the heat of the moment and my fear for my brothers, I'd lost track of Harmon. As soon as I realised it, I knew it was a mistake.

Harmon's voice was as firm and clear as it had been all evening. His expression was neutral, his cheeks pale and unflushed. It was his eyes that gave him away. They shimmered with fervour, too wide and barely blinking. His pupils were dilated, betraying a nervous fragility that I'd be wary of in a rescuee, let alone a military commander. Those eyes told me this was a man who'd been pushed too far.

Those, and the gun in his hand.

"Step away from that board," he repeated.

"General?"

"Back. Now."

For the first time since I'd stepped into it, the command centre went completely quiet. Every eye was on Harmon's sidearm and its unwavering aim on his own executive officer.

"Scott, I'm cutting your transmission out of the link – the guys don't need the distraction – but what the hell is going on down there?"

I had no way to answer John. I wasn't entirely sure I knew the answer. Like everyone else, I held my silence and watched Elton's executive officer straighten slowly, his hands spread open in front of him as he tried to pacify the base's gun-wielding commander. Harmon gestured him to one side with the weapon, taking his place at the missile control desk.

"Guards, arrest this man. Hold him pending court-martial for mutiny."

The two guards stepped forward from their post just inside the main door. The airmen weren't exactly rushing to apprehend their second-in-command, but they couldn't ignore the order either. They hovered uncertainly, somewhere in between, as they looked from officer to officer and then around the room searching for guidance.

Harmon's tone was entirely rational. If I hadn't seen that look in dozens of eyes over the years, even I might have been convinced by it. Certainly I'd be hard pressed to point out the moment when Harmon's understandable desire to control Thunderbird Two's technology tipped over into blind obsession. On the face of it, his orders made perfect sense and were even, to some extent, justified by the XO's actions. At least half of his personnel seemed inclined to follow them, trusting in their senior officer's experience and in the chain of command. Cheering Thunderbird Three's escape was one thing, directly contradicting your commander was quite another.

It was only a minority of his senior officers who looked angry or worried rather than merely ambivalent. Even the World Army observer, General Archer, seemed uncertain. Tim Casey wasn't.

"Sir?" Casey was still rubbing his breastbone. His deferential words choked out between gritted teeth. "If I might ask, what are you…?"

Harmon didn't holster his side arm. He lowered it to his side, holding it against his hip as he typed one-handed at the keyboard in front of him. Those fevered eyes moved constantly, from screen to windows to sweep the room and back again. "That aircraft belongs to an illegal organisation. I have a moral obligation to ensure that technology doesn't fall into irresponsible hands."

"You're going to launch another round?" Drawing Harmon's eyes to me at this point was risky, but I couldn't count on John to interpret what was happening based on busy silences alone. For a long few seconds, Harmon didn't answer me. John did.

My brother swore tiredly before his usual even tones returned.

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Five. Virg, you've got to get moving. Fast."

Virgil didn't argue. "Gordon? Tell me you've got him?"

"All… aboard…"

"Sealing the hatch. Gordon? Gordon, you need to drink something. There's water in the lockers, remember."

"Indeed I am, Mr Tracy." Harmon's rational tone was all the more frightening now I realised that he must have left rationality behind hours before. His eyes met mine, and it was like being caught by the gaze of a snake. I didn't dare look away for fear of him pouncing on my weakness. It was a relief when he turned back to programming the mobile missile array. "I owe it to the men under my command and the people of this nation to secure that Thunderbird."

"Gordon?"

I couldn't help throwing a glance towards the distant Thunderbird Two. My eyes met Langdon's on the way back. I could tell that on some level he agreed with Harmon. His attitude throughout our discussions had not exactly been friendly towards International Rescue. On the other hand, he'd argued against the first missile assault more vehemently than anyone. Like Harmon, this was a man who believed in ends that justified means. Langdon's cause was the upholding of international law at all costs. The ISS agent held his hands open in front of him and tried again, two unshakable ideologies colliding.

"Harmon, stop and think about this. You think you're doing this out of patriotism? If you take an illegal action Washington can't…"

"This isn't Washington! It's not about Washington. I'm doing this for every man and woman on the planet!"

"Virgil?" Alan sounded more chastened this time. "What's wrong with Gordy?"

"Heat stroke. Reading elevated core temperatures from all seven heat signatures in the Pod. Gordon's not moving. I'll go down…"

"No!" John interrupted. "Get that 'bird in the air! Virgil, you're only two minutes from the nearest civilian trauma centre. Let's get you the hell out of Elton, okay?"

"F.A.B. Activating pod sprinkler system." Virgil's concern was obvious, but then so was John's. The cool shower would help our stricken brother and his unconscious rescuees, if only a little. "Setting course. Activating thrusters now."

With silence filling the control room, the distant rumble of engine noise was all too obvious.

"I will not let that craft escape!"

"Elton AFB from Thunderbird Five." John was typing again, his tone distracted as his words emerged from the base speakers. "Thunderbird Two is en route to a civilian facility with survivors. Repeat, Thunderbird Two has successfully evacuated your personnel from the danger zone and is en route to a hospital to secure medical assistance."

"Call Charlie-one-niner." My brother's words seemed, if anything, to spur the general on to greater efforts. He glanced up towards the operator in charge of communications with the fighter patrol. "Have the interceptors track the Thunderbird. As long as they're still in range, we can bring that 'bird down." He waved another of his men forwards. "Check my targeting."

Major Derby hesitated in the face of the direct order. The man had been assigned an impossible task, left to listen to every gasp and plea for help the trapped fire-crews made. Now he was meant to help shoot them down?

He took a deep breath. "Sir. No, sir."

"Approaching hospital. I'll go down to unload when we land. John…" Virgil sounded uneasy. "What was the rush? Why have I stopped hearing Scott?"

"Give me a minute, Virg." John's distracted tone wouldn't do anything to reassure our brother. "I'm trying to get through some pretty fierce firewalls."

Harmon stared at Derby.

"Major, you are to consider yourself under arrest pending court martial," he snapped, nodding to the guards still hovering behind his second in command. One of the men detached himself and stepped towards the major, hand dropping to his sidearm in a hesitant gesture.

"I will not tolerate this degree of insubordination." Harmon straightened, very slowly, once again raising his bared revolver, this time pointing it at Major Derby, as if contemplating an immediate and final punishment. "Let me make this very plain. I will shoot the next man who gives me the least reason to suspect mutiny."

There was dead silence from the airmen. The disquiet was more widely spread this time, but just as impotent. The suggestion of mutiny had less of an impact on my fellow observers.

"Harmon!" Langdon repeated sharply. "There are six of your men on that Thunderbird."

"Of course they'd say that."

"In God's name, man!" Finally, the World Army general Archer drew a line and refused to cross it. "Look at what you're doing. You're sending heat-seekers on a direct course towards a hospital!"

Harmon hadn't moved, his gun still aimed squarely at his own Major Derby. His expression was that of a man who passionately believed he was doing the right thing. At some point this evening, the world had spiralled out of Harmon's control. The scary thing was that if it hadn't been for his rank and the intensity of the moment, I might never have seen how badly the stress had affected him. Even now, he was doing a good job of hiding just how unhinged he'd become.

"Collateral damage." He didn't give anyone time to process that statement. He gestured with his gun, pointing Derby towards the side office where Colonel Robins was still working. His eyes roamed the room, picking out Langdon, Casey and me before throwing a bitter look at Archer. "Guards, confine the mutineers along with our 'guests' in the ward room. I'll deal with them when that Thunderbird is grounded – one way or another."

Collateral damage.

My insides clenched at the phrase, but I let myself be herded towards the door by a few unhappy airmen. The barrel of Harmon's gun scanned across the group constantly, threatening us all. Scared as I was for Gordon, as much as the thought of another missile flight heading for Thunderbird Two terrified me, I wasn't prepared to take collateral damage of my own. I had to wait my chance.

Or something worth the risk.

"Scott, I'm sorry. Things sound pretty tense, but the security on this missile system has me stalemated. I'm almost there, but I can't do this without someone down there to authorise me." John whispered in my ear, voice hoarse with frustration. "Computer monitor, left of the main door, near the windows. Blank screen. Prompt says 'Confirm? y/n'. Hit 'y' and I have the missiles. Two will be home free."

Worth the risk.

My head snapped around, my eyes searching out the screen John had mentioned. Too far. It was too damn far away, and Harmon would notice any second, and there was just no way I could cross the room before he downed me. But his wasn't the only pair of eyes on me tonight. I was perhaps five metres from the keyboard I needed, and headed in the wrong direction. Casey was passing it, no more than a metre away. He glanced at the screen, following my gaze, before looking back at me with a question in his eyes. I took a deep breath and tensed, before giving a sharp nod.

"Hey!" I spun on the spot, shoving the airman behind me backwards. "Don't you dare touch me! Don't you know who I am?" It was the first thing that sprang to mind, and even I was surprised at my inventiveness. "When my father hears about this…!"

I was only half aware of a similar tussle somewhere away towards the door. I felt myself grabbed and held firm, and looked up to see a somewhat dishevelled Casey in a position that mirrored mine, trapped in the strong grip of a couple of coms-techs. From this angle, I couldn't see the screen, but I didn't need Casey's return nod to know that he'd been successful. I could hear John's satisfied crowing in my ear.

"Yes! Taking missile system out of Elton control. Got it. That's all the base networks. Harmon's not going to fire a pea shooter without my say so!"

Except that he was already holding something a lot bigger than a pea-shooter, and it was pointed directly at me.

Rough hands pushed me forward, until I found myself stumbling to a halt. I caught my balance more quickly than Casey and I reached out to steady the colonel, letting just the slightest hint of a smile touch my lips in answer to his anxious look. General Archer had already been pushed back into the ward-room, waving a startled Colonel Robins back from the desk as Derby and the XO were shoved in behind him. Langdon stood with Casey and me in the doorway, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands hanging loose and ready by his side. His eyes never left Harmon's.

Without a word, Harmon glared at us, leaned over and flipped the fire switch.

"No you don't, fella! I don't think so."

"Control system failure," someone called. The airman sounded nervous and I couldn't blame him. "Sir, we can't fire. I don't understand. It was online a moment ago…"

"So…" It was all Harmon said, and he didn't sound surprised. The muzzle of his gun tracked his eyes as he surveyed each of us in turn.

"So," the general repeated, still not making a whole lot of sense. "As I suspected." He glanced briefly towards the window and the runway beyond. "And I suppose if I give the order to launch anything else we're looking at another EMP?"

My hand twitched towards my pocket and stopped. It was an option, but not one that would do anyone much good in this situation.

"Thunderbird Two's gone, Harmon." Casey sounded more tired than pleased. "Give it up. We lost this one."

"Did 'we'?"

Something about the way those quotation marks fell into place was deeply unsettling.

He waved at the guards and called across the room. "Fetch the prisoner."

It took a few minutes, the room locked in an awkward impasse while the base commander held both his guests and his own officers at gunpoint. From time to time, I heard muted calls from the radio, status reports and requests for clarification coming in from all over the base. The junior personnel in the room dealt with them, directing what was left of the fire-fighting effort and putting the now-prepared air wing on standby in the absence of any other orders. Harmon didn't stir and caught between their general, their XO and a half-dozen high-ranking VIPs, the more senior officers didn't seem prepared to unbalance the situation by committing themselves to decisions one way or the other.

"Offloaded the airmen." Virgil's report whispered in my ear. "Gordon's a bit groggy, but he'll be fine. I'll settle him in the cockpit and keep an eye on him. Heading home at best speed." He paused. "Any word from Scott?"

"Nothing worth reporting," John wasn't exactly lying, but I heard a soft click and his voice was a lot more worried as he went on. "Ah… Scott…? Any time you could let me know what's going on down there…?"

Well, that wasn't going to be any time soon. Like Langdon, I held myself ready, watching Harmon closely, and all the while wondering about this 'prisoner'.

"I knew." Harmon's voice broke the hush, but I wasn't sure it was an improvement. "I knew even before the explosion that someone here was working against me."

I tensed despite myself. It was too serious an accusation to be ignored. Langdon's eyes darted away from Harmon, sweeping his fellow captives with a slight frown on his face. He hesitated on me for no more than a split second and then on Casey for a brief moment before returning to the general. I couldn't help breathing a soft sigh of relief as Langdon decided that Harmon's reaction had finally tipped over into pure paranoia. The general glanced behind him in response to some report, and the ISS agent took a chance on the moment. He dived forward, reaching out in the attempt to disarm our captor. It was a good attempt, but Harmon was air-force trained, fit and wiry despite his advancing years.

He side-stepped the assault, clubbing Langdon brutally with the butt of his sidearm. The break in Harmon's attention can't have lasted more than a second. By the time I was ready to move myself, the gun was again focussed on us, rendering any escape attempt foolhardy at best.

A dazed Langdon was shoved into the room. I helped Derby catch and steady him, making a quick assessment of his injuries, before stepping back to Casey's side.

Harmon took a step forward, backing us all into the ward room and guarding its threshold. His eyes swept across the group, assessing each of us. They lingered a little too long for comfort on Casey. He went on as if the past minute had never happened, picking up his chain of thought without a break. "Working against me. Slowing down the analysis. Passing on information to the enemy." His eyes flicked back towards Casey. "Someone who knew about the base." If his paranoia hadn't been justified, it would have been tragic. "Well, I have a new tool now – someone who will reveal the spy whether they mean to or not. Bring the prisoner in."

I knew it wasn't any of my brothers, but… Penny? Parker? Or even one of the Thunderbird guards, disciplined for their failure but able to identify Virgil and Gordon and finger me by association?

As God is my witness, I'd completely forgotten about the Hood.

Last I'd heard, Harmon had half a division in hot pursuit of our fleeing enemy. Amidst the furore of Thunderbird Two's rescue, the missile crisis and Alan's reckless dive in Thunderbird Three, I must have missed the capture report. Fortunately, someone had kept their head. Our long-time adversary was blindfolded as well as under close restraint. His arms were pulled back tight behind him, secured with plastic strips. His legs were shackled, giving him enough slack to shuffle forward, but only just so. Despite that, two airmen held him by the shoulders and a third held a bared firearm on their prisoner.

Harmon took a step forward into the room and to one side, giving us an unimpeded view as the captive Hood was pulled forward until he stood in the wardroom doorway. Harmon looked around at expressions that ranged from bemusement to fear, his attention, and his weapon, returning most often to where Casey stood at my immediate left. It was pretty clear that Harmon had already decided who his mole was. He expected the Hood to finger the colonel at once. I have no idea just what I expected myself. It was too much to hope that my long-term adversary would overlook my presence. I knew without looking that no one in the room was tall enough or broad enough to block me from the criminal's view, even if hiding had been an option.

"Thunderbird Two, climbing through sixty thousand. Ascending towards seventy-five. Reporting Mach One in five… four… three… two… one…"

"Let him see."

Harmon's voice and Virgil's overlapped. The familiar sound of Thunderbird Two's sonic boom rolled across us just as one of the guards reached up to tug the blindfold from the Hood's face.

I'd never seen the thick-set features and bushy eyebrows from such close proximity. They creased in anger and frustration as he recognised the sound. He'd never wanted Thunderbird Two in military hands. Even so, her escape grated at him.

"Once again, International Rescue lays waste to my plans!"

"Scott!" John yelped in my ear, his frustration evident. "Is that who I think it is?"

"May a thousand devils blight their accursed homeland and bring them to eternal ruin!"

The Hood blinked in the light, but his deep-sunken eyes swept the room even as he cursed our name, assessing his situation and identifying his adversities with a frightening rapidity. It was inevitable his eyes would meet mine. Inevitable that they'd hesitate there, caught by familiarity.

I'd suspected for years that the Hood, for all his moral vacuum, had an intellect that ranked up there with some of the best I'd known. In that split second of contact, I saw his anger, and the truth of what he'd told my unconscious brothers – the man loathed me with an unholy passion. He would happily see me dead and defile my grave, revelling in the pain it caused my family. But I could see the frustrated realisation too. He recognised the trap Harmon had set for both of us. And he knew that if he betrayed me now, the secrets of International Rescue would be laid bare, slipping forever beyond his exclusive grasp.

The hesitation was gone almost as soon as I'd seen it. The Hood's eyes moved past me, sliding on to Casey and sticking there, picking the man standing to my left as a lamb for the slaughter.

Harmon's predatory smile tightened, his deduction apparently confirmed. Casey's eyes widened, his incredulity and anger giving way to a shiver of fear for the first time since Harmon pointed a weapon in his direction.

The Hood smiled, slow and deliberate.

"Look at me!"

Oh God. I dropped my eyes to the ground a moment before the intensity of the Hood's gaze lit the room. Even so, I could feel the force of his will pounding at me, urging me to look up. I'd felt this before, I'd known it was coming. I could resist. I had to resist.

"Do not move! Fools! Your will is subordinate to mine. You will do as I bid, my slaves, and nothing else."

I could hear movement, the Hood spinning on the spot to capture those in the command centre as well as the ward room with his hypnotic gaze.

"You." He picked out a technician at random. "Release my bonds!"

My neck muscles were straining, fighting to hold down a head that seemed determined to rise and meet the Hood's eyes. I tensed my body to spring forward, to take out the Hood in a quarterback's tackle, only to find my legs refusing to obey. I don't know whether it was some timbre in his deep voice, the unholy light spilling from his eyes or some darker power. The Hood's authority filled the room like treacle, every word hammering at my will and flooding my mind until resistance became near impossible.

My eyes rose from floor level to waist and then chest height, and I realised I wasn't alone in fighting the Hood's influence. Harmon's body quaked, his obsession and determination giving him the strength that experience lent me. I saw Harmon's gun jerk up, its aim holding true. My eyes rose to face level in time to see the passion and hatred in the general's expression, and the effort he put into making one small movement.

No! I couldn't stand by.

It felt like I was pulling a dozen g, my body anchored to the ground as if melting into it. I concentrated, tensed every muscle, put everything I had into one movement of my own.

Another life endangered by International Rescue's actions. This one was mine to save.

I took a step to my left, my hands coming up in front of me as pure survival instinct overrode the Hood's command.

The Hood spun to face me, his concentration faltering.

Harmon's hand jerked spasmodically.

A sharp pain blossomed in my wrist. Something thudded into my shoulder, throwing me backwards. It was only as I fell that the deeper, tearing pain made itself felt, spreading through me, carried on a wave of blackness.

"Scott? Scott!" John sounded alarmed and that was never good. "Scott, I heard gunfire!"

Gunfire? Somewhere above me, a deep laugh echoed off the walls and faded into the distance. A familiar voice shouted for medics. I opened my eyes to see a blur of shapes. Some of them were holding me down. I strained against them and a sudden blaze of pain told me more than I wanted to know about who had been shot.

"Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Two. What the Hell is going on? I just tried to call Scott and I'm reading his wrist-com as off the network!"

"John?" I muttered. "Virg?"

I tried again to sit, pulling my arm up out of someone's grip and blinking blearily at my watch. There was something wrong with it. The face was shattered, minute electronic components dropping away, and 'something wrong' was about the best assessment my bleary thoughts could provide.

"I lost the signal a few seconds ago. I'm not sure why." Years on Thunderbird Five had made Johnny a good liar, but it would take more than that to hide his anxiety from Virgil. "Trying to re-establish contact."

"John… what's happened to Scott?"

A new voice broke through John's hesitation. "Parker and I will investigate."

"Scott, lie still!" It took a couple of seconds for me to disentangle the voice speaking into my left ear from the louder and clearer conversation in my right. Tim Casey sounded worried. My whole left hand side seemed to be burning, the nerves overloaded. It wasn't until I felt fingertips gently but firmly exploring my shoulder that the pain concentrated itself there. I gritted my teeth, determined to hold back the scream building in my throat but unable to do anything about the new wall of darkness that closed in behind it.

There's a certain feel about hospitals. A rhythm in the sounds. An odour that doesn't register with your sense of smell but instead lingers at the back of your throat.

I'd woken in enough of them to know where I was even before I came close to remembering why.

"Ah, Scott. You're awake." Lady Penelope sounded a lot surer of that fact than I was. I blinked, trying to focus my vision and was rewarded with the sight of Penelope's ash blond hair, framing an exquisite face. Penny raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "It really isn't polite to keep a lady waiting so long."

So long? What did she…? Memory returned in a rush and questions piled up on my lips, held back by an automatic caution. I tried to push up onto my right elbow, and couldn't stifle a gasp as even the suggestion of movement set my left shoulder ablaze.

"Oh, Scott darling. Do lie down! Your father would be most displeased with me if I let you exert yourself, and we can't have that now, can we?"

I didn't need Penny's slender hand on the sheets above my chest to hold me down. I lay still and waited for the painkillers to take the edge off.

"Thunderbird Two?" I ventured, voicing the concern highest in my mind.

Penelope gave me a quick look of assessment, her blue eyes serious behind her relaxed façade. I seemed to pass the test. In any case, she didn't keep me waiting.

"Now, Scott," she scolded lightly. "I don't want you worrying about that thing. The Thunderbird is long gone, and good riddance to it. Really, so much fuss over a mere machine! And such a furore when I arrived!" She straightened in her chair, drawing the hand back to rest in her lap. "You remember my own small contretemps with the Rolls Royce?" she asked, shaking her head. "I am feeling a great deal better, I can assure you, but my poor Mr Charles was a little shaken so dear Virgil volunteered to take him home to his family." She cocked her head to one side, her expression thoughtful. "You know it really won't do to have so fragile a secretary. I think perhaps I shall have to let Mr Charles go. And I'd barely had time to train him too. Such an inconvenience. It really is so very hard to find good staff these days."

Sighing, Penny shook her head, stroking her perfectly-smooth skirt down over her knees. "In any case, Scott darling, I thought I should let you know not to expect Virgil back, but when I arrived, well… I have to say I wasn't expecting to discover our host the general under guard, Colonel Casey in charge, and you being stretchered away. Not to mention that dreadful Hood causing chaos and confusion." Penelope shuddered delicately. "The man has quite the most appalling manners. If I'd known who it was pushing past me as I entered the building, I'd have endeavoured to stop him before he could make out his escape."

The Hood gone and free. Well, that was about what I'd expected. Despite that blow, I let out a sigh of relief. Casey was alive. I'd known I blocked Harmon's first shot. I'd been worried about a second or third.

"And Virgil and Gordon are okay?" I was pressing the point, but I'd no idea how long had passed since the showdown in the command centre, and I couldn't help worrying that none of my family was present to see me wake.

Penelope's quiet laughter soothed the last of my anxiety. "Both quite fine, Scott darling. In fact, I believe they're more worried about you than you are about them. Dear Virgil was more than a little inclined to return when he heard you'd been injured. I assured him there was no need. I spoke to your father mere minutes ago, and he told me Virgil had just landed."

I relaxed. I had a time-scale now too. If Virg was only now landing his Thunderbird, I couldn't have been out for more than a few hours. No wonder no one had come out to join me. There simply hadn't been time.

From the way my shoulder hurt if I so much as twitched, I was guessing the bullet had torn into it pretty badly. I still wanted to know one thing though. I held my left side as still as I could while raising my wrist, peering in confusion at the dark bruise and watch-shaped contusion there. Penelope held up the remains of my watch in front of my face, suspending it by the buckle and twisting it so I could see the dent in its thick metal back-plate.

For the first time I saw a hint of the serious young woman I knew behind the elegant but self-centred debutante façade. "It deflected the bullet," she told me softly. "Up towards your shoulder. The doctors tell me you were fortunate to receive no more than a flesh wound."

She didn't need to give the might-have-beens voice. I remembered Harmon's gun aimed squarely at chest-height, and my hands coming up in front of my ribs in instinctive defence. Escaping with nothing more than a sore shoulder was luckier than I deserved to be. Painful as it was, I'd had worse, and the sacrifice had been worth it. Gordon was fine. Virgil had taken Thunderbird Two home. Even Alan had survived his reckless heroics. A little immediate attention here, a few of Brains' more effective treatments when I got home, and some physio would take care of the rest.

Penny must have seen my eyelids flickering as adrenaline backwash helped the pain medication along. She leaned across me, adjusting the sheets with a gentle touch, and went on talking.

"And now it seems this whole business is over and done with. Colonel Casey is making arrangements to send most of our fellow observers home in the morning. My poor boy, I'm afraid you were called away from your father's lovely island for no reason at all. It would appear that the electronic recordings of the Thunderbird have vanished into the aether, and even the paper copies appear to have been… misplaced. One really must admire the ingenuity of International Rescue regarding such things." Her guileless look was replaced by a rueful smile. "And now I'm faced with the most dreadful dilemma, Scott darling. I've not the slightest idea quite how I'm going to write this whole affair up as a convincing story for my readers."

I shared Penelope's smile and let myself sink into my pillow. I was exhausted, warm and, if not comfortable, then at least numbed by the familiar haze of painkillers. It had been a long night - a long week - but for the first in days I actually felt as if I could rest easy.

"It's over," I echoed as I gave in and let sleep overtake me.

Author's Note: I'd like to thank everyone who's made it this far through the story - and in particular those folks who have been kind and generous enough to leave reviews. This story was a tough one to write. It's good to know that, on the whole, it's gone across well. It's been fun to watch people's reactions and guesses as to what was to come. Each one has brightened my day, and I hope the conclusion of this story doesn't disappoint. Any further comments are, of course, more than welcome!

"Thunderbirds One and Two to Base, requesting landing clearance."

Alan spoke for both craft, his voice clear and confident of a swift response. I glanced out of Two's cockpit window, taking in the sleek lines of Thunderbird One beside us. It wasn't often I got a good view of her in flight. My hands itched to take the controls, but with my shoulder tightly bound and my arm supported in a sling it was the co-pilot seat in Thunderbird Two or nothing. I'd had to argue hard to secure even that much.

"Thunderbirds One and Two from Thunderbird Five. Hold at twenty mile perimeter." I jerked upright in my seat, hissing under my breath as pain shot through my back and arm, and then scowling at Virgil when he threw a worried look in my direction. My shoulder was fine. Just a little stiff. I was far more interested in why John had intercepted Alan's call. Our space monitor's voice stayed carefully level. "Operation Cover-Up is in under way."

Alan's voice over the radio echoed my own confusion. "What… why?"

"Private jet landed almost two hours ago." John's image appeared on the dashboard screen in front of us, shrugging. "That's all I can tell you."

"Hmmm…" Virgil was already decelerating. He looked at me again, a new concern deepening the familiar lines on his brow. The strains of the last week still showed on my brother. Even three contented days spent checking Thunderbird Two over inch by inch couldn't wipe away the days of uncertainty over her fate, or the thirty-six hours he'd spent fretting before I rejoined my family on the island. "Dad knew when to expect us home, didn't he?"

"We called in our ETA," I confirmed grimly.

Virgil shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he put Thunderbird Two in a hover.

"Damn, we shouldn't have left – " Virgil pitched his voice too low for the microphone to pick up. I looked over at him, cutting him off in the same quiet murmur.

"Relax, Virg. It's probably got nothing to do with," I waved a hand, taking in Thunderbird Two and everything it implied, "all this."

The media were still picking over 'the Elton Affair'. Harmon had come in for near-universal vilification. The cold light of dawn had found the man more rational and willing to concede that 'mistakes were made' but far from repentant regarding his motives and intent. Opinions over International Rescue's secrecy and Harmon's motives might still be divided, but threatening his fellow officers and attempting to bombard a hospital, not to mention shooting a civilian, had put the general's actions beyond the pale. Far more detail of his decisions in the base's control room had leaked out than I'd have expected. I still wasn't sure whether to blame John for that, or Casey, or some other less obvious sympathiser. Either way, my own video statement wouldn't be doing anything to help Harmon's defence.

According to Penny, it wasn't just the press and the air force disciplinary board still digesting the whole business. Apparently, our willingness to recover our property by force had come as a surprise to the governments and agencies who'd been so keen to exploit the Hood's theft. It seemed to have won us a certain degree of cautious respect. Either way International Rescue had come out pretty much smelling like roses, our suspected mistake in starting the base fire conveniently glossed over everywhere but in our rather chastening internal debriefing. Governments were falling over themselves to condemn what had happened, all of them stopping carefully shy of promising safe passage or making any other meaningful assurances.

I'd hoped that returning to the Toronto suburbs and recovering the Mole from her specially built enclosure would draw a line under the whole business. It had worked up to a point. I'd seen Virgil's relieved expression as he checked his favourite pod machine over and then stood for a few seconds with one hand on her flank, simply communing with her. After that, loading the Mole up had been smooth and almost too easy. We'd been careful to thank the Canadian government, and the police force that had guarded the machine around the clock for a week. Admittedly, taking Thunderbird One along to watch over the procedure like a hovering bird of prey might have rather undermined our expressions of gratitude, but if so no one saw fit to comment on it. Until we knew where we stood we'd be playing each rescue cautiously. The rest of the world could take it or leave it.

Assuming we got to carry on with rescues at all… A visitor on the island, just days after our biggest ever threat of exposure? I knew what I'd just told Virgil, but looked at logically, this wasn't good.

"Who could it be?" Alan was jittery, his nerves showing in a slight jerkiness as my 'bird manoeuvred. He dropped into a hover beside us, broke it to circle us a few times and then hovered again. "What if someone worked it all out? What if they traced you guys? Or someone recognised me or Johnny over the radio? What if - ?"

"Alan, shut up." John's instruction pre-empted the order on my lips and the frustration about to burst from Virgil. "You're not helping."

"If they'd put it together do you think they'd have waited this long to confront us?" I asked, voice reasonable.

"They could have been waiting for us to leave," Alan insisted. "To get Dad and Gordon alone on the island."

John sighed, rolling his eyes at our little brother. "That jet? Top speed? It left the mainland before you even set off for Canada, Alan. You think we have psychic invaders?"

Alan subsided. I wasn't expecting Virgil to give the groundless speculation new impetus.

"We gave too much away," he fretted. "We should never have gone in at Elton. The whole thing was a mess from beginning to end."

"We have Thunderbird Two back." I caught Virgil's eyes and then glanced at the dashboard, where John and Alan now shared a split screen. "It was worth the risk. Every life we save from today onwards will prove that."

Virgil's eyes moved from my face to the sling, stark and white against my blue uniform. "It nearly wasn't."

A new sound saved me from having to answer. Over the video link to Thunderbird Five, I saw John reach out to answer the electronic chime and hesitate. He looked up to meet my eyes.

"The jet's still there. What if answering just confirms someone's suspicions?"

The call signal sounded again, and this time a cheerful voice followed it.

"Hey, Johnny. You asleep up there?"

John expelled his breath in a deep sigh, flicking the switch for an audio channel but leaving the video blank. "No, Gordon, I'm not." His tone became more cautious. "We have visitors?"

"Just the one." The thought didn't seem to trouble Gordon in the least. "He wants to talk to Scott. Where are the fellas?"

"Waiting."

"Well, send them on in. Landing clearance granted."

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"John." Dad's chuckle was more reassuring than anything Gordon could say. "Do as your brother tells you."

John's eyes were still on me, asking my advice. I nodded slowly and John swallowed.

"F.A.B." he acknowledged, closing the link back to Base.

I leaned forward, recapturing my brothers' attention.

"Sounds good, but there's still a stranger on the island."

"Just the one," John echoed Gordon uncertainly. "And he wants to talk to you."

"The Hood would be just one." My observation fell into worried silence. "We can't be sure Dad and Gordon know what they're saying. Alan, make a sighting sweep."

"F.A.B., Scott. There in one minute."

It was a long minute. Virgil and I waited in silence, making our own way towards the island but dawdling painfully slowly as we waited for Alan to report. When he did, it was with laughter in his voice.

"Come on in, Virg. Swing by the house, why don't you? There's someone here who's waited a long time to get a good look at your Thunderbird."

Not the most reassuring of sentiments, but Alan's lapse from grim formality echoed those of our father and copper-haired younger brother. Virgil raised an eyebrow and swung Thunderbird Two in for a run on the island.

Alan was hovering Thunderbird One twenty feet above the drawn-back pool, her nose level with the balcony and lounge beyond. Virgil brought Thunderbird Two in right beside my silver-grey 'bird, dwarfing her little sister and blasting the fire-proofed pool furniture with her landing thrusters. Gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, she must have been an awesome sight. Tim Casey, standing beside Dad on the balcony, certainly thought so. He gazed into the one-way glass of the cockpit windows with open-mouthed wonder and studied her lines with an engineer's appreciation.

I hadn't seen the Colonel since we stood side by side in Harmon's sights. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed, but the uncertainty and caution I'd grown so accustomed to seeing in his expression was gone. There was nothing but delight and respect in his expression as he surveyed the two hovering Thunderbirds. He tilted his head back, trying to get a proper view of Thunderbird Two's full size, and raising a hand to brush back grey hair that rippled in her thruster blast.

Grinning, Virgil rocked the Thunderbird on her thrusters, waggling her wings at our guest, before putting on some height. We rose vertically, edged forward and hovered a thousand feet above the house, watching as Alan drifted back towards the pool.

"Sure you're up to parking that thing in front of an audience, Alan?" Gordon's casual drawl emerged from the speakers. "One's a pain in the butt to manoeuvre, but it wouldn't do to bang her up in front of International Rescue's newest agent."

Alan and I drew in simultaneous sharp breaths. Virgil chuckled, giving the panel in front of me and to my right a meaningful look. I grinned back, my expression predatory. I reached out one handed, checking over the controls as Virgil dropped us like a stone. With the flick of a switch and a shudder somewhere below me, Thunderbird Two's water cannon emerged from her lower hull. A light touch on the joystick and it swivelled, an image of a startled Gordon appearing in front of me as it came to rest on him, pointing a few metres to the right of Dad and our guest.

"Still looking a little warm there, Gordo." My drawl matched my brother's perfectly. Alan's snigger almost set me laughing too. I kept my tone even and raised an eyebrow. "And I guess Alan's already using the pool. Want us to cool you off a little?"

"Ah, that won't be necessary, thanks, Scott."

"Sure?" Alan teased, backing off and giving Virgil room to swing around and face our chastened brother head-on. "If Colonel Casey's signed on, I'm sure he wants to see what Two can do."

"I had a pretty good view of that back at Elton, Alan." Casey's familiar voice emerged from our internal coms and sounded at home there. "Thunderbird Three too." He sounded amused, and not entirely impressed.

Alan swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing. "Yes, sir."

"That's enough, boys." Our father's voice was more relaxed than I'd heard him since before the Toronto rescue. Through the windows, I saw Casey chuckle and Dad slapping his old friend on the back as he reclaimed the radio. "Dinner's waiting and the Colonel's brought along a rather nice bottle of single malt I'm hoping Scott will see fit to share with us afterwards." His tone became more formal, making his next words an order. "Let's get those Thunderbirds settled, back where they belong."

Virgil and I exchanged grins, enjoying the thought.

"F.A.B.," we agreed in unison.

Virgil turned Two for the runway, and her hangar beyond. I sat back, enjoying the ride as my brother brought his Thunderbird home.