WEATHERING THE STORM by TIYLAYA RATED FRT

When an unexpected storm shipwrecks a holidaying Jeff Tracy and three of his young sons, they're thrown into a situation far more dangerous and complex than anyone initially realises.

This story is a work of fan fiction based on the 1960s television series Thunderbirds, created by Gerry Anderson for ITC Entertainment. Characters and scenarios are used without permission and for the pleasure they provide, without any attempt to profit. Many thanks to quiller for her helpful and thorough beta, and for pointing out why the geography of San Fernando didn't make sense. Any remaining mistakes are, of course, entirely my own.

Chapter 1

The rain tasted of salt, mingling with the icy spray that was freezing Scott's cheeks. The air and sky and sea seemed to have become one roaring, hungry beast. The whole world was made up of water, and Scott blinked hard, trying to see through the torrent bombarding his eyes and face.

"Swing it out, Scott!" His father's voice was a distant murmur of the wind, but even so he could hear the strain in it. Fear threatened to freeze Scott's limbs. For the sake of his brothers, he forced the emotion down deep inside and hauled on his rope. The emergency dinghy swung out over the turbulent water, waves striking it even before it was lowered from the deck.

"Hold it there!" The words were almost indistinguishable above the flap of torn sails and the creak of the rigging. Again, Scott reacted to his Dad's command instinctively, straining to tighten his grip on the rope and looping it around the anchor point on the deck rail. His hands remembered the knots before his brain did, the last two weeks on the Santa Anna, the lessons and drills from his father, paying off in this thundering, lightning-lit nightmare.

A movement caught his eye, picked out by the flickering light of the storm. He looked upwards along a deck that should have been horizontal and was anything but. The door to the cabin had opened, swinging wide as gravity caught it. Silhouetted against the light, Virgil wedged himself in the doorway, a white-faced Gordon held tight in his arms as they tried to remain steady on the tilting and tossing deck. Virgil had managed to get a life-jacket onto the younger child, Scott noted with relief, and had pulled one over his own head, although the straps meant to secure it hung loose from his waist.

Scott squinted through the pouring rain, barely able to make out the blurred form of his father at the other end of the deck. A dimly-seen arm waved. The gesture could have meant anything, and Jeff Tracy's words were swept away by the gusting wind, but Scott was pretty sure of his father's intention. He was a lot closer to his brothers than their Dad was. Leaving the dinghy hanging behind him, he fought his way toward the cabin, clinging to the rail and to the ropes his father had hastily rigged. There hadn't been much time for elaborate preparations when this squall blew in out of the clear evening sky.

Virgil lost his grip on the doorframe while Scott was still over a yard away, tossed by the rolling vessel. Scott held onto the deck rail one-handed, clinging for dear life – not his own, but two more precious to him. His other arm reached out blindly, and, as his brother had known he would, Virgil found it. Scott let out a sound halfway between a groan and a scream as he took the weight on aching muscles, hauling Virgil in, not resting until his younger brother was able to take his own one-handed grip on the rail next to Scott, Gordon held firmly between them.

All three were already soaked to the skin, and Gordon was shuddering violently as they worked their way down towards the half-deployed dinghy. Dad met them beside it, his own rope now firmly tied off. He swept the three of them into his arms, pulling them down into a tight huddle against the deck. He was shouting to be heard, and even with their heads together, their father's broad shoulders protecting them from the worst of the wind, they could barely hear him.

"The boat's sinking, boys!" he shouted, as if the pronounced list and the waves now lapping over the deck plates wasn't evidence enough. "This shouldn't be happening, but it is. I can tell you, your Uncle Jim is going to get a punch to the jaw when I see him next! He promised us fine weather all the way." Jeff Tracy's humour was forced: an attempt to reassure his sons that didn't fool the elder two and passed straight by the terrified youngest. Their father's voice turned deadly serious. "We're going to have to abandon ship! Gordon, Virgil, do what your brother and I tell you! Scott, I need you to get up into the dinghy and help your brothers aboard!"

There was no time for argument, and the remorseless pounding of the rain had driven any thought of it out of Scott's head. He broke the huddle. Clinging to the rope securing the prow of the dinghy, he stepped up onto the deck rail. He was dimly aware of his father holding tight to his ankles, his younger brothers clinging in turn to their only solid rock in this terrifying world. He shook off the hold on one foot, extending that leg and leaning forward until his weight tipped him into the shallow well of the lifeboat. Ropes were slung around the perimeter of the tiny craft, looping through reinforced anchor points in its thick plastic hull. He twisted one around his wrist, and held tight to the swaying boat. Running his other hand over his face, he swept his limp hair and the water streaming down it back from his face and cautiously poked his head above the walls of the dinghy. His father's terrified eyes met his immediately and softened into relief.

Conversation was impossible and words unnecessary. One arm still looped under the anchor ropes and spreading his feet wide to steady himself, Scott reached out. His father handed Gordon up to him as if the six-year-old was a mere baby. The small boy was rigid with terror, passive as he was handed from one protective embrace to another. Scott held him tight, pressing his brother's face against his soaking shirt and trying to still his shivers. There was no time for comfort now though. Dropping Gordon into the bottom of the boat, Scott stood astride him, holding his frightened little brother firmly between his calves. He reached out with his arms to pull Virgil aboard, the larger child stepping up onto the rail as Scott had, but needing both a boost from his father and the steadying hands of his eldest brother to make the leap up into the lifeboat. Virgil squeezed Scott's hand before dropping into the boat, both seeking comfort and giving it.

A wave, larger than any that had gone before, rocked yacht and lifeboat both. Virgil and Gordon both screamed. Scott dropped back into the boat, unbalanced and landing hard on his rear. Suddenly fully exposed to the wind and rain, Gordon scrambled up Scott's legs, throwing himself into his brother's arms. He clung to the little boy automatically, his eyes following Virgil instead as the eleven-year-old grabbed for the dinghy walls and managed to take a firm grasp on one of the ropes there.

They could hear Dad shouting, and there was a lurch as the front rope loosened. The deck of the lifeboat tilted at a newly crazy angle, its prow now angled sharply down towards the tossing waves. Gordon screamed again, and Scott scrambled for a hold, concentrating on keeping them in the boat. Another lurch and the stern dropped back through level and past it, throwing them forward before their father arrested the motion. He tied the stern line off once more, moving back to the first rope, having to let them down by stages, unable to manage the weight of dinghy and all three boys on one rope alone.

They were riding the turbulent waves now. The sailing yacht Santa Anna was sitting low in the draft, heavy with water flooding her lower decks. Virgil stood in the dinghy, his chest level with the yacht's deck rail, reaching out one hand to his father and calling for Jeff to jump. Scott scrambled to the port side of the lifeboat and towards the rear. One arm still held Gordon tight against him, the other hand fiddled with the rope securing the stern of the dinghy to the Santa Anna's deck, as he yelled at his father to take Virgil's hand and jump into the boat. His words were swept away by the wind and drowned by the rain and waves. Even so, Jeff Tracy moved to the front rope, taking the strain of it with a loop around his wrist and offering his other hand to Virgil.

Their father was nearly aboard when the yacht, the proud Santa Anna that had gleamed in the morning light and danced across the waves like a seabird, abruptly tilted, lurched, and broke up in a cloud of flying splinters and debris. Her boom, breaking free of its ropes, swung one final time across the yacht's breadth and past it, not far above the splintering deck. Kneeling in the stern of the lifeboat, Gordon held tightly to him, Scott could only watch in horror as it caught Virgil at chest-height, sweeping him out into thin air, and carrying him away with it as it tore free and vanished into the dark night. His father had vanished too, tumbling backwards into the wreckage. Terrified, shocked beyond coherence, Scott screamed for Virgil, for his Dad, for anyone. The rope securing the dinghy to the ship's rail was torn from his hand, dragged at speed down into the dark water. For a few seconds he thought the dinghy would follow it, and he closed his eyes, wrapping himself around Gordon, waiting for the pounding pressure, the darkness and pain, to surround them.

It didn't.

He counted to ten, twenty, before opening his eyes, confused and dazed to find the dinghy still bobbing on the surface, carrying Gordon and him further from the wreckage of the Santa Anna with each wave. He shouted again for his father and brother, unable to hear the words himself as the wind tore them from his throat. Scanning the dark water desperately, he squinted in the brief, jagged bursts of lightning, effectively blind between them. He shouted until his throat was raw, and then until he felt himself hyperventilating. He had no idea how much time passed before he blinked, realising that he could no longer see even the shards of the sunken vessel, only the walls of water that surrounded them and tossed them like a floating cork.

Waves were crashing around the dinghy and over it, drenching the two frightened children. Gordon was still clinging to his brother's chest. The boy's wracking sobs shook his body and sent a tremor into Scott's tear-tightened ribcage. Numbly, Scott held Gordon against him, whispering false reassurances that his little brother certainly couldn't hear but might just feel. Shifting so the small boy was secure in the narrow gap between Scott's body and the dinghy wall he was clinging to, Scott held on through the long, cold night.

The storm blew out with the dawn. Exhausted, cold and hurting, Virgil could scarcely believe it when he realised that the gusts were growing weaker, the waves less violent. He knew he was drifting in and out, but even so it seemed strange just how abruptly the sky went from angry darkness to a few wispy clouds in the grey dawn light.

His legs hung limp in the cold water, long since numb from the chill of it. His chest was an aching pit of misery, and he knew it didn't help that all his weight was thrown across it. He shifted without thinking and the ache exploded into a sharp pain that left him breathless. His grip on the wooden spar supporting him weakened and he slipped backwards, lower in the water. Desperation and terror overrode the pain and he pulled himself back up, leaning forwards once again across the boom that had knocked him into the water and was now all that kept him above it.

He remembered a glimpse of Scott's horrified expression, seeing the spar sweeping through the night towards him, and then the pain exploding in his chest as it struck. After that the night was confusing turbulence, broken into a series of scenes burnt crystal clear into his memory by the lightning flashes that illuminated them. He remembered not being able to breathe, his chest tightening in shock. He remembered the moment the water closed over his head, the instinctive breath he'd drawn past the pain and the sheer chance that meant he'd bobbed to the surface at that moment rather than sucked the choking water into his burning lungs. He didn't know how he'd found himself clinging to the same boom for dear life, his unsecured life-jacket floating in the water under his chin and behind him, threatening to slip over his head. He remembered fiddling with the ties one-handed, and then forgetting about them entirely as his fingers brushed a limp form in the water.

His father must have dived after him, there was no other explanation for how he'd ended up drifting so close, but the flashing light was enough to show Virgil red streaks and dark bruises on Jeff Tracy's pale face. He wasn’t sure how he'd got the tall man up and across the boom, hauling the unconscious figure towards him, and ending up rolling with the boom, water closing over his head as his motion carried him beneath it. A raw determination to survive had driven him back to the surface and he'd found himself thrown against the now-laden boom, floating in the water beside it, clinging to it and to his father, trying to keep the taller man's head out of the water. He cried with his desperate hope that the slight rise and fall of his father's chest that he glimpsed in the flashes of light was real rather than merely a child's fantasy. That hope had carried him through the night.

A moment of panic assailed him now and he glanced to his right, not breathing until he saw his father still slumped across the twelve-inch thick wooden log. He'd been worried that his movement might have rolled the boom, slipping his father back into the deep water, or just plunging his face below its surface. He'd been lucky, and he reached out cautiously, stroking a few strands of hair back from Dad's bruised forehead, able for the first time to see the blood seeping sluggishly from a wound above his hairline. Virgil winced, swallowing past the salt-dry ache in his throat. Dad hadn't moved through the long hours of the storm and that wasn't good. Virgil needed to find him help. He looked around him in the ever-growing light, trying to make out any shapes on the horizon that might offer help and comfort. Somewhere out there, Scott and Gordon had the dinghy; surely they couldn't be too far away? Virgil scanned in every direction, twisting painfully to see behind him. Featureless water surrounded him, flat and empty as far as the eye could see. He slumped against the boom, disappointment and desperation making him shake. Inching cautiously along it, he rested first a hand and then a tear-stained cheek on Dad's back. For the first time, with the fury of the storm expended and the silence of the open water ringing in his ears, he could hear the slow, steady thud of his father's heartbeat.

Relieved tears mingled with the sea-water soaking Jeff's back. The boom bobbed through the now-gentle surface waves and Virgil clung to it, frightened and feeling very alone with only his Dad's unconscious body for company.

Auguste Villacana was a tall man. He exuded an air of confidence and a pleasant façade that almost hid the cold steel beneath. He considered outward displays of strong emotion a failing on his part, keeping his voice calm and his expression no more than slightly interested regardless of whether he was commenting on a picture in the local art gallery, or orchestrating a straying servant's excruciatingly slow torture.

He stood on the gunwale of his hundred-foot motor yacht, his dark-blonde hair rippled by the slipstream. Behind him, in the wheelhouse, he could hear his captain ordering a new course, following Villacana's instruction to take him into the heart of the target zone. They'd left the sheltered harbour on San Fernando at noon, the streamlined hull of the motorboat cutting through the last few choppy waves drifting in from the storm. A storm that had raged on the horizon through the long night, its outer fringes pelting the plate-glass windows of his home with near-horizontal rain. A storm whose beginning and end, whose centre and size, Villacana himself had dictated.

His feet firmly planted on the deck, Villacana raised his face to the wind, breathing in the ozone-tainted breeze and with it the intoxicating scent of power. A mass of seaweed drifted past, the thick, heavy strands torn from the ocean bed by the storm's fury. Already Villacana had seen the limp forms of drowned seabirds, and the thick muddy colour of the water, mute testimony of the power that was his at the flick of a switch. His four-man crew had looked at the debris with frightened eyes and crossed themselves, clinging to their superstitions and offering a sacrifice of weak lager to the turbulent water as soon as San Fernando faded from view behind them. His captain thought him mad for wanting to set to sea mere hours after witnessing the force of the sea god's anger. Islander peasants, one and all. Fools. They didn't suspect that the deity they feared was standing on the deck, watching their petty ritual with contempt. Villacana played with the thought of calling the storm again, sending these men to the watery grave they feared. He dismissed the thought with no more than a flash of irritation across his face. Such a paltry pleasure was not worth the cost of the yacht, and certainly inconsequential beside his own presence on the water.

Coming out here was an indulgence, he knew, but hardly a dangerous one. His watching crewmen didn't suspect that he'd ventured out to inspect the results of his own test. No one, not even the controllers he had usurped, could trace this back to him or suspect what was yet to come. Standing in the afternoon sun, eyes scanning the now-tranquil surface of the water, Villacana revelled in his unique knowledge, the memory of the storm that had gone, and the thought of those yet to come.

A man shouted, shattering his quiet reverie, and Villacana turned towards the sailor standing lookout in the prow. The captain had set him there to watch for large debris, a precaution rather typical of the over-cautious man. Stepping from the port side of the boat to the starboard, Villacana followed the man's pointing arm. His forehead creased in a slight frown as his eyes scanned towards the horizon, the only manifestation of his inward cursing.

Villacana raised an imperious hand, summoning his yacht's captain to his side. "Sail on," he ordered briskly.

He half-expected the man's frown, and the shake of his head. Even the flash of anger in Villacana's eyes didn't sway the man, although the rest of his crew shied away.

"Sir, I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "It's a shipwreck, sir. Recent. We're obliged to stop. I have no choice."

Villacana considered forcing the point, and let it go with a slight inclination of his head and no sign of the fury he buried deep inside. Now wasn't the time to teach the newest of his employees obedience. There would be time for that back on San Fernando, and besides, a wrecked boat out here was not a feature of Villacana's plan. Any such deviation needed investigation more urgently than he needed to assert his authority.

The motorboat slowed as she approached, settling to wallow more lugubriously through the waves. Debris bounced off her hull with sharp pings. Only shards of fibreglass and splintered wooden-decking littered the water, but the few remains were enough to indicate the size and shape of the vessel they had come from. She had hardly been a big ship, but she was no dinghy either. A pleasure boat, like Villacana's own? Some rich man's folly, or perhaps a family's pride and joy. Whatever it was, she was gone now, torn to shreds by the storm's fury. The bulk of her had vanished beneath the waves, leaving only this trail of litter to mar the smooth ocean.

Villacana's internal stream of profanity crescendoed. This was no local fishing rig. The sunken vessel came from a world of affluence and power far from the quiet island state where she had met her fate. He felt no grief, no pang of compunction about the lives he'd sacrificed to his ambition. He only felt anger and frustration. A vessel like this would be missed. It would draw in search planes like hornets, and petty officials would swarm across the islands in a futile hunt. That could ruin everything, and Villacana couldn't risk that, not now.

"Man in the water!"

The relief he felt when another crewman cried out, pointing to a floating, huddled shape bobbing on the waves, had nothing to do with the life of the pale-skinned man they pulled aboard, or even the shivering, semi-conscious child that seemed to be tangled around him and the wooden spar that had saved them. He watched with cold eyes as one of his crewmen wrapped the boy in a blanket, cutting through the cords tying his life-jacket to the sunken ship's boom. He turned away before finding out whether the adult was alive or dead; it made little difference.

"Full speed to Dominga," he snapped at his captain,

The man blinked at him, still lost in the tragedy of the sunken ship. It took him several seconds to protest. The state capital on the island of Dominga was well over two hundred miles away, far from the closest port.

Villacana forced a serpent's smile onto his lips. "They need help. Dominga has the best medical facilities. Set course, captain."

The fool finally responded, more to the shiver of anger in Villacana's voice than to his words. He started shouting orders to the men, and Villacana was satisfied to feel the engine throb to life below his feet, and the boat begin to turn across the wind. He strode past the wheelhouse, following the two sailors carrying the shipwrecked man and his young companion – a son perhaps? – below decks. The boy had long-since passed out, deeply unconscious. The man, tall, dark-haired and well-muscled, stirred when they laid him on one of the crew's beds, his head tossing as he began to mutter meaningless names. He was still alive, Villacana realised with a certain irritation. Still, no need for that to be a problem, provided he could be kept quiet.

Villacana ordered his crew out of the room before calmly loosening the clamp that held a desk-lamp to the bed-frame. Hefting the heavy base in his hands, he swung it calmly and with precision, feeling no shame or guilt as he brought it crashing down on the man's left temple. To his satisfaction, the tension drained from the dripping man's body, and it slumped limply back against the thin mattress.

Nodding to himself, Villacana left the cabin and headed towards the engine room. Already the programmes and hardware he needed were running through his mind. He'd have to get the timing right, giving his yacht 'engine trouble' as soon as they came across one of the fishing vessels that littered these waters. The boat would be 'forced' to turn to home, leaving the fishermen to carry their passengers into Dominga, together with a healthy bribe and a story that placed their rescue a hundred miles to the east rather than twice that southwards of the capital island. Unconscious, neither man nor boy would remember the large motor-yacht that had pulled them from the water, or the time it took them to reach shore. With luck, their miraculous survival would be enough to call off any search. Even if it wasn't, the fishermen's story would send the helicopters and coastguard vessels far afield, leaving San Fernando and its secrets unmolested.

Villacana slipped into the engine room, easily evading the one bored crewman who would rather be joining the excitement on deck than stuck down here. Finding a corner, he fell back on the skills that had made him rich, and ultimately given him the power of a god. No one and nothing, least of all a waterlogged tourist and his brat, were going to stand in the way of his apotheosis.

Chapter 2

Scott wasn't sure whether the rocking motion of the boat had finally sent him to sleep, or whether he'd simply passed out.

Sleep hadn't been an option while the storm raged on, the noise and darkness and constant motion pounding against his numb form. Thought and emotion hadn't been options either. He'd concentrated solely on holding onto the lifeboat and onto his little brother. Gordon's sobs had gradually faded into an exhausted shuddering, and then even that had subsided. Scott had held the younger boy against his chest, willing the little heat he had left to pass through their sodden clothes. In the brief lightning flashes, he'd watched Gordon's eyes grow heavy, and he'd felt the child's grip on his shirt-front slacken. Terrified, Scott had squeezed more tightly still against the wall of the boat, wrapping his arms and legs around Gordon's, and doing all he could to shelter him from the chill of the wind.

It wasn't until the first faint hints of morning shot the sky through with salmon-pink streaks that, with startling abruptness, the rain eased, and the towering waves no longer threatened to capsize them with each passing moment. Scott yielded to his own weakness. His hands stayed twined around the ropes, the muscles in his wrist and fingers cramped into place. The rest of him slumped down into the bottom of the boat, half on top of his little brother.

"Scotty?"

It was broad sunlight when Gordon shook him awake. Even before Scott opened his eyes, he was lifting his face towards the warmth. He ached all over. His hands were at once numb and incredibly painful. He couldn't feel his fingertips, only that they had been plunged into a fire somewhere. His eyes opened and he stared blearily at his own hands. They seemed to belong to someone else, still holding the safety ropes on the dinghy walls in a cramped death-grip. Gordon was calling his name, squirming out from under him. The younger boy followed Scott's eyes and frowned. His small hands moved to Scott's, prising his fingers away from the rope one by one. The first two fingers were the worst, even Gordon's gentlest tug sending shooting pains through Scott's wrists. After that, his muscles seemed to get the idea. He managed to force his fist to unclench and fell backwards into the boat, groaning quietly.

"Scott!"

Gordon's eyes were wide and worried as he scrambled to his brother's side. He shook Scott's shoulder with one hand, calling his name again, and Scott mustered the energy to sit upright. He held open his arms and Gordon scrambled into them, holding him tightly. Both boys were shivering, their clothes no longer sodden after a morning under the bright sun, but still cold and damp. Scott buried his face in Gordon's hair and hugged him tight, relieved beyond measure to find his brother awake and apparently reasonably alert. He thanked God that the late-afternoon sun in this part of the world was as warm as the storm had been cold. After their brush with hypothermia in the early hours of the morning, he hadn't been sure that either of them would wake at all.

A long moment passed before Gordon squirmed free, splashing through the three inches of water in the bottom of the boat. Scott watched him and then looked beyond him. The stern of the eight by five foot dinghy was dominated by a large box, a built-in waterproof trunk that also served as an anchor point for a gasoline-powered motor that could be lowered over the side behind it. The previous night, in the darkness and torrential rain, it had been a struggle enough to stay in the boat. Their supplies would have been ripped away by the wind the second the locker was opened, and trying the motor would have been like using a hand-held fan to steer oneself through a tornado. Now though, even through his shock, Scott could recognise that the emergency supply cabinet had definite potential.

"Scotty, are you all right?"

He staggered to his feet, using Gordon for balance as the younger boy came to his side. Scott's fingers were still aching fiercely, but he managed to fumble with the catches on the emergency locker, pushing it open with a shove of his shoulder. The thick-walled plastic box was divided into two compartments, the starboard third holding the compact outboard motor and its accessories while the larger compartment to the left was full almost to the brim with neat, vacuum-packed supplies. The first thing his eyes fell on was a two litre bottle of water, and instantly his parched throat made itself known, begging him for relief. Gordon had fallen silent, standing on tip-toes to see over the cabinet's side as he stared down at their newly discovered hoard. Scott grabbed the water and wrenched the top loose with his teeth when his fingers wouldn't obey him. He held the heavy bottle to Gordon's lips, knowing that the tired six-year-old wouldn't manage it alone.

"Sip it, Gordon," he whispered. His voice emerged as a croak, and it was only then that he realised he hadn't responded aloud to his brother's calls or entreaties. He seemed to be moving through a daze. He forced himself to concentrate, letting the water trickle into Gordon's mouth, careful not to let him gulp or choke.

Gordon had swallowed several cupfuls and was sighing with relief before Scott allowed himself to take a swig from the bottle. The first trickle of water against his raw throat felt like a river of fire. The second quenched it, soothing and relieving the salt-abraded tissues. He was desperate for more, but he stopped himself nonetheless, and recapped the bottle, saving the water for later. He had no idea how long they had been adrift - more than twelve hours certainly, probably not quite twenty-four - and it was no wonder they were dehydrated. Scott's body craved more to drink but, his head ringing and his mind still numb, he ignored it.

His only rational thought was for the younger boy in his care. There was no telling how long they might spend afloat, or how long it would be before they were rescued. The lifeboat's beacon would have started transmitting the moment the lifeboat was launched. In theory they should have been pulled from the water within a few hours at most. It troubled Scott that they hadn't been. It suggested that something had gone wrong. In fact the mere existence of the storm meant something was very wrong with the world. Given that, who knew when the authorities would even begin to look for one yacht lost in the turbulent ocean? His eyes swept the vast, unbroken vista of water and a small, desperate voice inside him told him he should have thought 'whether' rather than 'when'. He refused to listen. He had to keep believing it would happen, and make sure his little brother was still alive when it did. Better to endure a headache now, if it spared the water to give Gordon a few extra hours when he needed them.

"Scotty, what's happening? Why…?"

"It's okay, Gordy. I'll look after you."

He had to keep Gordon alive because the little boy had his whole life ahead of him and didn't deserve to lose it to the ocean he'd always loved.

Because, back home, Mom and John and Allie would be waiting for news. They'd need Gordon if they were going to get through this.

He had to keep Gordon alive, above all, because it was the last thing Dad had asked of him, and the first thing Virgil would expect him to do. He was not going to let them down.

"Come on, let's see if we can get you dry." His voice sounded distant and alien to his own ears.

Saving his little brother was the only way Scott could cling to sanity himself.

Dropping the sealed bottle back into the emergency locker, Scott reached instead for the thin blankets tucked in there. They were small, barely long enough to cover Scott if he stretched out, but they were dry. He coaxed his little brother out of his damp clothes, overriding the child's protest to insist that everything, underwear included, come off. Wrapping Gordon in the first of the dry blankets, he tucked it into a makeshift toga, trying to keep the ends from trailing into the ankle-deep water in the bottom of the dinghy. Gordon, tired and querulous, submitted with ill-grace, complaining that the blanket was uncomfortable and scratchy. Scott just pointed to his little brother's soggy clothing, hanging over the lip of the emergency box to dry in the sun, and asked whether he'd rather put that back on.

He stripped off himself without hesitation, stretching his shirt and pants over the thick side-walls of the dinghy, knotting one sleeve and one leg into the safety ropes for fear of losing them over the side. Gordon was right, the fabric of the blanket was harsh, and it added to the salt drying on his skin to make him itch all over. Despite that, he felt warmer almost at once, and still more so when his body heat began to fill the air gap between his skin and the coarse fabric. Relieved, he closed the emergency locker, making sure that Gordon's drying clothes were caught securely between sides and lid.

Gordon had moved to the prow of the boat, holding tight to the safety line and looking warily down into the blue depths that had fascinated and intrigued him just twenty-four hours before. The younger boy had regained a little of his colour, and actually looked flushed as he raised his face to the sun and the cooling breeze. He was almost lost in the grey fabric swathing him, his eyes very wide, tear-reddened and outlined by shadows. Tufts of copper hair strayed in every direction, twisted into knots and crusted with salt residue.

"Gordon," Scott called quietly, beckoning his brother towards him. Gordon didn't turn, and Scott moved to join him instead, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as they stared down at the dark water. "Gordy, are you okay?"

It was a stupid question. He knew that the moment he asked it, and the look his little brother gave him confirmed it. Gordon shook his head, biting his lip. He looked down, refusing to meet Scott's eyes.

"Where's Daddy and Virgil?" he asked quietly.

Scott's arm tightened around his brother's shoulders. Gordon wouldn't remember much of last night. Scott had not been letting himself remember.

"They stayed with the ship, Gordy. They couldn't come with us. They wanted to, but they just couldn't."

Scott felt his throat tighten around the words. The fact that Dad was gone was a tearing, devastating blow, leaving a hole in his heart that he didn't think could ever heal. Painful as it was though, that wasn't what had left his world in tatters. Dad had been an astronaut for most of Scott's life. The eldest Tracy son had been Gordon's age when he found Mom crying one night and first realised that when Daddy went away, there was a chance that he might not come back. At thirteen, having watched his father fall back into the dark water, amidst the storm-battered wreckage of their sailing yacht, Scott had no illusions that his father could have survived.

What was tearing Scott apart, twisting his thoughts into a Gordian knot, shaking the foundations of his world and leaving him dazed and empty, was a more shocking loss. As far back as he could remember, Virgil had been part of his life. He could remember the wonder on his little brother's face as Mom put baby John into his arms. It was Virgil he'd run home to, his first day at school, eager to share the stories and the thrill of it. It was Virgil he'd taught to read, the two of them too intent over the book to notice their enthralled parents watching. It was Virgil who gave him someone to talk to when Mom was busy with the babies, who walked with him to school, who raced him on their bikes, who listened to Scott's hopes and dreams, and shyly shared his own ambitions. It was Virgil who, eyes wide with terror, had reached out toward Scott as the boom swept him out of the boat and into the storm.

Scott shuddered, and his mind shut down with the strain of it. Quite simply, Scott Tracy couldn't conceive of a world without his brother in it.

Gordon's lip was trembling. He twisted under Scott's arm, looking up at his big brother now, and one hand lifted to wipe away the tear rolling down Scott's cheek. He looked confused, and very frightened.

"I want to go back to the ship, Scott. I liked the Santa Anna. I don't like this boat, it's too little." He raised a foot, watching the water drip from the end of his toes. "And too wet."

Scott gathered his blanket around him before squatting a little to put his eyes level with his brother's. "We can't go back, Gordy. I wish we could." He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. "God, I wish we could. But Daddy told me to take you somewhere warm and dry, and he told you to be good and listen to me, didn't he? We'll be okay, Gordy. I'll get you home, and then Mom can get you all warm and comfy."

Gordon stared at him uncertainly. He looked down at his fingers, their tips still damp with Scott's tears. When he looked up again, it was with a far older expression than Scott could recall ever seeing on Gordon's mischievous face.

"Are Virge and Daddy going to come home too, Scotty?" he asked in a whisper.

Scott took his brother in his arms, hugging him tightly. "I don't know, Gordy," he lied. He shook his head. They couldn't linger on this. They needed to concentrate on the here and now, not what had gone. He gave the boy another squeeze and released him, looking around him briskly and taking stock. "Let's get some of this water out of the boat, okay? And then we can see if there's any food in the box."

Detective Inspector Charleston Travis took a deep breath as he stepped out of the dimly-lit wooden building and into the gathering twilight. He'd intended to clear the odour of unwashed bodies and sour beer from his lungs. Instead he merely replaced it with the unique mix of stagnant water and rotting fish that lingered over working harbours the world over. Grimacing with distaste, he crossed the road to the dockside and stopped there, leaning against a thick wooden bollard while he struck a light and puffed fire into his cigarette.

The thick, aromatic smoke drove the bad taste from his nose and throat. He blew it out slowly through pursed lips. Squinting against the setting sun, he watched as a familiar fishing rig rounded the headland, tacking against the wind and tide. He couldn't resist a glance at his watch, and then a wistful look towards the car waiting for him a hundred metres down the road. Sighing, he took another pull on his cigarette and resigned himself. Strolling along the wharf to the vessel's usual berth, he settled in to wait. Perfect. Someone screws up a thousand miles away, some satellite blinking away in the vacuum overhead blows a fuse, and on the island of Dominga, Chuck Travis's dinner was going to grow cold without him.

He'd come down to the water and toured the bars to canvas eyewitness accounts of the storm, searching out the locals among swarming tourists who thought 'sleazy and grubby' translated to 'native charm'. The tech-boys in the States were baffled apparently. A malfunction of the World Weather Control System was meant to be impossible. A decade or more of publicity material and school lessons had promised that. Travis smacked his lips, tasting the lingering charge in the air. So much for the white-coats' promises. Now they were reduced to asking him for help, or at least for evidence of the scale and after-effects of the event.

Travis had thought that getting out and about would at least be better than pacifying a few hundred angry tourists, stranded at the airport by the announcement of a no-fly zone until the induction charge dissipated. Mike Kearney had even offered to swap when the Chief announced their assignments. If he'd known information gathering would be such a frustrating task, and one that took the entire day, Travis might have taken his fellow detective up on the offer. No one he'd found had been out to the south, or at least no one had been prepared to admit it.

Perhaps the Levan brothers would have something to say that was worth writing down. They had to have some reason for coming back into port against the tide, well before the evening catch they'd set out for could be complete, and there was always a chance it was a legitimate one. Leaning idly against the nearest bollard, Travis snorted with cynical amusement as he saw the men on the fishing boat notice and react to his presence. The 'fishermen' in this town and its police tended to be on familiar terms. Perhaps it was still possible to make an honest living from the sea on some of the smaller islands, although far too many of those had become no-go areas for decent men or one man empires, carrying the Domingan flag in name only. Here on the capital island, where visitors brought in ideas, technology and prices far beyond islander dreams, it was a rare boat that didn't take the occasional 'charter fare' or run a few cargos they'd rather keep away from police attention.

Judging by the agitation aboard on seeing him, the Levans' 'fishing trip' had landed them more than a few albacore. Well, this was their lucky day. The Levan boys were more law abiding than most of their peers, and smart enough to realise that tacking away from their berth would just bring Travis down on them hard and fast. They'd try and bluff this out, and just for once, Travis fully intended to let them. He had better things to do than search the boat and wasn't interested in spending the night writing up a few smuggled video cameras. He was pretty confident it was nothing worse.

At least he was until the two locals swung into the dock far more rapidly than was usual, even for their agile craft. Tony Levan shouted his name, beckoning him forward urgently. Travis swore. He was stepping up onto the gunwale before the boat had come to rest, hurrying to the two pale figures lying in on a pile of netting amidships.

"They were drifting. Out east." Cal Levan spoke in quick, urgent bursts, clearly keen to explain. "There was wreckage. A yacht maybe."

Travis gave him a quick nod, too busy checking the pulse on both man and boy to take in the words. Still in a crouch, he rocked back on his heels, reaching down to his belt and pulling out his radio.

"Inspector Travis. Ambulance to the docks immediately. Adult male and child, pulled from the water. Suffering exposure, concussion, probable other injuries. ETA on ambulance please?"

Interference crackled across the channel, residual electromagnetic charge from the storm induction making the response from headquarters unintelligible. Travis shook his radio angrily. God knew how much of his message had got through. He tried again, louder, hoping that the key words would penetrate. His radio gave a burst of noise, and in the midst of it he managed to make out "Travis", "ambulance" and "six minutes". It was enough. Switching off the device, he tucked it back into his belt.

The two Levan brothers were busy tying up the boat, hauling a length of wood out from against its sides to act as a gangplank. Travis let them. He checked the man's pulse again, worried by how sluggish it felt, and gently adjusted the bruised head to keep his airway clear. The little boy by his side, ten, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, stirred weakly, and Travis moved to stroke thick chestnut-brown hair back from his eyes.

"Hey there," he said softly. "Can you open your eyes for me?" To his disappointment, the boy gave a groan and the movement subsided. Travis reached for his wrist, reassuring himself with the strong pulse there. He looked up at the dock and the gathering crowd, willing the ambulance to hurry.

Tony Levan came back down onto the deck, his expression sombre as he looked at his unexpected passengers. The fisherman was in his thirties, his skin browned by ocean spray and long days in the southern sun. By comparison the pallor of the shipwreck victims was obvious.

"Tourists," the local sniffed. "Probably brushed against the shoals on the way out of port, didn't notice they'd sprung a leak until the ship came apart around them."

Travis gave him a hard look, still holding the child's limp hand. "They told you that?"

"Out cold since we found them," Tony said, shaking his head.

"Then they could have been caught in the storm down south?"

Tony shifted, his shadow moving across the unconscious man at his feet. "Not where we found them, Inspector" he insisted quickly. "Out east."

"That's what Cal told me," Travis noted, frowning. It was a hell of a coincidence that even inexperienced tourists could shipwreck themselves on today of all days. "Care to be a little more specific?"

Tony shrugged, apparently unconcerned as he gazed out across the water. "Show you on a chart," he offered.

Travis hesitated, reluctant to leave the two victims alone in full view of voyeuristic tourists and locals alike. He tilted his head, hearing the siren of an ambulance approaching. "Later," he muttered to Tony Levan before raising his voice. "Clear a way there! Let the medics through!"

The approaching paramedics looked grim, their expressions lightening and becoming more focused as they realised that they were dealing with living patients. Clearly enough of Travis's message had got through to summon them, but the content had been either garbled or simply not passed on, leaving them with no more information than that someone had been pulled from the water.

Travis helped them stabilise the victims, following them to the ambulance and keeping the growing crowd back with angry shouts. He watched the vehicle roll away, and then glanced between the Levan boat and his own car uncertainly. For a brief moment, a wistful thought of his long-delayed dinner sprang to mind, but he dismissed it quickly, and dismissed the Levan brothers a moment later. They could wait. He headed for his car, squinting and flipping down the shade as he swung into the setting sun. He followed the ambulance, heading for the hospital, determined to see this through.

Chapter 3

"What're you doing, Scotty?"

Scott sighed in exasperation as he looked up from the equipment laid out in front of him. Gordon was sitting on one of the shallow ribs in the bottom of the lifeboat, his back against the side, one hand sheltering his eyes from the low-angle sunlight. The discarded foil wrapper from their second emergency meal pack lay by his side. Scott's stomach grumbled at the sight of it. He'd allowed himself a few bites of each, leaving Gordon the bulk of both lunch and dinner. His belly might be complaining that decision, but Gordon had regained a little colour, and exploring the many individual plastic packets the pack contained alongside the self-heating main course had kept him busy for the last twenty minutes.

The active little boy was finding their confinement in the small vessel an ordeal. He'd paced up and down the length of the boat a dozen times, and then from side to side of it, intrigued by the way it rocked under even his small weight, before Scott told him sharply to sit down. He'd perched on the edge of the hull, tapping his heels idly against the walls, until Scott had noticed and dived forward to grab him, dragging him back into the boat, screaming at him not to be so stupid. They'd both been taken aback by that outburst, and it had kept Gordon quiet and still for almost an hour as the boy laid low and tried to work out what he'd done wrong. Scott wasn't about to tell his little brother that he'd flashed back on the storm and the sight of Virgil falling into the pitch-black water, and Gordon was worried enough by the situation that he didn't dare ask.

Now though, the familiar look of boredom was back on Gordon's face, and Scott realised that if he didn't answer Gordon's first query, the insistent questions would only escalate.

"Come see." He beckoned Gordon forward, and rose from sitting cross-legged to catch his little brother when he slipped on the thin layer of water still pooled between the ribs lining the boat. Gordon froze, clearly expecting another reprimand. Scott sighed and set his brother back on his feet before sinking down to his knees on the damp deck, putting his eyes on the younger boy's level. "Gordy, look. I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier, okay? I just… it's just that I'm meant to be taking care of you. I'm not going to shout again."

Gordon shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again uneasily. He pulled at the collar of his newly-dry, but thoroughly creased, shirt. Scott scratched unconsciously at his own neckline, irritated by the salt permeating the sun-dried clothing, as he waited for Gordon's response. The six-year-old studied him intently for a moment before offering a tentative smile.

"Unless I do something really stupid?" he suggested.

Mustering up a smile in return, Scott chucked his younger brother under the chin. "Really stupid," he agreed lightly.

"Okay." Gordon nodded calmly. He gave Scott another brief, serious look. "I think I would have shouted too, if Allie was sitting there," he admitted with a shrug.

Scott gave him a one-armed hug, proud and impressed. At home, Gordon liked to push the bounds whenever he could, but in just the last year or so, he seemed more aware of when he could do so and when it was time to listen to his parents and big brothers. Having four-year-old Alan in tow most of the time probably had a lot to do with that. For the first time, Gordon was starting to ask not only whether he was prepared to try something himself, but also whether he wanted to risk Alan trying it too. Even now, with Alan safely at home with Mom, Gordon was applying the 'would I let my little brother do that?' rule that all Tracys learnt to consider.

Now Gordon glanced at Scott for permission before prodding the heavy hunk of machinery lying on a tarpaulin Scott had spread to keep it dry. "So what is it?"

Scott caught his little brother's wrist, pulling Gordon back against his own chest and guiding his fingers carefully across the metal components as he explained. "Well, we put some gas in this end, and when we pull on this cord, it comes through a little at a time into this box here. You know how Mom lights up the cooker with a spark?" Gordon nodded, wide-eyed, and Scott went on. "Well, there's a spark, and it makes the gas go 'bang!' like a firework. It all gets hot and rushes out through here. That makes this wheel turn, and that turns this rod, which turns the propeller. So, if we put this over the side of the boat, and start it going, it'll push us through the water."

Gordon nodded. His eyes ran over the system again, and his lips moved as if replaying what Scott had told him and committing it to memory.

Scott reached around him and started clipping the plastic shell back into place over the compact outboard motor. His Dad had explained a similar engine the same way, first time they'd gone out in a hired yacht. Scott hadn't been much older than Gordon was now and had listened with interest but without much enthusiasm. To his father's amusement, that had come a year later when the family jet was taken in for overhaul and his dad showed him its equivalent, but much more complex, system.

Jeff Tracy had always taught his sons to be thorough, and to be certain of any equipment they depended on. Now more than ever, Scott was determined to live by that, and the concentration it required had helped too, distracting him from darker thoughts. If there'd been any particular hurry, he might not have bothered to open the thing up and look it over. As it was, while the vast majority of the mechanism was a closed box as far as he was concerned, he'd checked the fuel chamber was empty and the exhaust clear, that the pull-cord was wound evenly on its gear without knots to snag it, that the mechanism appeared to have been greased and that the shaft and propeller were rotating freely. It was all he could do, and it was going to have to be enough. Even with the gas still in its metal can to one side, the engine was as heavy as Gordon. Scott was pretty sure he could lift it well enough to snap it onto the brackets on the stern. Once it was in the water though, there was simply no way he'd have the leverage to pull it out again.

"Scott?"

"Yes, Gordon?"

"It looks awfully small."

Scott grimaced as he placed his feet carefully wide, trying for sufficient stability to lift the engine without rocking the boat. The same thought had occurred to him. The ocean stretched to touch the horizon in every direction, flat now but with the memory of last night's towering waves stored within it. By comparison this motor seemed just about big enough to take them across a garden pond.

"It's more powerful than it looks," he promised Gordon hopefully, grunting a little as he hefted the weight up to balance on his shoulder. "Gordy, I want you to go up to the front of the boat, and hold on tight, okay? I'm going to take this to the back, and it might tip the boat up a bit."

Gordon bit his lip, before nodding reluctantly. The little boy had been more clingy than usual since the two of them had wakened alone, and was obviously worried about being separated from his brother by even the length of the boat. Scott braced himself, his legs and back protesting the weight of the motor, as Gordon threw his arms about his brother's waist and gave him a quick hug. Gordy released him before he could complain, running forward to the blunt prow and taking a firm grip on the safety lines. Scott watched to make sure he was settled before turning in the opposite direction.

"Stern." Gordon's voice came as he was mid-way through heaving the motor onto the closed lid of the emergency cabinet. Scott finished the procedure before glancing back at his brother, checking Gordon was still where he was meant to be.

"Excuse me?"

"Dad said the back of the Santa Anna was called the stern. Is that true in a little dinghy like this too?"

Scott sighed, turning back to inspect the problem ahead of him. The anchor point for the engine was built into the back wall of the locker, the top-most notch barely visible to Scott as he leaned forward over the chest-high box.

"That's true in any boat, Gordon."

"Why?"

Turning his back on the cabinet for a moment, Scott hopped up to sit on the edge of it. The boat rocked, and Scott reached out to steady the motor resting on the lid beside him, even as his eyes flew to Gordon. The little boy had gasped when the deck moved, but he was sitting huddled in the well of the boat and his grip on the safety line was white-knuckled. Holding still for a few seconds while the motion subsided, Scott made the effort to keep his frightened brother talking.

"I don't know, Gordy," he admitted. "But how many other parts of the boat can you name? Show me?"

Gordon looked uncertain. "Well, this is the prow," he volunteered cautiously.

"That's good." Scott twisted slightly in position, glad to find that the boat didn't move when he shifted his weight slowly enough. Cautiously, he lowered himself to lie with his chest on the lid of the locker, the motor beside him as he inched toward the back of the boat. "You know your right and left, don't you?" he called over his shoulder. "Can you remember what Dad said we had to call them?"

"Port and starboard," Gordon answered promptly, sounding a little happier for the distraction.

"Uh huh," Scott agreed, freezing as he felt the boat tilt under him, the stern dropping noticeably lower in the water. Rolling a little onto his side, he reached an arm over the back of the cabinet, trying to figure out the mounting by touch alone. "Which is which?"

"Um…" Gordon hesitated. He'd loved every moment on the Santa Anna, at least until the storm blew up, and had run Dad ragged with his questions. On the other hand, over the course of a two-week expedition, that made for a lot of new information for him to take in. "Port is… well…"

His cheek still pressed to the cool lid of the emergency locker, Scott frowned. He could feel grooves and notches in the back wall of it, his arm damp with sea spray as he explored the mounting by touch. Making sense of it without taking a look was impossible though. This was no good. He wasn't about to risk swinging the heavy motor over the edge blind. He listened to Gordon trying to figure out right from left as he edged further across the locker, legs hanging in the air behind him as his head moved out over the turbulent water in their wake. The list to stern was significant now and Gordon's voice trailed off as the prow lifted out of the water.

"Want to know how to work out which is which?" Scott asked a little breathlessly. He peered down at the mounting bracket before glancing over his shoulder, He squinted against the eye-level setting sun, barely able to make out his pale little brother against the scarlet glow. "How many letters has 'port' got?" he asked, before looking back down at the water below.

This wasn't going to be easy. The dinghy had never been designed for use exclusively by children. At thirteen, Scott had hit the start of his growth spurt, but even so was a full foot shorter, and significantly less powerful, than the adults expected to do this.

"How many letters, Gordy?"

"Four," Gordon whispered, the word barely reaching his elder brother.

"Yep, and which one has four letters: left or right?"

Twisting in place on the cabinet lid, he got both hands on the heavy motor, rolling it over so when he lifted it, the mount and anchor point would be facing one another.

"Left," Gordon decided quietly, counting on his fingers. "Left has four letters, Scotty."

"Uh huh, so that's how you remember it: port and left have the same number of letters, and they mean the same thing." Lesson over, Scott took a deep breath. His fingers were still painful and bruised from clinging to the safety ropes the night before. He ached all over, battered by storm and wave, cramped from sleeping awkwardly and weakened by far too little food and water. But there was no one else to do this. He rolled onto his back, lifting the motor to rest on his abdomen, and then pulled it up to the level of his collarbone.

"Starboard and right don't have the same number of letters. Right has five and starboard has eight."

Nine, but with the weight of the motor pressing down on his chest, Scott couldn't spare the breath to correct his brother. He rolled again so that he was looking down into the water, this time taking the weight of the motor entirely on his arms and shoulders as he lowered it down behind the boat.

"Scott, why doesn't right and starboard have the same number of letters?"

Awkwardly, Scott slid the heavy motor against the stern, trying to persuade it to latch into place.

"Scotty?"

Not working. He inched out a little further, latching his feet over the edge of the cabinet, a full third of his body now hanging over the back of the boat. With the extra leverage, he was able to see a little better. He twisted the motor a few degrees and there! Finally, it slid into its mount, ridges in the surface of the motor slotting into grooves that held them securely, and then the whole thing twisting to lock into place.

Scott's arms screamed with relief and he panted, not realising how much weight had been transferred through his chest until it was relieved. He started hyperventilating before he worked out what was happening. A wave of dizziness struck suddenly, a rushing sound in his ears as the blood pounded through them. For a while, he couldn't figure out up from down, or forward from backward. The feel of small hands on his ankles, pulling him backwards with determination but little strength, gave him the reference point he needed. He began to squirm back onto the emergency locker, helping Gordon's frantic tugs, until he was able to rest his head on its cool surface.

"Scotty?" Gordon was still pulling at his legs, his voice tear-filled.

"I…I'm okay, Gordy," Scott managed, blinking past the dizziness. He inched back further and found himself tumbling off the lid and into the boat, almost flattening his little brother. Gordon squirmed out from under him, and a few moments later, Scott's eyes focused to find the little boy fumbling with the catches on the locker. Gordon got the heavy lid up through sheer force of will, letting it rest on the crown of his head as he stood on tip-toe and reached down into the locker with both arms. Scott watched, bemused, as Gordon managed to lift the two-thirds-empty water bottle down and offer it to his older brother.

Scott accepted it gratefully. He rued every sip, but recognised that passing out from dehydration so soon wouldn't do either of them any good. Gordon's face was tear-streaked, his eyes bright as he hovered uncertainly in front of his brother. Scott smiled reassuringly, and offered his little brother the bottle to finish.

"Nine," he corrected mildly. Gordon stared at him and Scott rested a hand on his shoulder, using him for support as he climbed to his feet. There was still the fuel to get into the motor before the failing sunlight faded into pitch-blackness and it became impossible. "Starboard has nine letters, Gordy: S, T, A, R, B, O, A, R, D."

Gordon gave him an incredulous look, and then crossed his arms across his chest. "I don't care," he declared petulantly.

Scott sighed and reached down for the gas can he'd left on the tarpaulin. It was on its side, either toppled when the boat tilted or knocked over by Gordon in his haste to reach Scott. The lid was on tight though, and the heavy metal can still held its precious contents. He picked it up by the handle and looked tiredly towards the rear of the boat. Gordon threw himself in his path, wrapping his arms around Scott's waist and effectively anchoring him to the spot.

"Don't do that again, Scotty! Please! I don't want you to fall in!"

Scott leaned down, stroking his brother's hair.

"I've got to pour the gas into the engine, Gordy," he told the little boy. "Remember I showed you how it worked? It won't go without fuel."

"Why does it have to go at all?" Gordon asked, still holding his brother tightly, but tilting his head back so he could look up into Scott's face. Very wide amber eyes seemed to fill his pale face. "Where are we going, Scotty?"

Standing in the boat, Scott couldn't answer his brother's question. His eyes swept the featureless ocean. He had a vague idea that they'd been some way south of Dominga when the Santa Anna sank, but the storm could have carried them anywhere, and they'd spent the day adrift on unknown currents. They could be hundreds of miles from land, or just over the horizon from solid ground. Truthfully this was why he'd been in no hurry to unpack the motor, until the sun dropped toward the water and he'd decided he wanted it done before nightfall. After twenty-four hours adrift, their powerful but short-lived beacon would already be fading. They couldn't count on anyone finding them. They had to take the initiative themselves, but now the engine was mounted, he faced a frightening decision. The instant he started the motor, he'd be committing them to a direction, and it could easily be one taking them further from salvation rather than towards it.

He turned towards the setting sun, shivering in the gathering twilight as he searched for inspiration. The temperature was dropping already and he was far from sure that, even with blankets to wrap around them, either of them would survive another night on the open water. Despite that, he couldn't help a shiver of appreciation for the view. Strange that anywhere so hostile could be so beautiful. The evening sky was filled with streaks of salmon-pink and deep scarlet. Virgil would have loved it.

Scott swayed, and he felt Gordon tighten his hold still further. For the sake of his little brother, Scott took a deep breath, and then froze, eyes widening. Reaching down, he picked Gordon up, letting his brother wrap his legs around his chest to steady himself. With Gordon's cheek pressed against his, he pointed south-south-west. In full light, the faint smudge on the horizon had been lost in the heat haze and glare of reflection from the water. Silhouetted now against the luminous sky, the distant hint of land was a lone, solid reference point in an otherwise featureless world.

"See that, Gordy?" he asked in a whisper. "That's where we're going."

Chapter 4

The hospital's emergency room was quiet. It was too late in the day for work-related accidents, too early for the Tuesday night drinking crowd, mostly tourists, to start trickling in. Despite that, Chuck Travis had been waiting for news for almost an hour. The adult victim had been hurried off almost as soon as they arrived, leaving the child behind in an ER cubical. The detective inspector had managed to linger by the kid's bedside, waving his police credentials and pointing out that the otherwise-unaccompanied and unidentified boy was the subject of an ongoing enquiry. A series of doctors and nurses had come by, hooking the kid up to a drip and seemingly endless monitoring devices. They'd conversed in bewildering medicalese, and Travis, there by courtesy, knew better than to interrupt while their tones remained urgent.

It was a relief when the rapid activity subsided, leaving Travis alone with the unconscious child. Sighing, the tired policeman perched on the edge of the bed, brushing a stray curl of chestnut hair away from a sun-reddened face. He was startled when the boy stirred, flinching away from even the gentle touch. As gently as he could, Travis patted the kid's cheek, using the other hand to scrabble blindly for the call button.

"Hey there," he said softly. "Can you hear me?"

He was rewarded by a brief glimpse of burnt-honey irises. The kid moaned, screwing his eyes shut and shifting in the bed. A blur of white in Travis' peripheral vision announced the arrival of a doctor on the other side of the bed, waving him back and taking over with a hand on the kid's shoulder.

"Can you tell me your name?" the woman asked, soft but urgent. "Do you understand?"

"Dad," the word was barely comprehensible, a dry whisper. The boy's forehead creased into a frown, his eyes still closed. "Dad!"

"Your Dad is here. We're looking after him. But we need his name, so we can look after him properly. Can you tell us his name?"

"Jeff." Again, the kid's voice was slurred. He coughed hoarsely. His eyes cracked open, searching out the doctor without focussing. "He's hurt?"

Travis poured a glass of water, glancing at the doctor for permission before putting it to the kid's lips. The child sipped eagerly, raising his head a little when Travis pulled the glass away before dropping back onto his pillow, eyes slipping closed.

"And your name?" the doctor pressed. "When your Dad asks about you, we've got to know who you are, haven’t we?"

A worried, confused frown crossed the boy's face. "Virgil," he said softly. "I'm Virgil."

The kid, Virgil, looked as if he wanted to say more, but exhaustion dragged him down before he could shape the words. The doctor scanned his monitors with a quick, efficient glance, frowning down at the child and making a few notes on his records. She sighed, stepping back from the bedside and turning to look at the detective.

"Inspector Travis, have you got any idea what happened to these two?"

"Shipwrecked," Travis shrugged. He looked down at the boy's sleeping face. "I'll get to the bottom of it," he promised. "How are they, Tasmin?"

"Could be worse, Chuck." Doctor Tasmin Evans dropped the formality, sighing as she dropped into the chair by Virgil's bedside. "Severe exposure and everything that goes with it: dehydration exacerbated by seawater consumption, exhaustion, hypothermia and moderate to serious sunburn on exposed skin. They'd have been in bad trouble if they'd got here much later, but all that is pretty straightforward to treat." She smiled at Travis's exaggerated sigh. Most of the cases he'd brought into the hospital over the years before he made Detective Inspector had been simple alcohol poisoning and associated minor injuries. The doctor had never seen him hovering so protectively over a 'case' before. She sighed, glancing down at her notes. "The kid has some badly bruised ribs, which we're going to have to strap up. We were a bit more worried about the father's – Jeff's – concussion. Double concussion, that is."

Travis frowned. "Are you going to make me beg for an explanation, Mina?""

"He took the first blow to the head somewhere around twenty-four hours ago. The broken wrist and rope burns around it happened about the same time. Looks like he tried to hold on to something without much success. After that, either Lady Luck turned the other cheek or young Virgil here kept him afloat somehow, because he sure couldn't have done anything about it himself."

Travis nodded, filing the information away for future reference. "You said 'first'?"

"The word is that the Levan boys brought them in?"

Travis nodded, long since accustomed to how rapidly gossip could travel in Dominga. More than enough people had seen the Levan boat's arrival and the brothers were well known locally. Mina shook her head grimly.

"Then either Tony clobbered him with the boat before spotting him, or Cal dropped him when they pulled him up. There's another lump on his skull that can't be more than five hours old. That, as much as the exposure, is what has him out cold, and he's going to feel pretty poorly when he wakes. Don't expect to get much out of him for another day or so." She leaned over the bed, straightening the covers that Virgil had disturbed when he stirred. "The boy might give you something sooner, but probably not before morning now. We'll move him up to paediatrics as soon as I've checked there's a bed ready for him, but he's tired enough to sleep through. If he really was holding his Dad out of the water for a day or more, you can hardly blame him."

"Right." Travis nodded. He sighed, glancing at his watch for the tenth time. Nine o'clock. "I should have been off duty an hour and a half ago," he told no one in particular.

Tasmin gave him a sympathetic look. "That might have to wait a while. Apparently your radios aren't working any better than the vid-phones at the moment. Your chief sent a constable to the front desk a few minutes back, said to tell you that since you'd volunteered, this case is yours, and he expects a briefing together with your write-up of the storm reports first thing tomorrow."

The doctor couldn't resist a smile as Travis let out a heartfelt groan and pushed himself away from the bed. "I'll get on it: I'll try and figure out who these folks are and if anyone's missing them yet. If they say anything else, you'll let me know?" He hesitated, one hand raised to pull aside the curtain surrounding the cubicle, glancing back down at the kid.

Tasmin shooed him with an imperious gesture.

"Get along with you, Inspector. We'll make sure they're still here when you get back. Now, do I have to call the porters to throw you out?"

Travis took her at her word, striding out through the waiting room, pulling out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires and not slowing down until he pulled his car into its reserved slot in front of police headquarters. At this time of night it was pretty quiet. Much like the hospital, the police station was enjoying the lull between daylight crimes and those committed after dark. It was a good few hours before the duty constables would have to deal with throwing out time in the local bars and the associated furore. On a bad night, the cells in the basement would be heaving before midnight.

By contrast the squad room of the detective division was empty, and except under exceptional circumstances would remain so until the morning. Precious little crime on Dominga was serious enough to keep a detective from his home and hearth, or urgent enough that it wouldn't wait until after the day's first cup of coffee. Unfortunately, pinning down the identity of two half-drowned tourists qualified. Their government, whichever it turned out to be, would expect it, and Travis intended to give them nothing to complain of in the process.

The main fluorescents were dark, but someone had left a lamp shining on Travis' desk, and the coffee machine was keeping a carafe of rich brown liquid warm beside it. A scribbled note, reading simply 'Hard luck' identified the coffee-fairy as his colleague and occasional partner Mike Kearney. He put the note aside with a snort of amusement, and poured himself a half mug-full. He was still hopeful that he could make enough progress on the kid Virgil and his dad that he needn't burn the oil much past midnight. No point in stoking up on the caffeine now if it wasn't necessary.

He flicked his computer's monitor on, sipping from his mug as he slipped into the chair behind his desk. Ignoring the pile of paperwork on his desk for the moment, he fired up his network connection, perusing his local email as he waited for the global security network to load up. Discarding a dozen departmental circulars and a reaffirmation of his instructions from the chief, he grimaced in frustration. The international police identity database was never exactly fast to load, layers of security and password protocols limiting it to a snail's pace, but nor was it usually this slow. The snowstorm of interference dancing across his screen suggested that, just for once, the problem was at the Domingan end. Irritating as hell, but hardly unexpected. A storm the size of last night's was induced perhaps once in a decade, and only then mid-ocean, with shipping and aircraft ordered to steer clear for the following week. The induction charge the malfunction had left in the air was screwing enough with electronics that Travis had been glad to find his car still worked, let alone his computer.

Finally though, the search window popped up, inevitably just when Travis had decided to make a start on writing up uninformative storm accounts and try the database again later. Sighing, the detective turned back to it, trying to work out where to start.

Virgil seemed the obvious initial reference point and Travis entered the unusual name as a lone search term, ticking the box that indicated he was looking for a juvenile rather than adult record. The 'working' icon appeared and the network began to grind away, quite obviously not planning to spit out any results soon. A slow half an hour, spent transcribing stories of fish shoaling in the wrong place and local folklore about seaweed, later, he pulled the window back to the front of his desktop and frowned at the hundred and fifty-four hits already identified. A hundred and fifty-fifth popped up as he watched and he killed the search angrily. He'd honestly never guessed that so many parents could be that cruel to their kids in the space of eighteen short years. True, a few of the names he'd glimpsed in his brief scan of the list had been phonetic variants on Virgil, from cultural and ethnic backgrounds where it probably sounded quite normal, but a fair few had been from the western, industrial countries most likely to have produced his shipwrecked kid.

Shaking his head, he spent the next five minutes pulling up the advanced search form, this time entering not only the boy's name, but his father's name Jeff (or Geoff, or phonetic variants and extrapolations thereof), and narrowed his search to boys between nine and fourteen years old. Either end of that range was almost certainly way out, but he'd rather be safe than risk missing the kid. The boy's accent had been almost impossible to distinguish in his slurred speech. Travis's first guess would have to be American, but again he played it safe, specifying only that the subject of his search was an Anglophone.

With the new search underway, he swivelled his chair, reaching out to top off his coffee mug, no longer convinced that this was going to be as rapid a process as he'd hoped. On the plus side, this search should run more quickly, the birth date, gender and language constraints cutting out large sections of the database before a more detailed search was made for text matching the two names Travis had specified. Even so, it was another eight minutes before the computer chimed to inform him that the task was complete. He glanced at the relevant window, clicking on the single record selected rather than trying to squint through the interference to read the one-line summary the search returned.

He expected a second window to open, giving him access to everything from the boy's full name and address to his educational and brief medical records. The identity database gave civil rights paranoids the world over nightmares. On the other hand, it sure made the job of accredited police forces around the world easier, and as a Detective Inspector in the Domingan Confederation's police service, Travis was fully entitled to access that kind of information.

What he wasn't expecting was for his computer to freeze, the database window flashing suddenly red, the mouse and keyboard unresponsive. He stared at it for a moment, baffled, picking up the mouse and tapping it futilely against the desk in an effort to get some kind of response. The red border around the search window was interrupted by the single word 'CLASSIFIED'. Confusing as that was on the ID record of a kid so young, it didn't come close to explaining what had locked up his machine.

The vid-phone window that popped up a few seconds later gave him a hint though. The internal vid-phone on a police computer was meant to be secure, unhackable. There was no way a call should be connected without Travis screening and approving it, even if he'd given his caller the necessary system ID. The uniformed man on the other end of the line, dark-skinned but with features and expression lost in a haze of interference, seemed oblivious to that. Travis winced and turned down the computer speakers as a roar of interference, mingled with unintelligibly distorted words, emerged from them. The man spoke again, and then the picture flickered and steadied.

"Is that better?" the caller asked, the nuances of his voice still lost to noise but the words coming through loud and clear. "I've boosted the signal our end."

Travis nodded grimly, wondering where to start. With the basics, he decided.

"Who are you?"

"Vaughan, NASA Security. I'm sending through my online identity confirmation and clearances now. And I'm talking to Detective Inspector Charleston Travis, right? Well, Inspector, you just tried to access Virgil Tracy's file on the ID net, and I'd very much like to know why."

"I can't discuss the specifics of an ongoing case." The rote response rolled off Travis's tongue without him having to think about it. The rules regarding journalists and inter-agency jurisdiction poachers were pretty much the same. He was still not entirely sure which category Vaughan fell closest to. An icon came up on his desktop for a received ident confirmation, and he had to resist the urge to check it, able to tell from the sound of processor fans alone that the computer was already struggling to maintain the vid-link without burdening it further. Did this man really just say NASA Security?

He didn't get a chance to ask. The security officer Vaughan appeared to be on a short tether. There was a distinctly military bark in his voice when he answered, his American accent coming through clearly despite the crackling line. "It's a simple enough question: do you know where the kid is, or don't you?"

Frowning, Travis set his lips firm, still confused as to how he'd ended up talking to the man in the first place. "What's your interest in this case? Since when has an outfit like NASA security had access to the police ID net?"

"Federal agency," Vaughan snapped. "Look I don't have time for this kind of evasion, and nor do you. You've got about two and a half minutes before the C.I.A. traces your search and comes down on your head like a ton of bricks. Believe me, I'm the lesser of two evils in front of you right now."

Travis stared. "You're joking."

Vaughan's fingers rapped an impatient tattoo on the desk in front of him. His near-black eyes were visible even through the snowstorm of interference. "I want you to look me in the eye, Inspector, and tell me what is even vaguely amusing about withholding evidence on a kid that's been missing for over twenty-four hours."

Travis buckled under the pressure, out of his depth and knowing it. "White, prepubescent male? Ten or eleven years old? Chestnut hair, mid-brown eyes? Dad a tall, dark-haired man in his forties, name of Jeff?" He paused, his eyes widening as he put two and two together. "Wait, did you say Tracy? Jeff Tracy? The Jeff Tracy?"

"You've found them." The man sounded genuinely relieved, but still urgent. "Where are they? How are they?"

"Mercy State Hospital, Dominga. Care of Dr Tasmin Evans. She tells me they'll be all right in a few days. They were shipwrecked – probably the big storm we had down here. Some of our local fishermen brought them in."

Now Vaughan did actually slump a little. "Thank God for that. Jeff's retired but he's still like family to the agency. Lucille called us for help as soon as Jeff and the boys missed their evening call home."

Travis felt a hole open up under his feet and his stomach drop into it. He'd been pretty sure that Virgil and Jeff had a traumatic story to tell. Until now, he'd assumed it at least had a happy ending.

"Boys plural?" he asked quietly. "I'm afraid we only found Virgil and his father."

It was hard to read Vaughan's expression over the still-fuzzy vid-phone, but his breathing became a little harsher.

"Jeff had three of his sons with him on the yacht," the NASA man told him in a low voice. "Scott, Virgil and Gordon."

There was a moment of silence between them. It was broken by the ringing of the more conventional telephone on Travis's desk, the sudden sound making him leap nearly out of his skin.

"That'll be the C.I.A.; they're faster than we gave them credit for."

Travis looked at his phone as if it had suddenly turned into a hand grenade. In his job, a fair amount of interagency liaison was inevitable, but the United States C.I.A. was an intimidatingly-serious new prospect. "What do I tell them?" he wondered aloud, not so much asking for advice as delaying the inevitable.

Vaughan sighed. "That you've found the ex-astronaut businessman they were looking for, so the defence contracts, and the network of personal contacts through half the US military, that have them in a flap are probably safe. But Jeff will do anything for those boys, so if you don't find his missing kids, one way or the other, they might not be for long. I need to contact the hospital, and then break the news to Lucy. I'll call you back."

With that, Vaughan's vid window closed itself. Travis stared at his screen. "Thanks," he muttered sarcastically as his screen unlocked, first Virgil's file, and then Jeff's and those of the other two boys Vaughan had mentioned, opening across it. He reached for the persistently ringing telephone, wincing as a loud crackle filled the line.

"Detective Inspector Travis," he announced, careful to keep his voice calm and level. "Can I help you?"

Sitting perched on the emergency cabinet, Gordon determinedly holding on to his ankles despite his protest that it was unnecessary, Scott leaned back and adjusted the throttle on the outboard motor to idle. They were perhaps half a mile from the shoreline now, and his initial euphoria at simply spotting land had been replaced by more practical concerns.

The island in front of them rose steeply out of the water. Thick jungle and sandy beaches barely obscured the outline of the apparently extinct volcano that had formed it. It was land, and that was wonderful, exciting and a life-saver in the truest sense of the word, but in the pale moonlight it also looked small, wild and very remote from the civilisation Scott was accustomed to.

It had taken them the better part of an hour to get this far, the first half of that spent trying awkwardly to refuel the mounted engine while Gordon alternated between watching his brother anxiously and keeping an eye on the barely-visible island as Scott had asked. Twilight had long since faded to nothing, and Scott had been terrified that they'd be plunged into pitch darkness still directionless, and drift away from potential salvation during the long night. It was a relief to find that, with the previous night's cloud cover a mere memory, the waxing moon gave them enough light to make out shapes and silhouettes, even if the details were lost. By the time the engine had coughed into life, the lunar radiance had thrown just enough light on the island for Scott to have confidence that the direction Gordon indicated and the vague blur against the night sky were one and the same.

His heart had lifted as he caught a sparkle of brighter light, a reflection of some kind. He'd angled towards it hopefully as the island grew in the night, hoping to find glass: a window, a car windscreen, something. Now he gazed at a sparkling, dancing stream, picked out in blue-white reflections as it trickled across the beach. He knew he should consider it a lucky find, but couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment nonetheless.

His parched mouth and throat craved the cool water so near at hand, but he had to do something about getting there first. The beach, what he could see of it, appeared to have quite a shallow gradient, although looking at the towering volcano he'd be willing to bet there was a sharp drop-off not far from shore. In theory, if he let the tide drift them in, perhaps with a touch on the motor to help it along, he could jump out when they were close enough to the beach and pull the boat gently ashore with Gordy safe inside. There was only one problem with that idea. Scott was far from confident that his tired limbs were capable of hauling the heavy three-man lifeboat through the water, and he was pretty sure that even if he got them close, he wouldn't be able to pull it up above the tide line. Chances were that they'd wake in the morning not only shipwrecked but also marooned, the boat long since washed away. Or worse still, that he wouldn't get them both ashore at all, the boat with Gordon still inside slipping out of his grasp and drifting out of reach.

It wasn't an option he was prepared to consider for long.

He hesitated, glancing down at his tired little brother. Gordon was leaning on Scott's legs as much for his own support as to ensure Scott remained balanced. Worried, the older boy shook his head, knowing that if he was to get them both ashore and keep the boat too, he was going to have to take a risk.

"Gordy?" he called softly. Amber eyes looked blearily up at him, Gordon running one hand through unruly copper locks to push them back away from his face. "Gordon, I want you to sit down, okay? Curl up really tight – like a mouse when it's asleep. Understand?"

Gordon shook his head, hands squeezing Scott's ankles. "Not going to let you go," he insisted. "If I let you go, you're going to fall…"

"Gordon – "

"…and if you fall, you're going to be gone just like Daddy and Virgil, and I'm going to be all on my own, and that would be bad, and I don't want you to go, Scotty, and…and…"

"Gordy!" Scott slid forward, jumping down from the emergency locker and wrapping his arms around his shaking little brother. Gordon had seemed to be coping well, all things considered, putting all his trust in his eldest brother. Clearly the idea of Scott leaving him too was just too much for the six-year-old to deal with. Scott squeezed him tight, and then pulled back a little, gently raising Gordon's chin and stroking the hair back from his tear-filled eyes. "Gordy, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to leave you alone. No way. No how."

Gordon trembled, his expression uncertain. Scott's determination rang through his voice, his statement throwing down a challenge. He'd face down the universe itself to make sure his words came true, and Gordon realised that. The younger boy was still frightened, but he nodded reluctantly before burying his face back in Scott's chest.

Scott sighed, holding his brother for a few seconds longer before easing gently away from him. "Gordy, I'm not going to fall in, okay? I just need to get us to the beach over there. And it might get a little bumpy." He sighed, looking down at Gordon's quivering lips. "Okay, Gordon, you can hold onto me if you want. I'm going to turn the engine back on and then jump back down here, okay? As soon as I jump down, we have to tuck up tight, just like I said. Can you be ready to do that?"

Again, Gordon gave that short, scared nod. He was reluctant to release his elder brother completely, and he watched with worried eyes as Scott pulled himself wearily back up onto the closed emergency locker, sitting with his legs dangling down into the lifeboat and his body half-twisted so he could reach for the motor controls while keeping an eye both on his little brother and the coastline ahead. Taking a deep breath, Scott locked the rudimentary directional controls and, bracing himself, threw the throttle full open. The boat surged forward, and he gave it the briefest moment to steady, determined not to prove his brother right. Then he slid back across the locker, tackling Gordon to the deck and wrapping himself around his little brother, head and arms tucked in.

The impact threw them back against the locker, adding to Scott's already extensive collection of bumps and bruises. The bottom of the boat made a harsh grating sound as it climbed the beach, the noise all-pervading and seemingly never-ending. The motor roared as the propeller lifted free of the surface. Robbed of resistance, it over-revved, choked and cut out. The grinding of sand and stones against the keel went on though, the lifeboat riding higher on the beach than even Scott had intended. The vessel rocked from side to side, and the boys rolled with it, Gordon letting out a frightened scream as he clung to his brother. An age passed, the noise and movement gradually subsiding. When the boat settled, it was with a lurch that left the deck listing steeply to one side. Scott rolled to that side of the deck, Gordon slipping from his grasp. Both boys scrambled to their knees, balanced more on the side-wall of the dinghy than its bottom, their eyes searching one another out in the moonlight.

"There, that wasn't so bad now was it?" Scott tried, his voice shaking.

Pale in the silver light, Gordon stared at him. Scott was growing concerned by his silence when the little boy giggled. Scott stared as Gordon tried to suppress his giggles and ended up hiccupping instead. He chuckled, the younger boy's laughter becoming infectious, and closed the gap between them, running his eyes up and down Gordon in the moonlight to check for injuries. Finding none, he gave his brother a light swat on the back of the head before taking his hand.

Climbing down from the boat was a tricky task, the angle making it difficult to find solid footing. Scott dropped to his knees as soon as he'd set Gordon down, burying his hands in the sand and gulping back tears of relief at the feel of solid ground. Gordon stayed close, hand on Scott's shoulder as they looked up and down the length of the beach and the impenetrable blackness of the jungle that rose from it.

The adrenaline surge was passing now, combining with the ordeal of the day to leave both boys shaky and exhausted. Scott knew that he should scout their surroundings, unpack their supply cabinet and figure out a way to make a proper shelter. Instead, he let Gordon lead him over to the freshwater stream crossing the beach. He sipped the water cautiously, not sure whether his parched tongue was even capable of detecting any contaminants. He'd meant to keep his brother away from the unpurified water, going back to the boat to fetch what was left of their bottled supply for Gordon while risking the stream himself. Gordon didn't wait for Scott's permission though, falling to his knees by the shallow bank and scooping up handfuls of the cool liquid. Sighing, Scott did the same, too tired and weak to do anything else.

Gordon was asleep on his feet by the time they'd drunk their fill. Scott picked his brother up, letting the younger boy's head rest on his shoulder as he carried him to the tree-line. There was no way they were going to risk the forest tonight, but dry palm fronds littered the ground around the base of the nearest trunks. Putting Gordon down, Scott pulled a pile of the dead foliage aside, checking for anything living amidst the leaf litter. Satisfied for now, he guided his sleepy brother into a hollow between a slender tree trunk and its roots, pulling the warm, dry leaves back over them as they curled up together, asleep in moments.

Chapter 5

"Chuck, what the Hell is going on?"

Charleston Travis groaned, propping his elbows on the desk and burying his head in his hands. After a gruelling half-hour interrogation over a telephone line that even Alexander Graham Bell would have considered lousy, he was in need of two things: another mug of coffee and an aspirin. What he did not need was the chief's voice, loud and angry, ringing through his head.

Chief Inspector Lex Coates was a big man, not so much fat as well built, with two hundred pounds of muscles softened by middle age. He filled the doorway, silhouetted against the brighter illumination of the corridor outside. He scanned the room with his eyes before stepping through, flicking the light switch as he did so. Travis groaned again at the spear the sudden brilliance sent through his optical nerve, barely aware of Mike Kearney slipping in behind their boss.

"Chief?"

"I spend all day running around after this storm business, and then when I get a call from some guy at NASA of all places, it's not because their satellites went haywire. It's him telling me you need backup because the C.I.A. are wringing you dry."

Kearney dropped into the chair behind his own desk, next to Travis's, leaning intently forward across its surface. "We were expecting to come busting in here to find you tied to a chair and a couple of spooks pulling out your fingernails."

"And if there isn't a good explanation for why I'm not at home getting ready to join my wife in bed," Coates added, shrugging out of his coat and leaning against another desk nearby, "that is still a workable option."

Travis sighed, too used to his boss's hyperbole to take the threat entirely seriously, but recognising the warning it carried nonetheless. "The Levan boys' John Doe? Turns out to be Jeff Tracy. Ex-astronaut, all-around, All-American hero Jeff Tracy."

"Whoa," Mike shook his head, leaning back in his chair and letting the breath whistle past his teeth. The chief appeared less impressed. Vacationing celebrities, each with their vastly oversized motor yacht and antisocial habits, were commonplace on Dominga. A lunar astronaut might represent more class and distinction than most of them, but he was still just another tourist as far as the chief was concerned. Coates tossed his coat towards the stand on one side of the room, already pulling a chair around to sit on as it settled onto its hook.

"He still alive?"

Travis nodded. "Not able to talk yet, but Mina Evans thinks he'll be fine. His kid Virgil too."

Coates frowned. "Okay, so the Levan boys rescued him, and you got him to a hospital. Good for you. What's with the midnight calls?"

"And I still want to know what that C.I.A. crack was all about," Mike Kearney added, twisting in his chair to reach for the coffee machine between him and his partner. He topped up Travis' mug without being asked, tipping the carafe towards his boss and getting a shake of the head before filling his own cup. Travis sighed, sipping the darkly aromatic liquid.

"I just got off the 'phone to the Americans," he admitted. "The agent I spoke to wanted to know whether this was an accident or whether Tracy ran into some rather more human sharks out there. He wanted to know in the baddest way."

"Why?" Kearney asked, confused. "If Tracy is back safe now?"

"Wouldn't say. From what Vaughan – that's the NASA security guy, he got through just before the C.I.A. traced my search on Virgil – told me, and what I've read in the papers, Tracy's been building up quite a successful consulting and construction firm since he 'retired'. I'm guessing they want to make sure that his defence contracts are secure."

"Wait," Kearney interrupted. "This Vaughan dude called before the C.I.A. tracked you down?"

"NASA security," Travis repeated, rolling his eyes and stressing the acronym. "Guess Tracy has some well-equipped friends in high places. And they all want to know what happened."

"Couldn't they just wait for the guy to wake up and ask him? A day or two's not going to be the end of the world."

Coates grunted at Kearney's question, turning a frown on his subordinate. "That depends on what Tracy Industries is building."

Travis was shaking his head grimly. "Two more of Tracy's kids are missing. The agent – damn guy kept me talking for half an hour and wouldn't give me his name – has got some idea that every island in the Confederation belongs to smugglers, thugs or criminal masterminds. He seems to think Tracy's sons would make great blackmail material, and that someone down here might just take advantage of them."

Coates and Kearney had both stilled, their expressions going from ones of professional interest to sombre concentration when the missing children were mentioned. Kearney laid his cup down, running a hand through his curly brown hair. Coates grimaced and massaged his face with the heels of both hands.

"Whether they're alive or dead," he agreed tiredly. "Even if they're at the bottom of the ocean, someone could call Tracy and say he's got them. The man's trying to run a business, but he'd be a security risk for the rest of his life." He raised his head, fixing Travis with a piercing gaze. "So what was it? Accident or pirates?"

The detective sighed, scrubbing at his own eyes. He hadn't been given a moment to think, first by Vaughan and then the C.I.A. agent. Now though his mind was working at double speed, trying to make up for lost time. "First assumption? I would have said it was that damn storm we had last night, if it wasn't for the fact it doesn't jibe with where Tony and Cal Levan said they were found. Cal said there was wreckage, and it takes a lot to sink a high-end modern yacht like Tracy's – that miniature typhoon could have done it. I don't think it could have happened before the storm in any case. Tracy is ex-military. He'd have a radio on his yacht – the Santa Anna, by the way – and he'd have got word out if they were in trouble, or about to be boarded."

Coates pulled his own useless radio from a pocket and tossed it onto Travis' desk. "Not with this kind of static in the air."

"Exactly. And if it had been much longer ago, we'd have seen a report filed on the missing yacht too. Vaughan seemed to think Tracy was in daily contact with his wife. This last day or so, we've been missing bulletins through the interference, but we were pretty much on top of them before that. Now from what Mina told me, Tracy was knocked pretty hard and ended up in the water at least a day ago. That doesn't leave much time unaccounted for. If anyone had tried to question him, I'd have thought they'd hold on to him for a while, soften him up a bit, and that would leave its mark, even if there'd been time for it."

"They could have tossed him straight back and be planning to contact him to talk business later, with the kids as collateral," Kearney suggested.

"He and the kid we found were in the water for damn near a day, and picked up by a fishing rig that happened to be passing. What kind of blackmail plan starts by leaving the survival of its target to blind chance? And why give one boy back while keeping the other two? No, whether it was the storm or just freaky bad luck, I don't reckon there was a human hand behind this."

"You told the Americans that?"

Travis shrugged. "Just that there was no evidence of foul play that we'd seen," he admitted. "One thing the spook was right about is that it's one huge coincidence that the infallible weather system let loose just a couple of hundred miles from where Tracy was found."

Coates sighed heavily, hauling himself out of the chair and towards his own desk on the other side of the room.

"You know, we're going to have to find these kids before this will be over," he told his detectives. He paused, turning sombrely towards them. "And you know they're probably out there for the second night. If they were shipwrecked more than a day ago and have been adrift since, they might not be a pretty sight when we find them."

Travis nodded bleakly. Kearney just sighed, waving one hand in acknowledgement.

"Right. Mike, you get onto weather control. Find out just how long it's going to be before it's safe to send out search and rescue choppers in this induction charge-thing. Ask what the wind and ocean's been doing while you're at it. I want a map of the most likely drift path of wreckage – or anything else. Oh, and get me satellite photos too. I want to know where that yacht was when it sank. I'm going to take a look at the harbour records and the reports from some of the other islands, just in case Chuck's gut feeling is off on this one. If there are any new players, or big boats, in the area someone should have noticed. I'm going to send security to the hospital. Tracy's a big enough name that when word gets out, he's going to be a target for kooks and journalists whether or not we throw pirates and kidnappers into the equation."

"What about me?" Travis asked quietly. He was used to his boss taking control and respected him for his ability to get things done, but even so… "This is my case, Chief. You're not taking me off it now."

Coates snorted humourlessly. "When you're our liaison with NASA and the CIA? I wouldn't dare. I'm just counting my blessings that the boffins are still calling Dominga a no-fly zone otherwise we'd probably have been swarmed under by spooks and scientists already. Find out what happened, Chuck. I want detailed, formal statements from Tony and Cal Levan, and a written report from Dr Evans. Get back on with Vaughan and the wife, if you can. It's a damn big ocean out there. We need to know where that yacht was meant to be before photos do us much good. And see if you can talk to Tracy and the kid. We need to get definite information here."

Travis nodded, reaching for his coat and heading towards the door. Mina had ordered him out of the hospital for the moment, but he still had options. At this time of night, he had a pretty good idea where to find the Levan brothers. "I'll be at Bobbie's," he called over his shoulder. "Oh and, Mike?"

"Yeah, Chuck?" Mike asked distractedly, eyes already on his computer screen.

"Have the coffee on when I get back?"

Jeff Tracy's body was a throbbing, confused mass of pain. He was dimly aware of the cool sheets of a bed beneath him, but it seemed to be tossing and tumbling under him. Waves of nausea and dizziness assaulted him, making the world a noisy, chaotic place even before he opened his eyes or became aware of the sounds around him.

His eyes slid open a crack, outside his voluntary control. The blaze of light just added to his confusion. He gasped, and someone trickled a few drops of cold liquid between his lips, calling him by name.

"Jeff? Jeff, can you hear me?"

The water felt good for a moment as it hit his throat, but then his stomach revolted. He barely managed to roll onto his side before he lost control of the nausea. He'd choked up what felt like half the Pacific Ocean before the convulsions began to subside. Again a voice called him, and it was somehow wrong. Even in this hazy, distorted world, he had a strong feeling that something was missing. No… someone!

His eyes shot open and he tried to sit up, only for nausea and dizziness to overcome him again. Someone held his shoulders as he began to vomit helplessly again. There was no hint though of the voices Jeff needed to hear.

"V'g'l?" he gasped between heaves. He didn't understand his own urgency, his recent memories seemed to contain nothing but tumbling, roiling chaos and the intense need to find his sons, one of them in particular. "V'g'l?" he tried again, the word mumbled and distorted. "Sc'tty? Gord'n?"

There was noise, as if someone were trying to speak to him. Jeff couldn't make out words above the pounding of blood in his own head, but the voices were still wrong. He struggled to open his eyes again, and failed, tumbling back into the darkness long before he could make sense of the light.

Bobbie's place wasn't a bar in the strictest sense of the word. True, a stained wooden counter ran the length of the place, and true, drinks were served and money was taken. But this wasn't one of the bright, noisy tourist traps that littered the town. No one got through the door without a word and a nod from Bobbie herself. She didn't give that word easily. This was a place for serious drinkers and serious talk.

Of course, Chuck Travis thought as he stepped past the bouncer and into the dark, smoke-clouded interior, that didn't mean that the talk wasn't complete and utter crap sometimes.

He exchanged a nod with Bobbie, trying to remain outwardly cool in the face of her intent scrutiny. He hadn't been sure of his welcome here, although he'd been pretty sure that he'd be let in today, if only because there was a kid involved. The woman ruled the dockside with a fist of iron, and had done for as long as Travis had been savvy enough to see it. Bobbie was probably in her late forties, but in this light could easily pass for twenty years younger, her body kept lithe and fit by hard work and harsh times. She had character rather than the artificial beauty that could be found in bars where tourist women roamed in search of holiday adventure. As Bobbie leaned forward across the bar, her lips pursed thoughtfully, Travis admitted to himself that she terrified him for reasons that had nothing to do with the rumours about what happened to any smuggler in the port who crossed her. On the other hand, Bobbie was no more black or white than any of the semi-legal fishermen she served with drinks. Travis had walked past this bar in the afternoon and seen the place full of street kids tucking into their only hot meal of the day. He'd heard rumours, started by Bobbie herself no doubt, that she only did it to divert police attention from the bar. He didn't think her clientele believed it any more than he did, but it would take a braver man than him to tell her so.

He drifted across to sit opposite her, laying down a larger-than-strictly-necessary 'gift' on the bar as she served him a shot of gin. He downed it in one, eyes meeting hers. She nodded, and placed a beer on the dark wood in front of him.

"You here to cause trouble?" she demanded, not exactly loud but not hiding the question either. "The way I hear it, the boys are heroes."

"One kid in hospital, Bobbie." Travis dropped his voice to little more than a murmur, inaudible to anyone more than a few inches away. "Two more still to find."

"Find what you need to know and get out," she said softly, giving the bar a cursory wipe before turning away, not waiting for Travis's nod but simply assuming it would follow. He wasn't expecting the mutter she threw over her shoulder, lips barely moving. "Levan's been spending hard tonight, drinking hard too. Shouldn’t give you trouble."

He sighed sipping his beer, eyes scanning Bobbie's 'guests', slipping past the clandestine huddles and faces that suddenly ducked away to hide from him. No one had ever hung a crime on Bobbie herself, and if felonies were planned in here, well, that had to happen somewhere, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he was pretty sure she kept a lid on the worst excesses. Another time, he might come here with the place's illicit activities in his sights, but on that day he'd come armed and not riding on the coattails of missing children.

A hearty laugh, followed by a quieter chuckle, drew his eyes towards the back of the bar. Lifting his drink, he sauntered in that direction, his gaze fixed on Tony Levan's broad shoulders. The man shrugged expansively, still turned away. From the sweeping gestures he made, it seemed that whatever overblown story he'd just told had reached a natural conclusion. By his side, Cal was taking orders for the next round, their drunken circle of cronies quick to volunteer their wants. Bobbie was right, Tony was well away, a noticeable slur in his voice as he waved a hand in mid-air.

"…pretty damn spectacular from San Fernando, he said," the drunken man declared loudly.

Travis's eyebrows rose to his eye-line. Cal staggered out of his seat and towards the bar, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw the detective. Travis shot the younger brother a glare and a threat both wrapped up in a 'stay there!' look, slipped past him and settled into his vacated seat all in one smooth gesture.

"What was, Tony?" he asked casually, putting his beer on the table in front of him.

Tony turned an unfocused look on him. "The storm, you not listening?"

"Gee that's weird, Tony." Travis leaned back in the chair. The other men around the table had grown quiet, a few of them confused, the rest wary as they recognised the cop.

Tony himself blinked hard. "Hey, you crashing my party?"

"Sounds like you've been having fun, Tone. And you know, that's kind of odd too, 'cause you only went out for the evening catch, and you must have turned round before you got out to the shoals. Your nets were empty, Tony. No catch, no cash. So why am I hearing you've been throwing money around tonight?"

Tony blinked at him, too drunk to process the question. Cal, on the other hand, was looking distinctly nervous, edging towards the door at the front of the bar. At a glance from Bobbie, the bouncer there stepped into the doorframe, blocking it completely. There was a stir, the bar's patrons looking from Travis to Bobbie, two authority figures in temporary alliance.

Travis raised his voice slightly. "Where'd the windfall come from, Cal?" he asked without looking in the younger man's direction. "Did you snatch the guy's wallet? It must have been loaded. Did he put up a fight? Is that why he got that goose-egg?"

"He was out cold!" Cal hurried back along the bar, his voice dropping into a hiss. "Unconscious, way before… we found him."

The hesitation was slight, but Travis had been listening for it. Before he'd walked into Bobbie's place, he'd been prepared to push these men hard for details because that was the only way to get past the façade that all these 'fishermen' showed to the law. Now, when he pushed it was because he was suddenly damn sure that the Levan brothers were hiding something.

He looked back at Tony, letting his more sober brother stew. "So, don't you want to know what's weird, Tony? You and your brother both insist you were off east when you found your castaways."

"That's right," Tony slurred, a little more focus in his eyes as he began to recognise his interrogator. "Hundred miles east, that's what he said."

"He said that, did he?" Travis asked, mildly entertained to see Cal's furious expression shooting daggers at his brother's back. "Must have said a lot of things. Like what the storm was like off 'Fernando. Pretty damn spectacular. Should have been, that close to where it was blowing hardest."

"Uh, yeah."

Travis slammed his half-empty mug back on the table with a loud bang, beer slopping over its sides. "No! 'Cause you were out east, and San Fernando is way down to the south, and you know as well as I do that the kook who lives there won't let any boat but his own and the weekly servants' launch land there. So, tell me, Tony. Where did you really find those people? Who did you meet off San Fernando today?"

Tony blinked at him, glancing at Cal before closing his mouth hard. Cal jerked his head and one of his drinking circle vacated a seat for him, looking glad to be out of the firing line.

"Look, Inspector, you're taking one egg and trying to make an omelette here. Tony and me, we have a regular thing with the cook over on 'Fernando. Make sure he gets the supplies he needs on the weekly boat, if you know what I mean. That's all. Tony here was chatting to him on the radio earlier."

Cal Levan thought fast, Travis had to give him credit for that. His story might even be true. Auguste Villacana was one of the weirder of the one-man island tyrants in the Confederation, and exotic contraband foodstuffs sounded more or less his speed, and about right for the Levan brothers too. On another day, Cal's story might have plausible enough to talk his way out of the situation, but not a mere day after the induction pulse hit the atmosphere slap bang on a line between San Fernando and Dominga. Travis pulled his radio out with a quick gesture that had an unnervingly high fraction of Bobbie's clientele twitching towards their pockets. He flicked the switch, and thumbed up the volume, letting the loud crackle and pops fill the now-silent bar.

"You had a nice chat on the radio, huh?" He dropped the light tone from his voice, and spoke in deadly earnest. "Not today, you didn’t. Where'd you find the tourists, Levan?"

Tony was sobering quickly, his expression worried. He tried one last time.

"I don't get it, Inspector, we're heroes right? We did everyone a favour. We brought those folks in quick as we could, got them to hospital and all."

Travis sighed. It was near-midnight, he'd missed dinner, and was now functioning almost entirely on coffee. He was too tired for much more of this.

"Yeah, you got them to hospital, Tony. You might be a little bent, but I'm pretty sure both of you are still human enough not to let a man and boy die if you don't have to. And that's why I know that sooner or later you're going to tell me where you really found them." He took a deep breath. "And what happened to the other two kids in the water."

There was dead silence, not even the clink of glasses. It was as if everyone in the bar had frozen.

"Other kids?" Tony Levan was looking at his brother, either completely shocked or doing a good impression of it. "That bastard never said nothing about other kids!"

Cal pushed back from the table, his chair falling with a clatter as he stood. "Look, Inspector Travis, if we'd known there were others, we'd have brought them back too, okay?"

Travis stayed seated, catching Cal's eyes. "What bastard?" he asked softly.

Cal hesitated, swore, and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

"Villacana. That monster of a motor-yacht of his cuts across our bows, near swamps us. Says his people fished a couple strangers out not far off San Fernando. Boat battered to bits by the storm. Kid was holding his dad onto a boom, or a bit of broken mast or something, 'cording to the captain. But the yacht has engine trouble and the captain reckons that if they keep going all the way to Dominga, they're not going to make it home themselves, so can we bring them into port? Well, we're not monsters, Inspector, and hey, Villacana himself comes over all quiet like. He doesn't want investigators snooping around his home, he says, and with the folks getting help anyway, it can't do any good so why should he put up with it? He'll make it worth our while, "reimburse us for our lost catch" he says. We just have to agree to be a bit creative in where we 'found' them."

Cal paused, shaking his head. "No one mentioned any other kids, Inspector. I swear it."

Travis had listened intently. He kept the interest off his face as he spoke. C.I.A. conspiracy theories danced around his head. "Do you think they might have been taken back to San Fernando?"

A snort from Tony dragged everyone's attention back to the larger man. "Wouldn't put anything past that cold bastard Villacana or most of his people. But his captain's not a bad guy. Those folks were in a bad way. If there'd been more of them, he'd have seen they got help."

Rubbing his forehead tiredly, Travis sighed. He looked around the room, populated almost exclusively by Dominga's fishing and smuggling community. "We'll be planning an organised search leaving on the morning tide," he announced quietly, knowing that the news would travel quickly. "These boys need to be found and they need to be found fast. Anyone that can help…" He let his voice trail off, and turned back to the chagrined Levan brothers. "I need you both to come down to the station, give me a statement and coordinates."

Cal Levan grimaced in distaste, but he nodded, looking serious. Tony Levan's alcohol-dazed expression became rebellious. "Hey, we told you the truth. Don't see why - "

His voice cut off with a strangled scream. Hand still on his collar, Bobbie hauled the taller man to his feet, the ice-bucket she'd just emptied down the back of his shirt tucked under one arm.

"You're going down to that station, because otherwise you're never showing your face in here again, Levan. That reason enough for you?"

She gave him a shove, and Travis and Cal caught him between them, their grip half support and half restraint. Travis gave Bobbie a sombre nod and led his two prizes to the door.

He'd found what he needed to know. Now it was time to get out.

Chapter 6

It was a near-perfect copy. A technician from the World Weather Satellite itself could have walked in and not known the difference. They'd never have guessed they were beneath the surface of a tropical island, instead of hovering a hundred miles straight above it, any more than they'd have guessed that all this had been put together by a single man, bent on reminding the world what it owed him.

In fact, there was only one difference between this room and its counterpart on the orbiting platform far above. Villacana's fingers caressed the extra control panel and the button at its centre. He let himself fantasize about pressing this button, sending the room live and taking the weather satellite system back under his control. The fancy brought him pleasure, sending a thrill through a heart and head otherwise devoid of emotion, or almost so.

A niggle of irritation and frustration spoiled the moment, reminding him of why he'd come down here, and why it would be unwise to make his move so soon after the minor problem his test run had encountered. He pulled his hand away from the master switch, moving from the main terminal in the room to one of the lesser consoles that lined its perimeter. These data access points were always live, always tapped into the sealed, EM-shielded fibre optic cable that Villacana had laid in secrecy and at great expense. It was the one luxury he'd allowed himself when moving here, before even the concept of this room had occurred to him. The peasants, fools and illiterates on Dominga and the other islands could put their trust in wireless transmission, radio links and satellite relays if they wanted, but Villacana had been a computer programmer almost since he'd written his first word. He'd spent more than half his life immersed in the sea of meta-information, learning to manipulate it to his own ends. Even when he'd turned his back on the world and its petty vindictiveness, he hadn't been able to sever his link to that world.

He settled into the chair at the console, and within seconds, his eyes and his hands were moving in perfect unison, navigating from news site to news site, re-establishing his contact with the rest of the planet. He checked half a dozen different email addresses, and short-cutted his way through twice as many regular information sources. He could no more give this up than a drunkard could give up his last shot of liquor.

Again, the uncertain feeling that he wasn't prepared to recognise as anxiety disturbed his enjoyment of the moment. He shifted the focus of his surfing, moving it closer to home, and concentrating on the news media in this corner of the Pacific, and in the Domingan Confederation specifically.

As he'd expected, the papers based on Dominga itself were largely silent and out of date, a few of them managing to get brief text-only updates through the lingering charge affecting all atmospheric communications. Those based a little further out had updated but had little to say, commenting on the ferocity of the storm based largely on satellite pictures, and going on about the difficulty of communications with the state capital as if the government there actually had anything to say worth listening to. Satisfied, as far as he went, Villacana cast his net a little wider, searching the global media for reports on the storm. There were many, not specifically because a short-lived typhoon had battered a remote island group, but rather because the satellite malfunction causing it implied that such freak weather was possible at any time, anywhere on the planet.

He sighed, relaxing a little. There wasn't a mention of San Fernando anywhere in the meta-data plane he was probing, and nor did the discovery of a shipwrecked man and boy rate column inches, or the electronic equivalent, anywhere he could find. He'd been confident in the fishermen's greed, and in his own cunning, but even so it eased a tension he'd carried all day to realise that no one knew or cared about the yacht lost in the storm. True, the report might get out in a day or so, when Dominga came back online, but by then a couple of unimportant tourists would long since have either lived or died. It would be old news, with nothing to tie it back to Villacana or his work here.

Drawing a line under his search algorithms, he turned back to the storm reports. He indulged himself, reading the full text of several editorials, ranging from near-hysterical doom-mongering to weighty-but-worried discussion of the implications. It was almost an hour before he left the underground room. At the top of the stairs outside, he turned and locked the door firmly behind him, sealing it physically, electronically and with an electrostatic charge that would discourage even the most fool-hardy of his hirelings. Not that any would have the wits or initiative to try it. He encouraged a dull, uninspired loyalty in his workforce, buying it with abundant pay, enforcing it with chilling threats.

Despite that he double-checked the locks before turning and striding through his villa with the shadow of a scowl on his otherwise impassive face. He had run his searches. He had every reason to believe he'd got away with his test, and by the time he was ready to make his move the media would have done his work for him, whipping the global population into a frenzy of fear and uncertainty. Almost everything was going perfectly. So why was some small part of him still worrying that, just possibly, the one insignificant thing that hadn't was going to come back and bite him?

Scott Tracy woke with a start, struck a stray blow by his little brother's flailing arm. He was murmuring an automatic comfort before he registered which brother was huddled against him, or why his bed was so uncomfortable. Memory returned within seconds, and he reached up to stroke Gordon's hair in the moonlight, stilling the younger boy's nightmare.

The temperature had dropped, stars showing crystal-clear through an empty night sky. The cool air chilled Scott's face, but he barely felt it. Set against the previous night, there was no comparison. He was dry and sheltered from the wind, solid ground beneath him, Gordon curled like a hot water bottle against his chest rather than the shivering heat sink of the night before. Careful not to disturb his little brother, Scott pulled and prodded the pile of dry palm fronds back over them, repairing the damage done by Gordon's restless movements.

He stopped, a long, thin palm leaf slipping from his fingers, when Gordon began to stir again. The little boy was crying in his sleep, calling out for their father and Virgil with a painful urgency. Scott snuggled closer, talking quietly about Mom and John and Alan, hoping that some of what he was saying might penetrate his brother's subconscious to ease his dreams. He kept up his murmur until he was sure Gordon was deeply asleep, and then found he simply couldn't stop. He kept talking to drown out the voice in his ears reminding him that Dad and his closest brother were gone, and that he'd watched them fall and huddled in the lifeboat, too scared to do anything about it. When tears overtook the words he kept them very quiet, easing back from Gordon so that his silent sobs wouldn't shake the younger boy awake.

"I'm sorry, Virge," he whispered into the night. "I'm so sorry."

Virgil woke with the sound of his own name ringing in his ears. A familiar voice had called him, the memory of it fading with his dreams.

Warmer and more comfortable than he could remember being in far too long, Virgil paused to take an inventory. His head still felt thick and heavy, but his eyes opened when he told them to, and all ten fingers and ten toes responded when he wiggled them. His throat was dry, and his face felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to the skin, but he could also feel a cool lotion on his cheeks and the cool breeze of air conditioning wafting across them. He shifted a little, intending to roll onto his side, and stopped at the alarming pulling and stinging sensations the movement provoked. He blinked his eyes to focus them, lifting his left hand just high enough that he could see the drip attached to the back of it without having to lift his head.

Realisation dawned and he looked from side to side, taking in the long room, lined with a dozen beds. Most of them were empty, huddled forms just visible in the two beds furthest to his right. His sleeping companions, and the closed curtains on the windows above him, suggested that he'd woken in deep night. The details of the room were obscured by darkness, but there was enough light spilling from the nurse's station at the far left-hand side of the room for him to get a hint of primary colours that made his eyes ache.

He was in hospital, and for a few moments the knowledge that he was back on solid ground and safe had been enough for him. But he was in hospital alone, none of his family at his bedside, and, even in the middle of the night, that was just plain wrong.

The nurse sat at her station, unaware that he was awake. Her concentration was directed elsewhere, and Virgil squinted, trying to make out the shape of the two people having a quiet argument in the doorway of the room, wondering if either of them had been the voice that had awakened him.

"I've got to speak to him, Mina. You said he's not in any kind of danger any more." An unfamiliar man, tanned and casually dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, spoke with an urgent tone to his voice.

"He's still a sick child." That was the woman dressed in white medical robes. His doctor maybe? "He needs his sleep, and I won't have you waking him." There was a note of finality to her tone, and the man seemed first angry and then resigned to it. The woman watched his protests die away before speaking a little more gently. "Couldn't the Levans give you anything?"

"They told us what Villacana's men told them," the man shrugged. "I'm pretty sure that they're not holding anything back… now. But it's not enough. We only have two people who know what really happened, and you're not letting me talk to either of them."

"Believe me, you wouldn't have wanted to try last time one of them was awake. Concussion can be…messy." The doctor folded her arms, her long shadow moving across the walls of the ward as she shook her head. "You're not getting anything out of my patients until they're fit enough. I'm sorry, Chuck. I know you're under a lot of pressure on this, but, honestly, it's still full dark outside, the planes are grounded, and the satellite pictures are seeing nothing but static. What's waking the kid up going to achieve that won't wait 'till morning?"

Chuck leaned back against the doorframe, throwing a guilty glance in Virgil's direction before running a hand through his hair. "God, Mina, I don't know. I just feel like I'm climbing a mountain blindfold. We don't even have decent photos of these kids to show around. The ones the mother tried to send through look like they were taken in a snowstorm, and their ID pictures make them look like anaemic zombies, not to mention being years out of date."

There was a long pause before the doctor, Mina, sighed. "Do you really think they're still out there to be found? After this long?" she asked sadly.

Her friend threw up an arm in a frustrated gesture. "Who knows? Anything could have happened to them! Literally!"

Mina reached out to lay a hand on his arm. "Look, Chuck, you need to get some sleep. Your chief can keep everyone off your back for a few hours, surely?"

"I don't need anyone's permission to sleep, Tasmin," the man snapped. The doctor laughed softly, not offended.

"Just to persuade your own conscience to let up on you for a bit. Sleep deprivation is making you tetchy, Inspector."

"God, I'm sorry, Mina. You're right. It's just… I guess I'd just feel better if I could talk to the kid first."

Virgil had been letting the unfamiliar voices and names roll over him, only half-following the conversation. He still felt lethargic, but something in the man's persistence was getting through to him. He pushed up a little in the bed before his chest tightened, his entire rib cage lighting up with agony. Deciding it was too much effort, he dropped back onto the mattress.

"Hello?" he called softly, mindful of the other children sleeping at the far end of the ward.

Man and woman both dropped their discussion instantly. The doctor waved the duty nurse back, but Chuck followed her to Virgil's bedside despite her glare. Perversely, it was harder to see them as they came closer, leaving the corridor light behind, but Virgil blinked up at them nonetheless.

"Hey there." The woman's voice was soft. He pushed up again, fighting past the pain, and she helped him, raising the head of the bed and tucking a pillow behind him so he wouldn't struggle or strain his bruised ribs. "How are you feeling?"

"I'd like a little water, please?" Virgil asked politely, trying to keep the pleading out of his tone. He looked at the woman as her companion poured from a water jug, trying to place his curious sense of déjà vu. "Is my Dad okay?" he asked softly, taking the glass in both hands and a little surprised to see its surface trembling. The doctor smiled at him.

"You asked us that last time," she told him, shaking her head when he frowned in confusion. "He'll be fine, Virgil. He's feeling a bit poorly at the moment, but he's going to be just fine. Just like you."

Virgil took a sip of the water, still frowning. The news about Dad was a huge relief that pulled tears to the corner of his eyes, but the feeling persisted that something was very wrong, stopping him from relaxing.

"Scott?" he said simply, not quite sure what question he was asking.

The doctor hesitated, and her companion moved forward, perching on a chair he pulled up to the bedside.

"Virgil, I'm a policeman, Inspector Travis."

Virgil looked at him in weary confusion. "She called you Chuck," he pointed out irrelevantly.

The man smiled gently, but there was a worried expression beneath the façade. "You can call me Chuck too if you like, Virgil," he said smoothly. Virgil gave him a level look. There was enough condescension in the man's tone to irritate even his sleepy mind. He was eleven, not a kid like Alan or Gordy. The thought of his younger brothers pulled him back to the here and now, and he finally pinned down the idea that was bothering him.

"Someone's hurt," he whispered, looking from face to face for confirmation and an explanation.

Doctor Mina stroked his hair, her other hand on his shoulder as she tried to persuade him to calm down. "What makes you think that, Virgil?"

Virgil glanced at her before looking at the policeman with worried eyes. "If they were both okay, Scott would be here. So either Scott's hurt, or Gordy is. What happened? Where are they?"

Virgil's voice was rising, and the doctor tried to soothe him, glancing past him at the other children in the room. Inspector Travis sighed.

"Virgil, we don't know where your brothers are. Can you tell me what happened to them?"

"Don't know?" All trace of sleep gone, Virgil stared at him incredulously. "But… but they have to be here! They've got to be okay. They were in the lifeboat. That's what the lifeboat is for!"

"They were in your lifeboat?" Inspector Travis repeated. "Why didn't you get into the boat with them, Virgil?"

"I did. There was a wave. I fell in." Virgil blurted out the short sentences, his pulse quickening as he remembered. "Dad came after me, but he got hurt. The storm was blowing really hard, and there was so much wind and the rain, and all I could do was try and hold on to Dad. Then the boat was gone and I couldn't see Scott and Gordon any more, but they have to be out there, and you have to find them!"

"We're going to," Inspector Travis assured him, resting a hand on his arm reassuringly. "It's going to be all right, Virgil. We'll find Scott and Gordon, but it would help if you knew where you were when the storm came up. Did your Dad mention where you were going? Or did you go past any islands maybe?"

Virgil nodded, numbly. His father had sat all three boys down every evening for the past week, challenging them to figure out how far they had travelled and where they were before checking their answer against the yacht's GPS. The first fringes of the storm had started to rock the boat when they were in the middle of the task. By the time they'd argued out their solution and came to Jeff to ask him for the right coordinates, he'd been hunched over the public schedule page from Uncle Jim's weather satellite, looking worried and trying not to show it. That was when everything had started to go wrong.

Frowning, Virgil tried to remember the figures, but the numbers had never really registered in the first place. Instead the image of the sea chart swam in front of his eyes, Scott's firm ruler lines and pencil marks overlaying it. He waved a hand vaguely in the air, trying to think of a way to describe the picture in his head. The drip shunt pulled on the back of his hand and he stifled a hiss of pain, staring down at his hands.

"Paper," he said quietly. "Can I have some paper?" he clarified at their bemused faces. "So I can show you the chart?"

The doctor sighed, leaning forward in the chair beside his bed and stroking his hair back. "Virgil, you ought to be sleeping. I don't want you tiring yourself out now."

Nodding distractedly, the boy ignored her, eyes instead on the police officer raiding the children's play table for paper and a pencil. He held his arms out for them as Travis approached, and bent over the notepad immediately, aware of the two adults exchanging worried looks. Sighing, the doctor leaned across him, adjusting the position of his drip stand so he could move his hand a little more freely.

"He's just eleven, Chuck," Doctor Mina murmured, as if Virgil were not present. "How could…?"

Virgil ignored her, angry with her for being right, and with himself for the tiredness that made his hands clumsy. He sketched in the shapes of the islands, measuring the ratio of their sizes and the distances between them with his fingers, determined to reproduce the long-gone chart accurately. He'd always been able to do this – take something he'd seen once and make it real again on paper. Usually though he was capturing a beautiful scene, or the expression on one of his brother's faces. It wasn't often he wanted to reproduce a flat picture.

There was a rustle of curtains as Inspector Travis drew them part-closed around Virgil's bed, turning it into a cubicle. Then the tired boy found himself blinking in the yellow glow of a desk-light, squinting with the effort of stopping his eyes watering. He shook his head to clear it, and focused again on his paper. Right, there was Dominga, and there were the handful of other islands large enough to have recognisable outlines on his Dad's chart. He drew fuzzy dots in for the scattering of smaller islets, confounded by his blurred vision and the blunt pencil. Finally satisfied with the accuracy of his crude rendering of the Domingan archipelago, if not with his own numb-fingered penmanship, Virgil sketched on the lines he'd seen his brother draw the night before, and marked the position of the Santa Anna with a cross. He tore the page out of the pad, not bothered for once by the untidiness of the jagged edge. Turning to the detective, he pressed it into the man's hand.

"There."

Inspector Travis was staring incredulously at the chart, and then up at the boy who'd produced it from memory with just a couple of minutes work.

"We were there. Scott and Gordon were there. Are there. You've got to find them."

Virgil yawned, and then flushed, angry with himself. His hands were already moving the pencil over the second page on the note-pad, putting in some outline strokes, when he felt someone trying to tug his drawing implements away. The doctor was standing over him, one hand poised on the lever to lower the head of his bed, while the second tried to relieve him of his paper. He resisted, holding tight.

"Virgil, I need you to get some sleep. Your father's going to want to see you when he wakes up. You want to be awake to see him, don't you?"

Her voice was soft and persuasive, but she was underestimating the force of Virgil Tracy's will, and the training his brothers had given him. He held tight, but slumped his shoulders pathetically, widening his eyes the way Alan did when he wanted something and adopting the quivering voice that Gordy had explained to him in a rash moment of honesty. "Please," he begged, letting his voice hitch on the word. "Please, just ten minutes? Ten minutes more and I'll try to sleep, I promise."

Scott would tear strips out of him for trying this, before doubling up with laughter. It wouldn't have worked for a second at home. Lucille Tracy wouldn't have survived five strong-minded sons if she'd been so easily swayed. Even their occasional baby-sitters had become wary of such begging, although Gordon and Alan were still cute enough to pull it off, particularly when they tag-teamed their appeals.

Virgil had no such back-up, but then Mina didn't have the training. Her eyes softened, her movements becoming a little flustered as she fussed with his bed-covers. "Ten minutes," she agreed, her tone making it somewhere between a promise and a warning. "And then you'll close your eyes for me?"

Virgil nodded, his expression still tragic, but his pencil already moving again across the paper. The doctor sighed, stepping away from the bedside and calling the detective, paper chart in hand, after her with a jerk of her head.

Travis followed her, the two adults once again stopping just inside the doorway and dropping their voices so they were barely audible over the scratching of Virgil's pencil. They underestimated though how sound could carry in a near-silent ward.

"Manipulative little bastard, isn't he?" Travis commented with a grin.

"Language!" Mina snapped, offended more by the implication she'd been duped than by what her friend had said. "He'll probably fall asleep in a minute or two, paper or no paper."

No way. Virgil's eyes were drifting closed, but he drew deeply on a genetic reservoir of stubbornness, concentrating on his rapid but precise strokes. The pencil Travis had brought him was more of a black crayon. Its core, softer than graphite, made it difficult to keep the lines narrow. He flipped over to the back of the pad, rubbing the pencil against the paper, rotating as he went to wear the sides down and leave a point. Flipping back to the front sheet, he added a few finer features to his sketch before tuning back in on the adults' conversation.

"This will help," Travis was saying, looking down at the chart in admiration. "Give us somewhere to start."

"Assuming it's accurate," Mina pointed out. "And that the typhoon didn't blow them to the other side of the world." She paused, her voice soft and worried. "Do you honestly think there's any chance they're still alive?"

Travis sighed heavily. "They were in a boat, and that's better than in the water, but, honestly?" He shook his head. "I'd almost rather they had been snatched by pirates. That storm did for a well-equipped, modern sailing yacht. Its dinghy of a lifeboat hadn't a snowball's chance in Hell."

The splatter of a teardrop on the bottom corner of his paper startled Virgil. He blinked back its fellows, hard. Scott and Gordon couldn't be gone. The world just didn't make sense without his eldest brother in it. Dipping a finger in the drop of moisture, Virgil used it to smear and soften some of the lines he'd drawn, getting the image just right.

Finally, with just a few seconds of his self-imposed time limit remaining, Virgil lowered his pencil. Another tear rolled down his cheek, and he carefully moved the pad a little further away, not wanting to damage his sketches. Mina glanced his way, said something Virgil didn't make out, and nodded as the detective turned to leave.

"Inspector!" Virgil stopped him with a quiet but urgent call. Angrily, he dashed the tears away with one hand, and held out the pad with his other as the two adults approached. His two brothers looked out of the paper at him, Scott's expression bold and confident, Gordon's angelic with just a hint of mischief lurking in his eyes. Travis had rolled up the chart-drawing into a tight tube, now he tucked it into a jacket pocket and took the notepad reverentially in both hands, staring down at the two sketched faces. He'd recognise them from the ID photos, Virgil was sure, but the boy knew he'd captured his brothers in a way no formal, over-exposed photograph could. "You wanted pictures of my brothers," he said simply, dropping back against his pillows.

This time he didn't resist when Doctor Mina pulled the supportive pillow out from behind his back and dropped the head of his bed. She reached for the desk-lamp. Tear-streaked, and finally giving in to the exhaustion that had been pulling at him, Virgil was asleep before she touched it.

Chapter 7

Travis drummed his fingers impatiently against the desk, waiting for the vid-phone to connect. The hour-glass icon on his computer's desktop turned over and over, the motion hypnotic. Of course, at gone three in the morning, almost anything was hypnotic. Travis could feel weariness adding weight to his bones and sapping the strength from his muscles. The chief had sent Kearney home an hour ago and been on his own way out as Travis walked in. The detective fully intended to obey his order to get some sleep, just as soon as this call was out of the way. He pushed the chair back a little from his desk, letting him rest his feet on the crossbar that ran at ankle height beneath it. His eyes drifted across the desk as his head nodded.

Then his eyes fell upon Virgil's sketch and the painful tightening of his chest gave him new strength. He reached for the thick paper sheet, studying the two faces. When Virgil had first started to draw, Travis hadn't held out much hope. He'd thought the boy might give them a vague idea of where the boat had been, a cartoon of some kind, indicative but useless for any kind of thorough search. He'd never expected a detailed chart, let alone sketched portraits of the missing children that were photo-realistic in their detail. He'd never seen the two boys in the person, but even so, he had confidence that Virgil had captured their likenesses. He studied them now: an older boy much like their father in bone structure and with the same charismatic air that Travis remembered from Jeff Tracy's NASA press conferences, and the younger child, paler in colouring, almost delicate in build and features but clearly a little troublemaker for all that, with laughter very much at home on his face. The line drawings were simple, but they did far more to evoke an image of Virgil's brothers than the interference-speckled and out-of-date photographs.

A crackle of noise from his speakers broke into his thoughtful contemplation of the pictures. He turned back to the screen to find the vid-phone window open, but the image it contained little more than a snowstorm of light and colour. Somewhere in there, the wavering outline of a seated man was barely visible. Travis wouldn't have liked to guess who he was talking to, and he certainly couldn't make out a word from the modulated roar of white noise. There was another surge in the volume, his contact trying to say something, before the vid-phone connection cut out completely.

Frowning, Travis leaned forward over his keyboard, checking the status of Dominga's network access and satisfying himself that while its bit rate was still ludicrously low, it hadn't dropped out completely. He was still investigating that when his computer chimed, this time accepting an incoming call rather than trying to force through an outgoing one.

At first, when the image appeared on the screen, it was as distorted and useless as the first connection had been. Then it steadied, the volume of the random noise dropping dramatically. Vaughan swam into view through the static, the picture still far from perfect but marginally functional. The tall black man was leaning forward in his chair, tension obvious in his posture.

"You called, Inspector?"

Travis allowed himself the luxury of a moment's resentment. No one should sound that alert at this god-awful hour. Of course, Vaughan was a good five hours ahead, in the office early perhaps, but not unreasonably so, and probably tanked up on coffee to boot.

"Actually, I tried but couldn't," he pointed out, not quite willing to forgive the man for something as simple as having got some sleep. "You’re the one who called."

"It's easier to filter and boost the signal if it's initiated from our end." Vaughan waved a hand vaguely in the air. "So they tell me. I'm just security." He shook his head, leaning forward intently. "But it's the early hours of the morning in Dominga, and I don't think you called to ask about vid-phone technology."

Travis allowed himself a small smile. "I have some news for Mrs Tracy. I thought she'd want to know that Virgil was awake and alert not long ago. The doctor was pleased that he was able to process where he was and what was happening so easily. Apart from some lingering tiredness and a bit of bruising, he's physically fine."

Vaughan's sigh was relieved. "That's good to hear. I'll pass it on." He drummed a quick tattoo on his own desk with his fingers and shook his head. "You have Lucille's number though; it was in Virgil's file. You managed to have a conversation with the C.I.A. yesterday, so I know your 'phone is working. Why use me as the middle man?"

The smile faded from Travis' face. He rested his arms on his desk, his fingers flat on the surface to keep them still. "Because she called you in the first place, and because there's more news. News I don't want to have to yell and get confused about and have misheard and repeat again over the kind of telephone lines we're getting out of Dominga at the moment. No mother deserves that."

Vaughan's movement stilled. He seemed to hold his breath for a long moment before sighing, shaking his head and running a hand through his short, silver-dusted hair. "Tell me," he said simply.

The explanation went on for quite some time, Travis explaining the progress of the investigation as he would to Tracy's wife, but going into the kind of detail he'd usually reserve for his colleagues. He wasn't entirely sure what Vaughan's role in NASA was, but his clearance levels had been impressive. Travis had looked over the NASA security ident that had come through, and had the chief run a check to confirm it. The encrypted file that served as an electronic signature and authorisation was pretty much impossible to fake, uniquely coded with its intended recipient and the time-stamp so it couldn't be forwarded onward. The file Travis had received was the best confirmation he was going to get that the older man was both who he said and easily a match for Travis when it came to authority and data access. He was pretty sure that Vaughan could demand any information he wanted, or simply take it, and was asking through courtesy alone. Given that, it made sense to be cooperative.

Vaughan listened in silence, scowling slightly to himself, and nodding when Travis reached a natural conclusion.

"So the boys weren't actually in the water when they were last seen, but it still looks bad," he agreed quietly. "I'll explain that to Lucy. She won't give up hope, but she ought to try to prepare herself if she can. It's killing her that it's not safe to fly down there yet. Seeing Jeff and Virgil… it won't be enough, but it would help everyone a little, perhaps." He took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on the table again. "These Levan men: can they be trusted?" he asked, the clipped military tones coming through in his voice as they had before.

"Well, I won't say they're squeaky clean, but the dirt's all on the surface. They're good men. When they say they've told us everything, I believe them. We interviewed them separately, and their stories matched perfectly."

"Villacana. Why do I recognise that name?" Vaughan repeated it, rolling the sound on his tongue. "What can you tell me about him?"

Travis shrugged tiredly. "Half the islands in the Confederation are privately owned. A lot of people retire out here. Dominga gives them passports, a flag of convenience and a certain degree of insurance in the form of disaster relief and emergency services, in return for a nominal tax. Most of them never come close to the capital." He frowned, scratching at the dark shadow of stubble on his face. "Villacana is younger than most. Some kind of electronics whiz kid who burned out but made his fortune first, according to gossip. Turned his back on the world and bought the freehold to San Fernando eight years ago. Rumour has it he has the place booby-trapped. About as mad on privacy as you can be on an island like that – two full-time servants on the island, another half dozen who come in on a boat for four days a week to do chores and double up as crew for his motorboat when he's in the mood."

"Electronics," Vaughan shook his head. "The name still rings a bell. I'll look into it." His tone turned angry. "What the hell did the man think he was doing?"

"Probably just what he told the Levans: keeping 'Fernando quiet, with no regard to who might suffer the consequences. I plan to ask him."

Vaughan frowned. "You've not asked already?"

Now Travis gave a bitter laugh. "Your boys up on the Weather Station have been giving us some trouble down here, remember? Even if anyone on San Fernando would pick up the 'phone, and they don't always during the day let alone at midnight, that pulse thing hit the water along a straight line between here and there. There's no way we're getting a signal through it."

"It was a malfunction." There was a curious hitch to Vaughan's voice, a note of something that might be anger. He shook his head. "I'm looking into it, but the station personnel weren't to blame."

"Right," Travis drawled disbelievingly. "Well, we're not to blame for this mess either. We're sending as many boats as we can muster out on the morning tide to look for those boys. It's not the best we can do, but it's all we can do until this damn interference clears."

Vaughan gave him a level look. "You need to hit the sack, Travis," he said frankly. "If there's nothing you can do until the morning, then get some sleep while you can."

"Vaughan, when I need your permission - " Travis's angry protest was cut off by a beeping sound on Vaughan's end on the line and a disembodied voice.

"Mr Vaughan, it's the weather control station again. Commander Dale for you."

Vaughan's grimace was visible even through the snow of interference. "I need to take this, Travis."

"The Weather Station commander? Yeah, well give the guy a punch from me, okay? A hard one."

The glare Vaughan threw at him seemed to burn the screen, and the slow drift of noise across it steadied for a moment to show his cold eyes. "Jim Dale is one of Jeff Tracy's oldest friends. Flew two missions with Tracy as his commander. He's Virgil's godfather, for Christ's sake. You want me to beat him up? Believe me, he's doing that plenty well enough himself."

Travis felt the anger in Vaughan's tone like a punch to his own jaw. He shook his head, lost for words. Vaughan watched him for a few seconds.

"Keep me informed," he said simply. "Vaughan out."

The vid-phone window closed, and Travis deactivated his screen with an angry prod of the finger. Massaging tired eyes with the heel of his hands, he swore out loud. Mina was right. Lack of sleep made him more than tetchy, it made him into a jackass. He grabbed for his jacket and car keys, picking up Virgil's chart and picture for safe-keeping on his way out of the door. Time to get some rest before he dug a deeper hole and stepped right into it. There was nothing to be done until morning, and no matter how much Travis wished there was something he could do for Virgil's stricken family, he couldn't change that.

The light was too bright. Scott screwed his eyes up tight, raising one hand to shield them. He rolled over, hoping to turn away from his window and steal another few minutes of sleep. Even before he opened them, his eyes were stinging and he felt incredibly lethargic, as if he were starting a cold. Perhaps Mom would let him stay home from school, he thought hopefully. Perhaps she might even come and close his curtains for him.

Something tickled his cheek, and he raised his hand to brush it away, eyes still closed. His hands touched something dry and brittle, he wasn’t sure what, and then it was gone. A moment later it was back, a stifled giggle telling him that the irritation wasn't purely his bad luck… unless you counted having four little brothers in that category. He blinked his eyes open, squinting to focus them on the small figure standing over him. Gordon had his hands behind his back, his face wearing an expression of angelic innocence that had stopped working on his brothers as soon as the little boy was old enough to get them, as well as himself, into trouble. The warm haziness of sleep's echo faded away. Scott's eyes narrowed, taking in the narrow leaves of a palm frond poking out over his brother's shoulder, clearly held in his concealed hands. Gordon had evidently decided that it was time for his companion to wake up, and that tickling him was the way to make sure it happened.

Tensing himself, Scott reached out in a sudden pounce, grabbing the younger boy by the waist and pulling him back into the pile of leaves before he could react. Gordon let out a startled yelp, tumbling on top of his brother, and squirming as Scott retaliated with tickles of his own. Honour satisfied and pride avenged, Scott sat up beside his laughing little brother and took stock.

The sun was low on the horizon, no more than an hour past dawn, and shining straight down on the hollow Scott and his brother had climbed into the night before. Its heat was rapidly passing from pleasantly warm to uncomfortably hot, and Scott stripped out of the salt-crusted sweater he'd slept in. Gordon had already done the same, stripping down to nothing more than his underwear and a T-shirt. Sighing, Scott crawled out of the pile of leaves and scooped up Gordon's discarded clothes, carrying them to the stream and dumping his own beside them as he too undressed and kicked off his shoes and socks.

Gordon watched him curiously, sitting up in the leaves and then leaving them behind to trail after his older brother. Scott glanced up at him.

"Been awake long, Gordy?"

Gordon shrugged. "Ages," he said in the slow drawl that told his brother at once that he was exaggerating even if the little boy himself didn't realise it. He frowned uncertainly, casting a nervous glance at the flowing water. "What're you doing?"

Scott had moved along the stream to the point where it left the tree-root consolidated soil and spilled down onto the beach. From the looks of it, the water flow was usually little more than a trickle. Fed by run-off from the storm, it had become wider and deeper, the streambed showing raw earth, newly eroded. As he'd vaguely remembered from the night before, it broadened a little as it left the trees, forming a shallow pond bounded by pebbles washed out of the dirt. Satisfied, Scott dumped their clothes in the water, stepping barefoot onto the stones in the pool bed so he could swirl the fabric through the fresh water with one foot.

"The sun'll dry these out in a few minutes, an hour at most. The salt from the sea was making our clothes all itchy, and then we got them sandy coming up the beach too. Wouldn't you rather have clean things to wear? This'll help, Gordy. Trust me."

"Shouldn't we be using soap? Mom always wants to put soap in water."

Scott paused and gave his brother a level look. "Do you see any soap around here, Gordon?" Gordon's inquisitive expression faltered, and he looked around him at the unfamiliar environment, shuddering. Scott deliberately injected a little humour into his voice, trying to counteract his brother's obvious anxiety. "I won't tell Mom if you don't, Gordy, okay?"

Gordon nodded glumly, finding a long stick from somewhere and poking idly at the clothing. Scott could sympathise. They'd both rather have clean clothes; ideally still warm from the drier and with that fresh laundry smell they associated uniquely with their mother. Rinsed through or not, their one set of jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts wasn't going to come close to that. Shaking his head, Scott stepped up onto the bank and ran a comforting hand through Gordon's hair, before kneeling down by the pool and reaching into it. He scooped up the items of clothing one by one, wringing them out and dumping them on to a flat stone by the edge of the pool.

"Mom uses a washing line," Gordon pointed out quietly, not so much an accusation or criticism as a wistful memory.

"Uh huh," Scott agreed, still trying to lift his brother's spirits. "Well, Mom doesn't have lots of trees growing in the yard, so she can't use them. We can do better here."

Looking about him, he frowned. The trees lining the beach were almost all palms, tall and straight without side branches. In the shadows beyond he could see more low lying bushes, but he wasn't about to walk into an unknown jungle shoeless and dressed in nothing more than a T-shirt. More importantly, he wasn't going to encourage Gordon to do so by example. Stepping out of the pool, he carried the clothes to the tree line and started to hook them on the rough, triangular pieces of bark that stood out from the palm trunks, a little relieved when it actually worked.

"Keep out of the jungle, Gordy," he warned softly as Gordon came over to help, handing the younger boy his short socks to hang over a lower bark ridge.

Finally sure that all their few precious clothes were stretched out in the sun, rippling gently in the light sea breeze, Scott looked down at himself and his brother. His T-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest, and somehow Gordon too had managed to get himself soaked, despite not coming within three feet of the pool. Well, might as well make a thorough job of it.

"Your turn," he told the younger boy. "Bath time."

Gordon's eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently.

"Ah, no, Scotty. I'm okay. I'll have a bath tonight."

"Your skin's all salty too." Scott looked pointedly at the hand Gordon was using to scratch idly at his leg. "And so's mine. Come on, Gordy. This won't be too bad."

"I don't want to! Scotty! Please!"

Scott frowned in confusion as Gordon's voice edged from awkward towards real anxiety. Usually the little boy was all too eager to get wet, hauling his resigned to the family to endless pools and beaches, and even splashing through puddles in the rain. Mom always said that Gordy felt safe in the water, that he liked the feeling of being supported and the freedom it gave him. Realisation dawning, Scott looked down at his reluctant little brother and saw the fear underlying his refusal. Memories of their night in the boat, ice-cold water all around them, far from nurturing and relentlessly powerful, flashed through his head, and he wondered how Gordon was coping with sudden awareness of just how dangerous his preferred element was. Small wonder that the experiences of the last day and a half had stifled any inclination he had to go near large amounts of water. The little boy must be very nearly in shock for even the six-inch-deep pool in front of them to look like a threat. For a few moments Scott hesitated, looking down at his brother's quivering lips and tempted to let it go, but the salt residue on their skin really was uncomfortable, and their night in a pile of palm fronds had left a layer of dirt and powdered leaves over it. Gordon would suffer through the day if something wasn't done.

"I'll come in with you," he promised. He caught his little brother up before the child could object further, holding on tight despite Gordon's struggle to get free. "Deep breath, Gordon. It's going to be cold."

After the ice-cold torrents of rain and waves crashing over the lifeboat's sides, the chill of the stream was insignificant. That didn't stop Gordon screaming as Scott dumped him in the shallow pool, and scrambling backwards to cling to Scott's legs. Scott gritted his teeth, stepping into the pond beside his tearful little brother and kneeling in it to scoop water over himself and over Gordon. The coolness felt good, easing a sunburn that he hadn't even realised he'd acquired. Keeping a firm grip on Gordon with one hand, he shrugged out of his T-shirt, switching holds so he could slip it off each arm in turn. Dumping it in the water beside him, he eased Gordon's shirt off too, ruffling the boy's mop of copper-coloured hair as it became visible again. Gordon's cries were subsiding into heaving sobs, some of the terror fading from his frantic expression. Scott kept him close, alternately cuddling him and trying to wash them both down.

He certainly felt invigorated by the time he let his brother escape, scrambling out of the pool after the smaller boy, and watching worriedly as Gordon stood wide-eyed and shivering on the beach, dressed only in his underwear and looking lost and confused. Wringing out the two T-shirts, Scott spread them over a couple of sun-baked boulders near the pool before jogging to catch up with his brother.

Gordon turned away from him as he approached, crossing his arms and glowering at the sea. "Leave me alone!" he said angrily. "I hate you."

Scott flinched. Gordon was angry, scared and tired. Even so, the words hurt. He reached out to touch his brother's shoulder. "Gordy…"

Gordon jerked away from the touch, running a few steps towards the ocean before freezing. He backed up, his expression frightened, and took off along the beach instead, running away from his brother. Scott sighed, letting him go for now, recognising from long experience that Gordon needed time to calm down before he'd be ready to talk. Turning in the other direction, he walked back towards where they'd left the lifeboat, glancing frequently over his shoulder. He was relieved to see Gordon settle down on an outcrop of rocks a short way up the beach. Knees drawn up to his chest, the little boy stared out to sea with an expression torn between wistful and loathing.

Chapter 8

Worried, but not sure what else to do, Scott turned to the problems ahead of him instead of the one behind. The lifeboat was at one end of the beach, its pale hull vibrant against the dark grey of a weathered basalt cliff-face behind it. Scott frowned as he approached, bothered by something in the perspective of the scene that he couldn't quite pin down. The boat had well and truly beached itself, its shallow keel dragging a deep groove in the sand and stones behind it, but unable to prevent it tipping on its side. The deck had come to rest sixty degrees from horizontal. The hull, standing well proud of the water, showed signs of its difficult landing, the surface of half the rigid polymer panels splintered and abraded. That wasn't what made Scott let loose with a swear word that would have his father boxing his ears.

As he rounded the prow of the small boat, trying to figure out what was bothering him, he realised that the cliff-face wasn't, as he'd assumed, somewhere in the background. He'd subconsciously thought that the trees hanging over its edge must be a truly impressive size to cast their shadows across the boat. He hadn't realised that they could just be surprisingly close. Frozen to the spot, Scott followed the groove left by the keel with his eyes, tracing it back to where it vanished beneath the encroaching tide. Then he looked up at the cliff-face rising a mere two metres from the far side of the toppled boat, and the jagged rocks at its base. He shook a little, throwing a quick glance behind him towards where Gordy sat just out of sight around the curve of the beach. Just a few metres to one side, a couple of degrees askew in his blind run at the beach, and Scott would have driven them straight into the rock wall.

He could have killed them both.

His stomach twisted in dismay, and then rumbled, shaking Scott out of his panicky what-ifs. With one last, wide-eyed glance at their narrow escape, he shook his head. He took a deep breath, hands clenched at his sides. Concentrate on the here and now, his dad had always told him. And here and now, he was hungry. He was pretty sure Gordy was too, and wondered whether that might be contributing to his little brother's temper. Scott was inclined to linger over meals and when he got hungry, he was generally pretty definite about it. Gordon, by contrast, was one of those children who always protested when Mom called them to the dinner table, resenting the time taken from his fun-filled and active life. At the same time though, his family had learnt early on that whether Gordon himself realised it or not, the little boy tended to get cranky when his body was craving the sugar it needed to refuel his batteries.

Climbing cautiously into the boat, using his arms to balance him when it rocked a little under his feet, Scott made his way across the sloping deck to the emergency locker. He'd left it latched tight the night before, more concerned with getting onto dry land than what they were leaving on the boat. Now he flicked the catches open, pushing the lid wide. Pulling one of the thin blankets out, he threw it loosely around his shoulders, embarrassed despite himself to be wondering around even a deserted beach in nothing but his shorts while their clothes dried. Modesty satisfied, he reached in again, this time for the third of their pre-packed meals, hunger making his fingers over-eager and clumsy. Setting aside the self-heating main course – some kind of omelette if the wrapper were to be believed – for Gordon, he broke open a packet of crackers and the rubbery cheese-like sheets that accompanied them. They had the texture of old car tyres and tasted about as good, but Scott found he was eating faster and faster nonetheless. He forced himself to slow down, taking small bites and chewing well before each swallow. Even so, his stomach was still rumbling when he'd finished and he looked with hungry eyes at the rest of the pack. Feeling guilty, he allowed himself to snaffle the small packet of sweet biscuits as well, leaving the chocolate bar and the rest for Gordon. Sighing, he folded the outer foil wrapper closed, crossing the boat again to place the meal at the lowest point of the hull. Calling Gordon over now would probably get nothing more than defiance and another tirade, but at this angle, the starboard rail of the boat amidships dipped below chest height even for the younger boy. Gordon would find the food waiting there when he came looking, a silent apology from his eldest brother.

Turning back to the locker, Scott leaned in and began to pull out its contents, taking a mental inventory of their supplies. The boat had been designed to keep the Santa Anna's nominal three-man crew alive for twenty-four hours on open water, confident that with modern tracking systems and equipment they would be rescued long before that deadline. There had been three bottles of drinking water, each holding two litres. The first, Scott and Gordon had exhausted between them in the nearly thirty-six hours since they'd been set adrift. Worried, Scott broke the seal on the second bottle, taking a sip from it to moisten his mouth after the dry crackers before setting it down next to Gordon's food. He'd have to keep the bottled water for Gordon from now on, taking his chance with any reasonably clean water they could find as they went along.

More worrying still was that, of their original six food packs – two full meals a day for each of three adults – they were down to only three remaining. Scott had heard that it was possible to live from the natural products of a jungle, but he'd been raised deep in the heart of the United States. He was more accustomed to the arid isolation of military bases and their environs than this kind of alien abundance. Unless the jungle boasted a ready supply of easily identified fruit and vegetables, they were going to be in trouble in another day at most, and that was assuming Scott could cope that long on the meagre rations he was allowing himself. Scott laid the three packs side by side on the deck, considering the problem.

The best-case scenario was that they'd be rescued long before food became an issue. As they'd drifted the previous afternoon, he'd expected at any moment to hear the throbbing engines of an air-sea rescue helicopter, unable to imagine that it would take long for their beacon to be tracked and the boat to be found. It was only gradually that he'd thought it through. He could still taste the slightly metallic tang to the air and feel the hair on the back of his hands standing up when the breeze blew past them. He'd never felt a storm-induction charge, but like any kid he'd learnt about them at school. Unlike most kids, he'd also had a pretty thorough lecture, and heard dozens of stories, from his Uncle Jim, and he doubted many people in the world knew more about the weather control system.

Putting aside the fact that the storm should never have happened, and the grief-driven anger that thought carried, Scott tried to deal with the simple fact that it had. The radiation pumped into the atmosphere, controlled and manipulated by the weather satellites, had stopped Dad calling for help when things first got bad, and stopped anyone getting their GPS alert when the Santa Anna sank. Scott couldn't have said where he was to the nearest two hundred miles, and with neither the ship's locator signal nor the lifeboat's beacon, the folks on shore probably couldn't even come that close. There was another problem too. People would be searching for Scott and Gordon, Mom would have seen to that, but even if they knew where to look, Scott hadn’t seen a single contrail in the sky. Scanning it now, there was still no vehicle, not even a hint of a high-altitude stratoliner, in sight. He tried to work out what effect this kind of static might have on a 'plane's engine, and couldn't get much further than 'not good'. Not good at all. Scott had no idea how long the effects of the storm were going to last, but he was pretty sure they were already standing between him and any chance of getting his little brother safely back to what was left of their family.

He remembered his initial, single-minded determination to keep Gordon alive at any cost. The jagged edges of grief and shock had been papered over by the practicalities of the moment, but that resolve still burgeoned inside him, driving him onwards. If Scott couldn't rely on other people to rescue Gordy, he had to do it himself. That meant they couldn't stay on the beach, with a ruined boat and its long-since exhausted emergency beacon, hoping for the best. They were going to have to brave the jungle.

The island had looked small in the fading light, and he'd certainly not seen any evidence of people, but Dad had said most of the Domingan chain was inhabited, if only by one or two people who wanted to be alone. Standing in the well of the boat, Scott stared up at the cliff, and beyond it, the volcanic peak that dominated the island. His eyes followed its black basalt slopes back down to the verdant vegetation at ground level. Searching the place would take days, even without an exhausted six-year-old in tow, but Scott had no choice but to believe that he'd find inhabitants sooner or later, and that they'd be able to help. Someone had a couple of unexpected guests. Scott and Gordon just had to find them and let them know.

Spreading out the small square of tarpaulin he'd used to work on the engine, with a blanket on top of it, Scott placed the food and the last bottle of water in the centre, before turning back to the emergency locker. The first aid kit was rudimentary but it contained insect-repellents, antiseptics and an assortment of bandages. It went on the blanket, followed a moment later by a wad of thin net-like material that might have been designed to keep the sun off or insects out, Scott couldn't be sure.

The pile of supplies already looked heavy, but there was no question of leaving the flare gun behind. The stubby pistol and its three charges had an ominous look, and Scott carefully checked the safety, handling it with the respect his father had taught him for any firearm. He wrapped it carefully in their last blanket, making sure it wasn't in plain sight for Gordon to find, before laying it down with the rest of their supplies.

Frowning, he shook his head. He simply wouldn't be able to carry much more. He just had to hope he'd picked out the important things. Leaning back over the emergency cabinet, he searched through what was left there. Reaching deep into the bottom of the locker, pushing aside an unwieldy coil of thick rope and a kit for patching a leaking hull, Scott's fingers brushed a metal object, pulling it out to find the welcome shape of a fairly-impressive Swiss army knife. He flicked out the longest blade, running his thumb cautiously over its edge and hissing with satisfaction. He almost sliced the digit open when the sound of his name being screamed in a panic split the air.

Gordy! The knife fell from suddenly nerveless fingers as Scott spun on the spot. His brain raced, trying to work out how long it had been since he'd last set eyes on his little brother. He should never have let Gordon out of his sight! What could have happened? Had Gordon fallen from the rocks he was sitting on? They hadn't looked high, but Scott knew from painful experience that his little brothers could find a way to fall off almost anything when left unwatched. Had he fallen into the water, been swept out by some unseen current or undertow? Had Scott remembered to tell Gordon not to go into the jungle? Or had he just thought about saying it?

Worst-case scenarios assaulted him as he scrambled from the lifeboat, desperate to see around the plastic hull and the curve of the beach to where he'd left his brother. Why couldn't Dad have been here? Or even Mom? Scott might have been the oldest, but he was only thirteen! He'd been left in charge of Virgil or even Johnny unsupervised before, sure, but Gordon and Alan were too little. Their parents kept their youngest children close. Dad should be here. He should have been the one to survive. Scott was just so not cut out for this. He'd let Virgil down, and now Gordon too.

Breathing hard, Scott sprinted down the beach, relief flooding him as he caught sight of his little brother. Confusion came hard on its heels as he registered that the child was standing in the middle of the beach, apparently intact and not in immediate danger, but with near-hysteria reddening his face, and Scott's T-shirt twisted in a tight knot between his hands. He shouted for Scott again and again, his eyes too tear-flooded to see his approaching brother.

Scott slid to Gordon's side on his knees, fighting back his own panic to deal instead with the younger boy's.

"Gordon? Gordy! I'm here. I've got you." Scott grabbed hold of Gordon's shoulders and pulled him tight, feeling the six-year-old shaking. "I'm here, Gordy! What's wrong?"

"Scotty?" Gordon's shouts cut off with a strangled sob and he threw his arms around Scott's neck, clinging like a limpet. "I couldn't find you," he sobbed into Scott's shoulder. "I looked and I called and then I looked some more, and you weren't by the stream or on the beach or at the tree where the leaves were or at the washing-line trees and you weren't here, and I called and you didn't answer and I don't hate you, Scotty, really I don't and I know that's a bad word and it hurts people to say it and you're angry with me 'cause I was a baby like Allie 'cause I didn't want a bath, but you said you wouldn't leave, and I was scared 'cause I said I hated you and I'm sorry, really sorry, and I don't want you to go away, and I thought you might have gone in the water and got eaten by sharks or monsters or drowned or something and I shouted and I tried to find you but you weren't there!"

Scott rocked his brother soothingly, stroking the soft copper hair with one hand, keeping a firm hold on his brother's back with the other.

"Oh, Gordy. I'm sorry." He laid a soft kiss on the top of his brother's head as he'd seen his mother do when his little brother was scared and upset. He wondered how long Gordon had been looking for him and cursed his own thoughtlessness. He'd never been the centre of a young child's world like this. It was a scary responsibility. "Gordy, I'm sorry, but I'm here now, just like I said I'd be. I was just in the boat, Gordon. I wouldn't leave you. Not ever. I just didn't hear you call me." Not until his brother's calls had worked their way up to a hysterical scream. "Everything's okay, Gordy, you hear me?"

"I don't hate you, Scotty!"

"It's okay, Gordon. I know. I don't mind. You were upset, that's all."

"I… I thought you'd got angry and gone away like I told you."

Scott sighed. Not letting go of his sniffling brother, he shifted his weight to get one foot flat on the ground, before standing with Gordon still held securely in his arms. "I just didn't hear you, Gordy. I was in the boat but I'm here now, and I won't leave you on your own again. Not even if you get really angry with me. I'm not going to let you go."

Gordon didn't lift his face from Scott's shoulder until Scott stopped by the stream, dropping back to his knees since letting go of his little brother to reach the ground wasn't an option. With one arm still firmly around his slowly-calming brother, Scott scooped up just a little cool water with the other, angling his body so Gordon didn't have to see the pool. Gently, Scott bathed his brother's flushed face, settling Gordon onto his lap, and then reached out for his brother's newly dry T-shirt, pulling it over the trembling and slightly sun-touched shoulders. He disentangled his own shirt from around Gordon's hands in the process, shaking out what he could of the wrinkles and pulling it awkwardly over his head, in a near-reversal of the procedure it had taken to get it off in the first place.

Gordon was calming a little as Scott picked him up again and carried him to the trees where they'd left the rest of their clothing, and even cooperated somewhat as Scott dressed him, still clinging to Scott's legs, but giving his brother enough freedom to pull his jeans back on over his briefs. Still murmuring soothingly to his brother, refusing Gordon's intermittent apologies and apologising in turn, Scott got them both back over to the boat, lifting Gordon to sit on the edge of it, and sitting beside him, helping him with the water bottle and then cutting up the rubbery omelette into bite sized pieces for him. By the time Gordon was prepared to let his brother stand up and move a few feet away into the boat, the sun was climbing rapidly towards noon. Scott rubbed a hand across his brow, aware of bright amber eyes watching his every move as he tried to work out a way to tie the tarpaulin and its contents into an easily-carried bundle.

Gordon had had a stressful morning and they were both tired still from everything that had gone before. Even so, they needed to get moving. It was a day and a half since the Santa Anna was wrecked in the storm. It could easily be that long again before anyone would be able to come looking for them, and by then they'd be starving as well as exhausted, sunburned during the days and freezing at nights. For his brother's sake, Scott didn't dare allow them to sit here any longer.

The jungle awaited them.

Dawn was still casting a rosy glow across the sky when Travis pulled his car up in front of Mike Kearney's house. He'd got maybe three hours sleep. At first, he'd simply been kicking himself for ending the conversation with Vaughan on such a sour note. When he had finally slept, he'd been disturbed by nightmares of children slipping between his fingers to vanish beneath the water, and haunted by the faces of Virgil's two brothers. Resting his arms on the steering wheel, he adjusted the driver's mirror to take a look at himself. He might be stubble-free, but his dark hair was tousled and the shadows under his eyes undermined his otherwise clean-cut appearance. Barely twelve hours since the Levans had brought their human cargo ashore, and already Travis was looking wrecked.

From the looks of his colleague, Mike hadn't got much more rest. The detective pulled a coat on, kissing his wife and adjusting the dressing robe around her shoulders with a tender touch. He whispered something to her and she gave a deep sigh before nodding and gesturing him towards the car. Impatient, Travis spared Mary Kearney a brief wave, both sympathising with and envying her as she vanished into the house and back towards her bed.

Kearney tumbled into the car's passenger sheet in a malcoordinated jumble of limbs, almost sitting on Virgil's drawings before Travis could snatch them to safety. Shaking his head, Travis shoved the paper back into his colleague's arms, freeing up his own hands to put the car in gear.

Eyes widening, Kearney studied the chart. "Chuck, where did you get this?"

Travis grunted, eyes on the road as he navigated the quiet streets towards headquarters. "Virgil Tracy. Turns out the kid's got a photographic memory. It might not be entirely accurate, but…"

"It's somewhere to start." Kearney finished for him, frowning thoughtfully at the sketched reference map and angling it into the rapidly-growing sunlight. "You've been to the hospital already this morning?"

"Last night. Well, about three AM, to be honest. The chief had sent you home and there wasn't much we could do with the information overnight in any case."

"True," Mike shook his head sadly. "Without air-sea rescue…"

"Any word on when it might be safe to fly?"

"Another twenty four hours. Minimum." Kearney drummed his fingers against the arm-rest on the passenger-side door. "We've got, what, two hours before the tide changes? We'll get the rescue boats out there this morning, but even if every yacht and fishing rig in the Confederation lends a hand, the wreckage is going to have spread out by now. Spotting anything without air cover or satellite imaging is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack." He paused, unstrapping his seatbelt as they pulled up in Travis's reserved spot at police headquarters. "Did Virgil tell you anything else?" He flipped the chart aside and froze, staring at the two faces on the second sheet of paper. After a few moments, Kearney swallowed hard, dragging his gaze away from Scott Tracy's challenging eyes. "Kid's got talent."

"Yeah." Travis threw his door open, heading up the steps to the main entrance without bothering to check his colleague was following. "The boys were in a lifeboat apparently. How'd you come on those wind measurements last night? If they did get through the storm…"

"Getting there." Kearney pushed ahead of him as they approached the squad room, bursting through its swing doors with Virgil's chart in hand and hurrying to his desk. "Where is it? Where is it?"

Leaning back against his desk, Travis watched Kearney riffle through a pile of poster-sized paper sheets, eventually pulling out a detailed navigation chart of the archipelago. The library stamp in the corner told Travis that Mike's attempts to gather information last night had ranged far and wide.

"You know you're going to get in trouble about that?" Travis commented, gesturing toward the ring-shaped coffee stain overlaying the 'Reference Only' mark. Whatever librarian Mike had dragged into work after-hours would be still less happy when he returned the loan.

Mike blinked at the stain, seeing it for the first time. He shook his head. "I'll live. Give me a hand here."

Travis shifted a pile of paperwork, tucked haphazardly into brown cardboard folders, onto his own desk, making room on Mike's to lay the full-size chart side by side with Virgil's sketch. He could tell at once that the match was good, not just the shapes of the main islands but also their relative size, orientation and separation impressively accurate. Whipping a plastic ruler from his desk draw, Mike transposed the markings from Virgil's chart onto his own, questions of ownership and condition irrelevant.

"Right, so one bearing west-south-west, passing between Santa Isobella and Horizon and angling up towards the Illian chain. One north-south, just west of San Fernando on one end and ending fifty miles due east of Dominga. And where they cross…" Mike held the point of his pencil pressing down on the chart, leaving a sharp indentation. He drew a circle around it. "About thirty-five or forty miles due north of 'Fernando."

"Damn it," Travis shook his head tiredly. "That's even further south than Cal Levan thought, right?"

"Yeah," Mike agreed absently. He was searching through the pile of papers again, eventually pulling out a satellite image of the entire archipelago, with a coordinate grid and a mosaic of large squares overlaying it. Travis traced the coordinates as Mike read them out, moving his fingers along the horizontal and vertical grid to settle just within the northernmost edge of one of the squares. He read the code marked in it back to Kearney. Kearney scowled, shaking his head with a sigh.

"I was looking in the wrong footprint."

"Uh huh?" Travis agreed, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "And that means…?"

"I ran over to the met office last night. The last clear satellite imaging they'd downloaded was about three hours before the storm. I was looking for any sign of Tracy's yacht to give us an idea where to start. It wasn't where the Levans said it was at first: surprise, surprise. But I had another look when you'd got a statement off of Cal and tried to work out where they might actually have been."

"And they were further south?" Travis asked, sitting back with a sigh. "You know, I'm really going to knock that Villacana guy for six when I see him."

"He probably had no idea about the boat," Kearney reminded him, glancing sideways at his friend. "I'm not arguing that the guy's a bastard and I say we take him to the cleaners for interfering with an investigation, but taking this one personally… it's not going to help, Chuck."

Chuck Travis stared at the other man, torn between anger and offence. He stepped back from the table, about to object, and stopped when his eyes fell on Virgil's sketches, tossed carelessly onto a nearby chair. "I don't know, Mike. You've not seen this kid. He keeps his Dad afloat for a day in open water, and the first thing he asks about when he wakes up is how the man is and then where his brothers are. When they were just names, bad photos… Hell, it was sad, but that's life." He shook his head. "The kids in the photos could have been anyone." He indicated the sketches. "These boys? These are Virgil's brothers. You can see that fire in their eyes."

"Sounds like Tracy's going to have to fight to get his son back." Lex Coates' voice was amused and just a little sarcastic. The chief strode into the office looking none the worse for wear for their late night. His expression was calm but serious as he came to the Travis' side and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. "Hold it together, Chuck. Kearney, what have you got?"

Mike Kearney had been leaning over the satellite imaging, peering closely at it. He felt blindly under the chart and photographs for something and pulled out a large, old-fashioned magnifying glass, staring down through it in a classic Sherlock Holmes pose. Travis couldn't help cracking a smile, exchanging a glance with his boss. They might make a detective of Kearney yet.

"I think… I think I've got the Santa Anna."

Travis stepped forward at once, aware of the chief by his side. He took the magnifying glass from Kearney, directing it towards the spot the other man indicated. The image on the picture was not much more than a millimetre in length, and a fraction of that wide. Despite that the shape was recognisably streamlined, even if the detail was blurred. Travis handed the magnifying glass on to Coates, looking at Kearney with a question in his eyes.

"She's the right size and shape, and there aren't many ships of that type in the area according to the harbour master. She's in the right place too. Forty miles west of Virgil's coordinates, which is about right for two hours sailing in the prevailing winds that evening. Looks like the kid was spot on. He was probably there to within a handful of miles either way."

Travis nodded eagerly. "So the two boys in the lifeboat – Scott and Gordon – if we know where they started from, where would they have ended up?"

Kearney's enthusiasm faded. His shoulders slumped and he folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head. "God knows. Chuck. If they'd been where we were originally thinking, or anywhere else, all this," he waved an arm to indicate the research he'd been doing, "would have given us a place to look. As it is the Santa Anna had to be within a few miles of ground zero for the induction pulse. That typhoon was churning the air and sea up like a whirlpool fifty miles across. The boat could have been flung out anywhere – if it was very, very lucky."

Travis felt his guts pull tight. "I need coffee," he muttered. More importantly, he needed to stop doing this: riding a rollercoaster between realism and wild hope.

He headed for the coffee machine, aware of his colleagues' eyes on his back as he went through the familiar ritual of cleaning, filling and restarting it. Behind him, Coates was giving Kearney orders, and then bringing the rest of the detective team up to speed as they trickled through the door. The Domingan Confederation had a population not much more than that of a small city, numbering in the high tens of thousands rather than millions, and scattered across almost forty inhabited islands. The remaining complement of the police force's detective branch constituted a handful of officers, all of them junior to Kearney and Travis himself. There had been no point in bringing them in the night before. Now though, organising and managing the search was going to take all hands.

Coates came up beside him, helping himself to the first mug of coffee before Travis could do so, and then watching as Travis filled his own mug. "I'm going to have to get down to the coast-guard's office. Their helicopters and helijet are grounded, but they're sending their hydrofoil out with ours and they've got the systems in place to coordinate any other boats that volunteer."

"What do you want me to do?" Travis asked in a low, tired voice.

"What you have been doing – figuring out what happened. We're sending the police launch down south, and I got through to the Santa Isobella station. They're sending their launch too, but our hydrofoil's going to beat anything else down there. You and Kearney have got half an hour to get yourselves down to the dock and get on it. It'll drop you at San Fernando. Villacana has a motor yacht we could use in the search, and a lot of questions to answer." One of the junior officers arrived with Virgil's sketched portraits in one hand and a pile of copies in the other. Coates took them, grunting slightly as he studied the picture, before handing the original back to Travis. "I'll make sure these get distributed. Search boats, media, and any islands I can get a strong enough signal through to. If anyone might have seen these boys, or they've washed up on a beach somewhere, I want these pictures out there tugging at heartstrings."

Nodding, Travis drained the last dregs of coffee, and picked up his leather jacket from the chair he'd discarded it across. Mike Kearney was already waiting by the door, his expression almost as impatient as Travis felt.

"Let's go."

Chapter 9

There was a vice clamped around Jeff Tracy's head and it was tightening by the moment. He could feel each excruciating turn of the screw applying more pressure to his temples until it seemed his head would burst. He managed a low groan, twisting his body in an attempt to escape the trap and frowning in surprise when his head moved freely against a soft pillow.

"Jeff? Jeff, can you hear me?"

The woman's voice was a high note above his body's symphony of pain. The urgency in it got through though. Jeff grunted and blinked his eyes open. He closed them with another low groan, agony shooting straight through his optic nerve and into his brain.

"Jeff, I need you to respond to me before I risk stronger analgesics."

The idea of painkillers sounded good right now. It was almost enough to tempt Jeff Tracy to open his eyes again. He wondered why someone was putting him through all of this, searching his memory for any hint of what he might have done to deserve it. He found something far worse than he could have imagined.

"My boys!" Jeff tried to push himself out of the bed, unbalanced as he realised his right arm was strapped in place across his chest. He squinted furiously, trying to force his eyes to focus on the white-clad doctor beside his bed. "Where are my sons?"

"Calm down, Jeff," the doctor soothed, her voice low. She raised a glass of water to his lips, encouraging him to sip as she spoke. "I need you to answer just a couple of questions for me, okay? What's your name?"

Jeff stared at the features now swimming into view through his blurred vision. He took enough water to moisten his sandpaper throat, and then pushed the glass away. "You know that. You just called me Jeff," he pointed out, dropping back onto his mattress and raising his free hand to his pounding head.

She gave him a hard look. "I could call you Henry," she offered, some of the gentleness vanishing from her voice in the face of his uncooperative attitude.

"Look, forget me. What happened to my boys?"

The doctor sighed. "Jeff, I've looked at your medical records so I know perfectly well that you know the procedure for a concussion check. I need to be sure you're all there before we talk about anything else."

Jeff glared at her. "Fine, my name's Jeff Tracy. I was born in Kansas. I'm married to Lucille, work in construction, and was shipwrecked last night by a storm that should damn well never have happened!"

The doctor nodded thoughtfully, evidently not offended by his angry tone. "And you've got one whopper of a headache, I'm guessing?" She picked up a hypodermic syringe and injected colourless liquid through a port in the IV he hadn't got around to noticing. "This should kick in within a minute or two. Just lie still, all right?" She stepped away from the bed and out of his immediate line of sight. He raised his head through a few degrees, following her to the door with his eyes.

"Fine. Great." Jeff bit off the words, short-tempered from the pain and struggling to stay on top of the stomach-churning fear. "Where are my sons?"

The doctor gave him a calm look, before turning back to whoever she was speaking to in the corridor. Jeff couldn't make out the words. He clenched his left fist in frustration. His right hand appeared to be in a plaster shell from knuckles to elbow and even the attempt to move his fingers triggered a pang of agony that burst through the rapidly descending mist of pain relief. He took a moment to breathe through the pain, looking up at the doctor with mute appeal when he could focus again.

"Try not to move your wrist, Mr Tracy. We've regenerated the bone, but it's still fragile and you dislocated it when you broke it, so there's a lot of tissue damage. You'll need the cast for a week or so. You've probably worked out by now that you also have a fairly nasty concussion, but you're past the worst of it. Just let me or one of the nurses know when you need more pain relief for the headaches."

"Doctor…?"

"Evans. Tasmin Evans."

Jeff swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture in his mouth and throat to ease the croak in his voice. "Doctor Evans, I appreciate your help, but, so help me, if you don't tell me…"

"I've sent someone to bring Virgil down here. He's been awake for an hour or so already this morning. He's doing well, all things considered."

Jeff let out a long, exhausted sigh of relief. His memories of the shipwreck were hazy and incomplete at best, but he'd never forget the horrified expression on his young son's face when the loose boom swept him into the turbulent ocean. Everything after that dissolved into noise, chaos and churning water in his memory.

"You found him. When he went into the water, I thought…" Jeff's voice trailed off weakly and Dr Evans patted his left hand sympathetically.

"You've been worrying us more since they brought you in last night."

Jeff nodded tiredly. "They found us more quickly than I expected then. I was afraid – "

His voice cut off, his heart leaping into his throat as an orderly pushed his son into the room. Virgil was slumping in his seat, pale beneath peeling sunburn and deeply weary. The momentary terror that tightened Jeff's chest at the image of his eleven-year-old boy in a wheelchair was eased when Virgil caught sight of him and jumped up, almost toppling both chair and orderly in his haste. He flung himself at his father's bed. Jeff found himself sitting up without thought for the pain and effort it took, reaching out to help Dr Evans lift the child onto his father's mattress. Virgil threw his arms around Jeff's side, burying his face against it and shaking.

Jeff took a moment just to hold him, pressing his face into his second son's soft, wavy hair and planting a kiss on the top of his head. "Virgil," he breathed softly. "I thought I'd lost you."

"He was suffering from exposure when you were brought in," Evans volunteered. The doctor had a small, sad smile on her face as she watched the reunion, but her eyes remained deadly serious. "He's still exhausted, and on some fairly strong painkillers for his bruised ribs, but otherwise fine."

Jeff winced, remembering the force with which the boom had struck his son's chest. Virgil was lucky to get away without at least one fractured rib. Hell, they were all lucky simply to survive the storm. But that thought brought with it another, more alarming one. Something very important was missing from this picture. Virgil was still clinging silently to his father, his body trembling with emotion and his face buried in Jeff's shirt, although Jeff was almost sure his boy wasn't actually crying. It was a worrying reaction in his usually calm son. It would take a lot to upset Virgil this badly. The shipwreck in itself, and his father's concussion, would come close, but those situations were under control and even seeing Jeff awake didn't seem to be reassuring his son. Dr Evans' "all things considered" rang through his mind. Stroking Virgil's hair with his good hand, Jeff looked up at the door, willing himself to see his other boys walking through it.

He turned pleading eyes on the doctor, feeling sick to his stomach. "Scott? And Gordon? How bad…?"

She sighed, the slight air of sadness she'd carried about her revealing itself as sympathy. "There are people out looking for them now, Jeff. The police and coastguard are doing everything they can to find the lifeboat."

Jeff's eyes widened, going to the digital clock on his bedside table, and trying to make sense of the glowing red figures. "They've been adrift for fourteen hours?" he asked, horrified and clinging to calm with his fingertips. He felt Virgil flinch against him, and dropped his arm around the boy's waist to pull him in a little tighter.

Evans sighed deeply, shaking her head. "Thirty-eight," she corrected in a soft voice. "The storm wasn't last night. It was the night before."

Jeff stared at her, trying to think coherently. His body felt as if it had been pounded with a sledgehammer. His limbs ached with exhaustion, his arm was filled with fire where Virgil had knocked against it, and his headache was returning rapidly. Compared to the fierce, tearing pain in his chest, it all faded into insignificance. He heard Virgil sniffle a little and rocked his son gently, shifting his weight so he could swing his legs over the side of the bed. Evans caught him, forcing him back as easily as she might a child.

"I've got to find them!"

"The search boats left hours ago, Jeff. If there's anything to find…." She shook her head again. "There's nothing you can do. And Virgil needs you here."

His second eldest was helping to support his weight now, his pale face finally raised to look anxiously up at his father.

"You're sick, Dad," Virgil told him softly. "You need to stay in bed."

Reluctantly, Jeff allowed himself to be lowered back to his sheets, driven equally by the doctor's gentle pressure on his shoulder and the panicky glint in his son's eyes. Virgil stayed sitting, perched on the side of Jeff's bed and staring down at him with a far too weary expression for a child so young. Jeff reached out with his good hand, and Virgil took it, clinging to the reassurance. Dr Evans fussed around them, straightening the bed sheets, alternately scolding Jeff for trying to get out of bed and assuring him that she'd keep him informed.

"Lucy..." Jeff said tiredly. "Has anyone told my wife? You'll need photos of the boys..."

"She'll be on the first aircraft in," Evans told him briskly. "As soon as it's safe."

Jeff shook his head, feeling the churning acid in his stomach roil as he realised the implications. "The induction pulse," he said flatly.

"Is making life harder, yes," the doctor agreed.

"I talked to Mom," Virgil said. The boy had a dazed, lost tone to his voice. "On the phone. We had to shout. I couldn't really hear what she was saying. Al… She put Alan on and he wanted to speak to Gordy."

Jeff squeezed the hand Virgil was holding, offering his son a faint attempt at a reassuring smile. Dr Evans sighed.

"Inspector Travis of our police department has been keeping Mrs Tracy updated. And we have pictures." She reached into her pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. Jeff Tracy's missing sons gazed out from the creased, photocopied page. He drew in a quick, pained breath and glanced up at Virgil's face. The boy was looking away, staring at the wall in the effort of avoiding his father's eyes.

"That's very good, Virgil," Jeff told him softly. The boy flinched, shaking his head.

"I was tired and in a rush. Inspector Travis needed to know what Scott and Gordon look like. He… he thinks they're already dead, Dad. But they're not, are they? Gordy's probably frightened, but Scott's looking after him and stopping him from being scared, and they're just waiting for us to find them."

The desperate plea in Virgil's voice hurt to hear. Virgil's eyes were locked on his now, begging his father to agree.

"I'm not going to believe they're gone until… unless I see them for myself. Your brothers are smart, resourceful, brave…" Jeff's voice trailed off. From Virgil's perspective, Scott was his fearless elder brother, but Jeff was pretty sure Gordon wasn't the only one of his missing sons who must be terrified. He wanted nothing more than to hold his eldest boy and his second youngest in his arms and tell them everything was going to be fine. He couldn’t even do that for the one son within his grasp.

He tugged his hand gently out of Virgil's tight grip, and used it instead to pull the boy down next to him on the bed. Virgil resisted for a moment, but then snuggled against his father's side. Jeff was aware of the doctor moving a call button into his reach before leaving the room quietly. Ignoring her, Jeff Tracy held his son in a one-armed embrace

"Scott will look after Gordy," he agreed quietly, putting all his faith in the one thing he was sure of. "Wherever they are."

Scott Tracy was just about ready to throttle his little brother.

The chastened, frightened child who'd thought himself abandoned lasted through their meal and perhaps five minutes into their walk through the jungle. After that, the tired, whiny and impulsive six-year-old was back with a vengeance. Relieved as Scott was to see his brother's spirits recover, there were limits to what he could take.

He leaned against the nearest tree, one hand on its rough bark supporting most of his weight, and looked desperately around him for the fourth time in the last few hours.

"Gordon!"

There were an anxious few moments, Scott's blood pressure rising with each heartbeat. By the time Gordon's mop of red hair appeared around a trunk a few metres away he'd abandoned the idea of hurting his brother and had to suppress the impulse to hug him instead.

Innocent amber eyes batted at him. "What, Scotty?"

Scott crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. "I've told you not to wander off, Gordon. I've explained why it's dangerous. Twice." He squatted in front of his brother, letting his pack slide off his shoulders to the ground. He could tell when his brother was playing up, he could even kind of see why. It was just that Gordon had picked an astonishingly bad time for it. "Gordy, if I could just snap my fingers and get you home, I would. Making my life harder isn't going to help."

The younger boy folded his arms in a mirror of Scott's. "I was just…"

"Just exploring, just curious. Yes, I know." Scott shook his head and stood up, angry with the excuses. "It's not safe, Gordon! If I don’t know where you are I can't look after you. Do you actually want to fall into a hole, or get lost, or get eaten by snakes?"

Gordon shook his head. He tried the angelic smile that Scott knew all too well, the greenish light from the canopy above giving his face an elfin cast. "You'd find me, Scotty. You keep me safe. You're the best big brother in the whole world."

"Tell Virgil that."

Scott wanted to claw the words back the moment they left his mouth. Thoughts of the brother he'd lost had been haunting him constantly, but he'd meant to keep them inside where they couldn't hurt anyone but him. Their younger brother stared at him, suddenly sombre and with all the defiance draining from him.

"I'm sorry, Scott," he said miserably. "I don't mean to be naughty. I'm just… just really tired."

Scott sighed. "I know, Gordon," he said quietly. "So am I."

Gordon was old enough to have a fair grasp of how much trouble they were in, and young enough to forget when he was distracted. The last thing Scott had meant to do was remind him about what had happened. He squatted back down again, unrolling his tarpaulin pack to pull out their water bottle and handing it to his brother, trying not to look enviously at it.

Scott's throat was starting to ache, and his entire body was craving water, but Gordon needed it more. The younger boy took a long draught, and raised the bottle again before hesitating. Turning, he offered it to Scott instead. Scott accepted the bottle and tipped it up, letting barely enough past his closed lips to moisten the inside of his mouth. He'd drunk his fill at the stream on the beach before they'd left and he'd do the same next time he found a reasonably clear source of water. In the mean time, it made sense to limit their supplies.

He reckoned that they were lucky if they were doing a mile an hour, cutting through the jungle to reach the island's west coast, lining the volcanic peak up against the sun to keep their bearing as they did so. At first, when they'd stood on the beach and Gordon had asked where they were going, Scott had been stuck for an answer. Then he'd glanced up at the sun, rising full and fierce over the beach, and realised he did have a vague idea.

He could remember leaning over the chart their first night out, cooperating with Virgil to figure out their bearings. His closest brother had studied the map for a few minutes, a slight frown on his face, before their father asked what was wrong.

"Why are all the towns on the south-west?"

Virgil's question had seemed like a silly one to his elder brother. There were only three islands with settlements of any size in the entire archipelago. Then he'd looked more closely and realised it wasn't just Dominga and the other main islands that followed Virgil's rule. More than half of the other islets with houses and docks marked on them had the same south-west orientation. Dad had pointed out the prevailing winds and talked about storm surges from the ocean. That made sense to Scott and he'd tuned out the conversation as it turned technical – Virgil asking why people were worried about storms when Uncle Jim controlled the weather, their dad laughing at that oversimplification and explaining just how new the whole World Weather Control System really was. Scott had been more worried about getting an answer to Dad's coordinate challenge. Now though, he was both thankful for, and relying on, Virgil's observation.

From their north-east facing beach, there had been no hint of civilisation, and no prospect of rescue. Scott was pinning everything on the hope that the south-west coast of this island, whichever it was, would reveal something different.

He tucked the bottle into his pack before Gordon could ask for it back, standing and indicating briskly that Gordon should follow him.

"Stick close, Gordy. Or am I going to have to improvise a harness for you?"

Gordon threw him a look of total disgust. Their mother still pulled out a child safety harness to keep Alan nearby if they were going somewhere crowded. Gordon had managed to avoid the indignity for the last eighteen months or so, mostly by dint of an oft repeated, cross-my-heart promise to stay close, and the presence of three elder brothers with a death-grip on his hands. It was a while since he'd even been threatened with the dreaded restraints, but his behaviour today came close to warranting it.

Scott sighed as his little brother pushed past him, content to let Gordon walk ahead as long as he could see where the younger boy was. The path opened out into a small clearing ahead of them, the low-lying ferns and other shrubbery thinning. They'd been following what seemed to be an animal track, although Scott wondered a little nervously what lived on the island that made paths this kind of size. Now though, a gap in the foliage opened out to leave actual brown earth visible. Opposite them, they could see a wider path leaving the clearing a little to the right of straight-ahead. Gordon moved forward more quickly, encouraged by the brief escape from green-filtered twilight into full daylight. Scott followed, grateful for the easier going. At least he was until he saw the wire stretched at ankle height between the trees ahead.

"Gordon, stop!"

Gordon spun on the spot, his expression irritated. "What?" he demanded. "I'm not doing anything..."

Scott swooped on him, dropping the pack and picking his little brother up bodily to lift him back away from the trip wire. Gordon yelped and squirmed, and Scott dropped him quickly.

"Don't move," he warned, falling to his knees to examine the wire. He ran his finger along the fine metal thread, relieved and surprised that he'd seen it all. If it hadn't been for the sunlight glinting from it, Gordon would have walked straight into… whatever it was.

He frowned, torn between relief at the first evidence of human occupation he'd seen on the entire island and dismay at its nature. Carefully, he traced the wire with his eyes, following it through an eyelet screwed into the tree-trunk on the left and then up into the dense canopy overhead. He blanched, launching himself backwards and scrambling across the clearing to his little brother.

Startled and alarmed himself, Gordon backed quickly away.

The little boy had gone perhaps three steps across the clearing when the ground gave way beneath his feet. For a split second, the image of Gordon's shocked expression burnt itself across Scott's eyes, then he was launching himself through the air, body and instinct moving far faster than rational thought could, determined not to see another little brother fall beyond his grasp. He landed on his chest, sliding along the ground, blinded by the leaves and soil streaming down into the hole ahead of him. His head and shoulders hung down into it when he came to a rest, his arms outstretched. And hands in his, held tightly in a grip he'd never surrender, Gordon dangled three feet above the sharp metal spikes lining the pit.

The younger boy's eyes shone with fear. He was shaking, the trembling transferred through their linked hands and into Scott's body. His feet scrambled at the side of the pit, the movement doing nothing but wrenching Scott's arms and shaking more dirt into the trap below him.

"Gordon! Gordy! Stay still! I've got you, but you've got to stay still!"

Scott gasped the words breathlessly, struggling to draw air past the weight of his brother pulling down on his chest. Gordon stilled, adopting something close to the rigid terror he'd exhibited during the storm. When Scott looked down though, his brother was staring back up at him, frightened but trusting. Scott drew in a deep breath, letting the situation settle and summoning a wan smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I thought I told you not to move," he said softly.

"I'm sorry." Gordon's voice trembled. "Scott, I'm sorry! Pull me up? Please?"

"I will," Scott promised at once. "Just give me a minute." Scott's eyes were fixed over his little brother's shoulder. The spikes were dull grey steel, but there was a greenish stain around their tips that was deeply worrying. Scott's arms were aching, his back protesting the strain, but his brief attempt to bend his arms just set up a deep trembling in his biceps. Gordon's three and a half foot form was on the small side for his age, and usually his eldest brother had no problem lifting the child. From this angle though, with tired arms, a tentative palm-to-palm grip and no leverage, Scott couldn't even raise him through half an inch. He wracked his mind for a solution, speaking more to distract his little brother from his predicament than for any other reason.

"I know it's frustrating when you don't understand why someone tells you to do something, Gordon. I know it sometimes seems like we shout at you a lot, when you're just trying to have fun and make us laugh."

"I never mean to be naughty," Gordon whispered, gazing up appealingly at his elder brother.

"We understand that, Gordy. It's just that you need to think a bit more sometimes. When we tell you to do something, we're just trying to keep you safe and happy. Or keep everyone else safe, for that matter." Scott chuckled, remembering a couple of his little brother's more outrageous exploits. He tried to shuffle backwards, twitching his hips, hoping he could drag Gordon up to safety. He froze when he felt the lip of the pit begin to crumble, dirt trickling past Gordon's upturned face. Very nearly half Scott's weight was over the pit and he didn't dare move his legs for fear of disturbing the fragile balance. He swallowed hard. "Sometimes things are important, even if you don't realise it. But Gordy, we do love you. Even when we're shouting at you. You know that, don't you?"

Gordon went still, his hands twitching in Scott's. His elder brother stared down anxiously at his suddenly chalk-white face. Straining his neck, Scott tried to see past Gordon, wondering if his brother had scratched himself on one of those frightening, oil-sheened spikes, but his feet were still well clear.

"Gordy?"

The little boy frowned. "Am I going to die?" he asked calmly.

Scott couldn't help flinching. He glared down at his brother. Gordon tilted his head in a gesture that was almost a shrug.

"You used the L-word. John and I were watching the vid-screen, and Johnny said that grown-ups only use the L-word if they want to make a baby like Alan or one of them is going to die."

Scott stared at him, dumbfounded. Shaking his head disbelievingly, he made a note to have a word with his middle brother if he ever got the chance, both to find out what the boys had been watching and to warn him to mind what he said. On the one hand, given most of the melodramas on television, the precocious nine-year-old had probably made a shrewd observation. On the other, there were some ideas their younger brothers certainly weren't ready for.

"Well, John is pretty smart, but he's not always right," he told Gordon firmly. "Grown-ups love each other, and love us, in lots of different ways. Mom and Dad love all of us."

Gordon relaxed a little. "That’s good." He sighed, grinning up slyly. "Besides, you're not really a grown up. Big brothers don't count."

Scott huffed out an exasperated breath. "Well, I'm glad we've got that settled."

Gordon nodded, but his voice trembled a little. "Scotty, my arms are going numb."

"Yes, Gordon. Mine are too." It was helping a little, to be honest. The first wash of pain and shock had faded, and it was getting easier to think. Scott bit his lip. "Gordy, I really want to pull you up, but I can't. If I hold really still, do you think you can climb up my arms?"

"I can't!" Gordon's eyes widened and his grip on Scott's hands tightened. "I can't, Scotty."

"You're going to have to." Scott spread his legs behind him, tilting his feet to try and find some grip with the sides of his shoes. He could feel a sharp stone pressing into his side, but he daren't move for fear of their entire support crumbling away. "Come on, Gordon, you can do this."

He didn't give his younger brother any more warning. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on his Gordon's left hand until it was painful, simultaneously loosening his hold on the boy's right.

Gordon screamed, his right hand scrambling to re-establish its hold, his shoulders straining as he reached upwards. His hand fell on Scott's wrist and, instantly, Scott returned his brother's hold wrist-to-wrist. Gordon stopped kicking, his sobs tearing at Scott. Both boys breathed hard, but Scott tried to muster an encouraging smile. "That's it, Gordy. See: you're higher up already, and I've still got you. Now let's try your left hand, okay?"

Gordon's "no!" coincided with Scott loosening his grip. Gordon didn't scream this time. He sobbed quietly, straining upward with his left hand, taking a new hold on Scott's forearm and giving a louder cry of relief when he felt Scott re-establish his grasp.

"Gordy, it's okay. I'm not going to let you fall. You trust me, don't you? I need you to get your hand up over my elbow, okay? I'll keep hold of you, but I need you to move your hand now." Again, Scott relaxed his right hand, this time able to pull up a little with his left, helping Gordon's desperate reach, and able to grasp his brother very nearly at the shoulder when they made contact. Step by step, inch-by-inch, Scott helped his little brother climb up until Scott could hold him first under the shoulders, and then by the waist. The steady trickle of dust under them was getting faster and stronger as Gordon clambered over Scott's shoulders, a foot on the back of his elder brother's head giving him the push he needed. Scott could feel himself gradually slipping forwards. It seemed like an age before Scott was able to twist painfully back onto solid ground, Gordon sitting on his legs to steady them.

He lay on his back, Gordon scrambling across the ground to lay his head on his brother's chest as they both panted to catch their breath.

Scott gazed up at the blue sky, glimpsed through the opening in the canopy. Reluctantly, he dropped his eyes to the other side of the clearing, where a metal net filled with uniform, heavy concrete blocks hung poised above the trip-wire. The two boys lay in the narrow space between its impact zone and the gaping pit whose poisoned spikes reached to the sky.

Gordon had followed Scott's gaze. He huddled against his elder brother and shivered. "I guess there are people here," he said eventually.

"Yeah," Scott agreed, trying to sit up and deciding to lie still for just a moment longer. "And you know what, Gordy? I don't think they're very friendly."

Chapter 10

Frustration tightened Virgil's grip on the arms of his wheelchair. Being pushed through the hospital by a porter made him feel like a fraud, as if he were stealing attention from those who needed it more. He wanted to get up and walk back to the paediatric ward on his own, he felt as if he should, and it was mind-blowingly irritating to realise that he couldn't.

Waking up curled beside his sleeping father had felt safe and warm, only the growing throb of discomfort every time he moved his chest troubling him. It wasn't until the nurse had touched his shoulder and told him she'd sent for someone to take him back to the children's ward that he'd started to be embarrassed about it. He was eleven years old, but he'd reverted to a little kid, clinging to his father. True, Dad hadn't seemed to mind, but then Dad was used to having Gordy and Alan to cuddle. Maybe he'd just forgotten that Virgil was meant to be one of his older sons.

That Virgil was more than likely now his eldest.

It was a frightening thought, almost as much because of the responsibility as because it meant that he'd never see Scott again. He and Dad hadn’t talked about that much. It was just too big an idea to put into words.

They hadn't really talked much at all before both of them had drifted off to sleep. That bothered Virgil when he came to think of it. Dad had been asleep all night, and Virgil for most of it. He just didn't get why they were still so tired. Too tired, in fact, to get out of the chair he was in, even if his aching ribs hadn't made even the thought of it painful.

"Almost there," the orderly pushing him encouraged. Virgil frowned, looking up to realise he'd not even noticed the elevator ride up. The swing doors of the paediatrics ward opened ahead of him, letting him back in to its world of forced cheerfulness and primary colours. He slumped a little deeper in his chair, wishing he were back in his dad's room.

Dr Evans was waiting for him, her hands gentle as she helped him from the chair to sit on his own bed. She frowned at him when he gasped in pain, hand pressed to his ribcage.

"Your father's nurse said your pain medication was wearing off," she noted, feeling his temperature and then checking the time on her watch. "And she's right."

She reached into her pocket and shook out a couple of pills from the bottle there, handing them to Virgil with a glass of water. "Now, are you going to be good for me and swallow those down, Virgil, or do I have to put you back on a drip?"

Virgil swallowed obediently, struggling to get the large tablets past his throat and sipping the water to help them down. Task accomplished, he held the half-full glass out to the doctor. She shook her head, refusing to take it and instead topping it up from the jug on his bedside table.

"Drink it down, Virgil. All of it. You're still a little dehydrated, and I want you to be on top form to keep your Dad company."

"What's wrong with him?" It was the first thing she'd said that Virgil found interesting enough to respond to. He couldn't keep the thin edge of worry out of his voice. His Dad was meant to be tall, strong, unbreakable. At the time, Virgil hadn't processed the image, but now his first glimpse of his father – lying in a hospital bed, pale and in pain – came strongly into his visual memory. He shuffled backwards to lean against the headboard, and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them. It felt like every foundation in his world was trembling.

Dr Evans sighed, perching on the edge of the bed and studying the huddled child. He could see understanding in her eyes.

"He banged his head, Virgil. That made him a bit sick. He'll be all right; it'll just take him a little time before he feels better. He's going to be tired and sleep a lot for a couple of days, that's all."

Virgil looked at her with exhausted eyes. He'd driven himself as hard as he could, held on when he was on his own, done everything he could to help Scott and Gordon. When they'd taken him down to Dad, he'd thought he might finally be able to relax and let the grown-ups take over.

"I want my Mom."

"I know, sweetheart. I wish she could be here, I really do. She'll be here tomorrow. Now, do you want to try and sleep for a little? I could close your curtains?"

Virgil shook his head wearily. He was tired, yes, but he'd been awake for less than half an hour. His mind was still too active for more sleep, even if his body was drained of energy. He looked around the room, feeling the need to be doing something.

At the far side of the ward, the other two children admitted here were playing. He'd been introduced to them that morning: eight-year-old Amelia, who was learning to walk again after eight weeks with both broken legs in plaster, and six-year-old Susie who'd been having treatment for something serious over on the mainland and was well enough to come back to Dominga, but still too sick to go home. Susie's mom was playing with the two girls, helping them arrange some kind of complicated scenario involving dolls from the toy chest and lots of clothes. Even when he was well, little girls were something of an unknown commodity to Virgil. He tended to ignore the ones at school and, with an abundance of little brothers, his world had a decidedly male bias. These two seemed nice enough, but their attempts to entice him into their games before Dad woke up just left him more tired, and he felt no desire to join them now.

His eyes slid past them and across to the arts and crafts play area. He looked back at Dr Evans and she smiled before he could ask, crossing the room to bring back not just a large flip-pad of the coarse-grained paper sheets and the black crayon from the night before, but also a handful of other pencils and, thank goodness, a pencil sharpener to go with them.

"Now, technically," the doctor said with a smile, "we're not allowed to take these out of the play area. But I won't tell if you don't, Virgil."

Virgil gave her a brief, grateful smile as she deposited her haul on a tray. Reluctantly, he eased out of his huddle, tugging the pillow up behind his back and straightening his legs on the bed as the doctor settled the tray across them.

He tuned her out, oblivious to her watching him, as he sharpened a soft-leaded pencil. He sketched in the first few lines: the blocky shape of the life-boat's stern, seen from the prow, and centred in it a hunched shape. He added details quickly, desperate to get the image down on paper so he could get it out of his head. Water sprayed over the boat's rails and streaked from the sky, blurring everything and crossing every straight line. Gordon was barely visible, his torso made bulky by the life-vest, his face hidden in Scott's chest so only the back of his head showed. Scott himself was kneeling. He was bent over his little brother, holding the boy tight, but his head was raised and looking directly out of the paper. His expression, the last glimpse Virgil had seen of him, was one of total, terrified horror.

Virgil made the sketch detailed, working in thick, dark lines, before reaching for the coloured pencils the doctor had brought him. They were a crude set; perhaps twenty shades spanned the complete spectrum. Virgil didn't think for a moment they were enough for a full, colour picture, but he used them to highlight his pencil drawing. He added hints of brown and grey to the boat, a touch of orange to Gordon's life-vest, and the subtlest hints of orange and yellow to his little brother's hair. The cresting waves were picked out in dark green and blue, splashes of white on top of the black outlines to suggest the roiling foam. Scott, he left untouched, a monochrome focus in the tinted world, except for one thing: Scott's eyes stared out desperately from the paper, a deep midnight blue.

It took over an hour to get the effect he wanted, working with inferior tools, and with eyes that seemed to go blurry from time to time until he blinked the excess moisture away. When he looked at that inner picture, he could feel the deck heaving under his feet and his desperate need to get to his brothers. He could feel the sting of waves against his cheeks and hear the roaring of the angry ocean. He tried to put that on the canvas, knowing he didn't have the skill.

He looked down at the paper for a long time when he'd finished, eyes locked with his brother's, trying to feel the comfortable connection he'd always felt when they were together. When he eventually looked up, he blinked back unshed tears, startled to find Dr Evans sitting by his bedside, but in a different position as if she'd gone and come back while he was absorbed with his drawing. She held out her hands in a 'may I?' gesture. Virgil shook his head, holding onto the pad himself but tilting it so that she could see more clearly.

"That's very good, Virgil," she said gently. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Virgil shook his head, knowing he didn't have words. He'd never been much of a one for flowery language. That was why he was drawing after all. He flipped over the top sheet of the pad, frowning at the smooth surface as he began to picture a new sketch. He was lifting his pencil when a glass of water was thrust between his face and the paper.

"Drink it," Dr Evans ordered her eyes and voice compassionate but firm. "The whole glass, or I take the paper away."

Sighing, Virgil downed the glass of water before looking up at the doctor in mute appeal. She smiled gently, leaving him to it.

Two hours later, Virgil was looking down at a new picture. His own image stood at his father's right side. Dad's arm was around Mom's shoulder and she was holding Alan in front of her, John standing on her left. He'd started this sketch a dozen times, trying to get it right. Even in the final version his parents looked gaunt and unhappy. John was scowling, Alan's bottom lip quivering. His own expression just looked dead. He couldn't get the faces right, didn't know what to do with hands or postures. Even the heights seemed wrong. He couldn't find an arrangement that worked, no way that their family of seven could make sense as a family of five. Angry, distressed, he slashed at the picture with his pencil, leaving a heavy black line cutting through his parents' chests. It wasn't enough.

The duty nurse came over from her station when he tore the sheet from the pad with a loud ripping sound. She tried to take the picture from him, not understanding when he resisted, holding onto it, only to tear it first in half and then into quarters and eighths. She backed off when Dr Evans arrived a minute or so later, but Virgil wasn't in the mood to talk about it. He let the fragments of paper fall from his fingers, kicking the tray off his bed with a loud clatter, and feeling instantly guilty about it.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly. "Can I sleep now?"

"Can't we talk about this, Virgil?"

Virgil pulled his knees back to his chest, rocking slightly. "No. I'm tired."

"It's almost lunchtime," she coaxed. "Aren't you hungry?"

Virgil turned away from her, squirming down from his sitting position so he was curled on his side. "I just want to sleep. Please?"

There was a long minute of silence, the doctor waiting for him to break. He heard her gathering up the scattered pencils and paper, and then a deep sigh.

"All right, Virgil," she told him, drawing the curtains around his bed. "But I'm here if you want me, okay?"

Virgil ignored her, too tired to resist the sleep creeping over him, and too tired to hide from the dark dreams that came with it.

By Domingan standards, seen as one of a chain that included everything from Dominga itself to seamounts and reefs that barely broke the surface, San Fernando was a mid-sized island. Perhaps ten miles long by five wide, its profile was dominated by a tall volcanic peak rising out of thick jungle. To the west, a second mountain rose from the ocean floor, its ridge-like summit just a couple of hundred metres above the water's surface. The two islets had merged into one, connected by a mile-wide isthmus with a long narrow inlet to the north of it and a sheltered bay to the south. The only speck of land for a hundred miles in any direction, it should a welcome sight. If it wasn't for the cold, uncaring face of its owner, it would have been.

Auguste Villacana stood on the jetty, his expression closed as he watched the police hydrofoil approach. He'd hailed them as they neared the island's twelve mile limit, the short-range radio cracking and popping, but marginally comprehensible as he demanded that they turn away from the private waters. The hydrofoil's captain – a uniformed officer more accustomed to chasing down suspected smugglers and running fellow policemen between the major islands than diplomatic wrangling – was more than happy to hand the microphone over to his technical superior. Inspector Travis hadn't bothered with diplomacy either. He'd simply stated that Villacana needed to answer questions on an active case and that the hydrofoil required docking permission, and then cut the radio signal, unwilling to shout across a difficult connection when he had travelled for more than two hours to see the man face to face.

Travis and Kearney waited impatiently, letting the two junior members of the hydrofoil's crew cast mooring lines to a waiting pair of Villacana's staff on the dock. The island's owner stayed back, studying the two detectives and studied in turn.

Travis knew of Villacana by reputation, as he'd explained to Vaughan, and he'd looked through the man's file as the hydrofoil flew across the now-calm ocean. Rationally, he knew that the man's youth shouldn't surprise him. Despite that, some part of him had still expected to see a greying, middle-aged millionaire more typical of Domingan island owners, rather than a wiry, unimposing man in his mid thirties. Villacana's expression was neutral, showing neither anger nor any hint of welcome, but there was a bitter twist to his lips and his dark eyes hinted at his hostility. He didn't so much as raise a hand when the hydrofoil's boarding ramp was run out, but his two servants fell back behind him, standing poised to obey his orders, their eyes lowered.

Kearney eyed them warily, letting his colleague take the lead as they headed towards the ramp.

"You've got to wonder what he does to keep them so scared," he observed under his breath. Travis nodded grimly, forcing a smile onto his face as he stepped onto dry land and approached their host.

"Detective Inspector Charleston Travis," he announced himself, offering his hand. "Good to meet you, Mr Villacana."

Villacana took his hand, giving it the minimal, perfunctory shake that etiquette required before dropping it. "I wish I could say the same, Inspector. However, I've made my desire for privacy quite clear in the past, as well as a mere twenty minutes ago on the radio. I do not appreciate unexpected visitors, even official ones."

Kearney was bridling visibly, making it perversely easier for Travis to keep his temper as he gestured to his partner to calm down. "My colleague, Detective Inspector Michael Kearney." He waved a hand beside him as he deliberately introduced the rest of his companions to see how Villacana would react. "The hydrofoil's captain, police sergeant Walter Oksahi, constables Taylor and Andres."

As he'd half expected, Villacana ignored the hydrofoil crew, and didn't even consider introducing his own people. This was a man with a very clear sense of what was worthy of his attention. Obviously his servants and other lesser beings didn't come close. Travis suspected that he wouldn't make the cut himself if it wasn't for his capacity to disturb Villacana's lord-of-all-I-survey idyll. The man kept his eyes fixed on Travis' face, as if expecting an explanation accompanied by their instant departure.

Thoughtfully, Travis waved one hand, giving Oksahi permission to cast off. There was a sudden bustle of movement behind him as the police hydrofoil made ready for departure, and Villacana's servants started forward to help, taken by surprise. Now Villacana did react, raising one hand to stop his people.

"I must insist that you return to your vessel," he said coldly. "I cannot allow it to leave you here."

Travis faced him, eye to eye. As Kearney had cautioned him, there was no reason to believe that the recluse knew how big an error of judgement he'd made in concealing the Santa Anna's location. Despite that, there was something in the man's demeanour that made it almost impossible not to dislike him. The man had to know why they were here, but there was no hint of regret or apology in his expression. Travis couldn't help wondering what would have become of Virgil and Jeff Tracy if Villacana had been alone when he found them, rather than in the company of a rather more human crew.

"Mr Villacana, I'm afraid you can and you must. We have some crucial questions to ask you regarding the events of the evening before last, and the hydrofoil is urgently needed elsewhere. It will return for us in two hours, at which point we may or may not be forced to place you under arrest, but I can assure you, we are not leaving until we have answers to our questions."

For the first time, there was a crack in Villacana's façade. The man's eyes flashed with irritation and a hint of something else that Travis had no time to identify. Perhaps it had been the threat of arrest. Travis didn't need the look Kearney threw him to know he'd pushed his luck with that one. At most, what they knew of Villacana's activities warranted a fine and a caution, but the reaction made him wonder whether just possibly what they didn't know was far more interesting.

The man glared at them, and turned abruptly. "Follow me," he said.

They did, trailing the island's owner to a small 4x4 vehicle that waited by the dock. They climbed onto its rear bench at a gesture from Villacana, not entirely surprised when their host didn't take the wheel but rather the passenger seat, waiting for one of his servants to chauffeur them. The vehicle bounced along a winding path that climbed steeply north-west from the dock to a house perched high on the smaller western half of the island. Villacana sat rigidly, his back turned to them, not looking around at his visitors but managing to project his distaste for them nonetheless.

Kearney snorted quietly, leaning across the seat toward his colleague. "Do you think he'll brush us off on the doormat, like the dirt we evidently are?" he whispered.

Travis couldn't help chuckling. He waited until Villacana had glanced over his shoulder and turned back before answering in a low voice. "Wander off the path and you might not get that far. Reckon there's any truth to the booby trap rumour?" He nodded at the tree branch arching over the path ahead of them, and the glint of reflection from the glass lens it supported. Security cameras, discreet but apparent to the two trained observers, kept every turn in the path under thorough surveillance. Kearney shrugged, gesturing ahead to point out the compound coming into sight ahead of them.

Perched on a ridge-line, the house overlooked the northern inlet. A steep slope below it and gradually rising jungle beyond the sheltered water formed a wide, sweeping valley that separated the residential compound from the volcanic peak dominating the island's mainland. It was a nice house, Travis noted as the entered; he had to give his host that. The rooms were large and open-plan, every utility on hand and every comfort saving device employed. On the other hand, the steel and glass furniture, vid-screens and complex electronics on open display couldn't be further from the 'primitive' aesthetic that most island-owners aspired to. The sitting room's picture window contrasted the lush green of the jungle spread out below with the sparkling diodes and polished metal shells of some of the most elaborate stereo and video equipment Travis had ever seen. The place would be a sparkling beacon at night, hidden from the sea, but proclaiming its indifference to nature over the entire island.

Villacana stood in front of the glass wall, gazing across the jungle rather than looking at his guests. From time to time, he glanced to his left, at a blank screen that he evidently expected to be live with information. Travis remembered what he'd read: that this man had been responsible for some major breakthroughs in information technology while still in his late teens. A man like that, a man who surrounded himself with the number of gadgets on display, would not appreciate the effective information blackout the induction pulse was still causing.

Kearney gave an impressed whistle as he settled into the chair Villacana indicated. "For someone who wants to escape from the modern world, Mr Villacana, you certainly have a lot of it here."

Villacana turned, his gaze drifting across that screen before settling disdainfully on the detectives. Again there was a brief hint of emotion from the man, and this time it was definitely anger.

"If I wished to have people comment on my private arrangements, Inspector Kearney, I would have put up 'one dollar per entry' signs on the dock-side."

Travis shot his partner a quick look, asking him to think before he spoke. He had to admit that their host had a point. They were here to talk business, not interior design. Kearney sighed and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his notebook and a pen in a silent offer to record what was said, leaving Travis to concentrate. Travis nodded, turning calmly to the cold man by the window.

"Mr Villacana, I believe you and your motorboat picked up two ship-wrecked tourists yesterday, sometime around noon or in the early afternoon."

Villacana didn't blink, didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"And transported them almost to Dominga before handing them to a local fishing vessel."

"Your point?"

"Why did you pay the fishermen to lie about the sequence of events?"

Villacana turned a cold gaze on him. "Have you any evidence that I did?" he challenged.

Travis winced internally, keeping his face calm. "I have the sworn statement of the men involved, and evidence that they returned from the trip substantially wealthier than when they departed. When I question your captain, I suspect he'll be able to verify that you spoke to the fishermen. Don't you think it's possible that he even saw something exchanged?"

"All circumstantial." Villacana waved a dismissive hand.

Kearney leaned forward. "I notice you've not denied it," he noted.

Villacana gave a miniscule frown. Travis was getting a headache. Reading any kind of emotion off the man was an uphill battle to say the least, taking careful inspection and a lot of concentration. Even so, he recognised the moment when Villacana decided to give in to the inevitable.

"Residual charge from the storm was causing my motor to misfire. Since my boat was unable to reach Dominga, it seemed unnecessary to remain involved in the situation at all. Relocating the event did no harm, and I have never been fond of the presence of strangers near my home. I saw no need to draw attention to San Fernando for the sake of a couple of tourists and a freak natural occurrence. Inspectors, I have yet to see anything in your questioning that warrants the degree of intrusion and offence…"

Travis spoke across him, flicking his fingers at Kearney with an instruction to watch the other man carefully. Kearney nodded, continuing to record the conversation in his notebook, but doing so mostly without looking, only the occasional glance checking what he'd written.

"'Relocating the event' did a great deal of harm. And the circumstances of two nights ago can hardly be described as a 'natural occurrence'. There was definitely a human hand in it."

Villacana's eyes flickered, moving to something over Travis' shoulder and then back to his face so quickly he wondered if he'd imagined the motion. The man strode halfway across the room, pulling a steel chair from under a side table and sitting rigidly upon it.

"I understood it to be a malfunction of the weather control system. Isolated as San Fernando is, and given the interference, I have been unable to tune into my usual news broadcasts. Surely no one suspects that the storm was induced deliberately? Without warning, and so close to land?"

The urgency of his question was perhaps understandable given the close proximity of San Fernando to the storm's centre. Any landowner might have asked the same. Even so, there was something in the man's usually so-careful tone that seemed subtly wrong, too inquisitive given his demeanour. Travis had only meant to voice a little of his frustration with Commander Dale's Weather Station and humanity's tendency to strong-arm nature into submission with uncertain results. Sabotage hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility. He blinked as he made a mental connection. Hadn't Vaughan said he was "looking into it"? Why the hell would NASA security be looking into a freak technical problem?

Travis forced the questions aside with an effort, trying to keep his perplexity from his face. Even so, he was wary when he answered Villacana. "Can you think of any reason why your island would be the target of such an attempt?"

Villacana gave the slightest shake of his head, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he sat back in his chair.

"Certainly not. And I was involved in some of the early coding for the Weather Station project myself, many years ago."

"When you worked at NASA?" Travis pressed. He hadn't needed to wait for Vaughan to call back on that one. It had been in the former software engineer's file when he looked.

Villacana tilted his head in acknowledgement, his lips pursed and something that looked like anger smouldering in his eyes.

Travis sighed. Making conversation with the man was uphill work. You found yourself falling into his formal speech patterns and tying yourself in conversational knots.

"I was merely referring to the fact that the storm was artificial, Mr Villacana," Travis reassured him. "And, to return to the matter at hand, I have to ask what you know about the people you pulled out of the water."

Villacana flicked a hand dismissively. "A man and a boy. Barely alive." Not a flicker of interest in whether or not they'd survived. Even to wonder that would take a little empathy, and Travis was starting to suspect that the man had none.

"Did you recognise them?" Kearney asked, resting his pencil for a few seconds and drumming his fingers on the stiff-backed notebook. Villacana had all but ignored the second detective, seeing no need to communicate with anyone but the lead investigator. Now he spared Kearney a glance, but spoke to Travis.

"No, why would I?"

"The man was an ex-NASA employee, like yourself."

Villacana shook his head, apparently unsurprised and uninterested. "NASA has thousands of employees. I worked in a highly specialised department, almost ten years ago. Inspector, I fail to see why a couple of stray tourists should warrant this degree of investigation, or why their initial location was important."

"It's important, Mr Villacana, because while the two individuals you rescued are recovering in hospital, two other young children remain unaccounted for."

There was a definite, momentary flash of total surprise. None of the horror, sympathy and desire to help that every other rational person who'd heard the news exhibited. Travis had stopped expecting that, and its absence wasn't why he felt his heart sink. Despite the unlikeliness of it, he'd retained a lingering hope that, just possibly, the wild speculations the C.I.A. had put into his head might be true. In his heart, if not his head, he'd wondered if the boys actually had come ashore on San Fernando and been held for some nefarious purpose. It was better than the alternative: that they'd most likely been swamped and drowned within half an hour of being cast adrift, or died of exposure a handful of hours later. Unfortunately, that faint hope was gone. Villacana couldn't have cared less who he'd rescued, and news of the missing children had caught even the sanguine island-owner off guard.

He could have forgiven the man if he'd shown just a hint of compassion or even interest. Instead Villacana's only visible emotion after the surprise came and went was a slight irritable twitch and an unconcealed annoyance.

"I'll have my captain give you the coordinates where we located the shipwreck. As you'll see they are well north of San Fernando. I assume that you will be organising a search. I would remind you that this island and its waters are private property and that intrusion by search boats is unnecessary and unwelcome."

Kearney's expression was professionally neutral. Only his eyes told Travis of his intense dislike and distaste for their host.

"The search pattern is already being established. There will be almost forty vessels out here before the end of the day." The turnout had surprised even the coastguard personnel coordinating the search. Some of the smaller vessels would take all day just to reach the search zone, and anchor there overnight rather than making the trip back to Dominga. Others, including a few tourist yachts almost as big as Villacana's, would be reaching the designated area already, not far behind the coastguard and police hydrofoils. "The search zone ends just within your northern waters, Mr Villacana." It was the maximum distance from Virgil's coordinates that anyone thought an unpowered dinghy could have drifted in the time available. Kearney shook his head, almost disappointed. "We won't be encroaching on your precious island," he finished sarcastically. "We know just how important your privacy is."

Villacana looked at him with a deep, and barely-concealed distaste of his own. "Inspector Kearney, in my experience, the vast majority of my fellow human beings are ignorant, unintelligent savages who work only for their own benefit, often at the cost of others more deserving, and who believe that their petty affairs are more important than those of any other. Since many of them appear to object to my beliefs, I have chosen to remove myself from their society. I do not appreciate the attempts of others to inflict their company upon me, and nor do I welcome the disdain of one such as yourself. I have cooperated with your enquiries and done no more than assert my right to be left alone – a right I purchased, I would remind you, from your own government. Kindly keep your opinions and comments to yourself."

Kearney jumped to his feet, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to pin down any one thing in Villacana's calm but cold statement he could legitimately object to. Travis stood too, distracting the two of them from one another and falling back on cool formality to mask his own anger.

"Thank you for your cooperation, but I have to remind you that you intentionally misled the authorities about a serious nautical incident, knowing that it was likely to be referred to the police for investigation. While the Domingan state recognises your autonomy to govern San Fernando as you see fit, the Confederation treaty clearly requires you to comply with international law in your interactions with other islands and the larger world. Whether you consider it so or not, Mr Villacana, you have committed an offence, and an investigative visit such as this is only the mildest of the possible consequences."

"And it is one I've lived with and now regret," Villacana said calmly, no hint of the proposed regret in his tone. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe there is an office in the boathouse where you can interview the captain and arrange for him to return you to your hydrofoil."

Travis was astonished but careful not to show it. Kearney looked more openly surprised.

"We've travelled a long way to speak to you, Mr Villacana," Travis protested mildly.

"And, I believe, said everything that needed to be said." Again, Villacana spared Kearney a dismissive glance before looking briefly up at an apparently non-descript segment of wall above his head. "You've recorded my statement, and I can provide an electronic recording of it if necessary. Send a transcript when the interference has cleared and I will gladly append my signature file."

"Or visit Dominga to sign a paper copy?" Travis asked, more through annoyance than any real need to push the point. The man's lip curled.

"If hard-copy is strictly necessary, mail is carried by the servants' boat once weekly."

He didn't appear to move, but one of his silent servants appeared behind the detectives.

"This man will guide you to the boat house."

Kearney glowered. "You think we couldn't find it on our own?"

Again there was that glimpse of unexpected anger in Villacana's eyes. "I'm sure you're capable of exploring quite thoroughly, Inspector Kearney. However, the jungle surrounding this house can be a dangerous place. I should not like you to stray and become lost." He raised a hand, and the nameless servant circled the detectives, coming between them and Villacana and beginning to usher them towards the door.

"I'll take you up on that electronic recording, Villacana," Travis called over his shoulder.

The man didn't bother to acknowledge.

Chapter 11

Villacana stood in his living room, as ice cold and expressionless as the glass and steel around him. Inside, he was burning, anger and frustration tearing through him.

Kearney and Travis were fools, but they were detectives, accustomed to searching for clues. What had they read of his reactions? He had almost given himself away with his questions about the weather satellite, he knew that, but the detectives' visit had unsettled him. It had been too unexpected, not part of his plan. Any intruder in the world he'd built for himself was unacceptable. The thought of them made him feel unclean, violated, as if San Fernando and everything on it was an extension of his own body. Or maybe just his territory, in the sense that predatory great cats had their territories, prowled out, kept safe and jealously guarded.

For the intrusion to come now, so close to the fruition of his plan, when he had so much to lose and so much to hide… That was just about the worst outcome that his theoretically-faultless test could have brought about.

He cursed the nameless tourist who had brought this upon him, and all his brood. Villacana had hoped finding the barely-viable bodies would help deflect attention from his island. He hadn't thought for a moment that there might be other passengers on the yacht to draw attention back here. And typical of the shipwrecked victims to be children, sure to bring bleeding hearts out here in droves.

Villacana had been waiting so long to get his revenge, to make the world that had rejected him sit up and recognise his genius once and for all. It had taken him years of hard, solitary work, sourcing each component, ensuring everything was perfect. He had thought to exploit the world-wide unease about the weather system as early as this very night. With an undetermined number of search vessels in the area, some of them small enough perhaps to pass through his perimeter system undetected, he couldn't take the chance. Who knew whether a passing boat would spy a reflection from the dish, or notice something else that had escaped his meticulous planning?

He shook his head, caught sight of himself doing so in the reflective glass of the window, and realised that his anger was slipping through even his automatically maintained mask of neutrality. Carefully, slowly, he took a deep breath, held it and released it gradually.

This was not the time to start doubting himself, or his precautions. This one incident with the sailing yacht was a fluke, a distraction, no more. Passing on the electronic call button in his wristband, he moved instead to the wall panel, running his fingers over the vid-screen and bringing up a link to his data-conduit. With a few quick commands, he isolated the records of his carefully-innocent conversation with the detectives, adding a barely-perceptible layer of white noise to it to blur even his slight vocal inflections. Downloading it to a data-card, he pulled the device from its socket, weighing it in his palm. With another sequence of commands he killed the automatic monitoring system he used to keep his servants in line, before summoning the entire household with a final sequence. He didn't want a record of this conversation.

The Islander natives trailed in, polite and reasonably clean despite their rough appearances. They lined up in front of him, their eyes averted as Villacana preferred.

Tranter was still escorting their unexpected 'guests' to the boathouse and, knowing his job, keeping them there. Friell hovered inside the door, acting as a rearguard, his eyes as cold and emotionless as his master's. Villacana had picked his two full-time servants carefully, selecting men greedy enough to tolerate his idiosyncrasies if the pay was sufficient, and as clear-sighted as he was when it came to the rest of humanity. Neither of the men knew what their master did when he vanished into his 'laboratory', and while they had helped construct the dish to his rigorous requirements, neither had doubted his statement that he merely required better communications for his work. He was certain that even if they suspected his long-concealed plan, neither of them would care.

He had never bothered to learn the names of the five men who came in every week on the boat. They were hard-eyed men, not from liberal Dominga, but rather from the more cut-throat harbour and bars of Santa Isobella. He'd selected them solely for their ability to do whatever they were told without question. Their loyalty was certain as long as it remained paid for, and was reinforced by the memory of Villacana carefully and precisely flaying the arm of the first man who had gossiped about San Fernando and its owner. He'd gained no pleasure from the messy activity, merely seen it as a necessary step to securing his goal; eight years without trouble from his employees had proved it worthwhile. In those years these men had laid paths and traps, maintained the gardens – both formal and kitchen, cleared debris after storms, carried equipment and supplies from the dock up to the house, and on one memorable occasion thoroughly beaten a pair of stray fishermen intruding on a western beach, before setting them adrift.

Only one man in this room had yet to learn the rule of absolute obedience, and was yet to prove his loyalty. The large motor yacht was a relatively new purchase, an indulgence that Villacana now vaguely regretted, but hadn't been able to resist. He had realised that hiring a new man competent to captain the vessel would be necessary. He hadn't appreciated how reluctant he would be to open even his cynical, violence-motivated circle of trust. Or how hard it would be to find a man with the required combination of skill and conscience-free, greedy obedience. He was still far from sure of his choice, a Domingan native with more concern for the rules of the sea than the rules his employer laid down.

He studied the man briefly before he extended his hand, proffering the data-card.

"There are two detectives in the boathouse. Take this to them, answer their questions, cooperate with their requirements."

"Sir." There was nothing to fault in the man's bowed head or quiet acknowledgement. Villacana waved a hand in dismissal, indicating two of his anonymous men with stabbing gestures.

"You, and you. You will be needed as boat crew. Go with him."

Villacana and his other servants watched as the captain left the room, his shoulders slightly bowed under the weight of the eyes upon him, trailed by his nominated crew. Friell slipped out behind them, escorting them to the main door of the house and securing it behind them before returning to the sitting room. There was silence for a few seconds and Villacana took a moment to enjoy the thrill of power he felt over the remaining four men, waiting on his command, ready to obey him unconditionally.

"We may have intruders on the island. Detectives aside, there are two others who may have washed ashore here. I want you to check the traps, search for any sign of unauthorised individuals on the island. My equipment and activities are not to be subject to espionage or interference. No matter who is responsible, or the cause. If anyone has washed ashore here, I want to know that was precisely what happened. That they washed in on the morning tide. I want to hand their dripping bodies over to the authorities without hesitation. Understood?"

There was just the briefest pause. This was darker than anything he'd asked of them before, but he had no doubt that they were capable of it. He stood impassive and unyielding, recognising that a ruthless attitude to others that he'd always thought of as remote and abstract was becoming very close and real.

"Go," he said simply.

They went without argument.

Scott had second, third and fourth thoughts about guiding his little brother along the path that the trip-wire had protected. In the end, he'd settled for a compromise. They kept mostly to the trees, Gordon never more than a few steps away from his eldest brother, both of them cutting cautiously back onto the flatter, clearer ground when the undergrowth became particularly rough.

The sun was in their eyes, the path leading them almost due west. It broadened gradually, and it took some time for Scott to notice that they were now sticking almost exclusively to the beaten earth track. He'd treated Gordon's blistered feet, and his own, trying to ignore his tired brother's tears as they limped onwards through the apparently never-ending jungle. They were both growing listless, walking because they had to, and not even Gordon had the energy to spare for side trips or exploration.

It was getting on for late afternoon when Scott tripped over a deep gulley in the surface of the path for the third time. He landed on hands and knees, aggravating the scrapes he'd already acquired, and stayed down, breathing hard. Gordon was at his side in seconds, tugging anxiously at his arm, and he struggled to blink back the mingled tears of pain, fear and exhaustion.

"I'm… I'm okay, Gordy. Just give me a minute."

Gordon dropped to sit beside him, hugging his knees, his worried eyes never leaving his brother's face. Scott sighed, sitting up and unrolling his pack. He pulled out food and water for his brother, letting himself swallow a mouthful or two of the cool liquid while Gordon ate hungrily. There had been a pool not far from the path a little way back, its level topped up by the recent rainfall, its bottom hidden by a layer of fallen leaves, and Scott had literally drunk until he was sick. That had taken a few minutes to recover from too, and despite the cravings of his dehydrated body, he'd sipped more cautiously before they left the pool, wary of his viciously cramping stomach.

His throat was still sore, the acidic taste not fading from the back of his mouth, even when he allowed himself a little of the bottled water to soothe it. He refused the food Gordon offered him entirely, a little surprised to realise that he really wasn't hungry. He managed a smile for Gordon's sake, knowing that his little brother was almost as alarmed by Scott's lack of appetite as his Scott himself was grateful for it. It didn't fool the younger boy.

"Scott, are you getting sick?"

Scott gave him a wan grin and a shrug. "I'm not sure, Gordon. But look, the path is getting wider. We're going to find someone soon, they're going to call Mom and she'll take you home and everything will be okay."

Gordon just looked at him, and Scott waved a hand to indicate the path they were on. He stopped, focused and frowned, actually looking at the surface for the first time. The narrow gulley he'd tripped over was worn, baked by the sun and eroded by the rain, but it was nonetheless unmistakeable.

"Tyre tracks!" Gordon jumped a mile at his brother's cry. Scott grinned at him, waving him closer. "Look, Gordy, they're tyre tracks. You can see the treads. We've got to find someone soon."

He dragged himself to his feet and picked up their ever-lightening pack, urging Gordon on. Ten minutes later, he was walking with Gordon's hand in his to encourage him when his little brother stopped suddenly, almost pulling Scott off-balance.

"Engine!" Gordon's eyes widened. "Scotty! I can hear an engine!"

Scott held his breath, closed his eyes and concentrated everything on hearing the sound his little brother had detected. Several seconds later he was breathless, but sure. Gordon was right.

Scott scanned the skies, wondering if the induction pulse had cleared enough for aircraft to fly over. He dropped the pack to his side, scrabbling for the long-forgotten flare gun, before his eyes fell once again to the tyre marks beside it. He hesitated, listening again to the sound rolling off the sides of the volcano. The engine note was wrong for a plane, now that he concentrated on it.

"There's a car coming," he realised. "A jeep, a van, something."

A small hand slipped into his, Gordon's other hand plucking at his sleeve as Scott's little brother tried to pull him aside.

"We have to get off the road, Scotty."

Scott looked down into the younger boy's frightened eyes, bemused. True, his little brothers had road safety drilled into them, but even so it seemed a strange comment. Gordon tugged at him again. "Scotty, please, there were spikes and traps and bricks… we have to hide!"

Scott felt sick, torn between two unpalatable choices as he realised his brother was right. From the moment he'd seen the trip wire, he'd realised that the people on this island would have to be approached carefully. Pulling his brother out of a pit of poisoned spikes had cemented that conviction. At the same time, his own strength was failing rapidly and he knew that, despite all his efforts, Gordon wasn't doing much better. Was the choice between turning his little brother over to someone who had already tried twice to kill them, and simply collapsing here in the jungle? Neither option was acceptable.

He thought quickly, weighing up the little they had, and the resources around them, wracking his mind desperately for a plan. He saw it in a flash of inspiration and leapt on it, knowing how little time they had from the growing roar of the vehicle engine.

He ran to the edge of the crude road, and off it into the jungle. Fallen branches and the occasional half-rotten tree trunk were common sights on the leaf-mould floor. In the first hour of their journey, Gordon had stopped at several, fascinated by the fungal growths and streaming columns of ants that colonised them. Now Scott ran desperately towards the log he'd seen from the road, counting on it being half-eaten through, grateful beyond measure when he found that solid as it looked, it was all but hollow. "Gordy, help me!" he demanded, heaving up one end of the log and beginning to drag it across the ground.

His little brother was tired, but his already well-developed love of practical jokes made him quick to see the potential in a situation like this. He grasped Scott's idea almost immediately, helping him to drag the log across the path. Scott was already dropping flat on his belly to hide in a thicket of undergrowth to one side of the rutted surface when Gordon ran back into the road with armfuls of leaves, scattering them artistically around the hollow log in a touch that would never have occurred to Scott. A close look might reveal the inconsistencies, but at first glance the obstruction looked like it had been there for weeks, the leaves gradually building up around it. He pulled Gordon into a one-armed hug as the younger boy dropped down beside him, grinning smugly.

Scott smiled at him. "You're just a little too good at that, aren't you, you little monster?"

Gordon laughed, the sound lifting his elder brother's spirits. Scott hushed him reluctantly, finger on lips as the engine noise swelled around them.

They were waiting for less than thirty seconds when the jeep came into view, its bench seat occupied by two large, bored looking men, its short truck-bed empty save for a scatter of dirt and a length of rope. The vehicle came to a halt, its engine reverberating painfully loud after the near-silence of the last day. The two men in it looked from the fallen tree blocking their path to one another and back again before the driver leaned forward against the steering wheel, resting his forehead against his arms.

"Well, get out and move it then," the man said in a thick, Domingan Islander accent.

His partner frowned, ready to complain, and thought again when the driver shifted in his seat, purposefully revealing a gun tucked into his waistband. Scott heard a small gasp beside him and reached out quickly, putting a hand over his brother's mouth and meeting his eyes anxiously.

The second man climbed out of the jeep, his entire posture screaming reluctance. He lingered for a few seconds with one foot in the cab, about to step down backwards. "Are you okay with this?" he asked, his tone deliberately nonchalant.

The driver opened one eye, looking blankly at his colleague.

"Villacana wants these people found and dealt with." He shrugged. "So, we deal with them."

The second man gave an echoing shrug, stepped down to ground level and then hesitated again. "Marshal was talking to one of the cops on that hydrofoil. Said they were looking for a couple of kids."

The driver opened both eyes, his voice cold. "You've been taking the same money I have these years. You helped last time we had intruders, and now you have a problem? You going to give up the pay? You think you can run far enough to hide when Villacana comes after you? He's cold, but the man scares the hell out of me."

The combination of threat and warning in the driver's voice was unmistakeable, and Scott held his breath as the second man thought about it. "No," he said quietly. "Guess not."

"Right, so if those kids are here, we make sure they can't tell anyone what they've seen. Ever. We hand the bodies over to the cops and it's over and done with. Right?"

"Right." The second man kicked at the log, grunting in satisfaction as his foot went through the rotten bark. He kicked it a few more times, breaking it into manageable chunks before sweeping them aside with his feet, evidently disinclined to get his hands dirty… at least not on a mouldy, fungus-crusted log. He shook his head in disgust as he climbed back into the jeep. "Hardly worth stopping for. Truck would have gone straight through it."

The driver grunted in response, throwing the vehicle into gear and forcing it through the scattered remnants of the boys' crude barricade. Lying in the undergrowth, too shocked and afraid to move, Scott listened to the engine sound slowly fading. His plan had been simply to stop the vehicle and assess the situation when he found out who was in it. Even when the jeep and its unpromising passengers had drawn up, Scott had wondered if he and Gordon could somehow hide in its truck bed.

After the conversation they'd just overheard, he was overwhelmingly relieved that they hadn't tried.

He didn't realise he still had his hand over Gordon's mouth until his little brother gave up tugging at his hand and bit him instead. He yelped, letting go and rolling up to a sitting position, Gordon beside him. His brother looked as shocked as Scott himself felt, and he knew that despite the men's oblique speech, he didn't have to explain. He worked his mouth for several seconds, coughing to clear his raw throat, before he managed to speak.

"Okay, Gordy. New plan. That jeep left tracks we could follow with our eyes closed. Wherever they come from, there has to be food, water, a radio maybe, or even a boat. We get there and call for help and, Gordy, this is really important, we don't let anyone catch us!"

Gordon climbed tiredly to his feet, holding out a hand to help pull Scott up.

"Okay," he agreed quietly.

Travis stepped from the motor yacht back onto the police hydrofoil with the ease of a born and raised Domingan. It was hardly possible to grow up in the Confederation without spending time on the ocean, and in other circumstances he might have enjoyed the cool breeze and the gentle swell. Eight hours into the search operation, with no sign of the missing boys, this was not the time.

Their frustrating visit to San Fernando over, with nothing constructive to do and reluctant to take a boat from the search to return to Dominga, he and Kearney had spent the rest of the day boat-hopping. They'd spoken to the various captains and crews both about the storm and to canvas opinion on the best strategy to search for the Santa Anna's boat. The verdict had been pretty unanimous all around – the storm may have been compact and short-lived, but its effects had been fierce, and the coastguard's decision to define a search area and distribute the helping vessels through it couldn't really be improved upon.

When the wreckage of the Santa Anna itself had been relocated, around about noon, the strategy had been proven sound, but the mood turned darker. If he hadn't known what it was, Travis could never have believed that the trail of matchbox-sized debris could amount to a family-sized sailing yacht. The largest pieces, fragments of the wooden cabin, were the size of a small tabletop. The hull had long-since dissolved into fibreglass splinters. Travis tried not to see the more human debris: twists of sodden clothing, sheets of water-bleached paper and even a few books. It was mute testimony to the force of the storm, and Villacana's Captain Gardner was able to confirm that even in the twenty-four hours or so since he'd last seen the debris field, it had spread and broken up further.

Finding it had been the high point of the search. There had been not a glimpse of the lifeboat, or a smaller debris trail that might suggest its fate. With Travis beside him in the wheelhouse of Villacana's yacht, Captain Gardner had explained grimly that most likely a dinghy of that kind would leave no visible evidence, capsizing or sinking intact when it was swamped, rather than breaking up.

Travis waved as he left the numbered-but-nameless yacht behind him. As Cal Levan had told him, Gardner was a good man, and deserving of a better employer. Travis hadn't failed to notice how carefully the captain had made sure his crew were busy at the other end of the boat before answering any of the detective's questions, or how nervously he glanced up at an electronic eye in the wall of the wheelhouse. Gardner wasn't just impressed by Villacana; he was scared of the man, and the length of his reach.

Kearney leant a hand to steady his fellow detective as Travis adjusted from the rock-solid weight of the motor yacht to the far lighter, more mobile hydrofoil. He accepted a water bottle gratefully, glancing up at Kearney as he did so. His colleague had picked up a touch of the sun, his genetically pale skin more vulnerable than Travis's own tanned complexion.

Kearney looked tired and as grimly demoralised as Travis felt. He tilted his head, looking up at the motor yacht they were now leaving behind them. "Did he say much more?"

Travis shook his head, sighing and dropping onto one of the bench seats lining the sides as the hydrofoil picked up speed. "Not a lot. Villacana spends a lot of time in the basement – some kind of private electronics lab the servants are barred from. He's working on some big project. Beyond that, Gardner's learnt not to ask questions."

"Yeah," Kearney dropped down beside him, echoing his sigh. "That's about all I got out of him earlier. Just about the only thing he volunteered was that it was a pure fluke they found Tracy and Virgil at all. Villacana apparently isn't much of a one for enjoying the wilder side of things so the captain was surprised when he decided to go for a cruise just after a storm." He shook his head and there was silence for a few minutes as both men weighed up what they'd learnt during the day. Kearney sighed, looking at Travis' tired face. "We knew this search was going to take a while."

"I know," Travis agreed, leaning his head back against the ship's rail and tilting his face up to the late-afternoon sun. It felt strange to be leaving the search with the sun high in the sky, but some of the tourist boats joining the search had come out with more community spirit than common sense, and most of them were going to be spending the night on the open water. The coastguard coordinators had asked the fast police vessel to make a run back to Dominga for a few more light buoys and additional drinking water before darkness made hydrofoil speeds hazardous. Travis was more than glad to be going with it. "It's just been a hell of a long day, and I feel as if we've got nowhere."

"Well, we know the kids aren't on San Fernando." Kearney offered before sighing and leaning back against the rail himself. "Although I guess that doesn't really help, does it?"

The hydrofoil flew across the water, cruising at a steady hundred-twenty knots. Sea-spray was flung up around them in a fine mist, the vessel appearing to sail homewards through a shifting rainbow of refracted light.

Chapter 12

Forty-eight hours.

The setting sun streamed scarlet through the window, reflecting from the glass front of his bedside clock. Jeff Tracy felt his hands clench into fists as the digits flickered and changed. He only had hazy memories of yesterday… no, the night before. Vivid, terrifying images stood out: Virgil knocked into the water, lifting Gordon into Scott's arms, an enormous wave roiling over the Santa Anna and an indescribable noise as the ship tore herself apart. He wasn't sure of the sequence of events, and the typhoon came crashing out of nowhere in his memories of the day.

Dr Evans had said the short-term memory loss was normal, to be expected with a serious concussion. The medical verdict was no comfort to a father straining to remember every minute with his sons. He'd had to look up the time of the storm, limited to the local media by the continuing blackout. That was the only way he knew.

My sons have been missing for forty-eight hours.

He still didn't believe it.

He slumped back against his pillows, eyes closing. Industrial strength painkillers were keeping his headaches more or less under control, and the doctor had been forcing him to drink something almost every time he opened his eyes, but he still felt tired and weak. He'd slept more than he'd been awake during the day. Somewhere around noon he'd managed to speak briefly to Lucy; a telephone conversation that should have been full of tender reassurance and comfort reduced to a shouting match by a telephone line with more noise than signal. He'd woken again in the late afternoon, barely able to remain conscious even when Virgil was brought down to visit him. Despite his own enervation, the boy's quietness had bothered him. Virgil was far from the most boisterous of Jeff's sons, but he usually held his own. He'd asked Dr Evans about it when he woke to find Virgil had been taken back to his own ward for dinner. In return he'd been handed a couple of truly disturbing pictures and a gentle recommendation that he find his son a good counsellor.

The dark, shadowy image of Scott and Gordon about to be carried off by the storm was one Jeff had never been in a position to see. The jigsaw puzzle of torn scraps that he'd reconstructed into a fractured glimpse of his incomplete family was more alarming still. Evans had said that when Virgil had first been brought in, he'd been bright, urgent and intent on finding out first about his father and then his brothers. She was almost as concerned as he was by the boy's withdrawal since. Judging by these pictures, Jeff's eleven-year-old was already trying to comprehend a loss that Jeff still couldn't bring himself to accept was real.

Forty-eight hours.

Alone, in an open boat, with only the meagre supplies in an emergency locker that Jeff had no more than glanced over once and then forgotten about.

He'd made sure the Santa Anna had a radio, that its lifeboat was intact and supplied, and that the yacht herself was top of the range, long before he took his boys aboard. After that he'd ignored the bigger issues in favour of the more every-day precautions – checking the weather schedules, planning out his route, making sure his boys knew where the life-jackets were, and that even Gordon understood that the ocean was something to be respectful of rather than simply play in. He'd thought he was doing enough.

Rationally, he knew that the storm had been an unpredictable disaster, compounded by the induction effect that blocked communications, rendered the lifeboat's emergency beacon useless and kept search aircraft grounded. Nothing he could have done, no precaution that he perhaps should have taken, would have saved the Santa Anna. That didn't relieve the overwhelming sense of guilt and anger. He couldn't help feeling that somehow he should have been better prepared. There should have been some way to save his sons from this.

"Mr Tracy?"

The call from the doorway broke into his brooding. He turned towards it, frowning at the source of this new voice.

The man was a few years younger than he was. A deeply tanned face topped a leather jacket and worn jeans. There was a rough, windblown air to the man, as if he'd spent the day outdoors and only just returned. Despite the casual attire, there was a sharp look on the man's face, an intelligence shining behind a weary face and shadowed eyes. His eyes scanned the room and its occupant quickly, assessing and filing away his conclusions.

"Police?" Jeff guessed, sighing.

"Inspector Chuck Travis, Mr Tracy. Can I say it's an honour to meet you?"

Jeff waved the pleasantry away. It may have been genuine, but right now he didn't need a fan, he needed news. Travis' name was familiar. It had been mentioned more than once.

"You've been out looking for my sons?"

Travis took a step into the room, the sigh inaudible but barely visible as a slight movement of his chest. "There's no news, Mr Tracy." His sincere regret was obvious despite the blunt statement. "The search boats are still out there. They'll keep going as long as there's light and start again first thing in the morning. Air-sea rescue should be able to join them tomorrow." The man hesitated, a little awkward. "I'm sorry."

Jeff realised he'd slumped back against the raised head of his bed. "Forty-eight hours," he whispered numbly. He forced the thought away, searching for something else to say. He found it. His fists clenched again, and he turned an angry look on the detective. "You're the man who told Virgil you think his brothers are dead," he realised.

The detective flinched, his eyes widening. "I didn't…!" Travis stopped, the younger man taking a deep breath and thinking hard. "He may have overheard me talking to his doctor," he admitted finally, a weary frown on his face. "Mr Tracy, I've been very impressed with your son. I would never knowingly hurt him, and I'm sorry if I said anything in his hearing that I shouldn't. But, sir, while I won't stop searching for Scott and Gordon, I have to be realistic. After two days… I know that you appreciate how slim the chances of us finding them alive and well now are."

Jeff broke eye contact, shuddering. The detective's sombre but earnest tone made it impossible to stay angry with him, or to ignore the reality of what he said.

"What happened?" he demanded. "How the hell did this happen?"

The man's expression turned curiously wary. "NASA are still looking into their end, Mr Tracy. I'm sorry. I'm probably as far out of the loop on that as you are. As for what happened here…"

Travis came to his bedside. The detective held a folder in his right hand, bulging with paperwork and reports. Jeff sighed, holding his hand out in a demanding gesture. Travis began at the beginning, with the Levans bringing him and Virgil to port. Jeff listened carefully, taking the pictures and reports as the detective handed them to him. It was a good twenty minutes before the detective finished with a brief mention of his visit to San Fernando.

As much as Jeff appreciated it, the briefing was somewhat surprising and he said as much, giving himself time to process the information overload. The detective smiled ruefully.

"I had a quick word with a NASA guy, Vaughan, when I got back to the office. He told me that if I didn't tell you everything when I saw you, you'd come down to headquarters and 'damn well demand the rest'." He grimaced, running a hand through his hair. "If it's more than you wanted to know…"

Jeff shook his head sharply, riffling through the paper. Doctor Evans had told him the bare minimum, no more really than that Virgil needed help and that his other sons were still unaccounted for. It helped to know more. For the first time since he'd first wakened, he had something solid to distract him from endless memories of his two missing boys.

He pulled out the satellite photograph from before the storm, ignoring the circled yacht and focusing instead on the distinctive island of San Fernando to the south of it. The double-peaked island looked like a toppled figure of eight, or perhaps a distorted infinity symbol.

"I didn't realise places like this existed any more – that one man could own an entire island." He squinted at it, frowned and squinted again, angling the gloss surface of the picture away from the light. "Is that some kind of radio dish? A telescope maybe?"

Travis frowned, leaning forward and looking at the minute grey dot Jeff indicated. "I didn't see anything like that on San Fernando."

Jeff shook his head, dismissing the point as irrelevant. His grip tightened, fury burning through him, the photograph creasing between tensed fingers.

"This Villacana," he said in a voice soft with anger. "Did he delay the search for Scott and Gordon?"

Travis had pulled the bedside chair up beside Jeff as he explained. Now he pushed it back, pacing back and forth in the confined space of Jeff's hospital room. "I almost wish I could say yes, but the bastard got lucky. We'd already figured out what had happened before the search set out, and Virgil was able to tell us pretty much exactly where to look." The detective hesitated, turning back to meet Jeff's eyes. "That's a talented kid. And brave. He saved your life, Jeff. You should be very proud of him."

"I am," Jeff sighed. Proud and worried. His gaze flinched away from the pictures on his bedside table, settling instead on Virgil's earlier, brighter portrait of his brothers. He gazed at it with burning eyes, setting it aside after a moment and looking instead at the impressive hand-drawn chart. "I was going to teach them to navigate by the stars," he remembered.

Travis coughed gently, recalling him to the moment. "Something you learnt at NASA, sir?"

Jeff gritted his teeth, forcing the memories down. "I'll tell you what I learnt at NASA. I learnt that if people put enough money and enough brainpower behind a problem, they can do anything they set their minds to – even fly to the moon." Jeff thought of his astronaut days, and then of the business he'd worked for the last five years to build up. It was showing a healthy profit that more than one analyst was suggesting could soon become a far-from-modest fortune. He'd give it all to have his missing sons in his arms. "So why isn't there anyone who can bring my boys home?"

"Mr Tracy…"

He waved off Travis's assurance that tomorrow morning would bring the much needed space imaging and airborne searches. He knew the detective already believed it would be too little too late. Despite the facts, despite the rollercoaster of emotions surging through him, he still found he couldn't believe the same. As Travis had said, he knew the chances. But all their lives, his sons had defied anything as simple as logic and probability, just like their father.

Outside the hospital, the sun was low on the horizon. Soon it would be setting, the temperature falling abruptly under clear skies. Scott and Gordon would be settling down to sleep, scared, perhaps even thinking themselves forgotten and abandoned. His boys were out there, waiting to be found, and Jeff shook his head, willing his sons to hold on. Like Virgil, Jeff Tracy simply couldn't accept a picture that didn't include them.

The sun was low in the sky when they reached the shoreline. The walk across the width of the island, constantly alert for the sound of the returning vehicle, had been a weary slog. They'd stuck to the road, less nervous of traps as it broadened and the tread marks remained clear on the dusty ground. Scott was grateful for the easier going, but frustrated by their painfully slow pace. His throat had gone past sore into a sandpaper-agony that made his breath rasp and forced his voice into a hoarse whisper. His head was pounding, and he'd started to sweat heavily, making Gordon's hand slippery in his. That hand was all that had kept the younger brother on his feet several times now. Gordon's feet were dragging and he stumbled frequently, exhausted.

They had been following the tyre marks blindly. Now that trail turned sharply south, the rough track following the shore of a shallow, sheltered inlet into the distance. Somewhere down there the road must make a hairpin bend, rounding the end of the fjord-like bay before paralleling the shoreline back to the north. A mere hundred metres away, separated from the boys by shifting sandbanks and a stretch of water so sheltered it seemed more like a farm pond than ocean shore, Scott could see the road turn westward and continue up-slope. It looked almost close enough to touch, and yet reaching it would require an agonising six, eight, ten mile-long trek. With every step they took to the south, they'd be able to see the road opposite, and they'd know that the return journey northwards would be slower and harder still. Scott stared across the inlet with a kind of dazed dismay, wondering what they'd done to deserve this.

Perhaps… perhaps they wouldn't have to come so far north after all? Perhaps the road opposite was a red herring and the settlement they were searching for would be down to the south? Scott looked up, scanning the elongated mount – almost a separate island – that lay on the other side of the inlet. He froze, heart fluttering in his chest as it tried to both sink and soar simultaneously. Far above them, at the crest of a hillside almost steep enough to be a cliff, the setting sun was glinting off something smooth and reflective. The details were hidden, lost in the glare and with their edges blurred by a mask of trees, but even so Scott was sure. Window glass. It had to be!

He took half a step forward, desperate to reach for this evidence of civilisation, despite the dangers it might represent. Then he looked down at the hundred-metre wide stretch of salt water and along it to the south, squinting to try and make out the point, miles distant, where his shoreline and the one opposite met. His heart sank and his eyes dropped to his feet. A journey he'd hoped might be over in a matter of hours, another day at most, had suddenly become far, far longer.

Unless… unless there was another option? Gordon had slumped to the ground in the middle of the road as soon as Scott stopped and released his hand. He was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, arms folded around his knees and his face buried against them. To either side of him, the fresh tyre treads described a smooth arc, turning through almost ninety degrees, and there was evidence of older tracks following the same path, pale shadows in the sun-baked earth. Those weren't what attracted Scott's attention. While perhaps half a dozen trails turned with the road, skirting the inlet, there were two overlapping sets of tyre-marks that didn't turn at all, but continued across the road's margin and down the rocky shore to vanish into the water.

Did this island boast a spectacularly bad driver? Or was Scott missing something? Letting Gordon rest for a few seconds, he took a step towards the shoreline, tilting his head to try and avoid reflections from the water's surface. He could see the rippling sand under the shallow surface, and the dark streaks where deeper channels ran between sand banks. With the two halves of the island sheltering it to east and west, and jagged rocks forming a breakwater to the north, this inlet was almost completely silted up. Directly in front of Scott, like a bridge connecting the east-west road with its counterpart on the opposite shore, a broad sandbar blocked the entire span of the bay just below the water's surface, turning the narrow section to the south into a lagoon. At high tide, the ocean's water would refresh and aerate it. At low tide, the sandbar must stand clear of the surface, or certainly very close to it, if even a jeep could sometimes risk the short-cut across.

Scott scanned the shore, his eyes taking in seaweed and algae piled along the high tide mark. The water level was well down from it. The very small ripples on the surface suggested that the current was flowing out to sea; the tide was still ebbing, but it couldn't be far off the turn. He hesitated, wondering and more than a little uncertain.

Neither he nor Gordon was going to cope well with a ten-mile detour, even with a level, mostly-smooth track to walk along. But was he right about the low-tide bridge? Even if he wasn't, the water looked shallow, easily wading depth for the tall boy and probably still below Gordon's chest-level. It wouldn't be easy but… Scott's expression became focussed, determined. He didn't think there was any choice but to attempt the crossing.

A quiet groan from Gordon drew Scott's eyes back around behind him and down. When they'd stumbled out from between the trees, Gordon's eyes had been on his feet, and he'd been too glad of the temporary respite to look around. Now he was slowly raising his head, ready at least to try to go on, but yet to notice the expanse of water. Scott was already on his knees, ready to catch him, when the younger boy gave his surroundings a bleary-eyed survey. His little brother's eyes widened, horror and terror wiping out any hint of rationality. He scrambled to his feet, backing away from the water, stumbling into Scott's arms and holding tight.

Scott had half-expected it after Gordon's terrified reaction to a mere six-inch deep stream and deep aversion to the lapping waves that morning. Even so, the intensity of his brother's fear surprised him.

"It's just water, Gordy," he whispered, swallowing hard and trying to work up enough moisture in his dry mouth to speak. "You like water."

The little boy shook his head, face buried in Scott's dirty and dusty shirt. "Hate water," he muttered.

Scott sighed. On another day, wading across the shallow inlet under the hot sun might have been fun. Today it promised to be an ordeal. He looked behind him. The trees had thinned as they reached the shore. For several hundred metres back the way they came, the foliage was dominated by ferns, barely above waist height. On the opposite bank, across the ridge of sand that formed a crude ford, the road disappeared up a steep slope into thick trees. He knew they'd have to stop for the night soon, and briefly, he considered just calling it a night where they stood. Three things prevented him. He reckoned it was pretty close to low tide and while the water might be lower in an hour's time, the sun would long since have set. If he was going to get Gordy out of this, they needed to make what progress they could while there was still light to do it. If they were going to survive this island, they needed the best cover they could find. And if they were going to get any rest tonight, it would have to be with the water crossing behind them, not looming ominously in their future.

Still kneeling, he pulled back a little, forcing Gordon away from his chest so he could see his brother's face.

"Gordy, you've played in water all your life. You're a stronger swimmer than I am! What's wrong?"

Gordon looked away, closing his eyes as if he thought that if he couldn't see Scott, Scott wouldn't see him. Pulling away, Gordon turned towards the south before opening his eyes. The younger boy couldn't hide his look of dismay as he saw the road stretching away, but even that, it seemed, was better than looking at the inlet.

"We need to keep walking," Gordon muttered, giving Scott a tug in the direction of the coastal road and not meeting his elder brother's gaze.

Scott sighed. He took a tight hold on his brother's arm, not able to raise his voice but making it resolute despite the rasp. He didn't want to do this to his little brother. He didn't see any choice. "Gordon, we're crossing this bay here."

Gordon's eyes snapped around. His lips trembled and he took a step back to Scott's side, throwing his arms around the older boy.

"I can't!" he cried. "Scotty, please! Please don't make me!"

Scott raised an eyebrow, letting Gordon hug him, but not returning the embrace.

"Do you want me to leave you here?" he asked, just a little sarcasm in his voice. Gordon squeezed tighter, shaking his head furiously.

"Don't go in the water, Scotty. I don't want to lose you!" The last words came out not as a cry, but as a whimper. Scott winced, feeling the intensity in Gordon's embrace, and finally sure where it had come from. He didn't need Gordon to go on, but his little brother did regardless. "Virge and Daddy went into the water and they didn't come out again. Daddy… Daddy told me water could be dangerous. That it could hurt me or Allie if I wasn't really careful. I didn't believe him, Scotty, and now he's gone!"

Scott closed his eyes, holding Gordon in return for a few seconds and then easing backwards to look his brother in the face again. Tears cut deep channels through the dirt on Gordon's face, his stricken expression tearing at his brother's heart.

"Gordy, Daddy taught you to swim, didn't he? Dad took us out on the boat. He just wanted you to be sensible, Gordy, and take one of us with you when you went swimming." Water safety had been a constant concern with the youngest Tracy boys, ever since a very guilty, three-year-old Gordon fished his almost-blue baby brother out of their theoretically covered-over garden pond. "He didn't mean for you to stop completely. You're good at swimming, Gordy, and Dad was very proud of you. He loved to watch you swim. What happened to… what happened, it wasn't the fault of the sea, or the boat. It was just the storm, Gordon. And that was an accident. But Daddy wouldn't want you to be scared of the water now. There's no storm, see?" He turned his little brother, forcing him to look at the gently flowing water. "There's no waves. And you're with me."

He rocked his little brother gently, wondering how best to do this. If it had been a day, or even half a day earlier, he'd simply have picked Gordon up and carried him. From what he could see beyond surface reflections, the water streaming across the sand bank was perhaps eighteen-inches deep, not far above knee-height for the tall thirteen-year-old. It wouldn't have come close to a little boy on his shoulders or back. Now though, he was far from sure he could balance his own weight across the shifting sand, let alone his younger brother's.

"Do you remember how Daddy came to cheer your swimming race at school? Gordy, it's only a few days since we were all on the beach, you and me, and Daddy, and Virgil, and we were all swimming and splashing and happy. Remember that? You don't have to be afraid of the water, Gordy. You've always said it was friendly and just wanted to play."

Gordon was still looking at the inlet with deep distrust, but there was more thought behind his pale eyes now, less by way of blind panic. Scott let his arms fall away from his brother and stood, gently disentangling himself from Gordon's arms. He took a few steps towards the water, Gordon following reluctantly but closely. His brother closed even the small gap between them as Scott stopped on the rocky shore, standing on the still-damp gravel strip between the compressed earth of the road and the eastern end of the sand bank. He felt Gordon's arms around his waist, pulling him back.

"Gordon, we are crossing here," he repeated softly. "I'm going to take the pack across to the other bank, and then I'll come back for you, okay, Gordy? And we're going to walk across the sand. We won't even have to swim."

"No!"

"Gordon, I'm going to take the pack across, and then come back for you," Scott kept his voice calm, making the repetition as soothing as he could. "And you'll be fine and wait for me here and we'll go together."

Gordon's voice was very small. "What if I fall in?"

Scott ruffled his brother's hair. "Then you'll probably get to the other side more quickly!" he told his little brother, before making his voice serious. "A hundred metres? That's hardly two lengths of the swimming pool in town. Gordy, you could swim across this blindfold. But it's okay: I'm not going to make you. We're going to walk across together, and I won't let you fall in."

"Wh..what if you fall in?"

Now Scott rolled his eyes. "Then you'll just have to pull me out, won't you?" he said, his exasperated tone making a joke of it. "Gordy, we're going to walk across. This will be fine… see?"

Taking a deep breath, he took a step forward onto the uneven surface. Water flooded his shoes instantly, stinging against his raw blisters and making his socks sodden and heavy. Gordon's arms were still reaching out toward him, as if they could stop him going. Scott threw a reassuring glance over his shoulder, and the little boy's arms fell until he was hugging himself, his eyes glued to his big brother. Scott gave him the best smile he could muster, taking a moment to resettle the crudely tied tarpaulin pack across his shoulders before taking another step.

Waterlogged sand shifted under his feet. Occasional stones, jagged and always unexpected, pressed painfully into the thin soles of his shoes. The tide was stronger than he'd anticipated, constricted and accelerated by the raised surface of the sandbank into an undertow that battered against his legs and tried to force them out from under him. The water was cold and hard and painful against his skin. It gradually deepened until it was waist deep and would be almost to Gordon's chin, before, much to his relief, the bank began to rise again towards the opposite shoreline. Despite that, he pressed on, knowing simultaneously that he needed to set an example to his brother, and that he couldn't have managed this with both a pack across his back and a terrified little brother clinging to him.

It seemed like forever until he stumbled out onto dry ground, turning instantly to check that Gordon was where he'd left him, still watching anxiously. Looking quickly to either side, he found a bushy thicket on the bank and pushed the grey tarpaulin pack well under it. His head was spinning from exhaustion and a heat that he seemed to be feeling more than his little brother was. Thoughts tumbled over one another. He urgently needed to get back to Gordon, and the slow process of crossing the inlet had made him painfully aware that if the jeep returned while they were in the open, Gordon's sudden hydrophobia would be the least of their problems.

He probably shouldn't have tried to hurry on the way back across. He should probably have watched where he was putting his feet instead of throwing constant glances at his forlorn and lonely little brother. He certainly had no idea he'd drifted from the centre of the sandbank to its northern edge, perhaps pushed by the rapid tidal current and too tired to resist it. In any case, he wasn't ready when a large, smooth stone turned under his left foot, twisting his ankle sharply outwards. He fell into the water before he could catch himself, and not into the shallow two feet above the sandbank's crest, but rather into the four-foot drop-off ocean-ward of it. Even that shouldn't have been a problem. Scott had drawn in an instinctive breath as he fell, holding it as the salt water closed over his head. If he could just get his feet under him, stand up…

He tried to swing his legs around under him and froze, losing a little of the precious air from his lungs in surprise. His movement had turned the stone underfoot and disturbed the sand's surface, churning it into a quicksand-like soup. His foot had sunk smoothly into it, buried up to the ankle, and there was no solid surface to push against, no leverage he could bring to bear as he tried to fight against the suction holding his foot in place. His lungs were starting to burn, the taste of salt water filling his nose and throat. Desperately he twisted his body, trying to get his head above the water, panicking as he realised that the surface remained tantalisingly inches above his upturned face.

He began to thrash in the water, even the first few seconds of movement sapping what little strength was left from his exhausted limbs. Air bubbles streamed from between his lips as he began to sob, choking water finding its way into his lungs as he strained for breath.

Scott was barely conscious when he felt small hands on his ankle, pushing and twisting. He had no energy left to either help or resist as the unexpected pressure forced his leg to turn through almost ninety degrees and then back again, loosening the settling sediment, tugging his foot from the thick quicksand that that had trapped it. He bobbed to the surface, gasping desperately, blinded by tears and salt water, unable to do more than lie passively on his back as an arm snaked under his chin, his brother's urgent kicks guiding them both across the current and onto the rock-strewn shore.

Gordon had a hand under each of his arms now, pulling him across the shoreline with surprising strength. The younger boy shook the water out of his hair and eyes with a quick, automatic gesture, falling to his knees in the water beside Scott and using back and shoulder to push him into a seated position on the narrow beach. He ran his hands over his elder brother's face to wipe the water away, calling his name.

"Gordy…" Scott managed, relieved and grateful beyond his ability to say. He heaved in deep breaths, coughing water up from his lungs, and grimaced at his brother for want of a more reassuring expression.

Gordon frowned and then smiled, dropping back to sit in the water and throwing his arms around his brother's chest. Scott let them sit there, coughing, spluttering and simply breathing as he looked around them. They'd been washed perhaps a quarter mile northwards along the inlet, and miraculously, ended up on the side they'd been aiming for all along. With a groan, Scott rolled onto his hands and knees, crawling up out of the water and into a pile of ferns growing thick on the bank. He kept crawling until his arms gave out, and then collapsed gratefully, Gordon beside him, out of sight of the road.

With an enormous effort, he pushed himself up on his elbows and gave his brother a long, steady look. "Thank you," he said simply. "I'm sorry."

Gordon frowned at him in the fading light, looking down at his dripping clothes and then back at the water glinting through the trees. "You were right," he told Scott thoughtfully. "I am good at that."

Scott groaned and fell back, convinced he'd never understand what was going on in Gordon's waterlogged mind.

The ground was rough underneath him, its leaf mulch teaming with insects, but the ferns were thick where the canopy thinned towards the coast and let light through. It would be a few minutes before he could move, but then he could gather some and spread them out. They'd make as good a mattress anything else in this hostile, alien environment.

He squinted up at the little brother still kneeling above him, already difficult to make out in the gloom. "What do you say we stop here for the night?" he suggested weakly.

Usually, Villacana found sitting in his version of the weather station's control room soothing. As he watched the orbiting technicians on the main screen, he took a sense of peace and comfort from the regularity of their activities, the routine of check, counter-check, cautious action and carefully monitored reaction. He'd spent seven years constructing this room piece-by-piece, component-by-component, working alone, even his two most trusted servants not permitted to enter. He'd built it all around the programmed back door in the weather station's computer system, and around his own core of anger and resentment.

How many nights had he sat here, fingers caressing the plastic cover on the master switch? How long had he waited for his project to be complete, room and dish both ready? And was it all to come crashing down now because of a stray boat and his own carelessness?

His private data feed had been able to tell him little. A few of the Pacific Rim newspapers had picked up the story, word trickling out of Dominga on crackling telephone lines and a relay of short-range radio. Details were sketchy: a massive sea search for children shipwrecked in the 'Malfunction Typhoon'; their names 'Scott' and 'Gordon'; rumours of a third child in hospital, speculations they'd been orphaned by the man-made disaster. It was hardly enough to run a headline on, and even the more sensationalist press hadn't been able to make much of it. Even so, it was a problem. Villacana had counted on the attention cast in this direction being brief and indirect, the main focus of the investigation into his trial run being on the Weather Station and its NASA and World Space Patrol overlords.

As he'd suspected, bringing his plan to fruition tonight had become impossible. From cameras on the roof of the house above he could see the glow of a light buoy perhaps twenty miles off his coast. There could be one boat tied up to it or half a dozen, it made no difference. With it, and its fellows, scattered across a hundred mile circle of ocean, there was simply no way he was going to deploy the dish.

Without it, he could monitor the Weather Station. He could rail at its Commander Dale, or smile coldly at the technicians, still making tentative adjustments to smooth out the weather pattern his typhoon had disrupted. But without the extra power in the connection, the higher bit rate the dish allowed, he couldn't hope to control all the orbital platform's functions.

For the first time, here in his sanctuary, he allowed himself an aggravated sigh. Today, the scurrying technicians weren't soothing him. Today they were only fuelling his frustration. He turned away from the main screen and strode out, through the corridors of the basement and up into the house.

The search boats were moored on the water, waiting for the dawn. Inspectors Travis and Kearney were no doubt back on Dominga, frustrated, but without another lead to follow. His men had returned, finding nothing more than a single disrupted pit-trap, most likely sprung by some beast, careless but agile enough to escape. There was no evidence that the wretched children were on San Fernando, no reason, so long as he was careful, to believe that they would ever draw attention his way again. The search was over for the night. Villacana just had to have patience. Another twenty-four hours, perhaps sooner, and even the most dedicated rescuers would be forced to admit no hope remained. The search would be over for good.

Chapter 13

It was still dark outside when a hand on his arm woke Virgil Tracy. He cried out, scrambling backwards in his bed, before recognising the familiar shapes of Dr Evans and Inspector Travis. Heart in his mouth, he turned to the latter.

"Have you found them?" he asked in an urgent whisper, the dim light from the nurse's station and a restless murmur from one of the girls at the far end of the room encouraging him to keep his voice down.

Travis sighed, the anticipation on his face fading into regret.

"No, Virgil. I'm sorry."

Heart sinking back, through his chest and down to his feet, Virgil sat up in his bed and watched as Dr Evans pulled his tracksuit, T-shirt and trainers from the cupboard. They weren't really his, of course, just something the hospital had given him to wear until he was feeling better, but even so Virgil couldn't help frowning. It was wrong for anyone but Mom to be laying out his clothes. Swallowing down his sense of wrongness, he slipped them on obediently, reluctantly accepting Dr Evans' help to get the T-shirt and sweatshirt on over his aching ribs.

"Is it Dad, Inspector Travis?" he asked, worried and alarmed, as Travis brought a wheelchair to the side of his bed and Dr Evans helped him down.

"Your dad's fine, Virgil," the Inspector assured him, pushing him gently out of the ward and into the brightly lit corridor. Virgil blinked in the light, twisting awkwardly in the chair so he could see the detective. Travis' voice returned to a more normal level. "He was awake a little earlier this morning, so I asked if I could take you out on a little field trip."

"Against my better judgement," Dr Evans added, more to Travis than to Virgil. "You're not to get him overtired. Virgil, I want you to stay sitting down, okay? And if you get tired, you tell Inspector Travis and he'll bring you straight back."

"I'll bring him back straight away, anyway, Mina," Travis chuckled, looking at Virgil and rolling his eyes in the way his Dad did sometimes which Scott had told him had something to do with confidences shared between men. The thought brought with it an image of his brother laughing, so vivid that Virgil could almost hear the sound. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to cling to the memory as it slipped away. Travis squatted down beside him, asking if he was okay and giving him a concerned frown. Virgil ignored the look, too tired to process any of this, and not sure he cared. He wanted to go back to bed already. He just wanted to sleep and pretend none of it was happening. He slumped in the chair, resigned to this expedition because his Dad had approved it, not because he had any desire to go.

The cool dawn air startled him and he looked up, surprised to realise that he wasn't just being wheeled around the hospital, but actually taken outside it. A battered car waited at the curb, so perfectly suited to Travis that he glanced back at the inspector before realising what he was doing, unsurprised to see the key in his hand. The two grown-ups stopped the wheelchair beside the door and Virgil tried to suppress the wince as he stood. The cold had tightened the muscles around his rib-cage, and it hurt even to move, let alone stand and sit. He kept quiet though as he shifted obediently from the wheelchair into the passenger's side of Inspector Travis' car, huddling against the chill in the metal frame. Mina Evans eyed him critically, squatting down to see him better in the first hint of dawn and the faint yellow glow of the car's internal light.

"You're shivering!" Mina scolded, her words for helpless Virgil but her eyes on Travis. Tutting, she pulled a blanket from the basket under the chair and tucked it around Virgil while the detective slipped into the seat beside him and turned up the heater on the dashboard.

"I'll have him back in no time," Travis promised again. "Right, Virgil?"

Miserable, but determined not to let his dad down, Virgil gave a short nod. The two grown-ups exchanged a look over his head but he ignored them, trying not to wince as Dr Evans leaned around him to pass Travis the seatbelt, wadding the blanket between the restraint and his aching ribs.

"This won't take long, Virgil," Travis repeated as he put the car into gear and drove out of the hospital grounds. The jovial and anticipatory tone had gone from his voice, replaced by a softer, more concerned note. "Have you been to Dominga before?"

Virgil gave a small sigh, unable to ignore the direct question. "We were coming here last," he said softly. He and Scott and his dad and Gordon should have been doing this together. He kept his eyes in his lap and didn't look out of the windows as Travis began to point out some of the local sights. It felt wrong to be seeing them without his brothers by his side. The inspector didn't seem perturbed. He kept talking regardless, glancing down occasionally at his young passenger.

Virgil held his breath as Travis mentioned the harbour, scared for a moment that Travis was taking him to see a boat of some kind. He didn't think he was ready for that yet. The inspector shot him a worried look, taking in his stillness and pallor. There was a long silence after that, Travis driving him out of town and along a wide, straight road evidently designed to take heavy traffic. The sun was rising, casting a pale light across the island and showing ever more detail. Despite himself, Virgil couldn't help straightening a little, looking through the dusty side window as they travelled along a seemingly never-ending wire fence. He was sitting straight in his seat as they swung onto an access road and past a sign proclaiming Dominga's International Airport. He turned sharply in his seat, wincing, when Travis didn't pull up in front of the terminal but rather onto a private access road ending in a guarded gate.

"You can't drive onto an airfield," he asserted confidently, appalled that the inspector would think otherwise. "Not a big airfield like this. A little one like back home, maybe. But this is an airport!"

Travis grinned at him. "You can if you're driving someone really important."

Virgil frowned at him, confused and twisting to look in the back seat. He turned back to the front, rubbing his side, only to find Travis chuckling.

"Sit still, Virgil, and I'll take you right where we're going."

They pulled up on a tarmac apron to one side of the main terminal and runway. Little hangars, barely big enough for a 'plane like Dad's hard-earned pride and joy were scattered around it, and Travis parked neatly beside two other vehicles, one a police car, the other unmarked like his.

Virgil huddled back in his seat as two unfamiliar men came to the windows. One was about the same age as Dad and Travis, the other was fatter and older. Both peered into the car, directly at him, and Virgil flinched when Travis triggered the windows, letting them lean in on a gust of cold air.

"Toasty in there," the younger one commented with a grin at Virgil, speaking almost directly over his head

"And this must be the famous Virgil," the older man added, leaning forward a little to see past Travis.

"Don't worry," Travis rolled his eyes at Virgil, giving the two men a brief glare and winding the windows part way closed again, forcing them back. "They're not as scary as they look." He gestured at the younger man, who was indeed backing up a little, much to Virgil's relief. "This is Mike, who works with me. And this," the other, "is my boss, Chief Inspector Coates."

"Pleased to meet you." The words rolled automatically off Virgil's tongue and he hesitated, looking up at Mike. "Are you a policeman too, then?" he asked in a soft tone, just to be sure.

Mike stuck a hand through the narrow gap between window and roof, "Inspector Mike Kearney," he introduced himself formally as Virgil shook it. "Pleased to meet you too, Virgil."

On the other side of the car, Travis was talking to his boss, asking whether someone was 'nearly here' and being told something about 'final approach'. Virgil pulled his feet up onto the seat, arms wrapped around his chest as he tried to ease the ache there. He felt lost and a little scared, the one person he kind of knew here busy with more important things.

"Is who nearly here, Inspector Mike?" he asked quietly, turning to the only friendly face still looking at him.

The man grinned, the expression infectious enough that Virgil returned a tentative smile. "Wait and see."

Travis nudged him. "Hey! How come I'm still 'Inspector Travis', and he's already 'Inspector Mike'?" he asked. Virgil blinked, worried that he'd offended the man, still too tired and confused to realise the detective was joking. Travis smiled gently across the car. "Don't worry about it, Virgil. Call me what you like."

He squinted through the front windscreen, gesturing up at a fast-growing speck in the sky.

"Look, Virgil!"

Virgil looked, watching as the plane banked for landing, coming at the runway with impressive speed. Automatically, he glanced up and to one side, fully expecting to see his elder brother's enraptured face. He saw only the window frame of the car. Gritting his teeth, blinking back tears, Virgil clenched his fists. The little black jet was rolling along the runway now, its flaps extended as it slowed and turned onto one of the taxiways. She was sleek, compact and beautiful. In his head, he could hear Scott's running commentary pointing out the streamlining, and the precision of her design. Virgil could appreciate her beauty for himself as she taxied onto the apron and to a halt just metres away. He itched to look over her more closely, look at the joins of those flaps and figure out how they worked. He wasn't surprised by the US government registration number displayed on her otherwise unmarked tail plane. He'd already realised she was years ahead of his father's little turbo-prop.

Scott should be here. That was Virgil's only thought as the black jet came to a halt, its engine note descending through the octaves. He was vaguely aware of Travis talking to him, a worried tone in his voice. Scott would love this.

The jet's front door opened, its top half lifting upwards, its bottom dropping to form a short flight of steps. The fluorescent-vested airport man who had waved the jet to a halt hurried forward, first kicking a pair of chocks into place around the wheels and then placing a box-like step at the bottom of the door-stair.

The first person out of the aircraft was a tall, middle-aged black man that Virgil thought he vaguely recognised. His idle attempt to place the memory was wiped out by the next figure. Short, blond, rubbing his eyes and looking around with the tetchy expression that usually meant he'd been up all night reading and hadn't got nearly enough sleep.

"Johnny?" Virgil mouthed the name uncertainly, squinting against the dawn sun. Any doubts were wiped away by the slim figure that appeared behind him at the top of the stairs, a sleepy Alan nestled securely in her arms. "Mom!"

He'd snapped open the seatbelt and was out of the door before Travis could react, using the door itself to push Inspector Mike aside and ducking past him. His mother hurried down the steps to meet him, setting Alan down, hand firmly in John's, and opening her arms.

"Oh Virgil, honey," she said softly. "It's all right, sweetheart, I'm finally here."

Travis couldn't help wondering if he'd made a mistake. Mina Evans had been worried about Virgil's quiet withdrawal from his surroundings. Jeff Tracy had noticed it immediately. Travis himself had been awake half the night, angry with his failure to find the other children and wracking his brains for something he could do to bring back the vibrant boy Virgil had been before the loss of his brothers sunk in.

Arriving at the hospital an hour before the first 'plane into Dominga for two and a half days was due, he'd been glad to find Jeff Tracy awake and willing to agree to his suggestion. They'd both thought that bringing the boy out to meet his mother might help wake him up a little, force him to interact with what was happening around him. Watching Virgil turn near-catatonic as the NASA jet taxied to a halt, Travis fought back a sudden fear that they'd been terribly wrong.

"Virgil?"

There were tears running down the boy's face but he made no move to brush them away. His fists were clenched, his eyes glued to the jet-plane cycling down in front of them.

"Virgil? Virgil, talk to me, please. I'm getting worried here. Are you all right?"

He didn't react, whatever was going on behind his eyes clearly intensely painful and tying up all his mental power.

Travis was looking anxiously at his charge, wondering what he'd tell the boy's mother, when Virgil's downcast expression changed, becoming quizzical.

"Johnny?"

Relieved, Travis followed Virgil's eyes to another boy, standing blinking at the top of the plain steps. A figure that Travis vaguely recognised as Vaughan had already stepped to the ground and was urging the child to follow him. The kid hesitated, and turned to look up at the woman stepping out of the 'plane behind him.

Lucille Tracy was not particularly tall. She was travel-stained and red-eyed, another small child resting in her arms, head on her shoulder. She stood in the first dawn light, its rays outlining her, glowing off the blond hair of her two children and her own copper-shot curls.

"Mom!"

Travis had promised Mina he'd keep Virgil in the car, bringing his mother to him rather than the other way around. He had no chance. Virgil was out of the seat and through the door with a pace Travis simply hadn't expected of the exhausted child. Swearing, he threw open his own door. Caught equally off-guard, Mike Kearney gasped, both men immensely relieved when, whether by experience or sheer fluke, Virgil avoided the still-rotating engine intakes, and fell into his mother's arms.

She squatted down to him with a small cry and a murmur Travis couldn't hear, embracing her son and holding him as he cried.

Sighing Travis let his car door swing shut behind him, Kearney nudging the other closed so as to preserve what remained of the heat inside. The two detectives advanced on the little group, leaving the chief standing by the cars behind them.

Virgil was still wrapped around his mother, talking tearfully to her in a way he simply hadn't to anyone else. Vaughan stood behind them, his hands on the shoulders of the elder of the two blond boys while he, in turn, had his little brother's left hand and right shoulder in a death grip. The NASA man looked up as the detectives approached, raising his right hand from the boy's shoulder and extending it.

"Nathanial Vaughan," he announced, taking first Travis' hand and then Kearney's in a firm grip. "NASA security."

"Head of NASA security," the child standing in front of him corrected seriously.

Travis blinked, startled, looking down at the boy and then at his contact. The other man shrugged, meeting his eyes and not denying the charge. Travis nodded, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

"Charleston Travis," he introduced himself. "It's good to meet you face to face."

The boy looked up at him with interest while Kearney followed suit. Travis was finding himself a little unnerved by the inquisitive gaze. The boy appeared to be younger than Virgil, falling squarely into the age gap between the eleven-year-old and his missing brother Gordon. His expression was rather older.

"You're the one who's been trying to find Scott and Gordy?" he asked, worried eyes flicking back to where Virgil was still sobbing into his mother's arms. His little brother had been kneading his eyes with one small fist, pulling occasionally against the elder boy's hold on the other. The family baby, not much more than a toddler, looked up hopefully at the names.

"Wanna play with Gordy," he announced, before giving a huge yawn that suggested that, whether he knew it or not, he needed a nap far more than he needed to play.

Kearney squatted down in front of the child, holding out his hand.

"Gordon's not here right now. My name's Mike, what's yours?"

"Alan Tracy, pleased to meet'cha?" he managed the same phrase Virgil had used, his voice a little uncertain, shying back against his elder brother to avoid Mike's hand and looking up at him for approval.

"It's 'pleased to meet you', Allie," his brother corrected, pulling the younger boy a little closer. "Alan's only four and he's meant to keep away from strangers." He looked from Kearney to Travis. "Is he a policeman too?" he asked warily.

Vaughan laughed softly. "They're both policemen, John. They're quite important, so they don't have to wear uniforms all the time. Inspectors, let me introduce John Tracy, who is nine, likes to know things and will probably want to read your files before the end of the day."

John's tired eyes lit up. "Can I?"

"No, Johnny." Another voice spared Travis from answering. They all turned to find Virgil looking seriously at his younger brother, still tear-streaked and encircled by his mother's arms, but no longer sobbing. "Police files have to be secret so the bad guys don't get to see them."

Alan squealed and pulled himself out of John's grip, running towards their brother and throwing short arms around his legs. John hurried after him, quiet but with tears in his own eyes as he hugged his elder brother.

Virgil gave John a quick, one-armed hug back before bending down to pick up Alan. He flinched when Alan repeated his loud demand to see Gordon, before looking around and asking in a puzzled voice if Scotty was with Daddy. Lucille Tracy looked worriedly down at her sons, and John too was looking concerned, clearly old enough to have understood what his mother had told him about the situation and not sure how Virgil would react.

Travis took a step forward, not wanting to risk another withdrawal like the one before Virgil's family arrived and ready to intervene. Kearney stopped him, nodding at the serious-eyed but alert eleven-year-old. Virgil set Alan down, squatting in front of him.

"Gordy had to go away, Alan, but Scotty is with him and taking good care of him. They can't play with you right now, and asking isn’t going to change that. They'll come back as soon as they can, okay?"

Alan looked up at his brother, and then around at the circle of familiar and unfamiliar faces all peering down at him. His lips quivered and he shrank back against his mother, letting her pick him up. "Okay," he quavered unhappily. His mother sighed, kissing her youngest reassuringly on the cheek. With Lucille and Alan distracted, Virgil and John exchanged looks; Virgil's concerned, John's reassuring. Virgil hesitated and gave his next-eldest brother another quick hug of comfort and gratitude. Lucille Tracy laid a gentle hand on Virgil's shoulder, leaning over to drop a kiss on John's head too. Virgil leaned into her comfort, John standing beside them with a hand on his mother's back.

Virgil was frowning slightly when he looked up at Vaughan. "Have we met?" he asked wearily.

Vaughan leant down to him, his eyes a little sad. "I work at NASA, where your Dad used to work, Virgil. I showed you and one of your brothers around once when your Dad came to sign some construction contracts for us. That must have been almost three years ago. I'm surprised you remember."

Virgil frowned, one hand waving in the air as if he were trying to picture the scene. "You showed us an old Saturn rocket." His voice dropped, becoming soft and sad. "Scott leaned so far back trying to see the top of it that you had to catch him when he nearly fell over."

Vaughan nodded, his eyes grave. There was a moment of silence, but Lucille Tracy's arms encircled her son, making it soft rather than uncomfortable.

"That was a good day," Virgil recalled eventually. "Scott wanted to fly all the rockets. I wanted to know how they worked."

"And I didn't know, so we had to ask your father," Vaughan agreed. Lucy laughed, pulling Virgil a little closer.

"Why don't we go see your dad, boys?" she suggested in a gentle tone, urging them forward. Alan and John reacted enthusiastically, Virgil with a less excited nod. She whispered something Travis couldn't quite make out to her second-eldest son as the group began to move en-masse towards the cars and he threw an arm around her waist, leaning against her.

Travis hurried to catch her up, feeling a little embarrassed as he guided her towards his rather beat-up car. Lucy Tracy was dressed in comfortable clothes appropriate to the long red-eye flight. Close to, her bloodshot and deeply shadowed eyes were more obvious, and her curly hair was tied back loosely. Despite all that, there was an elegance to her that shamed his own casual look.

"Mrs Tracy, I'm Inspector Travis."

The woman gave him a quick, assessing look. Lucille Tracy didn't radiate determination and strength of personality in the same way that her astronaut husband, or even those he'd seen of her sons, did. Instead she was a circle of calm in the storm, the pacific grace that any household with Jeff Tracy and his five lively sons in it must need. That wasn't to suggest weakness. There was a glint in her eyes that suggested that she was more than capable of getting her own way. He suspected though that most times Jeff Tracy would yield to her will without realising, and without minding when he did.

"I know. I heard you talking to John and Alan." She shrugged at his expression of surprise, pausing in her stride and offering Travis a nod of acknowledgment, her hands still full of her sons. "Thank you for all you've done, Inspector."

Travis couldn't help flinching as her intense gaze met his. She was masking it well, but he could see the devastation in her eyes. He rounded the front of the car, looking up at her across the bonnet. "I just wish I could have done more."

They stood still for a few seconds, letting the world move around them as they shared the same grim acknowledgement of Scott and Gordon's chances that he'd shared with her husband the night before. To his complete lack of surprise, he saw the same defiant refusal to accept the odds in her pale hazel eyes that he'd seen in Jeff Tracy's grey steel.

Virgil had ushered his younger brothers into the back seat, John on the far side and Alan in the middle. He grimaced, gasping as he straightened up and leaning on the car. Lucille was at his side immediately, taking his shoulders and studying her son's face.

"Are you okay, honey? The doctors told me your chest is hurting."

Travis frowned. "He shouldn't be out of bed, really. I asked your husband's permission to steal him for an hour or so."

"Then let's get you back to bed, Virgil honey." She kissed Virgil's forehead, her eyes soft with concern. She eased him into the more comfortable front seat and climbed into the back with her two younger sons, checking their seat-belts carefully, and helping with Virgil's before securing her own.

Vaughan had followed the family, Kearney at his side and Coates behind them. "I'll get the luggage sent to your hotel room, Lucy. I'll be at the police station when you need me. I need to check in with base and there are some things I need to look over."

He nodded an acknowledgement to Travis, his eyes flashing a warning to take care of his charges. Travis didn't need it. He drove as carefully as he knew how, listening gladly as Virgil pointed the harbour out to his little brothers.

Chapter 14

Scott didn't realise he was weaving from side to side of the beaten-earth track until he felt Gordon's arm snake around his waist, and his brother's shoulder push up under his arm. He'd been putting a brave face on since they woke, trying not to show how much his limbs were aching, how hot and shaky he felt, or how frequently waves of dizziness were sweeping over him. Clearly he hadn't fooled his little brother.

Guilt ate away at him. Bad enough that Gordon had been the one to fetch their pack and the blankets the night before, vanishing and returning before Scott even noticed. Scott should be helping his brother cope, not giving him another thing to worry about. They were both exhausted, foot sore and dressed in clothes still damp from their unexpected soaking. Gordon's feet had been so swollen after yesterday's long walk that it had been a struggle to get his sneakers back onto them, and Scott's were little better. This cold, or 'flu, or whatever, was just an unnecessary complication.

"I'm okay."

Scott forced himself to concentrate. He straightened, supporting his own weight, but grateful for Gordon's help and welcoming the closeness nonetheless. He smiled down at his little brother, and Gordon smiled back tentatively.

"Are you sure, Scotty?" he asked, eyes and voice worried.

"I'll be fine," Scott assured him, betrayed by the croak in his voice and the fact that walking and talking simultaneously had left him short of breath. He gave Gordon's shoulders a gentle squeeze and sighed, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and letting his little brother do most of the steering for both of them.

They'd been walking pretty much since dawn, waking early and uncomfortable enough that they felt no desire to linger by the cool, mist-wreathed coastline. They'd made their way back to the rough road cautiously, finding a second set of tyre tracks crossing those they'd been following, suggesting that the jeep had passed them by in the night. Relieved, but keeping their ears open for any hint of a return, they moved onwards, more hopeful now that the track was smoother and the going easier.

"What's the date?" Gordon's question caught Scott off guard and he had to stop and think about it, adding the two nights they'd spent on the island and the dreadful night of the storm onto their days at sea.

"Uh, the twenty-fourth, I think. Why?" His voice rasped out of his throat, and Gordon threw him a quick sidelong glance before answering in an easy, almost chatty, tone.

"Oh, I was just wondering if Johnny's summer school was over yet. I can't believe he wanted to do more lessons instead of coming with us. Okay, I guess some of his friends were doing this maths thing but it still seems kind of funny, doesn't it, Scotty?" Gordon didn't give him time to answer, continuing his monologue without a pause. "In any case, I hope John's been having a good time, but I was wondering if he was home during the days 'cause Allie must be really bored by now. I mean, having Mom to himself must be kinda nice, but he has that all year when we're at school, and what if it's raining back home? There's only so many times Mom can watch the same movie without going kinda nuts, although I don't know. Mom never seems to get bored, does she? I know sometimes she gets a bit mad with me when I'm naughty, but I can kinda see why and Allie isn't so naughty when I'm not there, so I guess…"

Scott listened, fascinated and with a faint smile. When they'd first set out Scott had tried talking as they walked to keep his brother's spirits up. Now he realised that Gordon was doing the same for him. It was kind of astonishing to listen to the way his little brother's mind worked. By the time Gordon had been born, Scott had already been at school during the days. He hadn't got to watch Gordon learning how the world worked the way he had with Virgil and John. Most of what he'd seen of his little brother was at weekends and in holidays, when the fourth-born child was competing for attention against three elder brothers and the family baby.

"…And I guess maybe John must be home by now because he'd want to know what was going on, because Johnny's like that and he wouldn't go into school when there's interesting stuff going on at home…"

He'd always sort of had the impression that Gordon talked and acted mostly without thinking, taking the world as it came. True, some of Gordon's mischief-making suggested that there was a fiendishly complex brain lurking somewhere behind those amber eyes, but Gordon had always been less of a stickler for the rules than his eldest brother, more impulsive than Virgil, and far less inclined to stick to plans or schedules than John. Part of that was probably just being six years old, of course. What he hadn't suspected was the part that was deliberate – Gordon struggling to figure out a way to be different from his brothers. What was clear, even from his rambling stream of consciousness, was that Gordy took in an awful lot more of what was going on around him than Scott had ever suspected.

"…And you know, that's a pretty interesting tree over there. Daddy told me that trees can be as tall and wide under the ground as they are over it. The roots and things spread out so far and deep. That's why they don't fall over when you push on them…"

Okay, now Gordon was sounding a little desperate. To Scott's jaded eyes, the tall tree Gordon had indicated looked remarkably similar to its peers. He took a deep breath, coughing as it caught in his throat. Walking close by his side, Gordon shook with the force of the cough wracking Scott's body. He hesitated, his long monologue coming to an end. Not letting them stop their steady walk, Scott gave him a reassuring smile, catching his breath and only wheezing a little when he pointed up.

"Look at that cloud, Gordy. Doesn't it remind you of an airship? A big blimp, floating over a baseball game?"

Gordon gave it due consideration, glancing down when he stumbled on the rough road surface and then back up.

"Uh-uh. Not a blimp."

Scott looked sidelong at his little brother, surprised by the certainty.

"What do you see then?"

"It's a whale. A big whale swimming through the sky. See those clouds over there? The scrappy little ones? They're the fish and they're swimming away from him, but he's hungry so he's swimming faster than they are, see?"

The large, puffy cloud did indeed seem to be closing on its higher-altitude peers, carried on a faster air-stream. Scott watched as it reached them, closing his eyes again and trying not to sway when tilting his head back sent a wave of dizziness through him. He opened his eyes to find they'd come to a halt, Gordon's hands steadying his back and his brother's worried eyes on his pale face. Gritting his teeth, Scott started walking again.

"You know Mrs Forster at school?"

"Sure, she taught me and John and Virgil too."

"I don't think she likes me very much. I heard her telling Mom that a fourth Tracy was more than she'd bargained for when she started teaching. She said I was unique."

Scott sighed. "That doesn't mean she doesn't like you, Gordon. We're all pretty unique."

"Right, she said that you'd always wanted to jump to the end without the bits in the middle, and that was really annoying because you were usually right and shouldn't be, and that Virgil wanted to know how things worked rather than what to do with them, and that Johnny was really tough because he already knew all the answers…" Just like that, Gordon was off again, launching into a long commentary on the poor grade school teachers who had already taught three of Jeff Tracy's children and were now facing an equally precocious and individual fourth.

It was perhaps three hours after they'd set out, making depressingly slow progress but progress nonetheless, when Scott stopped, forcing Gordon to stop too or overbalance them both. He turned, letting his arm fall from Gordon's shoulders as he looked behind them

"Look, Gordy," he said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "We're climbing."

From the visual survey he'd made on the banks of the inlet last night, Scott had known they were walking uphill, but he'd been far from certain how much progress they'd made. True each step seemed harder than the one before, but he'd been half-convinced that he'd imagined the steepness of the slope they'd been toiling up for most of the morning. Looking back at the inlet, and beyond that jungle, spread out below them, he was reassured that not all of his difficulty had been down to aching limbs and a weary mind and body.

Gordon seemed less than enthused with the view. "Don't like this island," he said shortly.

Scott looked down at him, taking a step away so he could see his brother's face. He smiled, gesturing up-slope. The road twisted and turned, trees blocking their view of its path. Despite that, the horizon in that direction was visibly foreshortened, their view of the jungle canopy suggesting that the land beneath was rising.

Swallowing hard to moisten his throat, Scott drew in a deep breath and tried to sound as normal and eager as he could. "I'll bet you that there's a house just over that ridge. We're almost there, Gordy. We have to be."

Gordon brightened, looking up at the road ahead and then back down towards the inlet and the bulk of the island beyond it. "And then we'll find a radio and call Mom and she can come find us."

"Yeah," Scott agreed softly, wishing he could believe it would be that easy. He remembered the glimpse of a distant reflection he'd seen from the east bank of the inlet, and the ambivalent feelings it inspired. The realisation that they might be close to whatever traces of civilisation this island boasted brought with it the alarming idea that they must also be close to whoever had laid the traps, and to the men who had spoken so casually of 'dealing with' Scott and his little brother. Instinct told Scott that they ought to get off the road. Simple practicality told him that cutting through the forest, uphill and already exhausted, wasn't an option.

Sighing, he pulled their last bottle of water from the bag, letting Gordon swallow several large mouthfuls before taking a reluctant swig himself. They hadn't passed any streams or pools since leaving the salt-water inlet that morning, and Scott's determination to save most of their drinking water for his brother could only take him so far. He had a sneaking suspicion that his dizziness was at least partly due to dehydration. Given the amount of water he had to be loosing in sweat, that would hardly be a surprise. He capped the half-empty water bottle, putting it in the pack beside their last meal before swinging it back onto his shoulders.

"Onwards and upwards?" he suggested, smiling wanly at his brother.

Gordon started up the path with a renewed keenness, buoyed by Scott's suggestion that their ordeal might be nearly over.

"Gordon! Don't run off ahead! It's not safe."

Gordon slowed, the hopeful expression on his face fading a little and the edges of his enthusiasm dulled by a memory of the day before. He dropped back, never far ahead, glancing constantly back at Scott to check the older boy was following. Scott hurried after him, trying not to stumble, keeping his eyes on his little brother's back in order to guide himself in a straight line. As narrow and focused as his vision had become, he almost missed the side-road.

"Stop a minute, okay, Gordy? Look at this." His first attempt at speaking came out as barely more than a croak. He had to repeat himself, raising his voice, before his little brother noticed that he'd fallen behind and came running back.

They were not far below the crest of the ridge, Scott judged, the island's tall volcanic peak basking in the morning sunlight on their left. The track had become a better-defined, broader road, no longer showing the tyre-marks they'd been following but instead a rutted surface that spoke of relatively frequent use. It was as his eyes traced the interweaving grooves, left after the last rain and baked hard by the sun, that he noticed a few of them curving onto a narrower spur, breaking to the right. Trees arched over this trackway and the canopy closed above it, the strip of bare earth not wide enough to leave clear sky above.

Gordon eyed it uncertainly.

"But, Scotty, you said we were almost there."

Scott winced at his little brother's protest. He could hear the longing in Gordon's voice and he felt it himself.

"Yeah, but remember that jeep we were following?" He ran a hand through his hair, stiff between his fingers with dust and perspiration. "We're walking straight up their path to the front door. Don't you think that might be a bad idea?"

Gordon's face fell. "They wanted to hurt us."

Scott nodded sombrely. They hadn't seen any sign of traps since they'd crossed the inlet. Even so Scott suspected that they existed, just set back a little from the main road, where they'd intercept anyone coming in from the coast rather than from the house he hoped, prayed, was ahead of them. Turning off from the main road, they'd have to be cautious, but it might be worth the extra effort the detour would require.

"When you're sneaking up on someone, you try to come from behind," he reasoned aloud. "You know that, right, Gordy? Well, this path kind of has to go up the hillside or into it, and I reckon we're not far from the top of the ridge now. What if the house, or village or whatever it is, is right on the top, directly above us now? I'm wondering if maybe we can find a back way in. Sneak up on them and find their radio before they find us."

He gave his brother a worried look of assessment. They'd gone beyond footsore now. Scott had got so used to the pain that he scarcely noticed it unless he stumbled or stubbed his feet on something. Gordon was pale, his face pinched with that same pain and his eyes deeply sunken with exhaustion. If this went wrong, they probably wouldn't have the energy to come back down the path and try again. By far the easier option would be to stay on the main road and see what happened. On the other hand, if he had a choice between fighting for a chance to get his little brother safely home, or giving up now and walking straight into the arms of whoever had set those traps, Scott knew which way he'd rather go down. From what he was getting to know of Gordon, he was pretty sure the younger boy felt the same.

"What do you say, Gordy? Shall we go sneaking?"

Gordon nodded. He came to Scott's side, offering his support once again and, together, they stumbled into the shelter of the trees.

Travis had intended to stay and answer any questions Mrs Tracy might have. The moment the boys and their mother entered Jeff Tracy's hospital room, it was obvious he was superfluous to requirements. He didn't think the family even noticed when he excused himself, and he had a word with Mina Evans before he left, leaving details of their hotel booking and his own contact numbers with her for when Lucille Tracy remembered she might need them.

Vaughan was seated at his desk when he walked into the squad room back at headquarters. The man was sipping at a coffee and flipping through some of the paperwork in Travis' case file, asking Kearney and the chief occasional questions. He gave Travis a frown when he walked in.

"I thought you'd be staying at the hospital. Now you're reconnected to the world outside, it won't be long before the Tracy name gets out. 'Scott' and 'Gordon' are common enough, but when the media gets hold of 'Jeff' or 'Virgil' and starts joining the dots, you're going to have a circus down there."

Travis sighed, giving the man a wary look. It was one thing to have a powerful contact a couple of thousand miles away, quite another to have a stranger who outranked you sitting at your desk. Coates intercepted the criticism before Travis could phrase a polite reply.

"There's a uniformed officer in the ER, and another two of my men undercover in the hospital. They'll call for backup if they need it." The chief inspector was frowning, his thoughts clearly paralleling those of his subordinate. He held Vaughan's eyes, challenging for dominance.

Travis backed his boss up without hesitation, He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the man in his chair. "We might not have astronauts wondering our corridors, but we have a fair few celebrities come through Dominga on their travels. We're not about to fall over in astonishment because Jeff Tracy decided to holiday down here, or let the media turn a missing persons investigation into a debacle."

The NASA man backed down first, off his territory and knowing it. "I just thought I ought to warn you," he noted, making the comment an oblique apology. "I'm sure you have the situation covered."

There was a noticeable rise in the temperature, the icy tension thawing. Kearney's tense expression settled into its normal amiable grin and his colleagues exchanged satisfied looks as Travis shrugged the leather jacket off his shoulders. Coates had displaced one of their junior officers, pulling his chair around so he could face their visitor. Travis just perched on Mike's desk, nodding gratefully when his partner stood to pour another mug of coffee.

"Virgil seemed better when you left for the hospital," Kearney observed quietly, handing the welcome caffeine infusion over.

Relieved for the boy's sake, Travis nodded. He gave a brisk shake of his head, blowing on the drink to cool it.

"I thought it was going to backfire for a while there. When he saw the jet he went all but catatonic."

Vaughan looked up at that, his expression sombre.

"Do you know the first thing young John said when he saw the aircraft? 'Scott ought to be here, he'd love this'. I imagine Virgil was thinking much the same thing."

There was a moment's silence. Travis broke it, shaking his head.

"Have the search planes left yet?" he asked.

Coates grunted a confirmation. "Vaughan's jet took readings all the way in. Apparently the boffins are confirming that 'Induction residue flux has fallen below the critical threshold', whatever the hell that means. Practical upshot: we've got the radios back, we're networked to the rest of the world again, and the air-sea rescue flight took off about five minutes after you left the airport. They didn't look as pretty as Vaughan's little jet, but they'll get the job done."

Kearney grinned at their visitor, shaking his head. "You do have some impressive toys over there at NASA."

"EM shielded," Vaughan volunteered. "If I was bringing Lucille and the boys with me on the first flight in, I wanted to make damn sure it was safe."

"Which kind of brings me to my point," Travis said quietly. He'd been studying the NASA man since he arrived back into the office, wondering how to raise the question that was bothering him. "What are you doing here? Okay, so Jeff Tracy's firm has some contracts with you people. And okay, this whole thing is kind of the fault of the Weather Station. Does that really rate NASA Security, the head of NASA Security, playing babysitter with Tracy's wife and kids?"

Vaughan gave him a steady look. "Tracy Industries is the major contractor on three of our largest projects, and Jeff Tracy won those contracts through hard work, good business and his own expertise. It's definitely in the Agency's interests to ensure that his company isn't disrupted. More than that though, when Jeff walks down the street, do you think people say 'look, there's Jeff Tracy the construction engineer' or 'Jeff Tracy the businessman'? Perhaps twenty years down the line they might. Right now, it's 'there's Jeff Tracy the Astronaut'. As long as his public persona reflects on NASA, the Agency's going to have a stake in it when something happens to him. When Lucy called us, she knew that we'd do everything we could to reunite her with Jeff and the boys, not just because we were partly responsible for what had happened, but because Jeff Tracy is important to us too."

Kearney was nodding as if what Vaughan said made perfect sense. Coates was looking a more sceptical, a lifetime of cynicism making him wary of apparent altruism. Travis just nodded. He put down his coffee mug on the desk beside him and took a deep breath. His eyes fixed on those of their visitor, searching them.

"Then you're not here because you think what happened on the Weather Station was sabotage, and that Tracy was a deliberate target?"

Travis' question fell into a sudden silence. Coates and Kearney both looked astonished, as if the idea hadn't occurred to them. Vaughan's rigid lack of reaction alone spoke volumes.

"You said you were looking into it," Travis noted. "Why would security look into a technical fault, unless it wasn't a pure malfunction?"

Vaughan sighed. "This stays in this room," he insisted, catching the gaze of each of the three detectives, and looking around to check that the only junior officer still in the room was out of earshot.

Travis nodded, his suspicion confirmed. "The station was sabotaged."

"I'm not saying that until someone can show me how it was done. If it was deliberate, no one can figure it out. But…" Vaughan laid down the satellite image he'd been glancing at and rubbed a hand over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back in a nervous gesture. "The tech guys are telling me that there's just no way this was a straightforward malfunction. Just one thing going wrong wouldn't be enough to trigger a storm like that. We're talking more like eight or nine separate systems, all failing in precisely the right way and in the right order, and then returning to perfect operating status immediately afterwards. "

"Someone generated a storm, did all this," Kearney waved a hand to indicate the interference and disruption, "just to kill Jeff Tracy?" He stood, pacing their corner of the room. "I don't mean to be glib about this, but wouldn't it just be easier to get hold of a gun and shoot the man?"

Coates rolled his eyes at his subordinate. Vaughan though seemed to take the question seriously.

"I'm about eighty percent sure now that Tracy wasn't targeted. There were literally only a handful of people who knew Jeff was bringing the boys out here, and fewer still who knew to within a hundred miles where the Santa Anna was going to be. The intersection of that group with those with enough access and knowledge to even begin to think of this narrows to one person. In my opinion, there is simply no way that Commander Dale had anything to do with this. Environmental logs put him asleep in his room when the induction pulse was sent, and every member of the space station crew swears that he worked as hard as any of them to get control back and stop it."

He shook his head, leaning forward across the table and scowling into nowhere.

"Dale and Tracy have been friends for over a decade. I can't find a scrap of evidence or even a rumour that he was harbouring any kind of grudge against Tracy, or that their relationship was anything but close friends. Neither Jeff nor Lucy is a poor judge of character and they've trusted him with the boys more than once. Hell, for that matter, those kids are impressively quick on the uptake too. Jim Dale is genuinely devastated by what happened. The Agency has already turned down his offer to resign once, and I'm not sure he's going to keep taking no for an answer." Vaughan sighed, looking up at the Domingan detectives with a serious expression. "I've got people going through the rest of the Weather Station staff now on the off chance that one of them heard a stray comment or picked up on gossip about Tracy's whereabouts. Quite honestly, though, to be there in the first place they've already passed such a battery of psychological and security tests that I can't imagine we're going to find anything."

"You mean it was pure fluky bad luck that got Jeff Tracy and his boys caught up in this?" Coates asked sceptically.

"I still need to talk to Tracy, see if he can shed any light on anyone who might want to hurt him."

Travis grimaced, shaking his head. "You say the guy is important to you, and you're going to tell him that this wasn't an accident? That two of his sons were most likely murdered because someone was nursing a grudge against him? I've only spoken to the man twice, and even I can see that will destroy him."

Vaughan met his eyes, sombre. "That's why I'm here first. I wanted to see if you'd found anything else that might explain why he ended up at the centre of the storm."

Kearney sighed, shaking his head. Travis found himself frowning instead, a stray thought niggling at him.

"Tracy's not the only ex-NASA employee in the area," he said slowly. "That storm hit just forty miles north of San Fernando. Is it possible that Villacana was the target?"

Kearney gave a brief, startled laugh, coming to an abrupt halt and staring at his partner. "Now that's one guy I wouldn't mind throwing a storm at."

Vaughan raised an eyebrow, his expression guarded. "Auguste Villacana. Made a fortune with a novel encryption algorithm when he was seventeen years old. We employed him out of high school. Made important contributions to several projects before his lack of empathy and associated borderline personality disorder made it obvious he wasn't a team player. Worked on two solo projects, both of which were cancelled for not showing sufficient progress. Left NASA, went into business for himself and had three major product launches, none of them successful, before retiring at age twenty-four and buying San Fernando."

"His 'personality disorder' might have been borderline then," Travis noted, frowning. "It's anything but, now."

Vaughan was looking thoughtful. He leafed through the file on the desk in front of him, pulling out Travis' report on the previous day's expedition to San Fernando, and the satellite image that included both the Santa Anna and Villacana's private island.

"What makes you think he was the target?"

"He leapt to the conclusion that the storm was deliberate pretty damn quickly." Travis leaned forward, reaching for the transcript of his conversation with Villacana and leafing through it. "It hadn't even occurred to me until something he said. I'd swear he didn't know about Tracy, and wouldn't have cared if he did. But I'm betting that no one at NASA threw Villacana a huge leaving party and offered tearful farewells when he went. Is it possible he riled someone badly enough that they'd come after him?"

Vaughan shook his head, frowning absently at the photograph taken three hours before the storm. "I looked through the file when his name came up. Consensus opinion seems to have him down as pretty much irrelevant. Extremely smart, but he peaked scientifically at seventeen and all but burned out in his early twenties. We see kids like that come through all the time at the Agency. For someone to use one of the world's most secure pieces of equipment as a weapon a decade later? Quite honestly, he's just not important enough for anyone to have invested this much effort in."

His frown grew deeper and he tapped at the scrap of post-it note attached to the photograph, arrow pointing at San Fernando. "What's this for?"

Travis frowned, trying to place it himself. "Oh! When I spoke to Tracy last night, he spotted something on 'Fernando I was going to look into."

"The radio receiver?" Vaughan's expression had become focused, intent, as he studied the picture. He gestured towards the magnifying glass still resting on the corner of Kearney's desk. Travis passed it to him, slipping down from the desk and coming forward so he could see the image too. "I'm just a security officer, but I've seen enough satellite pictures of them to know what a radio dish looks like. I guess you people use them for computer connections out here?" He glanced up at Coates for a nod of confirmation, and then back down at the picture, frowning thoughtfully. "This looks pretty large for that kind of communications dish. May I?"

He gestured towards Travis' computer, an inquiring expression on his face. Travis nodded, rounding the desk to unlock the screen before pulling up a window for their visitor to work in. Vaughan tunnelled into the NASA system, pulling down a new satellite image and starting a second downloading. He opened the first on the screen, zooming in on an image of Dominga.

"Dominga is the state capital, so you should be pretty well connected, right? Where's your communications system located?"

Squatting by the desk, Travis took over, moving the image across the screen until the field outside town with its pair of satellite dishes was centred. He frowned from the new image to the glossy printout. "The one on San Fernando has to be three times the size. Five times maybe"

A pop-up told him the second image finished downloading and automatically he clicked through to it, finding himself looking at a more recent image of Villacana's private island. He slipped into his chair as Vaughan vacated it, frowning as he magnified the image more and more.

"That dish is just below the main house, right? Overlooking the inlet to the east?" He glanced back at the printed, pre-storm image to check. "So why aren't I seeing it? How old are these pictures, Vaughan?"

Vaughan was looking equally perplexed. "About an hour. What with waiting for the residue to threshold and then for dawn, they're the first clear pictures we've been able to get of Dominga and this area since the typhoon."

"Could the dish have been blown over in the storm perhaps?" Kearney suggested. "Wrecked?"

Vaughan and Travis both shook their heads.

"That thing was big. Pictures this good, we'd see the wreckage."

"Besides, the typhoon didn't touch the island, remember? San Fernando probably didn't get winds much above mild storm force."

Coates was looking grim. He'd moved along with Travis and Kearney so the four of them were tightly clustered around the screen. Now he stepped back from the desk and folded his arms.

"Is this relevant?" he asked reasonably.

Vaughan's expression was intent, his eyes narrowed. "If Villacana has that sort of radio dish, it means he's dealing with large volumes of data traffic. He might be less withdrawn from the rest of the world than I was thinking. If he thinks he was the target, that might mean he has an idea about who hijacked the weather satellites. Everyone at the Agency's been thinking that with as much security as the Weather Station has, it had to be internal, but Villacana's algorithms are the first line of defence on the computers. He might have some idea who'd be able to crack them."

"Worth another visit to the island?" Travis wondered. "The helijets are safe to fly now, right? We could be there in forty minutes rather than two hours."

"Oh, I definitely want to see San Fernando. Covering a dish that big can't be easy. I want to know what this man is trying to hide."

Coates grunted. "I'll get onto the airport to prep the police helijet. I should be able to rustle up a pilot for you within the hour. But Vaughan, you'd better get a move on. If this happened once, it'll happen again. You people have put a damn great gun to all our heads, and it's still up there."

Vaughan looked intensely grim, and Travis could see the sleepless nights and long hours of hard work in his weary expression. "Believe me, Chief Inspector. I am very well aware of that fact."

Chapter 15

Jeff Tracy looked down at his three sleeping sons with such a feeling of mingled pride, love and pain that he felt his chest tightening. Virgil was in the centre, lying in Jeff's bed because that was the sole condition on which Dr Evans had allowed him to stay with his family when they returned him to the hospital. Alan was curled to one side of him, small arm thrown across his brother's chest. Both had been asleep within minutes of getting to their father's room, exhaustion and jet-lag taking their toll. John had lasted a little longer, curling into Jeff's lap in the armchair by the window, and telling his dad about his summer school in a soft, worried tone that suggested his mind was elsewhere.

When they'd burst through the door, the former astronaut had been unshaven, pale and unsteady, sitting in bed with his arm in a sling. John and Alan didn't see any of that. They treated him as the firm, unbreakable pillar of strength he'd always been for them, and he'd responded, straightening up, looking more focused and alert. Only the quickly-snatched kiss and long look he'd shared with his wife, and the relief on his face when he saw Virgil interacting with his brothers, gave any hint of what was going on inside.

Now though, as he laid Johnny down on Virgil's far side and raised the narrow bed's rails, he felt the walls crumbling. An arm snaked around his waist, and he tilted his head, resting his cheek on Lucy's red-gold hair. She turned towards him, raising her face to meet his, and he gave her the long, loving kiss he'd been craving since she walked through the door. She leaned into it, as desperate as he was for the comfort and reassurance.

He broke the kiss when he realised she was crying. He pulled her close in to his chest and pressed his lips to the top of her head, wishing he had two good hands so he could raise her chin and look into her hazel eyes.

"Lucy…"

"I knew there was something wrong when you didn't call that night," she said softly, looking up at him as if in answer to his wish. Her eyes were red from crying, not just these few tears but also silent torrents while her sons were asleep. "Then I heard on the news about the Weather Station going haywire. Oh God, Jeff! I thought I'd lost all four of you…" her voice trailed off, her chest trembling against Jeff's.

"Honey, I'm sorry. I just wanted to spend some time with them. One last holiday with my little Scotty before high school and hormones and teenage angst took over. I'm so sorry. If I'd known…"

She stood on her toes, craning upwards to silence him with a kiss.

"They were having such a good time, darling. You gave them that. They were so happy whenever you called."

Jeff closed his eyes, struggling to master his emotions. Lucille was still pressed against him, her calming influence an invitation to release the strain he'd felt since he'd first awakened.

"Two and a half days," he whispered. He felt Lucy sag a little deeper into his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. "I don't believe it, honey. I just can't accept that they're gone."

They were still standing over the bed. Alan stirred, curling into a still tighter ball and shaking his head in the grip of an incipient nightmare. Lucy sucked in a deep, trembling breath, looking down at the boys and drawing strength from them. Jeff followed her gaze as she pulled away to caress Alan's dream-troubled brow and stroke Virgil's hair away from his face.

"We almost lost Virgil too," he said sombrely, glancing at his bedside table. Lucy picked up the pictures there, a choked sob escaping her when she saw her two missing sons, windswept, waterlogged and terrified. He kissed her again, needing the closeness and hungry for the mutual comfort.

She shook her head when she finally drew away, her expression becoming resolute. "I'm not giving up hope, Jeff."

He nodded, eyes locked on hers. "Never," he promised grimly. He gritted his teeth. "Damn it! Why is it taking this long to find them? I need be out there. Doing something!"

He swayed a little as he spoke, his strength finally running out. Lucy eased him into the armchair, another pair of hands joining hers, checking his pulse briskly as his vision greyed out. Dr Evans was in front of him when it cleared, side by side with Lucy and looking almost as concerned, in a restrained, professional way.

She gave him a stern look. "I heard that last comment. What your sons need you to be doing, Mr Tracy, is getting well."

"I can't just lie here!"

Lucille squatted in front of him, putting her eyes on a level with his. "All the boys need you, Jeff. Not just Scott and Gordon. Virgil told me that he had to be strong until I got here because you were so sick and someone had to keep going until they find Scott and Gordy." She paused, letting that sink in, then sighed. "John has hardly let Allie out of his sight since we realised you were missing."

Jeff winced. John had his excitable, impulsive moments, but of all his boys, the nine-year-old had inherited the largest measure of his mother's tranquillity. Putting him together with Alan for long periods tended to be a recipe for furious argument, a tired, overwhelmed John unable to cope with his bored, frustrated little brother.

"John told me to concentrate on you and Virgil, and he'd look after his baby brother. Alan's been trying too. He knows there's something wrong, and he's been trying to be good for Johnny and me. Jeff darling," Lucy's voice was soft and sad, her eyes pleading with him. "The boys are stepping up, but they're struggling. They need you. They really need their father right now."

Closing his eyes, Jeff swallowed hard. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair. "How long? How long do I have to sit here? Useless?"

Dr Evans gave a quiet cough and Jeff and Lucy both looked up towards her. She watched them with a sympathetic expression. "Your wrist will be in a cast for at least a week, as I told you yesterday. As far as staying in bed goes… It was a nasty concussion, Mr Tracy, and I don't like the dizziness. I want to keep you under observation for another twenty-four hours, minimum."

Jeff grimaced, but Lucille gave a firm nod. He sighed, wanting to fight the verdict but knowing that with his wife and doctor in collusion, he might as well surrender now. His defeat was inevitable. His eyes strayed to the bed and his sons and he glanced back at the doctor, a worried question on his face. Lucille looked up too, the same anxiety in her eyes. Mina Evans didn't keep them waiting.

"Physically, Virgil will be fine with a few more days rest. Under normal circumstances, Mrs Tracy, I'd release him to your care at this point."

She hesitated. Alan was stirring on the bed, once again heading towards a nightmare. Lucy was by his side when he woke, scooping up her crying toddler and depositing him in his father's lap. Jeff rocked the little boy, murmuring reassurances as Alan sobbed into his shoulder. On the bed, Virgil shifted restlessly, his eyes opening and drifting around the room until he located his little brother. Jeff gave him a gentle smile and Virgil shuffled a little closer to John, his eyes closing again. Lucille was giving the doctor an inquisitive look, unfazed by the interruption. Evans though was openly concerned as she watched.

"I'm afraid your circumstances are far from normal. In a hotel room, with a jet-lagged four-year-old? Whether Alan's trying or not, you're in for some sleepless nights. Virgil needs more rest than his brothers will allow him. I'd strongly recommend keeping him in the ward here for a couple more days – at least until his father is well enough to leave."

Jeff was distantly aware of his wife's reluctant nod. He listened to the conversation between Lucy and the doctor with half an ear. Alan was trying to tell him something, anxiety and tears making the little boy incomprehensible and increasingly loud. All Jeff could make out was Scott's name, with Gordon's and Virgil's following it. He held Alan tight, telling his youngest over and again that his Daddy was here and that everything would be all right.

"Mrs Tracy, all three of your sons need at least a few hours sleep. So does your husband, and, if you don't mind me saying so, you look exhausted yourself. Virgil and Jeff are doing well, as you've seen, and, remember, the boys need their mother too. Chuck Travis gave me the details of your hotel booking. Can I get someone to take you there?"

"Scott, and Gordy…"

"The inspector – and everyone else – are doing everything they can," Mina Evans sighed deeply. "The hotel is just a few hundred metres away. You could be back here in minutes."

Another loud cry from Alan distracted Jeff from Lucy's answer. On the bed, John sat abruptly upright, looking around him in a frantic search for his brother. Still dazed with sleep, he caught hold of Virgil as the older boy tried to push himself up and froze half-way, clutching his aching ribs with a groan. Jeff kept up his litany of comfort, his tired eyes meeting his wife's with an unwilling conclusion. Lucille leaned across their youngest, interrupting Jeff's reassurances with her lips as they caressed his. He let her take the distraught family baby with deep reluctance. He stood, moving up beside Dr Evans and helping support a sleepy John as Lucy coaxed him down from the bed before leaning down to whisper to an even-wearier Virgil. Jeff brushed his wife and both blond sons with his lips, reluctant to be parted from them, but wearily aware of the necessity.

"We'll be back in a few hours, love," Lucy promised him, having already assured Virgil of the same. She moved to follow the doctor from the room, hesitating in the doorway and looking back at him over Johnny's head of spun-gold hair. "You'll call if you hear anything?"

Jeff sighed and nodded. His head was throbbing and he felt decidedly unsteady as he used the back of the armchair for support. Silently, he cursed his own weakness. "There has to be news soon," he told her. She held his eyes for a long moment before nodding her agreement and vanishing through the door. The strength drained from him as if only the sight of her had kept him going so long. He didn't want to speculate about how true that might be. Virgil was still on his bed, already lost to the world. Jeff wanted to go to him, to fix the covers over his sleeping son. He collapsed in the armchair instead, his pulse beating a staccato rhythm against the inside of his skull. "Please, God, let there be news soon," he whispered as sleep engulfed him.

The shade helped. Scott still felt as if he were walking through an oven, his skin burning and his lungs struggling to draw in oxygen, but the comparatively cool air trapped under the overhanging canopy made him feel a little more human. He rallied, keeping Gordon close but not relying on his support for anything quite so simple as staying upright or putting one foot in front of another.

They kept to one side of the track, caution and an instinct for his brother's protection telling Scott that strolling blindly forwards would be unwise. They'd been walking for perhaps ten minutes when his eyes, following the criss-cross tracks of vehicle passages in the dirt, focused on something alarming.

"Gordon! Stop!"

Gordon had been perhaps two steps ahead of him. He stopped on the spot, too well trained by their ordeal to date to argue or protest against his brother's order.

"Scott?"

Scott stepped cautiously to the younger boy's side, indicating the point a metre or so ahead of them where the interweaving and meandering tyre tracks converged suddenly into a single pair of deep ruts, perhaps three metres long. The jeep, or whatever else they used on the island, would run along the channel like a freight train on its rails, carefully constrained not to move left or right. Gordon saw the implications almost as quickly as his brother did. He'd stripped the leaves off a sturdy stick some way back, sometimes using it as he walked, more often just playing with it, or using it to poke at bushes as they passed. Now he prodded at the ground under his feet, before looking up anxiously to search for anything suspended above them.

The previous day's terrifying experience still fresh in his own mind, Scott held his hand out for the stick, edging in front of his brother.

"Tread where I tread," he warned, meeting Gordon's anxious eyes.

"What if there's another trap, Scotty?"

"Then we find it before it finds us," Scott told him determinedly. Using one hand to keep his brother behind him, he took a careful step forward, poking at the ground, and then another, until they were standing in the wheel ruts, shuffling forward awkwardly. Frowning, Scott hesitated. Turning across the path, he used Gordon's stick to prod firmly at the centre of the road, directly between the tracks.

He was hardly surprised when the ground yielded, a thatch of grass collapsing into the revealed pit, dirt streaming through and around it. Scott stared down at the sharp metal spikes, tainted with a green stain, and tried hard not to relive the memories.

"Cars can go over it, but anyone walking normally up the path would have gone straight in," he reasoned aloud. He felt Gordon shudder, pressed up against his back, and turned to give his brother a reassuring pat. "It didn't get us, Gordy. We're too smart for it, right?"

Gordon looked up at him unhappily. "It would have got me."

Scott mustered up a reassuring grin, trying to project more certainly than he felt. "You'd have seen it in time, Gordy. You're way too sneaky to be caught out by something that simple. Right?"

Gordon looked uncertain. Scott offered him a hand and he held tight, shuffling nervously along after his brother as they edged past the trap. Scott kept hold of him when they were past it, and Gordon didn't pull away. The island's crude main road, obviously well travelled, had felt comparatively safe and straightforward. Now they were once again in unfamiliar and hostile territory.

It was just a minute or so later that Scott felt a firm tug on his hand, and heard his brother's anxious voice.

"Stop, Scotty!"

Scott froze mid-step. He gave the ground directly in front of him a careful look before lowering his foot to the ground and turning back to his brother. Gordon's head was tilted back, and he stared at the fork in a tree trunk perhaps ten metres ahead of and above them, his expression worried and uncertain. Scott followed his eyes, frowning when no obvious peril presented itself to his inspection.

"Gordon? What is it?"

Gordon squinted, tilting his head, before looking up at his elder brother, chewing his lip fretfully.

"A camera, I think. Cameras are bad, Scotty. We're not supposed to be here. What if someone's watching? One of those bad people from yesterday. They'll know we're here, Scott. They'll come find us and I don't want them to catch us. They said… That would be really bad."

Scott squinted up at the tree again, his thoughts a close mirror of his brother's. Baffled, and still not able to see what had caught Gordon's attention, he dropped to his knees to put his face on Gordon's eye-line. He was about to ask Gordon to point so he could sight along the arm when he caught it, a flash of reflection that came and went as the leaf-dappled light shifted. There was no way that anything natural caused that gleam, and it reminded Scott of uncomfortable occasions when the astronaut's son had caught a similar reflection from bushes or hillsides overlooking the place where he and his brothers were playing. Learning to recognise those flashes had become a survival instinct for the Tracy boys, one that they were honing as their father's business began to pick up momentum. Gordon was right, given its location, size and shape, it almost had to be a camera lens.

"Okay, Gordon, I see it."

Frowning, Scott tried to figure out the best strategy. Given how low he'd had to squat to see the reflection, and the angle of the sun, he was pretty sure the camera was directed sharply downwards, watching the path directly below it and for a few metres towards the main road. At their current distance, the two boys were probably well out of its view. On the other hand, it effectively blocked their way. There was no way they could walk on without being caught by it. Would someone be watching in real time, or would it just go to tape, to be reviewed when they were safely gone? The men in the jeep said that they were looking for intruders, for Scott and Gordon. On his own, Scott might have taken the risk. He wouldn't take it with Gordy.

He eyed the jungle around them with reluctance, and then with a sense of resignation. The hillside they were on sloped gently from east to west, but the path itself cut across that slope almost at right angles, running along the bottom of a narrow gully. Stepping off the path would not only mean navigating roots and tree trunks, but also struggling against the incline trying to force them back down onto it. The only slight advantage they had was that the camera was necessarily off-centre, supported on an overarching branch but close to its tree's trunk.

"Gordy." Scott kept his voice low, more out of instinct than any real belief that the camera was wired for sound. "We're not turning back now. The camera's sort of left of centre, see? Looking to the right? Well, we're going to get behind it, off the path on the left hand side. Just until we're past the camera, all right? Then we can cut back onto the road."

Gordon looked distinctly uncertain. He glanced up at Scott's flushed cheeks, and opened his mouth to say something before shaking his head and closing it again.

"What if there are more cameras?" he asked eventually, his tone despondent.

Scott sighed, and was forced to stifle a cough as the deep breath caught in his throat. He knew he was pushing his brother. Gordon's exuberance at the thought of calling their mother sometime soon had vanished with their discovery of the trap. The fact that Scott was sick, a fact becoming more apparent with each passing hour, wasn't doing anything to help his little brother's confidence either.

"Then we go around them too. Okay, Gordy?"

"Okay, Scott," Gordon agreed finally. He looked from Scott to the trees and back again, clearly thinking hard. "Scotty, can I carry our things?"

Blinking in surprise, Scott looked down at his little brother. "What?"

Gordon looked up at him, his small face carrying a deeply earnest expression. "I want to carry the bag, Scotty, with the blankets and water and food and things in it."

"Why?"

"Because it's heavy and you're feeling sick and you won't stop and you're looking after me, but I'm kind of okay and I want to help." For a six-year-old it was a remarkably generous offer. Scott slung the twisted tarpaulin pack from his shoulder, weighing it in his hand. Truthfully, with their supply of food and water all but exhausted, the pack wasn't nearly as heavy as it had been when they set out. The survival blankets were designed to be thin and light, the first aid kit bulky but almost entirely filled with lightweight bandages. The largest weight they still carried was the flare gun, and Scott was loath to abandon it, even now he suspected they wouldn't find a chance to use it.

Reluctant, but seeing the sense of Gordon's idea, Scott lifted the twist of canvas over his brother's head, swinging it bandolier-like from shoulder to hip and settling the bulk of the pack across Gordon's back. Still kneeling in front of his little brother, he looked the boy in the eyes. "Now I want you to tell me if it gets heavy, Gordon. I can always take it back, alright?"

Gordon nodded, his amber eyes full of determination. Scott leaned forward to give his brother a quick hug.

"Thanks, Gordy."

Scott felt strangely weightless without the pack across his shoulders. He swayed when he stood, light-headed and only vaguely aware of Gordon reaching out to steady him. With an effort of will, he straightened up before the younger boy's hand made contact, determined not to lean on his little brother more than he had to.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

They made slow progress, climbing the steep slope, so they were a couple of metres above the path as well as a couple of metres away from its left-hand edge. They paralleled it, moving from tree to tree to help keep them balanced as the ground slipped downhill from under their feet. Gordon was struggling with his extra burden, pausing occasionally to adjust the weight slung across his back. Scott, staying a cautious few steps behind his brother, ready to dive forward and catch him if necessary, was simply struggling. The extra effort left him breathless and wheezing, praying now that the camera didn't have a microphone attached lest the sound of his chesty coughing gave them both away. Perspiration poured off his brow, running down his face despite the cool breeze between the trees. It was a relief when Scott looked up to see his little brother studying the tree canopy, both ahead of and behind them. With the camera safely passed, and no sign yet of another ahead, the two boys slid and slipped back down onto the path. Sinking to his knees, Scott struggled for a few moments to control his breathing and get his balance back. Finally satisfied, he staggered to his feet, holding his hand out for their pack.

"I can take that back, Gordon," he offered, his breath catching half way through even the short sentence. Gordon frowned, backing a few steps further down the path and shaking his head, his face set in a stubborn expression that Scott knew all too well.

"I've got it, Scott," Gordon insisted. "It's not heavy, really it's not."

Scott hesitated. He scowled at Gordon and then sighed, his enthusiasm for the fight non-existent. "If you get tired, tell me," he insisted softly, resting a hand on the younger boy's shoulder as they set off down the path.

The sound of raised voices dragged Jeff Tracy back to consciousness. Someone had reclined his armchair, tucking a pillow behind his head and covering him with a thin hospital blanket. His eyes searched out the bed before anything else, comforted and relieved to see Virgil still there. His son was curled up, back to Jeff and the rest of the room, only his wavy chestnut-brown hair visible. The sheets were pulled taut around him, the entire shape stiff and motionless. Jeff frowned, instinct and thirteen years of experience as a father telling him that the boy was awake and trying hard not to show it.

With his son accounted for, Jeff turned his attention to the voices that had awakened him, trying to work out just why Virgil might be hiding. Four figures crowded the narrow doorway, two just inside the room and two in the corridor outside. Closest to Jeff was Mina Evans. The doctor looked harried, and more than a little angry, spots of colour high on her cheeks. The man next to her was a young police officer, his uniform smart and crisp and his expression impassive. In one hand he held an expensive-looking camera, in the other its data-card. He held on tightly to the latter while proffering the former to its owner, a slightly dishevelled man in his twenties that Jeff pegged at once as a journalist, or at least as a press photographer. The intruder looked furious. If he'd taken photographs of Jeff Tracy and his injured son, his fury would be nothing to the ex-astronaut's.

"The data-card?" the photographer in the corridor was demanding, snatching his camera and reaching for its most vital component. "Look, you can't take it. The world wants to see these pictures. Jeff Tracy losing his eldest son and heir, killed by the same space agency that took Tracy to the Moon? And the kid, Virgil. Way I hear it, the boy ought to get a medal for keeping his Dad above the water. Hell! That would be a feel-good story even if it happened to a nobody. For Jeff Tracy to be saved by his own kid…. Virgil deserves the kudos. It's not fair on him to hide his light under a bushel because his Dad's such a privacy freak. People out there want to know these things. You've got to give me the data-card!"

Jeff stirred, his fists clenching in anger. Evans glanced quickly in his direction, her expression and a swift hand gesture pleading with him not to reveal he was awake. Furious but seeing her point, Jeff half-closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep as he watched to see whether the police would hold firm without his intervention.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's evidence in an ongoing enquiry." That was the fourth individual, a man about Jeff's own age with a pale complexion and curly hair. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he had the same watchful and authoritative air that Jeff had seen in Inspector Travis and dozens of others over his lifetime. There was no mistaking the fact that this was a plain-clothes policeman, and, at present, wasn't even trying to hide it.

The press man didn't seem impressed, trying again to make a snatch for his recorded photographs as the uniformed officer passed the data-card to his superior.

"I'm an accredited photographer! You can't take my property! I have rights… the First Amendment…"

The detective's easy stance shifted. His hand shot out, taking a grip on the photographer's upper arm that silenced him. His apologetic statement had been relaxed, its tone neutral. Now anger trickled through his voice. It dropped a pitch lower and became quieter, so Jeff had to struggle to hear.

"Let me explain a few things to you, sir. First off, you're not in the United States now, and I trust you understand that, American or not, while you're on Dominga, Domingan Confederate law applies as much to you as it does to the men gutting fish down by the harbour. Second, even if you were in the States, 'Freedom of the Press' relates to freedom of expression of opinion, not freedom to trample over the privacy and rights of other people, no matter how curious your voyeuristic readership might be. And third, when I mentioned a case just now, I was thinking of missing persons. Do you really want me to make it trespass, endangerment of others through preventing a doctor carrying out her duty, stalking and harassment, and intention to take unauthorised photographs of a minor with unwholesome intent?"

The photographer had been trying to shake off the hand on his arm with increasing force. The younger, uniformed officer stepped forward taking hold of the man's other arm. The detective nodded to him in acknowledgement, stepping into the doorway next to Evans to block the photographer's view.

"Take this man's name and throw him out. Make sure our people on the door and the journalists circling outside know that, as of right now, press are officially banned from this hospital's premises. And get onto headquarters. We could do with a few more officers if they have any to spare."

The man in uniform nodded, keeping the protesting photographer in a firm hold as he chivvied him down the passage. "Yes, sir."

The detective watched them go, his back to Jeff and Virgil, the doctor beside him. From Jeff's point of view, the photographer had been out of view for a good thirty seconds before the detective relaxed, formality falling away from him like a masquerade costume.

The doctor smiled at him. "You know, Mike, just occasionally I see why the Chief Inspector promoted you."

The detective didn't smile. He let a long breath whistle out between his teeth, rubbing a hand through his hair. "God, Mina! If this is what Tracy has to put up with every day, how does the man cope?"

"It's not usually this bad," Jeff volunteered. The detective turned sharply in surprise. The doctor mirrored him, looking more concerned.

"Headache?" she asked as Jeff rubbed his pounding temples. Jeff grimaced his agreement and Doctor Evans nodded before going off, presumably in search of a nurse and some analgesics. The detective lingered behind, looking apologetic and a little nervous. Jeff managed a tight smile of appreciation as the man, Kearney, introduced himself. He sighed, continuing his explanation.

"Most of the time, I'm old news: a retired astronaut, even one who's been to the Moon, doesn't compete with the latest music stars or hot young actors. It's usually only when I sign a big contract, or someone sits up and takes notice of what Tracy Industries' stock is doing, that I get the press hounding me and my family."

Frowning at that thought, he shot a worried glance at Kearney.

"Mrs Tracy and your other sons are booked in under Vaughan's name," Kearney supplied without needing to be asked. "I've got a plain-clothes man at the hotel ready to bring them around the back way to avoid the press-pack."

"A lot of them?" Jeff asked with a frown.

"More than a few," Kearney admitted. "Seems the weather control problem that gave us the typhoon has been making big news in the world outside. Add a big name, human interest story…. Mr Tracy, I am very sorry. For everything. And I'm sorry you had to see that little confrontation. We'll make sure no one comes that close again, believe me. Just about the only thing the man said that made any sense at all is that young Virgil there probably deserves a medal, and I know that's probably the last thing on your mind right now."

Jeff frowned. His son was still pretending to be asleep, sheets pulled tight around him, but he would have sworn he saw Virgil flinch. He was grateful when Dr Evans returned, handing over two pills and a glass of water to Jeff before shepherding Kearney out of he room with an injunction to let her patient rest. Jeff took the pills, drinking the water down after them when he realised that Mina Evans had paused in the doorway to watch. She shut the door behind her, and Jeff sat still for a few seconds before crossing the small room to the bedside.

He perched on the edge of the mattress, resting one hand on his young son's back and feeling the shudders. As he'd more than half-expected, Virgil was crying. Years of sharing rooms and of their brothers' close company had taught his elder boys to sob silently when things just got too much for them and they didn't want to show it. Sighing, Jeff climbed onto the bed. Virgil shuffled aside, giving his father room to lie on the sheets beside him, without turning or raising his head. Gently, Jeff worked an arm around his son's shoulders, rolling the boy to face him. Virgil's face was flushed and tear-streaked, and Jeff pulled him close, resting his son's head on his chest, stroking the hair back from his face.

"It's okay, Virgil. He's gone, and the policemen won't let him come back." Jeff hesitated, thinking over what his wife had told him. "Virgil, I know all this has been scary and difficult, and I’m sorry I've not been there for you, but I'm getting better now. You don't have to hide things from me, son, not any more, okay? I know you're worried, but it's all right to let things out."

Virgil didn't speak, just let his father hold him, one arm thrown across Jeff's waist.

Jeff's frown deepened. He'd thought that Lucy's arrival had broken through Virgil's shell, and it certainly had made a difference. He knew, of course, that nothing, not even his mother's comfort, could wave a magic wand an make everything in Virgil's world right. Even so, he was dismayed to see the barriers coming back up.

"Virgil, you've been so very brave…"

Virgil's body gave another shudder, and this time the sob was audible: a thin, pained wail. Jeff raised his head to look down at the top of his son's hair, worried.

"I'm not brave." The voice was soft and choked with tears. "I don't want a prize or a medal or anything."

Jeff took a deep breath, knowing what his son needed to hear, no matter how painful it was to say. "You saved my life, Virgil. Scott would have been so proud of you…"

Again Virgil shook with reaction, but now he was shaking his head.

"It's my fault," he whispered.

"Virgil?"

"It's my fault Scott and Gordy are gone. If I'd held on tighter, been braver, better, you’d have got into the boat. You'd have been with Scott and Gordon and kept them safe and got them home, and they'd be here, and happy, and alive."

"Virgil!" He'd known that Virgil's mind was on his missing brothers. It honestly hadn't occurred to Jeff that his son could find any way to blame himself for what had happened to them. Previously forgotten images sprang to mind, fragmented memories rebuilding themselves in the face of his need to comfort his son.

"Virgil, what happened… it was an accident. There was nothing you could have done. The ship, the Santa Anna, she was breaking up."

Decking splintered under his feet. Rain filled the air like a thick grey fog, yielding only glimpses of his terrified sons. A loud, sharp crack was barely audible above the constant thunder. Jeff felt true panic for the first time. The mast! The mast was falling!

"The deck was giving way. The boom…"

The wooden spar, as thick around as Jeff's own waist, swept towards him. Pure instinct drove Jeff to dive for the ground. Another instinct, equally strong, tightened his grip on the rope wrapped around his left wrist. He felt the rope pull tight as the boom swept overhead, trailing the tattered shreds of their mainsail. This time he both heard and felt the snap. Burning pain flooded his arm. The rope tore loose from suddenly numb fingers.

"I let go of the boat, Virgil," he realised. "Before I saw what happened to you. Before…"

Agony shooting through him, breathless and choking in the water swirling around him, Jeff tumbled across the tossing and shattering deck. Shards of fibreglass, knife sharp, buckled upwards, clashed and splintered further. Jeff looked past them, strained past them, desperate to get to… Lightning flashed, freezing the moment. Virgil was in mid-air, doubled over the boom that had struck his chest. Jeff screamed for his son, unable to see Virgil's face until the boy's rotation turned his expression of terror into his father's eye-line. And then the lightning passed and Virgil was gone.

"God help us, Virgil, I don't know how we survived at all, but…"

With a scream of agonised plastic and metal, the Santa Anna dissolved into the churning water. The tearing pain in Jeff's wrist was matched by a deep burn in his lungs as he was sucked down with the wreckage. He struck for the surface, battered time and again by fragments of the yacht. His head burst through the water and he looked around him frantically. The dinghy was gone, no sign of it amidst the towering waves and torrential downpour. Jeff searched, desperate, blinking rain and waves from his eyes until there… there… a bobbing head, barely glimpsed between flashes and constant, overwhelming noise. He struck out towards his son, never seeing the fallen mast that sent him crashing into oblivion.

"Virgil… I let the dinghy go. Gordy, Scott... I couldn't hold onto them. There was no way I could get to them. I didn't even see you in the water until they were already gone." Jeff choked back a sob of his own, refusing to let his son see him cry, knowing that Virgil needed him strong enough to lean on. He leaned down, kissing the head resting on his chest. "This was not your fault, Virgil. Never yours."

Virgil looked up at him, his tear-streaked face strained and pale. He looked surprised, his mind evidently working hard to understand what he was told. Jeff held his son's brown eyes with his own blue-grey steel. Virgil nodded slowly, reluctantly, trusting his father and unable to disbelieve him when Jeff's voice rang with such certainty. Jeff sighed, pulling his young son back down against his chest.

"Virgil, there are still people out looking for Scott and Gordon," his voice faltered slightly, his terrifying, newly recovered memories undermining the faith he'd been clinging to. If Virgil had been living with the echoes of that night, it was no wonder he'd been quick to consider the worst. "Whether or not… whatever they find, it doesn't change how brave you were, or the fact that you saved me. It doesn't change how proud I am of you, and how proud your mother is. Or how proud your big brother would be."

Virgil sighed deeply, letting his body relax against Jeff's. "I just want Scott home, Dad," he said in a small, sad voice. "I want to show him Mr Vaughan's jet. I want Gordy to make me laugh, and to get angry with him for doing something silly. Even… even if I just knew where they were. They shouldn't be out there on their own."

Jeff echoed his son's sigh. "We'll find them, Virgil."

"How long…" Virgil's voice faltered. "What happens when Inspector Travis and Mr Vaughan and the others give up, Dad?"

Jeff turned his head, glancing towards the clock on his bedside table. It was coming up on mid-afternoon now, nearly three days since the storm struck, and the search planes had been in the air since dawn. If they hadn't spotted the Santa Anna's boat by now… He shook his head, looking down at his son with a resolute expression.

"If that happens, son, I'll search myself. I'll hire a plane, or I'll get mine down here. I'll hire another boat, sonar, whatever it takes, and I won't stop until I find them."

Virgil glanced up, an unhappy smile on his face. "Good," he said simply.

Chapter 16

He'd known they had to be close to some kind of civilisation. Even so, Scott had mentally resigned himself to a walk of indefinite, and quite possibly infinite, length. When Gordon had spotted the camera, Scott assumed it would be the first of many. He'd forgotten they were already in the heart of the island, behind layers of traps and cameras, many of which they'd probably avoided without ever realising it.

He certainly wasn't expecting the dense tree canopy overhead to change. He didn't even notice at first. His eyes, like Gordon's, were on the path they were stumbling along. It was only when he realised that the densely packed tree trunks were missing from his peripheral vision, the scatter of dead leaves thinning underfoot, that he glanced up, puzzled to find the light still muted, green and dappled despite the lack of vegetation. He studied the canopy overhead in confusion. His hand tightened on Gordon's shoulder, and astonishment flooded him as he realised that the leaf-clad branches had been replaced by a metal framework and a vast expanse of painted canvas sheeting.

"Scotty!"

Gordon's gasp dragged his eyes back down, towards a view so unlikely that they had slid across it on their way up. Metal girders, painted a raw, anti-corrosion red, formed a bewildering lattice directly in front of them. At first, he could see no hint of form or function, only a confusion of steelwork as if a bridge had suddenly collapsed, filling a small, circular valley set into the hillside as it did so.

Instinctively, he grabbed for Gordon, pulling the astonished younger boy to one side of the path and searching for something for them to take cover behind. He hadn't seen any sign of other people, or even of a camera, but he didn't doubt that this place was under some form of surveillance, electronic or otherwise. As quickly as he was able, he bustled Gordon around the perimeter of the valley, and into a narrow gap between the ironwork and a rock outcrop.

Gordon allowed himself to be manhandled, looking about him with wide-eyes and turning a baffled look on his elder brother.

"What is it, Scott?"

"No idea!"

Breathless, panting in the heat and confused, Scott looked around him, making sure that he couldn't see any hint of a camera lens from their temporary refuge, and hoping that meant none could see him. Wiping his brow to clear it of the sweat that had been getting heavier all day, he sank to his knees by Gordon's side, peering around the edge of the nearest girder and trying to take in the larger picture.

At first the metal lattice defied comprehension. It was built on a concrete platform, scattered with dirt and leaves. On the eastern edge of the valley, the floor was level with the access track and the hillside. As it stretched westward, both clockwise and anticlockwise, the circular valley cut into the steeply sloping hillside, so that rock walls rose gradually from ankle height near where the boys huddled to almost fifty feet at their highest point, towering over the far side of the structure and over a metal door set into the rock itself. The painted canvas canopy stretched overhead on a thin metal frame, jointed so that it would concertina back on demand and reveal the construction, whatever it was, to the sky.

"Why does it need to see the sky?" Scott wondered aloud, not expecting any sensible response. Gordon's mouth opened and closed, the little boy frowning as he tried to think of a suggestion. Scott didn't give him time. He waved a hand to take in the structure. "Circular. Look, Gordy, the valley is kind of a circle, see?" He coughed, wheezing a little as he tilted his head back. "And up there… the girders are in a circle too. It's kind of filled in by those panels."

Gordon's frown faded into a grin of recognition. "It's like the satellite dish on the roof."

Scott stared down at him. "What?"

"Remember that time Johnny wanted to see the stars and he sneaked out to lie on the roof, and I followed him, but I slipped, and ended up holding onto the gutter, and Johnny got upset, and then you got upset, Scotty, and then Daddy shouted a lot when he got us down?"

The earnestness of the small boy's question tickled something inside Scott. He knew it wasn't funny, but nonetheless, he felt somewhat hysterical giggles rising and tried hard to swallow them down.

"It was kind of a memorable day," Scott told his brother, deadpan. Not to mention being young John's introduction to the family 'what if my little brother copies me?' rule. Gordon seemed oblivious to his eldest brother's inappropriate amusement. His expression was completely serious as he nodded hard.

"The satellite dish on the roof. It's got kind of metal things behind it to keep bent into shape. It looked a bit like this from the back."

Scott choked back his grin at his little brother's sincerity, coughing as the suppressed laughter tickled his throat. He looked up again at the filled circle of wire-mesh panels, tilting his head as he tried to see what Gordon meant. The mention of John's developing interest in astronomy gave Scott the mental stepping-stone he needed.

"It is a dish," he realised. "A very, very big one." He frowned. "You remember John talking Mom and Dad into taking us to that observatory last summer?" he asked a little breathlessly. "Where they use radios to look at the sky? You and Alan coloured in pictures of the spectrum – the rainbow. Well, Allie mostly just scribbled a lot of different colours, but you made us a nice rainbow. Well, it's like that."

He'd seen a structure like this before. What had confused him at first was that while the dishes there had been vertical, raised on structures that would support and rotate them, this one was lying flat on its back, with the two boys looking up at its rear side. The dish's focus was directly above it, and if it hadn't been for the vast array of girders, joints and pivots in which it nested, he might have thought it was designed that way, waiting for the Earth's rotation to bring its target overhead. With the example of the radio telescopes to train his mind's eye though, Scott could begin to get a feel for just how it might unfold. He stared, dumb-founded, at the intricate piece of engineering.

"Wow."

"Scott?"

Scott looked down into his brother's worried face.

"You see there, Gordy?" he asked, pointing. "Well, if that folds up, and that bit there rotates…" He stopped in the face of Gordon's obvious confusion. He swayed gently, a little dizzy from his rapid survey of their surroundings. Sweat was pouring off his forehead, trickling into his eyes. He felt drained and slightly unreal, the sheer unlikeliness of what was in front of him adding to his daze. "You'll have to ask Virge to explain."

Scott had already lifted the pack from his little brother's back and started to untwist it to get at their water before Gordon's confused, upset expression registered. Scott's flushed cheeks drained of colour as he realised what he'd said. His world narrowed to his little brother's face. Gordon's features blurred, amber eyes replaced by chestnut brown, copper hair blending into rich mahogany. Scott shuddered hard, swaying, and not even Gordon's quick grab for him was able to stop his legs from giving way under him or the wave of blackness that swept over him.

"Scotty? Scotty, talk to me? Please?"

Gordon's desperate plea was the first thing Scott became aware of. His eyes were struggling to focus, and his voice had vanished, his throat so dry and closed that he seemed barely able to breathe let alone speak. Gordon was babbling, saying he was sorry and he didn't really need to know how it worked. Scott closed his eyes against the distress in his little brother's apology, trying to find his balance in a world coloured by pain and lacking its two foundation stones.

Water splashed across his lips and his tongue swept across them, desperate for the moisture. More water trickled, and this time Gordon had managed to lift the bottle high enough for it to reach his parched mouth. He gulped and choked, and sipped some more, groaning, before the stream stopped.

He heard and felt Gordon drop down beside him, and his brother's hands lifting Scott's head into his lap. Gordon's fast, tearful voice gradually slowed, silence descending.

"Do you think Allie will remember us?"

The question, and the quiet, sad tone in which Gordon asked it, broke through the fever-dream.

"Gordy?" he asked softly, opening his eyes and wheezing as he tried to lift his head.

"Virge and Daddy went with the Santa Anna and the storm took them away. Now the bad men are looking for us, and you're really sick and I don't know what to do, Scotty. I reckon they're going to find us, and they didn't want us to see anything, and I bet they really didn't want us to see this." Gordon swam into focus. There were tears on his face, but his eyes were fixed in the middle distance. He stroked Scott's hair reassuringly, tears rolling down his cheeks and off his chin to land on his big brother's face. Despite that, his voice was calm, just very, very sad. "We're not going to get back to Mom, are we, Scotty? I think it'll be okay, because you'll be with me, and we'll get to see Daddy and Virgil again, but Mom and Johnny will be kind of upset, I think, and Allie's just going to get confused, 'cause he's only little. He'll think we've gone away to school or on a really long holiday or something, and he'll grow up without us and I'll never get to be his big brother, not properly. He won't have you or Virge to look after him, or Daddy to read to him and that's just not fair because I've had all that and he ought to too, and I think he's too little to understand that we don't want to go away. Johnny's a good big brother too, of course, but he's going to be sad for a long time." Gordon paused, dropping his head and closing his eyes. "I just want Allie to know that I wanted to be the one to go to school with him his first day, and when he grows up and gets old like you are, all this will be a long time ago, and we won't have been there, and I think it'll be kind of okay if Alan and John are happy, even without us, but I just don't want him to forget about us."

Scott's eyes opened wide. His brother's voice had been a lifeline, guiding him back to consciousness. His body was still shivering, the heat he'd been feeling suddenly turned ice cold. The world was fuzzy around the edges, his vision narrowed down to a tunnel. Despite that, he struggled to make his aching limbs and spinning head respond. He blinked his eyes clear, swallowing past his swollen throat, and forced his elbows under him, lifting his head out of Gordon's lap and taking some of his own weight.

"Gordy…"

Gordon shuffled forward, hurrying to support his brother.

"You're sick." Gordon's voice was uncertain. He sniffed, trying to suppress the tears and offer his big brother something halfway between a reassuring smile and a cross frown. "You ought to lie down."

Scott made it to sitting upright through stubbornness and force of will. Gordon's plaintive lament for their baby brother rang through his head. He pulled the six-year-old into his arms, hugging him tightly. "Al… Alan won't forget us," he gasped. His voice was still hoarse and not making it much above a whisper. The water, the last of their water, had helped a little there, although he still felt more breathless than even his sore throat could account for. Scott pressed his flushed cheek against the top of Gordon's head. "'Cause we're not going to let him. We're going to… going to get out of this, Gordy."

Gordon squirmed free, looking up into his brother's barely-focused blue eyes. Whatever he saw there both worried and comforted him. He nodded, coming to one of Scott's sides and getting a hand around his waist to help support him.

"Gor… Gordy. There was a door." Scott waved a hand vaguely in what he thought he might be the right direction. "This…" Again he waved a hand, this time up at the dish. "There's a radio… we've just got to find it."

"Scott…" Gordon's voice was deeply uncertain. "Can you get over there?"

Scott twisted from sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, to kneeling, Gordon steadying him through every move. Gritting his teeth, Scott got one foot flat on the ground, using Gordon and the girder beside him to reinforce limbs that felt like burning jelly. He would have gone on, even if he had to crawl. Gordon's desperation and the thought of Alan waiting for them at home gave him the strength to stand instead. Gordon threw his arms around Scott's waist, taking most of his brother's weight. Scott leaned hard against him, and against the ironwork, making an enormous effort to lift each foot and effectively pulling himself along the girder before it fell back to the ground.

Twenty yards felt like twenty miles, Scott struggling the whole way, Gordon obviously frantic with anxiety but helping as much as he could. Scott took a deep breath, fighting against the tightness of his chest, and managed to take most of his own weight as he staggered the few steps between the last of the metal structure's girders and the rock wall ahead of them.

They collided with the wall as Gordon concentrated on moving forward rather than steering, sliding down against it until Scott was on his knees, Gordon crouched beside him. Scott swallowed back a wave of dizziness and nausea, pressing his forehead to the cool metal of the door. It was basic, utilitarian, a steel plate with a lock that Scott had no chance of picking, even if he knew where to begin. He might as well close his eyes and wish it open. He had about as much chance of getting through it that way as any other. Scott tried to hide his sense of despair, aware of Gordon's eyes on him, expecting him to explain their next move and never doubting that there was one. His little brother had turned to face the enormous radio dish, sitting with his back to a metal grille beside the door as he took a minute to catch his own breath.

Scott gazed at him, then past him, squinting his eyes to force them to focus. He shuffled a few inches towards his brother, numb fingers probing the edges of the grille and hesitating over a recessed screw. His concentration narrowed to the single task, he frowned.

"Screwdriver," he mouthed silently. No, that was wrong, there was another option. Something he knew he ought to be remembering. "Penknife!" he exclaimed aloud, pleased with the hints of his own returning rationality. He fingered the screws for a few seconds longer before he looked around, frowning, suddenly aware of something important missing. "Gordon?"

His little brother came running back. Neither of them was worrying about cameras any more. It was too late for that. Gordon carried the grey tarpaulin pack in both arms, stumbling as he hurried back to his brother's side. Scott was still reacting slowly, not sure whether to berate his brother for running off, or thank him for bringing their supplies. Instead he watched in silence, saving his breath, as his little brother unwound the pack and scrabbled through it, pulling out the Swiss army knife with a satisfied air.

They'd carried the metal tool for two days. Now it proved its worth. Scott fumbled the screwdriver attachment open. He held his breath, putting all his strength into an initial twist before letting Gordon take over the effort of loosening each of the four screws holding the grille in place. They pulled the wire mesh out between them, sharing a small smile of satisfaction for the achievement. The shaft they revealed was perhaps three feet by two, leading off into the depths of the hillside. Gordon crouched down towards it without hesitation, obviously planning to dive straight in. Scott moved to block him, dropping onto his belly and peering into the darkness.

"What is it, Scotty? Where does it go?"

"Probably ventilation," Scott suggested, keeping his statement short and still wheezing out the end. Cautiously he shook his limbs. He had all the strength of a day-old kitten and knew it. Should he let Gordon go ahead, feeling his way through the darkness? Scott was pretty sure he could still crawl, but he also knew his brother would probably move faster. The last thing he needed was Gordon racing ahead. And the last thing Gordon needed was Scott passing out again, potentially blocking their only escape route if the shaft turned out to be a dead end. No, better to lead the way, and leave his brother free to back out the way they came if necessary. "I'll go first, Gordy. Let's be careful, okay? Follow me."

The jigsaw puzzle wasn't coming close to holding Virgil's attention. He fiddled with it in a desultory manner, reaching out from time to time for a likely looking piece and trying it in a variety of orientations before letting it drop between his fingers. Mostly he just sat and thought, the puzzle no more than a distraction for the adults who hovered around him, and a deterrent against the two little girls playing a short distance away.

He jumped, startled and a little annoyed, when a slender hand reached past him and selected a puzzle piece to add to the edge of the barely started picture.

"John!" he protested automatically, shaking his head. His younger brother never had been able to resist an incomplete jigsaw. There was something about them that seemed to offend the other boy's deep-seated need for order.

Blinking, Virgil twisted around. John was beside him, changed and showered, but looking more rather than less tired for his few hours away from the hospital. There were deep shadows under his eyes that suggested his sleep had been disturbed, if it hadn't eluded Virgil's newly-returned brother completely. He mustered a smile that didn't reach his pale blue eyes.

"Sorry," he apologised, glancing down at the puzzle.

Virgil shook his head, returning his brother's weak smile and dismissing his apology with a wave. "I've never liked these things," he observed, as John's hands twitched towards another component of the broken picture. "Help yourself, Johnny."

John gave in to temptation, selecting the piece he'd noticed and fixing it into place. Task accomplished, he sat back, still looking down at the board but as unenthused about the jigsaw as Virgil, even if he was couldn't stop himself working on it. Virgil hesitated. John's subdued demeanour worried him. He just wasn't sure whether he could, or should, put his concern into words. It wasn't as if he had any doubts about what was troubling his younger brother.

A movement at the doorway to the children's ward distracted Virgil from his dilemma. Mom was there, bending down to Alan with a harried expression on her face. Alan was looking far brighter, his nap having recharged his energy and exuberance, in stark contrast to John's weariness. He looked a little chastened as his mother scolded him for whatever had delayed their arrival, but his eyes kept darting towards the play area and the tempting piles of toys there. Mom finally released Alan's hand, watching with a fond smile as he ran across the room to the soft toy bin. It felt good to see her smile.

She came over, embracing Virgil gently, sitting behind him so her arms encircled him. He leaned back against her, eyes closed, taking a moment just to feel safe and comfortable. Then he opened his eyes to the children's ward, saw John watching Alan anxiously and the frequent glances his baby brother threw back towards them. He tilted his head back, looking up into his Mom's pale face.

Talking to Dad had helped a lot. Virgil trusted his father implicitly. His heart might struggle to believe it, but his head had no choice other than to accept what Dad told him – that just possibly losing Scott and Gordon to the waves hadn't been his fault. It didn't stop the guilt tearing at him now. He had no right to his mother's comfort when his brothers were lost and afraid without it. He sat up, pulling out of Mom's arms. She held him for a moment before letting go, shifting so Johnny was on her left and Virgil on her right, both sons close enough to feel her warmth.

"Have you been awake long, Virgil honey?"

"No, Mom. Not long." Virgil sighed, shaking his head and poking again at the piled puzzle pieces. "Dad's still asleep," he volunteered

Mom echoed his sigh. "I know, darling. His doctor told me." She gave another small smile. "He's making their lives a misery whenever he's awake, but that's your Dad. Now, what's this puzzle meant to be?"

Mom stayed for an hour or so, talking quietly to Virgil and John, the three of them cooperating over the puzzle, with occasional over-enthusiastic 'help' from Alan. Despite everything, Virgil's shoulders had lost a little of their tension by the time the picture was half-finished, and his dull headache had faded. The situation was forced, unnatural, truly horrible, but it was somehow easier to deal with surrounded by his family.

He didn't want to let Mom go when Dad woke, even knowing that his father needed her too. John looked just as unhappy, but simply nodded, promising Mom that he'd look after their little brother as if the duty nurse, and the porter who'd been hovering around the ward, were insufficient guardians. Alan seemed to have been adopted by Amelia and Susie, the two little girls charmed by his blue eyes and blond curls, but he looked up, scared and hugging Mom tightly, as she told him to be good until she came back. All three boys watched her to the door, Alan's lips trembling until the girls made a deliberate effort to distract him with their toys.

Virgil was silent for a few seconds after Mom left the ward, his eyes on his middle brother.

"Johnny, are you okay?"

John frowned, meeting his elder brother's eyes for the first time. Virgil could see all his own doubts, fears and desperate hope reflected in Johnny's tired gaze. John gave a slight shake of his head, turning away.

"Do you think Mr Vaughan will find them?"

Sighing, Virgil gave John a steady look.

"I think he and Inspector Travis will try."

Rummaging in the bag of toys and snacks Mom carried around for Alan, John pulled out a wad of folded newsprint. He lifted it out onto his lap, smoothing the pages. On the top sheet, Virgil could see an old NASA photograph of their father under banner headlines that tried to reduce their family tragedy to mere sensation.

"There are press people all around outside," John told him, his eyes downcast. "Mom didn't want me to read the papers at the hotel. She says that there was a storm and the boat sank and that's all I need to know, but… I want to know what people are saying, Virgil. I've got to know what's going on. Read with me?"

Virgil baulked at the idea. He didn't want to know what the media was saying about his family. He caught sight of his own name in one of the sub-headings, and those of his brothers, and his eyes blurred. He wanted to say no, to tell John it wasn't important. Johnny's worried expression persuaded him otherwise. Virgil's bright younger brother was never happy until he understood a situation. As bad as this one was, hiding anything from him when he already suspected the worst would only upset John further.

His brother was desperate for some way to process the situation, if only through an analysis of the media's lies. Swallowing hard, Virgil held out his hand for the paper.

"I'll read. Stop me if you want to ask anything."

Of course, John could already understand pretty much anything his eleven-year-old brother could explain, but Virgil wouldn't let John try to figure all this out alone. Scott wouldn't have.

"Interesting technology." Vaughan picked up a remote control, studying it before tossing it casually onto Villacana's steel and glass table. It skittered across the smooth surface, landing at a jaunty angle, tilted slightly onto its side. Its owner followed it with his eyes, a noticeable frown crossing his brow.

Villacana was rattled. Travis watched in fascination as Vaughan played the man. From the moment their helijet had landed, thundering out of a clear blue sky before Villacana could so much as radio an objection, the NASA security man had had the upper hand.

"NASA technology?" Travis asked idly, playing along. He'd settled back in one of the pristine black leather chairs, sprawling casually, arms and one leg hanging over the chair arms. The look Villacana gave him was one of impotent fury.

"Oh yes." Vaughan's amused tone drew all eyes back to him. "Definitely NASA technology. Patented too. You must have paid a pretty penny for permission to make these, Auguste." He frowned, as if a new idea had only just occurred to him. "You did, didn't you?"

Travis echoed his frown. "Maybe we should look into that?"

He watched in amusement as Villacana's fists clenched.

Vaughan had explained his strategy during the forty-minute journey from Dominga. While Travis and Kearney had been making things up as they went along during their first interview with San Fernando's dictator, Vaughan had not only his ID file, but also his NASA psyche profile to call on. It was hardly a surprise to find that Villacana fitted a classic profile: obsessive, controlled and rigidly constrained by plans and routines. Some scientists, some software engineers, were apparently impulsive, imaginative free thinkers. Villacana evidently wasn't one of them.

The man's withdrawal, his strict control over his small world, and the distaste he'd shown at Travis and Kearney's visit, all told Vaughan that nothing in the last decade had changed Villacana's personality. And it told both Vaughan and Travis that if they wanted to get under his skin, there was one simple way to do it. From their unannounced arrival to their disrespectful treatment of his belongings, everything they were doing was intended to disrupt Villacana's control and routine.

"I must protest your quite unacceptable behaviour!"

Vaughan turned on him, eyes cold. The tall, bulky, middle-aged black man towered over the pale, young, wafer-thin programmer. That anyone could live for near a decade on a Domingan island without picking up a hint of a tan was astonishing. It made for a dramatic contrast between them. Vaughan took a step forward, the pleasant façade he'd adopted since their arrival almost an hour before dropping away.

"Villacana, I find you behaviour not just unacceptable. I find it inhuman."

Villacana backed up a step before raising his chin, his own expression frigid. "Do you even have any jurisdiction here, Vaughan? I left NASA quite some time ago."

"You were fired," Travis noted from the armchair. "For failing."

"Never!" It was almost a hiss. "My projects never failed. The fools I was working with – "

" – working for – " Travis corrected.

" – they didn't understand. They didn't have the wit."

"Your genius was never recognised?" Vaughan shook his head. "Do you know how many disgruntled ex-employees I've heard say that? How many people I've escorted off the premises because they just weren't good enough?"

Villacana's thin-lipped smile had all the warmth of a cobra's. "You have no idea how good I am."

"All your work built on a good idea you had as a teenager? A stray spark between otherwise quite unremarkable neurons." Vaughan drew one of the chairs away from the table and swung it around, sitting with a leg to either side of it, leaning on its back. "And it turns out that even that was a fraud."

Travis raised an eyebrow, recognising his cue, although he wondered where this was going. "I don't know why we're here. We might as well go, he doesn't know anything worth knowing."

Vaughan sighed, glancing in his direction. "You're probably right, Inspector." He shook his head, standing. "He doesn't even know that his great theory – those encryption codes you built your reputation on, Villacana – turn out to be full of holes."

"The codes are perfect," Villacana snapped. "No one has ever broken them! No one!"

The man drew in a quick, sharp breath. His expression flickered and then settled back into its blank mask as Villacana visibly fought for calm. He looked from Vaughan to Travis and back again, as if assessing their reactions. Travis was careful to keep his under control, his own neutral mask the product of long police training. Vaughan raised an eyebrow.

"You seem very sure of that, Auguste," he noted. "But then you've been hiding your light under a bushel, haven't you? You've been keeping a good deal closer in touch with the world outside than you've been letting on, haven't you?"

Villacana's expression remained neutral, but his body language was wary, the slightest flicker of something that didn't look like guilt but might be irritation passing through his eyes.

"I have no idea what you mean," Villacana said coolly.

Vaughan shrugged, as if totally indifferent.

"Your radio dish, of course," he said casually, standing and striding towards the picture window.

Travis had been listening carefully. Blank as his expression might be, his eyes were intent on his host's face. He saw the reaction that Villacana was unsettled enough to reveal, or simply not quick enough to hide. The surprise was obvious, and baffling. Whatever Villacana had thought Vaughan was talking about, the radio dish wasn't it. And for the first time, their host seemed genuinely dismayed by something they'd said rather than merely angered by it.

Travis shot Vaughan a swift, puzzled look. Still facing out across the island, Vaughan caught Travis' eye in the reflection, acknowledging that he'd seen the same reaction.

"Well hidden, isn't it?" Vaughan observed, peering down over the tree canopy. "If we hadn't been looking for it when we flew in, we wouldn't even have noticed the cover amidst the trees. With a dish like that, you've got to have an impressive bandwidth. You must be more or less on top of things. I'm surprised you hadn't worked it out. What happened with the Weather Station, I mean."

Now Villacana froze. It wasn't just his expression that shut down. His body language itself came under his rigid control, as if the man was trying hard to deny his own presence in the room entirely.

"I have no idea what you mean."

This time the phrase couldn't be anything but a lie.

Vaughan turned his back on the window, his movement abrupt. He strode across the room until he was no more than a metre in front of the other man. "Someone got control of the Weather Station, Villacana. Someone broke through your 'perfect' unbreakable codes. Someone took control of a storm and aimed it slap bang at San Fernando! Who was it, Villacana? Who wants that badly to kill you?"

Vaughan meant it as the hammer blow that would break their host. Travis was on his feet, ready to back him up. Neither man expected the complex mix of emotions that Villacana displayed. The intense surprise shattered his mental shell, followed almost immediately by relief and then amusement, caution and a renewed, resurgent confidence. And then it was all gone, dark eyes unreadable in a pale face.

"Vaughan, you have no idea what you're talking about."

Vaughan blinked.

It was the turning point of the interview and all three men realised it. Villacana breathed coolly, glancing at a monitor on the wall behind Travis, apparently absorbing the information streaming there between breaths. Crossing to the window, he stood in front of it, hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the two confused detectives.

"I thought you were searching for these missing children," Villacana observed with mild disdain. "This 'Scott' and 'Gordon'." He glanced again at the screen, raised an eyebrow slightly, and moved a few steps closer to his information source before looking around again. "Scott and Gordon Tracy, it would seem, according to some of the reputable press." Travis winced before he could stop himself. As Vaughan had told them, it had only been a matter of time before the news broke. And again Villacana's hint of surprise seemed genuine. "You did say ex-NASA, I believe, Inspector."

"You weren't aware that Jeff Tracy and his family were in the area?" Vaughan demanded, realising he'd lost control of the conversation.

Villacana showed no hesitation in his answer. "As I told the Inspector and his colleague, I neither knew nor cared."

"Mr Villacana." Travis kicked himself the moment he accorded their host the deference inherent in even so mundane a title. "Can you explain why you require a communications dish as large as the one that has been identified on your island?"

Villacana's lack of reaction was interesting in itself, but there was no clue now as to what it might be hiding. "No."

Vaughan opened his mouth to speak and Villacana cut him off.

"I see no reason to explain myself or any of my activities to you."

"We're investigating the piracy of one of the most powerful weapons on the planet, Villacana," Vaughan's frustration burst to the surface. Travis frowned, realising that admitting the urgency of their mission handed Villacana more power over them. To all appearances the man appeared indifferent to it.

"Do you have any evidence that I am in any way connected to it? A few stray tourists, albeit a celebrity and his offspring, founder near my home and I am subjected to interrogation, abuse and an intolerable intrusion into my privacy."

Travis took a deep breath. He met Vaughan's eyes, willing the other man to calm down, and summoned up his most professional tone.

"It is routine procedure to investigate all possible leads," he said calmly. "And the artificial induction pulse did fall very close to San Fernando."

"Hardly." Villacana waved a hand in a small, dismissive gesture. "The accuracy of the World Weather Control System is within tens of metres, Inspector. Not tens of miles. I don't know what gave you the idea that I might have been under attack. As I recall, no one at NASA considered my services worth retaining, or appreciated the ways in which my skills had developed. I can't imagine, Mr Vaughan, that their opinions have changed." In anything but a blank monotone, the words might have seemed bitter. As it was, they came out as a simple statement of fact. "I would have thought Jeff Tracy made a far more promising target."

Sighing, Travis rubbed the back of his head. They'd come full circle. As much as he disliked Villacana, as much as he was more certain than ever that the man was hiding something, he had to admit that it was a valid point.

It wasn't much more than half an hour before they were back on the helijet, strapped in and ready for departure. All in all, they'd been on San Fernando for barely two hours, most of that spent in a verbal jousting match with a man who'd seemed human for less than five minutes somewhere in the middle of it.

"He knows something," Vaughan thumped the arm of his chair in frustration as the vehicle dragged itself laboriously into the air. "When I mentioned the Weather Station there was something there."

"He practically laughed in our face when we suggested the storm was aimed at him though." Travis rubbed his face tiredly, not disagreeing, but sharing Vaughan's frustration. "Damn it! We had that one chance and we blew it! We still don't have enough. Not enough for a search warrant, or even to haul him back to Dominga for questioning. A few expressions, a few strange comments…" he shook his head.

Vaughan's eyes were deadly serious when they met his. "Travis, do you have any idea how much damage the Weather Station could do in unfriendly hands? We're not just talking about storms aimed at individuals. We're talking flooding and droughts, crop failure and mass starvation. Half the planet could be rendered uninhabitable within six months. We're talking about a madman holding the world to ransom, for reasons obvious to him, but incomprehensible to everyone around him. By the time the public realise the first storm wasn't a malfunction, it'll be too late to do anything to stop the next, or the next, or the one after that. If Villacana knows anything, anything at all, I have to get it out of him."

"You're going on a gut feeling. I'm not arguing with it, but he's right. There's not one shred of evidence that would justify another trip out here."

Vaughan grimaced. "We don't have time to figure this out the hard way. I've got people back at base scouring every transmission, every record we've ever made with Villacana's name attached. There has to be a connection to whoever is responsible. I just need more leverage before we try again."

Travis rubbed a tired hand across his face. "Vaughan, the space station is your responsibility. I'm so far out of my jurisdiction, I'd need a telescope to see it. God knows I want to help, but Domingan law means I can't force him off San Fernando unless there's evidence he's broken international treaties. So far, all I've got against him is bribery and attempted deceit, and those are petty charges at best. Nowhere near enough to get me an extradition order against San Fernando. He wasn't joking when he threatened me with a harassment charge before we left. The interference-free sovereignty of the islands is in our constitution, Vaughan! Maybe you can find a way to make this investigation stick – call in the C.I.A., or W.S.P., or whatever it takes to get you back onto the island. I can't take you."

Travis rested his head against the glass of the window, frustration and a sense of devastating impotence burning through him. He was aware of Vaughan already on his satellite phone, pulling every political lever and trying every law enforcement contact he had to muster the authority for a raid on San Fernando. It was clear even from his initial comments that it wasn't going to be a quick process. The island fell behind them, a tiny green speck in the vast ocean that had swallowed Scott and Gordon Tracy up whole. And if Vaughan was right, the two boys would only be the first of many.

Chapter 17

"Stop kicking me, Scotty!"

Scott counted to ten, timing his breaths and the jerky movements of his knees and elbows to the count. "You're behind me, Gordon. I can't even see you. If you don't want me kicking you, back off!"

He could practically hear Gordon's unspoken objection. There was a long silence, and then the sound of his little brother's movements fell back a metre or so, and Scott's feet stopped meeting with an obstruction on every laborious shuffle.

He couldn't blame Gordon for sticking close. Scott's wheezing breath echoed through the compact metal tunnel. He knew it still sounded strained. It felt strained too, his chest tight and his lungs burning. On the other hand, coming in here had helped. Out of the direct sun, he no longer felt quite so hot or washed out. Out of the brilliant light, his head ached a little less. Close to the ground, his movements limited to crawling on his knees and elbows, his dizziness had abated somewhat. And in the cool, damp air of the tunnel he was breathing just a little more easily.

Even so, he could feel Gordon chafing against his slow progress. Since they'd turned a sharp angle some tens of metres back, the light from the grille was a distant memory. They had to be a hundred metres into the hillside now, almost directly under the ridge line that had been their destination in the first place.

"Are we nearly there yet?"

Scott considered counting again, wondering not for the first time if his little brother was trying to comfort either Scott or himself with the banality of his occasional comments. After the last few days, he wouldn't put anything past Gordon. Sighing, and studiously ignoring the question, Scott raised his gaze from the blackness between his hands to the darkness stretching out in front of him.

And blinked.

"Yes," he murmured, knowing he didn't need to be loud for the noise to echo through the confined space. "Yes, Gordy, we're nearly there."

The rectangular grid of wire mesh cast a brilliant patterned light into the narrow shaft. Scott blinked as he edged closer, shushing Gordon's anxious questions with a sudden intense caution. Truthfully, he'd been expecting to find a way out of the rectangular metal tube far earlier, his movie-trained mind expecting a suite of thronged underground rooms to go with the clandestine radio antenna, each with their own access to the ventilation system. Instead, there was only this single room, buzzing and flashing with active computer monitors. Scott peered into it for long enough to check the half-dozen seats visible through the ground-level grille were all vacant before probing the metalwork with anxious fingers. He felt a surge of claustrophobia, an urgent need to get through the narrow gap in the tunnel wall and into the room beyond. The carpeted floor was just inches beyond his reach, even its short-piled, institutional beige looking inviting and soft in comparison with the steel shaft.

"Is there a way out, Scotty?" Gordon could evidently see some of what he was doing, his elder brother silhouetted against the light. "Are we trapped?"

"We'll get out there," Scott told him with determination, twisting painfully in the compact space until he was lying on his side, studying the wire grille that lay between them and freedom.

He hadn't really thought through this end of the plan. He'd assumed that getting into the tunnel would be the hardest part. He almost wept with relief when his aching fingers brushed over a set of cam locks rather than screws. Presumably each would be turned with a key from the other side. From this side it was just a case of getting enough leverage on each short metal latch, twisting it back towards the centre of the vent cover.

Gordon squirmed forward, shoving Scott back against the wall of the tunnel before he could protest. His back to Scott's chest and his hair in his elder brother's face, he produced their penknife from the pocket of his jeans and used it to lever the last few latches open, giving the wire frame a firm shove. It fell outwards into the room with a clatter that made Scott wince. He tried to grab for his little brother, far too slow to stop Gordon from scrambling out into the harsh artificial light of the thankfully deserted room.

Scott followed with a sigh, squinting and blinking against the lights that seemed to flicker from every surface. Hauling himself out into the room with a hand on each side of the shaft, he sank down into a kneeling heap just inside and closed his eyes, trying to force down suddenly rising nausea. He could hear Gordon moving about, and tried to open his eyes to see him, closing them again when bile rose in his already raw throat.

"Don't touch anything," he managed in a ragged whisper, not sure whether Gordon would either hear or listen to him.

He was startled to feel small hands on his, pressing something into them and lifting it to his lips. Automatically, he closed his mouth, and the first of the ice-cold water trickled around his lips, dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt. Instantly, he lifted his hands higher, out of Gordon's, draining the chilled liquid in two short gulps. There was a patter of feet and then another cup was pressed into his hand. He dropped the first and clutched this new offering, taking another gulp until he felt his stomach roil in protest. He sipped the rest more slowly, savouring the sweet taste as he swilled it around his mouth, moistening parched tissue before letting it trickle down his throat. He was reaching out blindly in search of a third cup when he felt something cold and wet land on the back of his neck. His eyes snapped open as he gasped in shock, and he saw Gordon standing over him, his T-shirt wadded in one hand, water blending with the dirt and dust from the track to make a fine mud that coated it. Scott didn’t object, raising his face gratefully and craving the coolness as Gordon mopped his big brother's dripping brow.

"Gordy?"

"Mom always uses cold cloths when someone's ill." Gordon shrugged, looking uncertainly down at the soaked fabric in his hands. Scott reached for it in mute appeal and Gordon handed it over. Scott buried his face in it, breathing in dirt and sweat and the desperately longed-for cool dampness.

"Here, Scotty." Gordon was holding out yet another transparent plastic cup, filled to the brim with water, condensation forming on its ridged sides. Scott threw the damp T-shirt back around his neck, and took the cup gratefully, sipping down half of it before the sheer ludicrousness of the situation struck him. He looked down at the two cups by his side, one lying perfect on the thin carpet, the other crushed from the intensity of Scott's grip. Gordon was back, silently holding out a fourth cup full of water. Scott looked from the proffered cup to his bare-chested, pale-faced, exhausted little brother and closed his eyes in a wince.

"Drink it," he ordered.

"But you're thirsty."

"So are you, Gordy. And there's lots more," he guessed, still confused by the sudden abundance. "Thank you, Gordy. But that one's yours."

Gordon dropped down beside him, draining the cup in one long draught. This time Scott was watching as his little brother scrambled to his feet, running across the room to the recess in one wall marked with two large drops of water falling from a stylised faucet. He pressed his cup back against the dispensing lever. The stream of water came at once, mist curling around it.

Scott didn't make his little brother return to him. He pushed up to his feet with an effort, staggering across to the seemingly-never ending water fountain, fervent thanks both for its presence and for Gordon's sharp eyes ringing through his mind. Imitating his little brother, Scott refilled his cup, pouring half onto the already-damp T-shirt and using it to wipe first his face and then Gordon's. He was still desperately thirsty, but the queasy feeling competing with the burning sensation in his chest warned him that he'd have to go easy.

He eyed his little brother seriously. "Gordon, thank you."

"It looked like the water fountain at school, so I thought why not give it a try, and there were cups so I pulled one out and it worked." Gordon hiccupped, his hand going to his stomach as his complexion picked up a hint of green. Scott confiscated his little brother's cup regretfully, dumping their damp cloth over the back of Gordon's head and neck.

"Breathe deep, Gordy. Just breathe and it will pass."

Gordon's colour normalised slowly, and this time he was the one looking at the cup his brother held in mute appeal. Scott held it to his lips, letting him sip a little, and then risking another few sips from his own before letting Gordon take more.

"We've got to pace ourselves, Gordy," he whispered. "We're not used to having as much as we want any more."

Gordon nodded reluctantly, sighing and looking wistfully at the drinking fountain. Shivering a little, he pulled the wadded-up T-shirt from his neck and unrolled it, shaking it out and pulling it back over his head. The scrap of fabric was torn and filthy, soaked with water and both his own perspiration and Scott's. Under usual circumstances Scott's fastidious little brother would be wary even of poking it with a stick. Today, Gordon shivered with delight at the touch of the cool fabric on his sun-touched, exertion-heated skin. Watching him, Scott shrugged and reached up for one more cupful of water. Without hesitation, he dumped it over his own head, letting it trickle through his hair and over his face before soaking his own T-shirt. It felt like ice cubes down his back, and he gasped, then wheezed as he revelled in the sensation.

"Can I have some more water, Scotty?"

"Not now." Scott frowned, hating himself for refusing his younger brother's tentative appeal. "In a minute, Gordon." Tearing his gaze away from Gordon's pleading eyes, Scott finally raised his head to give the room they were in a proper inspection.

It was familiar.

That was the first thing Scott registered, amidst the literally dizzying array of light and colour. He'd seen this place before.

The room was circular. Its back wall was lined with monitors, the three panels below covered in controls, levers and dials, and each with a standard office-style seat bolted into the floor in front of them. The vent shaft where they had entered was just clockwise of the right-hand panel, the discarded grille and litter of discarded plastic cups drawing attention to the gaping rectangular hole in the wall. Directly above it, just below the ceiling rather than a floor level, a second identical grille suggested that the shaft they'd crawled through was no more than the passive intake to a ventilation system driven by fans above.

In the centre of the room, directly between the water dispenser and the chamber's one and only door, a slightly larger seat stood on a raised platform, display screens to either side, at a convenient height for a seated man. The chair – a control chair, surely? – overlooked another two seats, each looking towards the front of the room and each with a bank of equipment in front of them. Like the panels at the back of the room, these were covered in controls and displays, dials, levers and switches. Unlike the rear-facing positions, these panels didn't have computer monitors fixed directly above them. The huge, curved vid-screen that filled the front wall made it unnecessary.

Scott's eyes had picked out the satellite weather maps being displayed on the small monitors at the back of the room. He'd skimmed over the engineering and environmental displays. He could see the information streaming across the windows stacked around the edge of the main display. They were all familiar.

He'd seen them in schoolbooks, and in a mock-up of this room on the NASA's visitor tour. He remembered sitting on the sofa, Virgil on the other end, and John on Uncle Jim's lap in the middle as he showed the enthusiastic boys a hundred photos of this room, bringing each alive with jokes and stories.

He didn't need the view in the central window of the wall-sized vid-screen to confirm it.

"It's the Weather Station!"

"Scotty?"

"It's the Weather Station, Gordy. The main control room. I… I don't understand."

Gordon was giving him a look midway between confused, incredulous and concerned. Scott knew that his face was still flushed and he was panting in his excitement. "Scotty, the Weather Station's up in space. Near the Moon."

Scott rolled his eyes at his little brother. Gordon, raised on stories of his father's lunar expedition, had yet to be convinced that anything could be in outer space without being near the Moon. Even so, he had a good point.

"It's not real," he agreed thoughtfully. "This is wrong, Gordy. Really wrong. This means…" his voice choked up, and he felt burning tears form in his eyes. "This means that maybe it wasn't an accident, Gordon! This means…" Anger gave him a strength and a determination he didn't realise he had. He'd been sitting on the floor beside the water dispenser, a bewildered Gordon at his side. He pushed to his feet with an effort, one hand against the wall to support himself as the expected wave of dizziness came and went, not bothering to look around when he heard Gordon surreptitiously refilling his plastic cup. "Sip it," he instructed, smiling slightly at Gordon's dismayed murmur. "You'll regret it if you don't, Gordon."

Finding his balance, he walked unsteadily to the command chair, stepping up onto the podium and gripping the back of it to support himself. Gordon followed, eyes widening as the two of them moved into range of the small speakers in the chair arms.

In the video window at the centre of the main screen, Scott and Gordon could see into a room that was a near-identical mirror of this one. Technicians sat at the front two stations, and a third was standing in front of one of the rear panels, his back to the screen. The murmur of sound from the speakers combined the hum of air-conditioning with the gentle rhythm of their reports and comments to one another.

Both boys watched, fascinated, as the technician at the back of the room moved from panel to panel, recording readings on an electronic notepad he held in one hand. The man looked up as the door to the side of that distant, orbiting control room slid open. The older man who walked through looked weary, his shoulders slumped and his eyes shadowed. Despite that, as he moved towards the control chair and glanced up at the main screen, apparently straight at the boys, they knew him.

"Uncle Jim!" Scott couldn't help calling out. He regretted it immediately, feeling the vice around his chest tighten a little further.

"Uncle Jim! Please, Uncle Jim! Scotty needs help!" Gordon was still calling as Scott dissolved into a coughing fit that drove him to his knees.

"Gor… He can't hear us… Gordy," Scott gasped out, relieved when Gordon's frantic calls stopped and still more so when his brother ran up with a cupful of water a few seconds later.

Sipping, Scott managed to steady his breathing. He was still on his knees, one hand on the arm of the control chair beside him. Pulling himself up against it, Gordon holding on anxiously to his other side, he swung himself up into the chair, mirroring his father's old friend on the other side of the screen.

"Why can't he hear us, Scotty? We can hear him. We can see him." Gordon was in tears, the frustration of being so close to the long-promised radio call for help and yet so far getting to the younger boy. Scott sighed, keeping the breath shallow and taking another unsteady sip of his water.

"Give me a minute, Gordon," he promised, "and I'll work it out." He looked at the little boy, staring red-faced at the screen, fists clenching and unclenching. "Gordy, I want you to go listen at the door for me, okay? We need to know if anyone's coming, 'cause we really, really don't want to be caught in here."

Gordon hesitated, and then nodded, not needing his brother to explain the seriousness of his task. He jumped down from the platform, landing two footed and hurried to press his ear to the metal door. Scott watched him go, relieved, and then turned back to the bewildering array of buttons and controls that surrounded him, wondering where he would even start to look for the communications system.

Desperate for inspiration, he looked up at the screen, trying to work out which switches everyone was using, and what for. The two technicians in the front positions were getting on with their work, evidently responsible for the routine weather monitoring and control that the station did more often than not. If there was a com-system, or at least a com-system that would reach from the Earth to the satellite, it probably had a dedicated display, and that wasn't likely in the front two stations. Scott studied the bank of rear panels in the image, bewildered and frustrated by their complexity, and the total lack of clues as to their function. Putting his water cup between his knees and holding onto both arms of the chair, he swivelled it around to face the consoles behind him. Would he have to drag himself over there, and scan the panels one by one with eyes that didn't seem to want to focus any more?

"Scotty?" Gordon was watching him, wide-eyed and trusting.

"Just keep listening," Scott told him firmly, swinging back to the screen. There had to be a better option.

Uncle Jim had remained silent since he entered, merely nodding and waving a hand to acknowledge the greetings and reports of his staff. He seemed to be working at the controls built into the arms of his chairs, looking at the results on the two small screens to either side of him. Scott looked down at the arms of his own chairs, hoping he might be able to read these at least, and that's when he saw it.

He glanced back up at the screen and down again quickly enough to make himself dizzy. The panel of controls in the right arm of his chair was familiar, a match for those on the screen in front of him. The ones on his left were, as far as he could tell, the only controls in the entire room without a perfect twin on the orbiting satellite above.

Tentatively, he picked out a switch labelled '2-Way', squinting to be sure of the universal microphone symbol above it. Taking as deep a breath as he was able to, he flicked it.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

Gordon's eyes moved from his brother to the screen, his body tensing in anticipation. No one on the space station so much as blinked. Scott shook his head, glancing at his little brother.

"Watch the door, Gordy," he cautioned again, waiting 'till Gordon pressed his ear back against the smooth metal. He looked down at the big button in the centre of the extra control panel. "And, really, really don't touch anything."

The button was bright orange, covered by a transparent plastic box that flipped back away from it. The label underneath was suggestive of a lot of things Scott didn't want to think about: 'Activate Override'. Raising the lid up with trembling fingers, Scott pushed the button.

It lit a dull red under his finger, and this time the response from the genuine Weather Station was immediate.

"I have a malfunction of the control system," the first technician's brisk report overlapped with her companion's.

"Monitor programmes are not responding."

In the centre seat, Jim Dale was sitting upright, notepad falling from his fingers. He pressed a yellow button on the right arm of his chair, looking down at it in dismay when nothing happened. Tentatively, truly hoping he was wrong, Scott pushed the same button on his own right-hand panel. Instantly an alarm split the air, carried on the vid-signal from the space station. Three other personnel tumbled into the room, heading for their rear control consoles as the stream of error reports from the two technicians up front turned technical.

"Commander! We have no control whatsoever!"

Uncle Jim was holding the arms of his chair, white-knuckled. "Not again," he whispered, the sound barely audible to Scott where he was sitting.

Closing his eyes, terrified, Scott tried the '2-Way' switch again.

"Hello?" he tried, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak.

There was an immediate cessation of the frantic activity on the screen, every face turning towards the centre of the room in astonishment. Jim Dale leapt to his feet, his fists clenched by his side.

"Who is this?" he demanded sharply. "What do you want?"

Scott could have sobbed with relief. He heard a small cry from Gordon. Swallowing hard, he sipped the last of the water from his cup and tried to make his voice sound as normal as possible.

"Can't you see me? It's me, Uncle Jim! I can see you!"

"Who…?" The commander's voice trailed off, his eyes widening.

"Please, Uncle Jim. We've been trying to get home for so long, and we found this place and a big dish thing and it's all wrong, just wrong, but now I don't know how to call the police or the coastguard or whoever I'm meant to be calling, and I just want to get Gordy back to Mom." Scott had meant to keep his call calm. Exhaustion and fear got the better of him, making the thirteen-year-old babble like his little brother. He stopped himself with an effort, gasping for breath and wheezing when it came.

On the screen, Jim Dale had sunk back into his chair, his expression one of total astonishment.

"Scotty?"

Scott swallowed hard, suddenly no longer alone. At last, someone he trusted knew where he was, even if that someone was hundreds of miles away, straight up. He was a little calmer when he spoke.

"Uncle Jim, you've got to trace this signal!" He watched the screen, feeling an enormous relief when he saw the man Dale glanced at nod, already working hard at his console. "I don't know how anything works here, or I'd tell you where we were, but the alarm button you wanted there worked when I pressed the button here, and I really don't want to press any more buttons."

"Don't press any buttons!" The commander almost yelped the words, still shaking his head in bewilderment, and half his astonished crew seconded that request. "Scott…"

"This place is so wrong, Uncle Jim," Scott gasped, talking through a cough. "It lo… looks just like the room you're in and it's got all the displays and everything and you're up on the big screen in the middle of it. The people here must have made the storm and that means they want to hurt people, and now they want to hurt Gordon and me. They said… they said they had to make sure we never told anyone what we saw."

"Scott," Uncle Jim's voice was urgent and concerned. "Are you and Gordon all right?"

"Scotty's really sick, Uncle Jim." Scott was surprised to find Gordon at his side, leaning towards the microphone. "You've got to send Mom here and she can take us away from the bad men and make Scott all better."

A glare from Scott was enough to send his younger brother scurrying back to the door.

"He's…" Scott paused to catch his breath, trying to hide the strain in his voice. On the screen, Jim Dale was leaning forward in his chair, deep concern written across his face. "He's exaggerating, Uncle Jim."

"You don't sound well, Scott," the station commander pointed out softly. "It's all right, Scotty. I'll get someone to you. Just look after yourself and your little brother. Don't take any risks. Listen, Scott, I want you to find somewhere safe and hide. That's all, just go hide now."

Scott frowned, rubbing his aching head.

"Shouldn't I turn off the override first?"

His dad's old friend gave a bark of laughter, grinning up at the screen.

"Yes, that might be – "

"There's someone coming, Scotty!"

Gordon's squeal cut across the conversation and he dived towards his brother at the centre of the room. Scott swung around in his seat, quickly assessing their options. With one door and little open space, they were distinctly limited. He gave his brother a shove towards the back of the room.

"Grab the cups, Gordy! Get back into the shaft!"

"Hide, Scott!" Jim Dale urged, standing rigid in the centre of his silent control deck.

"They can see you, Uncle Jim!" Scott gasped, flipping the cover over the large button up with one finger. "They can always see you!" He pressed the override button again, not stopping to watch the red glow fade before he threw himself out of the chair and across the room, plastic cup crumpled in one hand and hot on his brother's heels.

Gordon waited, hovering anxiously, until Scott was less than a metre away before slipping head-first into the shaft. Scott gripped the top of the opening with both hands, pulling both feet up with a strength he didn't really have and twisting them into the shaft, sliding along it until only his arms were still in the room. He reached for the metal grille, pulling it up against the wall as the door opened.

On the screen, Uncle Jim was still on his feet, staring tensely into nowhere. The murmur of startled voices around him was barely audible to Scott, and hopefully just as obscure to the thin, pale man who had just walked into the room.

Scott's lungs were burning and his head was spinning. He held the grille in place with aching fingertips as a voice rose clearly above the noise.

"Sir, I have coordinates!"

The commander finally reacted.

"Enough!" he heard clearly. "Continue with your routine diagnostics." Dale stressed the term. He turned to one of the personnel at the back of the room. "Hazel, can I have external coms, a ground-link, through to my office, please? Advise the maintenance crew to get suited-up; we might want to fine-tune something outside. Jonti, come with me."

He was still talking as the newcomer settled into the ground-side control chair, sitting on its edge, body flooded with tension. The man gave the screen a very slightly quizzical look as Commander Dale left the room, one of his personnel in tow. The other four people in the control chamber worked at their consoles with professional calm, only their slightly hunched postures betraying that anything was out of the ordinary.

Gritting his teeth, Scott struggled to keep his desperate, strained breathing quiet as he held the grille against its surround. He kept his grip as Gordon's small hands moved around him, twisting the latches carefully back into place. It wasn't until Gordon began to tug at his hands that Scott let himself roll onto his back, staring up at the roof of the shaft and trying hard not to make a sound as he gasped for each painful breath.

Chapter 18

They were twenty-five minutes out of San Fernando, making a low, slow sweep of the search zone en route to Dominga, when Vaughan's satellite phone rang yet again. Travis, leaning against the window, scanning the featureless ocean with hopeless eyes, wasn't planning to react until he heard the older man gasp, audible even above the police helijet's engine noise.

"You're sure?" Vaughan's eyes were shining, too many emotions mingled there for Travis to easily read. He held the phone to his ear, eyes wide as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Fifteen minutes," the NASA man snapped. "Send back-up."

Travis was already sitting up and facing him when Vaughan flipped his phone closed and pulled back the curtain separating the cabin from the startled pilots.

"Turn this thing around. San Fernando. Top speed. The best you have."

The police pilot didn't hesitate, recognising the urgent tone, even if its source and accent were unfamiliar. The helijet began to turn immediately, acceleration throwing Travis against the side of his chair.

"Vaughan…?" Travis stared in astonishment as Vaughan reached down to his ankle, revealing a compact pistol that Travis had never suspected was holstered there.

"Does this thing have a weapons locker?" the older man demanded, voice deadly.

Travis eyed him warily for several long seconds. Crossing to the back of the cabin, he typed a code into a number pad there before placing his palm flat on the glowing panel beside it. The panel slid aside, and Travis lifted down an assault rifle he'd only ever used on the police firing range, checking it over. Given the anger flushing his NASA contact's face, he felt a little better for being the man with the larger gun.

"Why?" he asked coolly.

Vaughan gave him a look of cold rage that Travis had never expected to see from the calm older man. "Is kidnapping a strong enough charge for you? Kidnapping, attempted murder, hacking a secure system, threatening world stability. We needed evidence and Scott Tracy just gave it to us." He spoke across Travis' gasp. "We're taking Villacana down, Travis. We're taking him down hard, and we're taking him down fast."

Travis studied him with deep caution. His mind was still spinning from the reference to the missing boy, but too well trained to get distracted when a man in front of him, even another officer of the law, was armed and angry. The co-pilot had turned to watch the confrontation, the uniformed officer careful to keep his body behind the bulkhead and his head low as he peered into the rear cabin. Travis gestured for him to remain still, keeping the movement small. Vaughan was out of his seat, pacing, but his gun – now checked – was once again holstered at his ankle.

"Tell me," Travis ordered, dropping back into his own seat, the assault rifle across his lap.

Three minutes into Vaughan's explanation, when Travis' phone rang and Chief Inspector Coates demanded to know why NASA thought he needed police backup, Travis didn't hesitate.

"Chief, I need you to authorise an island search warrant. I need it now!"

Auguste Villacana was a furious, burning mess of conflicting emotions. He strode into his control room, his sanctum and refuge, wound so tight that he felt he would snap.

How could everything have gone so wrong, so quickly? Two hours the arrogant fools had kept him talking. Two hours in which they had almost tricked him into revealing everything, before he realised how little they actually knew and how much less of it they understood.

How had they found out about the radio dish? He had been so careful, opening the camouflaged cover only for a couple of tests of the mechanism and then for the few hours before his own, fateful, live test. Had one of his men been talking? Villacana dropped into his chair, clenching his fists and bringing them down hard on the arms in a shocking display of his fury. If one of his servants, that fool of a captain maybe, had so much as breathed a word, flaying would only be the start of their misery. Villacana would peel back their skin one flap at a time, rubbing salt into the wounds, before hanging them, muscle and bone exposed to the hot sun, to biting insects and the salt wind.

His own passion surprised him. He'd always prided himself on his restraint, on doing what needed to be done to show the world how much it had lost when it turned its back on him. He'd built everything on his plan, working steadily towards its climax, ignoring chaff that fell away to either side as he did so. Always before casualties – that first gossipy servant, the straying fishermen, even the children that had drowned – had been no more than irrelevant necessities. Now, he truly wanted to hurt someone.

To come so close, so near to achieving his goals, and then to have his careful precautions, all his planning, fall apart on him? It was near intolerable.

He glanced up at the screen, rubbing his left hand against his trousers, wondering irritably where it had picked up a smear of dirt. The view from the Weather Station seemed to reflect his own tension. Usually, at this time of day, he would expect two, maybe three, of the station personnel to be on the command deck, the rest of the on-duty technicians working elsewhere in the satellite. Instead, a full complement manned the control consoles, Commander Dale at the focus of the room. As Villacana watched, the man strode out, saying something about routine diagnostics and his office. Villacana watched him go without any particular interest. His home had been invaded unexpectedly, his plans and routines disrupted. It was hardly a surprise that the steady, dependable rhythm of the Weather Station's routine had also faltered. It was as if the universe itself was trembling.

The other control room settled, the two technicians at the front consoles and their two colleagues at the rear falling into a steady pattern of checks and counter checks. Villacana felt his own breathing level out in sympathy, his mind beginning to work again as he assessed the situation.

Travis was an Islander, a good enough detective perhaps to have spotted a lead and followed it, but without the wit or education to know what he'd stumbled across. He was an irrelevance, to be monitored but more dangerous for the allies he might call upon than for his own sake.

Vaughan was another matter. Villacana didn't know the man, but he knew of him. In circumventing NASA's computer security, the security of the World Weather Control System itself, he could hardly have been unaware of his chief adversary. On the information plane Villacana operated on, amidst the meta-data and beautiful, intricate coding, Vaughan had little presence. Even so, it was his signature on the clearance forms Villacana had circumvented, and his name on the security reports that Villacana had read and laughed at before seizing the Weather Station. A man didn't get to be in Vaughan's position without being sharp, and he was here, now. However he'd found out about the radio dish, it was one datum too many in the man's hands. He'd keep searching, building up enough data to move from wild hypothesis to workable theory.

Vaughan and Travis could prove nothing, but their suspicion was more than dangerous. It was potentially catastrophic. For the present, Vaughan was working within the constraints of the Domingan police system. Give him evidence enough, time enough, and he'd go over the heads of Travis, Kearney and their fellows to World Security. At that point, not even his haven on San Fernando would protect Villacana from an investigation he'd never seriously planned for and wouldn't survive.

The test, the glorious storm that had filled the air with power and sent shivers through Villacana's body, had proven that no matter the detail of his plans, some evidence was outside his control. Time though… That Villacana could dictate.

He'd intended to build the tension – a few stray storms, a flood or two, to whet the public appetite, to start the questions and accusation flying. He'd wanted the world to be in a frenzy before he'd stepped forward, showing the mindless hordes just who held their fate in his hands, who they had used and discarded. He'd planned to stand in front of the desperate populace, recognised for the genius he was, and laughing in the face of their pleas. At that point, it wouldn't have mattered when they came for him, if they came at all. He'd have control of the air routes and seaways, his weather routines programmed and laid in, all the power in his hands.

His name would have been on every pair of lips, his face the most famous on the planet.

Now, with San Fernando already in the spotlight, with Vaughan suspicious and the net closing in around him, there would be no time for a slow start. It was time to call the storm.

Villacana breathed deeply, his eyes on the screen. Dale had returned to the control room, dropping calmly into the seat opposite Villacana's and asking about the status of the EV team. Villacana ignored him. If a few technicians found themselves trapped in the cold outside when the station shut down around them, so be it. The station diagnostic was green, content with its own status and that of the satellite network it controlled. Whatever fine-tuning Dale had in mind would make no difference to Villacana's efforts.

His fingers played with the lid covering the override button, knowing that the slightest brush of his fingertips would send Commander Dale and the others with him into a flurry of useless activity. With this button alone, he could block their controls, activate their com-system and even turn off their oxygen, playing with the station as if it were some giant remote-controlled toy. That wasn't enough though. For the kind of display Villacana had in mind, storm fronts and tornados worthy of a mythical thunderbird, he'd need every bit of data flying between the Weather Station and its constellation of satellites. He'd need far better bandwidth than even his every day communications capacity.

Standing, Villacana moved to the rear of the room, blanking a panel displaying crop aridity statistics from East Asia and tapping instead into San Fernando's internal network. He froze, a slight frown crossing his face, as he brought up the radio dish subsystems. He'd felt the warning throb of an intruder alert from his wristband an hour earlier. Trapped with the detectives, in the face of their relentless interrogation, he'd not had time to investigate it, or even to dispatch one of his men to do so. He'd assumed it was the helijet pilot or co-pilot, snooping on the path, and wondered idly if either would wander off it, into the dangerous jungle. At the time, he'd dismissed the thought. If he'd realised that the alert came from the radio dish's motion detectors, he would not have been so sanguine.

It should have been impossible for anyone to get into the interior of the island, past the house and down towards the inlet. No one had so much as disturbed the detectors on the approaches to the dish, and there were more than a few traps along the one easily traversed route. Most likely, the detectors had sensed nothing more than a wild swine, or some other of the island's larger mammals. There was no time to review the tapes now. Even so, after Vaughan's visit and with the critical point just minutes away, he couldn't take that chance.

With a few quick strokes of the keyboard he coded a text order to investigate, dispatching it to Friell in the house above and trusting his senior servant to deal with it.

Satisfied, Villacana sent the retraction command to the canvas roof, and started the dish's deployment sequence. He glanced to his left, to where an apparently featureless wall panel hid a narrow passage leading to the hillside valley. Just a few tens of metres away, on the other side of the tunnel, an immense structure would be unfolding itself, the dish lifting on supports that would rotate and direct it.

The screen flickered an acknowledgement, returning automatically to its mirror of the Weather Station's display. Villacana returned to the control chair, flipping the cover from the override switch and playing with it. Five minutes. Five minutes to deploy and calibrate the dish, and Villacana would summon the greatest storm the world had ever known – a roaring, angry testimonial to the greatest mind the world had ever rejected.

Five minutes.

"We have to stop this." Scott breathed the words, scarcely any sound leaving his lips. Pressed against him in the narrow space, Gordon nodded.

Watching through the grille, they'd both seen the pale man's arrival, both watched him shudder with some deeply-hidden emotion, all the more scary for the completely blank expression on his face. When he'd pushed up from the chair in a single, abrupt movement and come striding towards them, Scott had thought it was all over. He'd closed his eyes, waiting for the shaft cover to be pulled clear and for hands to reach in to grab them. He'd given Gordon a shove, without the breath to tell his little brother to crawl back down the shaft, but willing him to understand. It wasn't until Gordon had shaken off his hand with a small, irritated hiss, giving him a shove back, that Scott realised that the man wasn't coming for them after all. He'd stopped at the centremost control console, working at something out of Scott's sight.

The two boys held still, frightened to move for fear of some noise or reflection attracting attention to the ventilation grille. Scott winced as a metallic clunk echoed up the passage, wondering if Gordon had kicked something, baffled as he could have sworn his brother was as motionless as he was. The man in the control room didn't seem to notice, returning to the control chair. Then Scott felt the faint hints of air moving around him, a sudden breeze blowing into the passage behind them, and understood.

"The radio… it's moving, Gordy," he whispered, directly into his brother's ear. "He's going to use it. Use all this. He's going to make another storm."

Gordon shivered, and Scott automatically pulled his little brother closer in the confined space, trying to see his brother's face with only the dappled light from the grille to work with.

"Daddy…" Gordon whispered, so faintly that even Scott, pressed up against him, barely heard. "We've got to do something, Scotty!"

Scott nodded, keen to hush his little brother as Gordon's voice rose to a more audible level. He glanced back into the control room to check that the man there hadn't noticed. He wracked his brains, automatically assessing his resources, trying not to give up no matter how tired his little brother was, or how little energy he had left himself. Gordon's distress found an echo in his own heart. He wasn't letting this man bring another storm, wreck another boat, shatter another family. But what could he do? While the teenager might out-muscle the other man on a good day, today there was no doubt which of them was stronger. Bursting through the grille and collapsing at the man's feet would do little but draw attention to Gordon. Even on the off-chance that Scott could overpower him, he had no idea what to do or how to stop whatever had been started. The pale man was smarter than Scott, that much was obvious. He could even have a gun, like the men in the jeep, and that would be the end of Scott, and almost certainly Gordon, there and then. Any rescue would arrive too late to save his little brother, and that was unacceptable.

Guns. Now why did that thought spark something in Scott's fuzzy, fever-muddled memory?

A humourless grin spreading across his face, Scott looked back into the enclosed underground room and then down at Gordon.

"The pack… where did…?"

"Back down the tunnel, Scotty. Near the way in." Gordon's near-silent whisper matched his elder brother's, but his expression was quizzical. "Why?"

Scott answered his brother with another gentle shove. "Crawl, Gordy. Quiet as you can. We've got to get out of here."

The helijet's pilot and co-pilot were grim-faced, the two uniformed officers equipped now with small arms from the weapons locker. In the main cabin, Travis and Vaughan were strapped into their seats, waiting tensely for the moment they could leap into action. Another twenty minutes and Kearney and the Chief would join them in a second helijet. For the moment though, Travis and his three companions were alone, and, from what Dale had reported, there was no time to wait for the cavalry.

Glancing over at Vaughan, once again checking his pistol, he shook his head. His blood was running cold, his lips thin with anger. He'd been in Villacana's presence twice now, and known the man was a sociopath. He'd even wondered idly about the stories of violence and booby traps. He'd never for a moment suspected the man was capable of this. Perhaps going in armed and ready for a fight was overkill. Given the ruthless, scheming mind of the man they were facing, his sheer indifference for human life, Travis wasn't about to risk anything else.

"The dish-thing is uncovered." The co-pilot's voice drifted back to them. Vaughan's cold expression became a little tighter, and Travis nodded. He peered through his window, taking in the enormous mechanism, its ponderous motion and the jeep barely visible through the foliage as it bounced along a narrow track towards it.

"Get us down," he ordered sharply.

There was only one place in this part of the island large enough and flat enough to take the helijet. Constrained by the cliff plummeting towards the sea, the steeply sloping hillsides and the thick jungle, the pilot had no choice but to land again on the formal garden, settling back onto the marks he'd left less than an hour before.

Five men rushed out of the house to meet them, the creepy servant Tranter and Captain Gardner amongst them. Villacana's live-in servant didn't look happy with the second intrusion of the day, perhaps anticipating his master's reaction. Irritation though faded into total, dismayed surprise though as Travis and Vaughan jumped out, weapons not only visible but already pointed.

The guns took them unawares. Villacana's three general-purpose thugs exchanged one glance before dropping to their knees, hands on their heads. Tranter looked at them in disgust, shaking his head. His left hand moved, touching the band around his opposite wrist before Travis could react. Vaughan took a step forward, raising his compact pistol threateningly as the two uniformed officers piled out behind him.

"What is the meaning of this?" The servant demanded, raising his hands reluctantly. "Mr Villacana will destroy you, your careers, everything you are, for this."

"Mr Villacana is a megalomaniac with ambitions to destroy the world, who is threatening the life of two young children as we speak," Vaughan grated out the words, his finger twitching visibly on the trigger of his gun. Tranter flinched, dropping to his knees beside the lesser servants and shaking his head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said calmly, his words belied by the anger in his eyes.

Travis stepped to one side, gesturing to the armed pilot to cover the five men in front of them, and turning to Vaughan. "There should be four more: Villacana, the other live-in servant and two more of Villacana's men."

Captain Gardner had raised his hands above his head without hesitation, his expression one of genuine confusion, shading to dismay as he listened to Vaughan's accusation.

"Inspector." He flinched as Travis turned towards him, gun still in hand, and backed off a step, hands still well above his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, but Friell just took Jack out in the jeep and Kian is refuelling the boat."

Travis eyed the man warily. His instinct was to trust the captain, but anyone in Villacana's employ had to be suspect. The sun was still high in the sky, the ocean to the north of the island littered with vessels of all shapes and sizes that had yet to be called back to port. "Why aren’t you out with the search?"

Gardner swallowed hard, speaking in the level, soothing voice most people used around armed men. "We came in to refuel," he repeated. "Just to refuel!"

There were a few frozen seconds before Travis nodded, lowering his weapon, and the man gasped in a relieved breath. Travis shook his head. "We're wasting time. That jeep was headed down to the radio dish. There could be a control cabin, equipment, something down there, and the dish is already moving into position."

Vaughan nodded grimly. He stabbed a finger towards Captain Gardner, his other hand keeping the pistol levelled at their four less-willing prisoners. "You! Where's Villacana?"

Gardner didn't hesitate. "His lab. Under the house."

Frowning, Travis weighed up the possibilities. Either location was a candidate for the control room Scott Tracy had apparently stumbled across. What was more, with the lab underground and the radio dish set into the hillside below the house, it wasn't unreasonable to assume they were linked. If they tried to get through the basement, their target might escape out to the dish, taking the children with him. If they went after the jeep, the way through the house was going to be clear.

"We're going to have to split up," Travis realised aloud. "Vaughan, you're far more likely to make sense of whatever's in this lab than I am. I'll go after the jeep." He pulled out a handful of the plastic restraints that he'd taken from the helijet before they landed and tossed them at Gardner. "Tie them up," he ordered, nodding towards Villacana's thugs. He pointed at the co-pilot and jerked his finger towards Vaughan indicating he should follow the NASA man towards the house. The pilot kept his weapon trained on their prisoners, and Travis nodded in satisfaction.

Swinging the rifle onto his back, strap across his chest, Travis set off at a run towards the radio dish. It was probably less than a mile down the road from the house, around the slope and down the track he'd seen from above. The distance didn't worry the detective, he'd run further chasing suspects around the docks before. Another thought worried him far more. It was more than twenty minutes now since Scott Tracy and his little brother had cut off communications with the space station, apparently only seconds away from discovery by one of the most ruthless men Travis had ever met. Travis had no doubt that, between them, he and Vaughan would find the two missing boys. As he ran down the slope, ruing every step and every second of the journey, Travis prayed to God that Scott and Gordon Tracy would still be alive when they did.

Chapter 19

Villacana counted down the seconds in the silence of his own mind. With his plan in motion, he had calmed, running through checklists and then settling into his chair to wait with infinite patience. Nothing could stop him now, nothing….

This time the intruder alert got his immediate attention. He left the chair, crossing again to the back of the room and his access to the island computer system. He frowned as he saw Travis and Vaughan's arrival, aware that they must have seen the radio dish, before realising that it didn't matter. Why care if a couple of blundering policemen with more luck than judgement had their suspicions confirmed? They were too late. In a few minutes more the whole world would feel his fury, and the efforts of the detective and security man would come to nothing.

He scowled at the screen as Gardner turned-coat. Dismissing the image, he strode to his chair, just seconds away from apotheosis.

"EV deployment complete. Technician Chau standing by."

The report from the space station distracted Villacana from his anticipation. He glanced at one of the smaller windows lining the main screen, studying the white-suited technician floating tethered not far from the Weather Station's main antenna. Sunlight glinted off the man's mirrored visor. On the central screen, Jim Dale was leaning forward intently, obviously watching the space-walk himself. The commander's fingers were drumming against the arm of his chair, his expression tense. Villacana let a small smile play across his lips, enjoying the superiority he felt over the man. While Villacana was ignored and discarded, Dale had been promoted by the World Space Patrol and NASA, set in command over their mutual pride and joy – the shared space station that Villacana's innovations had helped create and whose computers Villacana's codes protected.

With enormous satisfaction, Villacana pressed the override button, opening the back door through those codes and tunnelling beneath the layers of firewall built upon them.

There was a hammering barely audible through the door of Villacana's room, almost lost in the sudden flood of reports from the Weather Station as its personnel realised that they were no longer in control. Ignoring the mere ground-side distraction, confident that his doors would hold Vaughan for long enough, Villacana's fingers played over his controls, uploading the first elements of the programme he'd long since derived. Slowly, but unstoppably, the World Weather Control System turned its attention towards the Indian subcontinent, a huge induction charge building in the Weather Station and the satellites it controlled.

On the screen, Dale was a frozen rock in the sea of alarmed, hopeless reports around him. He was a mere spectator, his people able to see what was happening but quite helpless to stop it. Villacana spared another small smile for the commander's obvious shocked indecisiveness.

On the ground, the lights flickered and there was a hiss of arcing electricity that faded into silence. A beat passed and then the clatter against the door grew louder; Vaughan was obviously through the upper door faster than Villacana had expected and now directly outside his sanctum. Calmly, Villacana reached under his chair, opening a shallow compartment and pulling out the weapon concealed there. He'd not planned for an intrusion this early in his plan, but he'd never been naïve enough to think San Fernando would escape suspicion forever. He'd expected them to send men after him, men stupid enough not to see the gun he was holding against the head of the world, but to need a more immediate threat to subdue them. He'd armed his people against that possibility, and now he armed himself. Settling the revolver across his lap, Villacana glanced up from the weather monitors to see how the Weather Station crew were reacting.

Jim Dale stood up. All around him, noise and movement stilled, his staff waiting for his word. He pulled a radio from his belt – not a networked com-link that would transmit through the computer network Villacana controlled, but rather a direct, short-range radio.

"Chau," he called, in a voice tight with tension. "Cut it!"

In front of Villacana, behind him, all around his control room, the screens flickered. He frowned, climbing from his chair and hurrying to the status boards behind him. His eyes widened, sheer disbelief overriding his rigid control. They'd cut the power line to the main antenna. Not deactivated the power supply, or redirected the data flow, or anything he could override with software. They'd physically gone out of the station, and cut the power cable.

The space-walking technician, Chau, was moving across the skin of the station, pulling himself hand over hand towards the auxiliary antenna that now channelled every signal Villacana was receiving. Hatred, pure and irrational, engulfed Villacana as he watched his plan shatter into tiny shards around him, splintering like the hull of the yacht that had started all of this. He stepped to the console on his left, his fingers flying across it as his eyes locked with Dale's on the main screen. The man was looking tense, anticipatory. Villacana was determined not to let him enjoy this victory.

"Commander! We have fluctuations in the environmental systems."

Villacana smiled as Dale's expression froze. They'd soon have more than fluctuations.

"Life support is going down!"

"Chau! You've got to get there! Cut the line!"

Villacana programmed furiously, aware of the pounding on the door building in intensity and the technician coming ever closer to destroying the one remaining link between the Weather Station and the Earth.

His hands faltered, a booming sound echoing around him, followed by a clatter that grew ever closer. Puzzled, almost overwhelmed by the unexpected suddenness of the sound, Villacana's eyes snapped around towards it, searching the walls and floor until he saw the grille that led to his long-disregarded ventilation intake. Thick smoke billowed through it, choking and lit from within by a burning red light. For a few seconds, Villacana could do no more than stare, already coughing as acrid fumes filled the room. Angry with the distraction and the delay it had caused, he turned back to his console, typing quickly, flicking switches, gritting his teeth in anger and despair as he commanded the Weather Station to open all its airlocks. He typed the final commands and hit enter in the same moment that the screens around the room finally flickered and died. Not even Villacana, coughing and crawling across the ground to escape the red-lit smoke, could say which had happened first.

The recoil almost tore the flare gun out of Scott Tracy's bruised hands. It pushed him backwards, staggering against Gordon and toppling both of them. Scott scrambled upwards, grabbing his little brother's arm as dizziness threatened to drop him once again.

"The tarpaulin, Gordy!"

He'd explained his rudimentary plan as they emerged into the daylight. Gordon had just nodded, untwisting their pack and dumping its contents to the ground while his elder brother drew in deep, panting breaths and tried to suppress his cough. Scott had intercepted his little brother before the younger boy could pick up the flare gun, pocketing the spare charges, but Gordon had helped him load a red-bordered shell into the short, broad mortar, brushing aside his trembling fingers to do it. Now Gordon spread his arms wide, lifting the creased and dirty grey tarpaulin to the vent.

"It's working, Scotty! It's working."

Scott watched with satisfaction as the obstruction was pulled onto the vent and held in place by suction from the overhead exhaust fans that completed the system. With the intake blocked, the fans would have nothing to draw up and through the control room but smoke from the flare he'd fired into the shaft. Each passing second would rob the place of air. The pale man would have no choice, he would have to leave, and that would give the people Uncle Jim was sending time to get here.

Now he just had to do what Dad's old friend had told him and hide until they did.

Scott tore his gaze away from the covered vent, looking down at his dishevelled but bright-eyed little brother, and then around at the terrifying mass of machinery moving above them. The radio dish had unfolded now, standing as tall as it was wide, huge dish angled high, pointing out across the island about sixty degrees above the horizon. Above the throaty hum of the motors that were slowly tracking it across the sky, Scott heard a more familiar, more frightening engine sound. The jeep!

Gordon recognised it too. He didn't need prompting as the two of them scrambled, half running, half on hands and knees, into the shelter of the machinery. The shadows were thick, only a fraction of the sun's brilliance filtering through the wire-mesh dish and around its edges. Gears were grinding, their meshing teeth terrifyingly close as Gordon leapt up onto the structure, turning around and offering Scott a hand to help his elder brother struggle after him. They huddled in the fork of two girders, each as thick as Scott's arm was long, a metre and a half off the ground and somewhere in the centre of the latticework that supported the dish far overhead. The entire structure was moving, rotating, and Scott had to concentrate to adjust to the dizzying movement, trying to see across the clearing.

It was harder to tell here, with the loud clanking of machinery all around them, but it sounded like the jeep had stopped, some way back up the track. Scott was leaning out a little further from behind the girder sheltering them, trying to see the track they had come down what seemed like hours before, when he heard a sound that froze him stiff. The loud, sharp crack of a single gunshot carried even above the rumble of gears.

A second shot answered it, and then a third, the sound drawing a frightened whimper from Scott's little brother. The gunfire was still echoing around the circular valley when the door in the hillside beside the vent slammed open, crashing against the rock wall. The pale man staggered out, coughing and wreathed in red smoke. Scott felt Gordon shrinking against him and held his brother tight, eyes on the revolver in the man's hand.

The jeep had stopped halfway along the green tunnel of trees, the two men it had carried both on their feet and peering at the ground in front of it. Travis waited until he was close behind the stopped vehicle before circling into the trees alongside and bracing himself against a trunk, rifle raised to his shoulder. He shot out the front left tyre of the jeep at point blank range, seeing both men jump violently as the sound echoed off the hillside. One, the more junior thug from the bars of Santa Isobella, landed a little forward and had to throw himself back away from the pit in the road, one foot scrabbling for purchase on the edge of it. He landed on his backside on the dirt track and froze there, raising his hands behind his head, as Travis emerged from the jungle, rifle levelled. The live-in servant, Friell, was less cautious. Taking advantage of his colleague's distraction, he dived back towards the jeep, looking to get behind the wheel at first, and then ducking down behind the vehicle when he realised that only a skin of deflated rubber separated the front right wheel rim from the ground. Travis was already ducking behind a tree when an answering shot sent splinters flying from the trunk beside his ear. Keeping low, he slipped between the trees, manoeuvring to put the sprawled junior thug between him and the shooter. The seated man watched him, wide-eyed, realising that he was still easily within the sights of Travis's rifle, and wisely opting not to move.

Later, Travis wasn't sure why he'd thought Friell would hesitate. He'd seen the man's cold eyes when the servant escorted Mike and him from the dock to the house. He had pulled the rap sheets on all Villacana's staff and was already sure what sort of low-life the man employed. Even so, he was startled when Friell raised his pistol and coolly snapped a shot through his companion's arm that barely missed Travis' head. The thug on the ground screamed, flailing wildly before falling backwards, head thumping against the ground. Even Friell looked a little startled by the loud reaction. Travis didn't hesitate. He raised the rifle, aimed and fired in one smooth motion, relief outweighing satisfaction when Friell fell back, pistol spilling from his nerveless hand.

Travis moved forward cautiously, swiping the weapon to one side and into the pit with his foot before nudging Friell with his toes. Turning his attention back to the first thug, he stripped off the man's belt, tying it in a rapid tourniquet around his upper arm. The entry wound, at the back of his arm just below the shoulder, was matched by an exit wound to the front. The bullet had drilled a neat hole through the muscular flesh, and it was probably the pressure wave rather than direct impact that had broken the man's arm. Satisfied that the man was unlikely to bleed out, at least in the short term, he shook the thug's shoulder until he awoke, and then dropped it, reaching into his jacket instead to pull out his ID.

"Stay here, don't move and I'll be back to help," he instructed sharply, shoving the leather wallet back into a pocket. Dazed with pain, the man eyed the rifle in his other hand warily before nodding. Travis frowned, pulling out another plastic tie and securing it one-handed around the man's ankles for good measure, before turning his attention to Friell. He'd assumed at first that the servant was dead. A second inspection showed him that his bullet had done no more than clip the man's skull, knocking him cold and almost certainly giving him a concussion that would make Jeff Tracy's look like a walk in the park. Rolling the man into the recovery position, he decided mercy only went so far and used another tie to secure Friell's outflung arm to the jeep's wheel arch.

The thought of Tracy had reminded Travis of an urgency he'd never really forgotten. He skirted both wounded men, reiterating his instruction not to move to his one conscious prisoner, before looking with some trepidation down into the hole in the road they had been inspecting. Travis went pale beneath his tanned skin at his first glimpse of the tainted spikes, protruding through a woven thatch of grass. It was obvious that the trap had been sprung long before these men came upon it, and the detective scanned the cruel steel spears anxiously for any sign of their victim.

He breathed a guarded sigh of relief as he saw none, his eyes lifting towards the radio dish that rose out of the trees ahead. Skirting the pit cautiously, he ran on down the narrow track.

The pale, coughing man from the control room glared at the tarpaulin and at the litter of debris beside it. He wrenched the coated canvas off the vent, looking down at it and then at the ground. A few scraps of metal foil from the last meal pack, the empty water bottle, their stiff, dirt-encrusted sweaters and a couple of thin survival blankets: it wasn't much to identify them, but it was obviously enough.

Scott crouched lower, Gordy huddled beneath him as a pair of cold ice-blue eyes swept over them and past them. The man raised his gun, his face utterly devoid of expression as he looked towards the red-stained steel structure that was the valley's only hiding place.

"Come out," he said sharply. "Come out, or I will kill you when I find you."

Scott honestly couldn't have said whether Gordon made the small, involuntary movement when the gun muzzle swung past them or whether he did. Ultimately it didn't matter. For a few seconds he had to fight to keep both of them balanced against the girders, and when he looked up again, the man's eyes locked with his, gun aimed directly at Gordon.

"Climb down, or I will shoot you both."

Scott didn't doubt it. He was equally sure that whether their captor shot them on the spot or used them to escape the net closing around him first, they were still just as dead. He looked down. Gordon's eyes were flooded with terrified tears, his fists clinging to the front of Scott's shirt. Desperately, Scott searched his brother's face for something, anything he could say to make this easier. He pulled Gordon tight against him and blinked in surprise. Scott had almost forgotten about the flare gun, brought along unnoticed during their scramble for cover, until he felt it pressed between them. Cautiously he patted the pockets of his jeans. He'd put the two small shells there in an instinctive effort not to leave ammunition of any kind where Gordon might find it. Now he couldn't help a brief prayer of thanks for that instinct.

"Move!"

The man was sounding impatient. Scott looked up.

"We…" His voice cracked. He wheezed a little, swallowed hard and tried again, this time getting a little volume behind his shout. "I need a moment to get my little brother down. Please? He's frightened. Please!"

The man remained silent, but the barrel of his gun dipped a little. Scott swallowed hard, beginning to squirm across the girder. A few seconds was all they'd have. A few seconds out of sight behind the metalwork. It would have to be enough.

"Gordy! Gordy! Listen to me. It's going to be all right, okay? I want you to be ready to run, out towards the track, and hide in the trees."

He was far from sure Gordon was taking anything in, but there was no time to be sure. The instant they were out of view, his hand dived into his pocket, pulling out their second shell and snapping open the flare gun to receive it. He fumbled it into place as he slipped from the girder, landing heavily on the ground, his hands too busy to catch his weight. He still had the flare gun in one hand as he reached out with the other to steady Gordon.

"Ready, Gordy?"

He couldn't wait for an answer, and there was no time to do more than try his best and hope it was enough. He peered around the girder and fired the flare gun at the same moment, his heart soaring when the smoke canister thudded into the ground less than a foot in front of their captor. There was a frozen, shocked moment and then the flare hissed into life, brilliant green light blinding them both, even as smoke billowed around it.

With a high-pitched whine and a clang, a bullet Scott hadn't even seen ricocheted off the steelwork above his head. He'd thrown himself on top of Gordon, half through design, half simply because the recoil from the compact cannon made it impossible to stay on his feet. Now Gordy scrambled out from under him, tugging at his arm. Both of them were coughing and he could hear the coughs of the pale man with the gun, lost in the smoke. He tried to make Gordon leave him, but his little brother shook his head, breathless but adamant. Desperate, Scott struggled to his feet, flare gun still clutched in his right hand, Gordon's hand in his left.

There was another clang, this one lower pitched, more solid. The smoke thinned, the blaze of light moving to one side, and Scott realised that someone had kicked his flare to one side, sending it bouncing downhill through the trees. Instantly, he swung the gun back up, turning towards the centre of the clearing, pushed Gordon behind him and peered through the rapidly clearing smoke.

Chapter 20

Travis was on the edge of the valley, staring in awe at the steel construction towering above him, when he heard a boy's cracked, hoarse voice pleading for time to get his brother to the ground. He started to skirt the radio dish and its supporting structure as quickly and quietly as he knew how, following the ever-moving shadows cast by the metal latticework. He froze, uncertain, when he saw Villacana, face cold and revolver raised. The man stood in the deep shadow at the base of the dish's main support, silhouetted against a door into the hill from which red smoke was pouring in a gradually thinning stream. There was a flush on the man's face that betrayed more anger than Travis had ever seen on it. Without being able to see Scott and Gordon Tracy, hidden for just a few heartbeats behind a girder, Travis knew they were in serious, most likely deadly, danger.

He raised his rifle desperately, knowing he didn't have time to aim and fire before the boys re-emerged into open view. When they were in full sight, it would be too late. There would be no way he could be sure of taking out Villacana without him getting a lethal shot, voluntary or involuntary, off first.

He didn't know who was more astonished, him or Villacana, when a wild-looking boy swung around the steel frame of the radio dish and fired a flare into the ground at point blank range. The effect was immediate, flooding the valley with choking smoke, a violent, actinic light that burnt even through closed eyelids, and a roaring hiss of reacting chemicals. As quickly as light had flooded the shadows below the dish, thick smoke cut visibility down to nothing. The sharp report of a gunshot was almost lost in the chaos, but even so Travis' heart ran cold, knowing there was only one possible source and wondering just how high a price Scott Tracy had paid for his courage. Swinging his rifle back over his shoulder, he dropped to his hands and knees, taking a deep breath. He crawled forward into the smoke, coughing hard, but determined to find out what was happening.

There was movement, a sharp sound, and suddenly the air was clearing. Travis was back on his feet in an instant, brushing the gritty soil from his hands. His rifle swung up towards where he'd last seen Villacana, aiming as an indistinct shape swam out of the fog.

The island's petty dictator stood in the narrow strip of cleared ground between the carved-away hillside and the metal structure it sheltered. His gun was still in his hand, but his eyes were streaming, his chest wracked with coughs. Beyond him, standing in a doorway where the last hints of red smoke mingled with a fog of green, Vaughan was aiming his own weapon at Villacana, the man caught in the crossfire between the two detectives. What no one was expecting was the gun in Scott Tracy's hands, the young teenager aiming its short, wide barrel unwaveringly at his captor's chest.

Still coughing, Villacana took one look at the circle of firearms pointing in his direction and then down at the revolver in his own hand. For a split second, the barrel jerked upwards, and three fingers tightened on their triggers. Then Villacana seemed to think again. The gun fell from limp fingers and he kicked it aside, just as he had the flare seconds before.

Travis gasped, the last of the smoke tickling the back of his throat and leaving a chemical taste in his mouth. He flicked the safety onto the rifle, letting it swing back on its strap. He was vaguely aware of Vaughan handling Villacana. The older man strode forward, knocking their prisoner to the ground, hauling his hands behind his back and securing them quickly. Villacana lay passive, letting himself be manhandled, his eyes now as blank and empty as the rest of his expression. Travis was aware of it happening, storing the images for later analysis. For the moment, he simply didn't care. His attention was firmly elsewhere.

The taller of the two boys was pale, his cheeks flushed and his chest shuddering as he panted in the pale green mist. Dark brown hair, the same shade as his father's, hung limply around bloodshot and deeply sunken cobalt-blue eyes. The boy looked as if he could barely stand, and there was a worrying fever-sheen to his eyes. Despite that, he was watching Vaughan, Travis and Villacana with intense concentration and uncertainty. One hand held the flare gun, still raised. The other held a much younger boy behind his back, his eyes throwing down a challenge to anyone who might want to get to his little brother.

The smaller child was peering around his brother, clinging to the back of his shirt as if to a lifeline. The boy's amber eyes were red from crying, his face sun-burned and flushed under an unruly thatch of his mother's copper hair. His expression oscillated between relief, uncertainty and sheer exhaustion, his lips trembling. The six-year-old met Travis's eyes with a look of helpless defiance that made the detective's heart ache.

Travis had been gazing at these faces for two days. Even now, he carried a photocopy of their brother's picture, folded up in his breast pocket. They had been shipwrecked, lost and stumbled across a criminal enterprise so huge that even Travis was still getting his head around its implications. They were clearly on the last of their reserves, burning energy they didn't have to spare. Even so, Travis would recognise Scott and Gordon Tracy, recognise the spirit their brother had captured in their images, anywhere.

He took a step forward, overwhelmingly relieved, and froze when Scott swung the flare gun around to face him, swaying dangerously himself in the process. The boy wheezed, his little brother's hand on his back now as much for support as their mutual comfort.

"Scott, it's all right. I'm Inspector Travis. I know your father."

Scott flinched and Gordon shifted uncertainly, the reaction confusing Travis for a moment. He wondered how many times someone had approached Jeff Tracy's sons with that sort of comment and how often they'd been warned against it.

"I'm with the Domingan Police," he tried again. "I'm here to take you back to your mother."

"Jim Dale sent us, Scott." Vaughan's intervention was welcome.

Scott's flare gun wavered and he blinked, coughed and then squinted, blinking again to clear his watering eyes. Gordon started to step out from behind him, and Scott held the small boy back with a hand against his chest. "I want to see some ID," he gasped. "Both of you."

There was something surreal and a touch ludicrous about searching his jacket for his formal ID card, holding it out for a swaying teenaged boy to see, with the whirring motors of the radio telescope above them, and the silence of the jungle all around. He and Vaughan edged forward through the moving shadows, cards held out in front of them, leaving an apparently unconscious Villacana to be dealt with by the uniformed officer who'd followed Vaughan.

Scott Tracy let them get almost within arm's length as he peered at the small cards. They both froze when he looked up, an expression of total exhaustion on his face.

"Mr Vaughan?" he ventured, the raw sound to his voice and the wheeze that followed it making Travis wince.

Vaughan smiled, relief and satisfaction obvious in his eyes. "Yes, Scott, your mother…"

"You'll get Gordy home to Mom?" the boy asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"We'll get you both home," Travis promised. "Your family are waiting…"

Scott gave a small sigh as he folded up, slumping bonelessly. Travis dived forward, catching the boy's head and shoulders, while Vaughan dived for the primed flare gun slipping from his limp fingers. Gordon managed to slip between them, calling out his brother's name and shaking his shoulder as Travis lowered the older boy carefully the ground.

"Scott!"

The little boy was crying now in earnest, and Vaughan caught him up awkwardly, putting the flare gun carefully down by his side and standing as he tried to deal with the squirming child in his arms.

"Gordon! Gordon, it's okay. We're going to take Scott to a doctor," Vaughan promised softly. He glanced down, catching Travis' worried eyes as the detective looked up from a quick assessment.

"I'm not sure what's wrong, but he's having trouble breathing, not to mention burning up. We ought to get him back to Dominga. A.S.A.P."

Both men felt a surge of relief as a second helijet flew overhead, circling the radio dish for a few seconds before moving off to find a landing spot. Their reinforcements had finally arrived. Gordon took advantage of their distraction. He squirmed free, landing on the ground at Vaughan's feet with a wince and kicking the flare gun to one side as he hurried to get to Scott's side.

Vaughan yelped, scrambling to pick the gun back up. "Gordon! Be careful with that!"

One hand stroking Scott's hair back from his flushed face, Gordon looked up with a puzzled frown.

"Why? It's not loaded."

The detectives shared an incredulous look that faded into mingled amusement and exasperation.

"Now he tells us." Travis shook his head, reaching down to gather Scott into his arms. He stood, straight-backed, pushing upwards with his legs and resting the tall boy's head against his shoulder. Small hands steadied him as he adjusted to the weight and he looked down, meeting bright, worried eyes with a grateful smile.

"You said you'd bring us to Mom. She'll make Scotty better," Gordon insisted, pulling urgently at Travis' dusty brown slacks.

Vaughan nodded gravely, and Travis felt the same urgency as Scott gasped in each unsteady breath, cradled against his chest.

"Up through the house would be fastest," Vaughan suggested, leading the way.

They moved quickly into the narrow rock-cut corridor, Gordon following Vaughan but glancing frequently behind him. Travis carried Scott after them, ducking slightly to avoid the last lingering wisps of red smoke. Gordon frowned as they came out into a room filled with flashing lights and complex electronics, ignoring the light show and looking instead at the non-descript wall panel they were entering through.

"Gordon?" Vaughan asked, pausing as the boy stopped.

"We didn't know that was there," the small boy commented. He turned to look around the room and his frown deepened. "Shouldn't we turn the override off? Uncle Jim didn't like it."

Vaughan and Travis exchanged cautious looks, Vaughan squatting down in front of the child.

"You know, Gordy, I think that would be a very good idea, but I'm not sure how."

Gordon nodded, throwing his brother a quick, worried look, and then ran across to the control chair, stabbing a button there before Vaughan could stop him. The red light illuminating the button faded, leaving nothing but orange plastic and a transparent cover that Gordon lowered carefully across it. The two detectives let out a shared sigh, relieved that nothing more catastrophic had happened.

"Thought… thought I told you… not to push any buttons."

Travis looked down, startled by a glimpse of heavy-lidded blue eyes and the wheeze from the boy in his arms.

"Scotty!" Gordon ran back to his side, looking up anxiously and sighing in disappointment when Scott's eyes drifted closed once again. This time, Gordon didn't linger, taking Vaughan's arm and practically dragging him across the room to the way out, looking back to be sure Travis and Scott were following behind him.

"Scott? Scott! I want you to wake up because we're nearly there. We're going to Dominga, Mr Vaughan says, and Mom will be there and the doctors will make you all well again and everything will be okay and Inspector Travis says we're going as fast as we can, and you'll be okay when we get to the hospital."

Gordon's stream of words dragged Scott to consciousness. There was a worryingly hysterical tone to the little boy's voice, and when Scott opened his eyes, very wide amber irises met his dark blue. Scott was lying on his side, the familiar vibrations of a helijet all around him. Gordon was crouched beside the seats he was lying across, wiping his older brother's face with a damp cloth and talking non-stop.

Scott drew in a shallow breath, and even that made his chest tighten, the banked fire in his lungs flaring up again. Gordon heard his gasp and leaned forward.

"Scotty!" he cried happily. Scott could hear the voice of an adult in the background, a man asking how he was feeling. He only had ears for his little brother. "Scott, it's okay. Mr Vaughan and Inspector Travis caught the bad guys and everything's fine now, and Mr Vaughan is sending someone to tell Uncle Jim we're okay, and we're almost there, and John and Allie are there too, Mr Vaughan says, and we'll be back with Mom just like you said."

Weak, feverish, Scott's spirit faltered. Gordon had said Mom and Alan and John were all waiting. How long had they been waiting for news? They must have realised the Santa Anna had been lost in the typhoon, but had they given up, or kept hoping – desperately wanting not just Scott and Gordon but also Dad and Virgil back? How could he tell them that his father and closest brother had been swept away by the storm? How could he face them, giving them back Gordon, but admitting that he'd watched Virgil fall into the water and done nothing?

"Scotty!" Gordon was still shouting at him, but he felt other, larger fingers pressing at his neck, feeling for his pulse. Gordon was safe now. That was all that mattered. Scott slumped back into oblivion not sure if he wanted to wake up.

Virgil sat pensively in his wheelchair, one arm around Alan's waist, trying to keep the little boy still in his lap, and to resist holding the arms of the chair too obviously as Johnny attempted to steer them in a straight line. Doctor Mina said he still had to use the chair for getting from his own ward to his Dad's room and back again. Virgil thought he could probably walk it, but after the struggle it had taken just to get to the bathroom and back again, ribs aching every step of the way, he wasn't all that keen to try.

He sighed, gritting his teeth as the wheelchair bounced off a bumper rail presumably there for that very purpose. He was pretty sure that the orderly walking behind them and letting John do his work for him was really an undercover cop keeping an eye on the three boys. He was also fairly sure that John had worked that out too, hence his sudden need to make sure Virgil and Alan were being pushed 'properly'. He was certain though that Alan, curled happily in Virgil's lap and making 'wheeee' noises whenever the walls got close, had no idea. With John as quiet as he had been since Mom arrived, a little noise from Alan didn't go amiss.

The three boys had been alone in the paediatrics ward for the last hour, Alan being fussed over by the two little girls under the nurse's watchful eye, while Virgil and John read the newspaper that Virgil's bright younger brother had smuggled in from the hotel. Virgil had winced at the paragraph about his own heroism. If it hadn't been for his conversation with Dad earlier, he might have struck out, even at John, when his little brother read the section on how he should be awarded for his bravery out loud. Instead he sighed deeply, telling Johnny the papers had got it wrong and leaving it at that.

They'd both been quiet for a while after reading about the storm and the search. John hadn't needed the words 'hopes are fading' explained to him. They seemed to define the life the two boys were living. In the end, the silence had lasted too long, growing too much for either boy to cope with without comfort. Virgil didn't object when John asked the nurse if they could go see Mom and Dad now. He knew he was being selfish. He'd started learning to recognise when his parents needed some of their rare and precious 'together time' without the boys underfoot. Even so, he couldn't help feeling that they'd had long enough.

The orderly had guided them along a corridor and down one floor in an elevator. He was directing them past the wide rear doors of the hospital when a helijet landed just outside with a roar of engine noise and a cloud of dust that billowed in through the open doorway.

"I want to see!" Alan's high-pitched cry rang out above the deep rumbling.

"Stop for a minute, Johnny." John was already stopping the chair before Virgil threw a look over his shoulder.

They were just ten yards or so up the corridor from their Dad's room. Really, Virgil knew, he should tell John to push them there and get out of sight of any reporters who might be wandering the hallways, but John was already at the window, lifting Alan onto his hip to see. The two watched, John looking inquisitively towards where Doctor Evans was waiting and Alan staring wide-eyed at the big, noisy machine. Giving in to his own curiosity, Virgil pushed himself out of the chair and stepped up behind them, leaning to one side to see around John's head and only able to catch the briefest glimpse of the patient that someone was lifting down.

Alan frowned. "Who it is?" he asked.

Virgil reached out to pat his little brother's head, sighing. "I don't know, Allie. Someone sick. They're bringing him here so the doctors can make him all better."

"Keep back, boys!"

Virgil didn't have time to see more. The orderly – or possibly police officer – stepped in front of them, herding them away from the windows and back against the wall. Virgil and John, acting on an unspoken agreement, each grabbed one of Alan's hands, holding him firmly out of the way as the door burst open to admit a gaggle of worried people surrounding a trolley.

The patient had been unconscious when they carried him from the helijet. Now whoever was on the trolley was fighting weakly against the hands trying to hold him down. Dark blue eyes searched desperately through the noise and confusion, looking for something, and not relaxing until another small form was lifted up to perch on the edge of the narrow metal bed. Virgil didn't need to see his younger brother's shock of copper hair, or the wide amber eyes in the pale face. He didn't need to identify Gordon before his mind pulled together the flashes of brown hair and blue eyes into an unmistakeable, unbelievable conclusion.

"Scott!" his choked cry was soft, barely audible above the bustle of the doctors and policemen talking over his brothers' heads. It didn't need to be loud to reach ears more attuned to his voice than any other.

Scott had been relaxing back onto the bed, eyes closed, Gordon holding his hand. He sat bolt upright, face flushed, fever-bright eyes searching. Virgil's chestnut eyes locked with his, both pairs wide with disbelief, both flushed with joy and relief and heavy with sudden tears. This time the hands couldn't hold Scott down and weren't moving quick enough to stop him from tumbling off the moving trolley, half-staggering, half-hauling himself through the maze of adults until he fell into Virgil's waiting arms.

Virgil didn't care that his ribs were flaring in agony, or that his tall brother's weight had pushed him hard against the wall. He squeezed Scott's back with as much strength as he could muster, feeling Scott's weak embrace tighten in return. Gordy's head was buried against John's chest, only his dusty copper hair visible, but then the small face looked up at Virgil and Gordon burst into tears. He threw his arms around both his eldest two brothers, sobbing hysterically and clinging to their waists. Virgil swayed, John moving quickly to his brothers' side to help guide them as all four sank to the ground.

"Scott! Gordy!" Alan's squeal as he threw himself on top of the pile probably woke half the hospital. Certainly it only seemed like seconds before Mom was there, lifting Gordon away, and Dad was pulling Scott up with his good arm, easing him away from three brothers who didn't want to let him go.

"He's burning up!" Virgil managed, concern overwhelming the pain from his bruised ribs as he saw Scott's eyes closed once again and realised his brother's body had gone limp.

"Pneumonia." Dr Evans was by Dad's side, helping him, and then Mr Vaughan appeared too, lifting Scott back onto the stretcher while the doctor settled an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. "We need to get him to intensive care."

Virgil staggered to his feet, John lending him a shoulder. People were bustling all around, but Inspector Travis was there, gathering up Virgil's wheelchair while John forced him into it. They followed the rapidly moving trolley, Gordy still in Mom's arms, Dad scooping up Alan. Inspector Travis pushed Virgil after them, until Scott was hurried through a pair of white doors and a couple of the nurses turned to urge the family to stay in the waiting room until Scott's condition had been assessed.

Predictably, Dad protested, raising his voice and arguing loudly until Alan's sudden descent into shocked tears undermined his ire. He stopped, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Mr Vaughan stepped forward to guide Dad and Allie into a chair beside the one Virgil's mother already occupied. Gordy was nestled in her arms, talking nineteen to the dozen, the little boy apparently too high on adrenaline and relief to stop. Feeling dazed and confused, his own eyes burning with glad tears, Virgil leaned back in his wheelchair, hand reaching up to grasp Inspector Travis's sleeve.

"Can you find another doctor?" he asked anxiously. "Gordy's not well either."

Gordon was filthy, mud and tears streaking his face, his jeans stiff and worn, his T-shirt little more than a crumpled rag. He stopped speaking abruptly, watching Virgil climb stiffly out of his chair, and raised his arms wordlessly to his second-eldest brother. Mom held out her other arm, helping Virgil onto her lap beside Gordon. Virgil let his suddenly-silent brother snuggle against him, feeling the younger boy shake with emotion.

"Gordon, it's okay, now," he said simply. "I'm fine and Scotty got you home."

"He said he would," Gordon murmured, finally sounding as tired as he looked.

Mom leaned down, kissing her small son's forehead.

"I do love you, Gordy," she told him softly. Gordon's eyes had been drifting closed. He opened them again, looking up at her and then searching out John with an urgent look.

"And that's okay and doesn't mean anyone's going to make a baby brother or die or anything," he explained earnestly. He closed his eyes, snuggling happily against his mother and Virgil. "Because grown ups can love each other in lots of different ways. Scott said so."

John was flushing bright scarlet, subject to incredulous stares not only from his family, but also from Vaughan and Travis and the doctor who had just joined them to check Gordon over. Virgil looked down at his little brother, safely asleep in his arms, and then up at the door through which Scott had been taken. His big brother was sick, yes, but Virgil had seen the renewed determination and passion for life in the single look they'd exchanged, the one look that made everything right again in both their worlds. For the first time in three days, when he drifted to sleep in his mother's arms, he was sure that everything was going to work out just fine.

Chapter 21

Jeff Tracy sat up in his bed and looked down across four sleeping sons, eyes lingering on the second youngest. Gordon was settled in the bed closest to his father. Faced with the prospect of four hospitalised Tracys, with another three as near-constant visitors and under siege by half the world's media, Mercy Hospital had opened up an unused isolation ward and shunted them into it kit and caboodle. Or very nearly so.

Five hours after his arrival at the hospital, Scott was still in critical care, his mother watching over him as the doctors made cautiously optimistic noises about how well he was responding to the antibiotics. Jeff longed to be there, craved to be there by his eldest son's side, but he and Lucille had already traded off once and almost certainly would do again. He sighed, knowing that Lucy was as torn as he was. Even if Dr Evans hadn't ordered him back to bed an hour ago after a dizzy spell, Jeff would want to be here too, watching over Gordy, Virgil, John and Alan as well. At least this way, the decision over who went where had been made for them.

Alan was waking on and off, for a few minutes at a time, the jet-lagged child alternating between his usual boisterous self and lethargic whining. The constant nightmares and frantic search for his brothers when he woke bore mute witness to how the emotional atmosphere over the last few days had affected the small boy.

John had only woken once, looking embarrassed to be asleep at all. Lucy had told Jeff that their middle child was worried. If the emotional and physical exhaustion he was showing now was any indication, John had been a good deal more aware of the situation, and lost a good deal more sleep over it, than he ever let on to his parents.

Virgil must have realised though. He'd given not just Gordon but also his other two sleeping brothers anxious looks when he woke, asking softly if they were okay. Jeff hadn't made him ask about Scott, giving his second eldest all the news they had at the time. Virgil had listened, worried but with a calm behind his brown eyes that Jeff hadn't realised he'd missed. Jeff still wasn't sure what to make of Virgil's quiet insistence that he be there when Scott woke. He only knew that if it were possible, he'd make sure it happened.

Gordon slept quietly, an IV drip attached to his arm, and monitors, set quiet and dim, all around him. His feet were bandaged, cooling gel smothering the blisters and abrasions. He hadn't stirred when a nurse had sponged him down, or when his father had gently rinsed his hair and towelled it dry before dressing him in pyjamas Lucy had brought from home. He'd been groggy the one time he woke up, calling out urgently and not settling until his father swept him into a tight embrace. He had stayed awake long enough to ask after Scotty and look around for Virgil before dozing off again, too tired to keep his eyes open. Despite that, Jeff knew that his son's condition could have been a lot worse.

"Scott gave him most of their food and water," Jeff realised, speaking softly.

Mina Evans paused in her synopsis of their latest checks, looking down at the sleeping child.

"It looks that way," she admitted. "Gordon's sore and tired, dehydrated and hungry, but not nearly so much so as Scott. I've put him on antibiotics as well as the saline and glucose, just to head off anything getting started. I don't imagine Scott was able to keep him on bottled water the whole time, and they're both covered in scratches and bruises. All in all, though, I'd say you have one very lucky little boy."

Jeff started to rise from his bed, settling back in the face of the doctor's glare. He smiled tiredly down at Gordon. "And a brave one. With a very brave big brother."

"Scott held onto me in the storm and caught me when I fell into the hole in the ground with all the spikes and poison and stuff and he stepped in front of me when the bad man wanted to shoot me," Gordon's sleepy murmur caught both father and doctor by surprise. His eyes cracked open. "But I guess I pulled him out of the water when he almost drowned, so that’s sort of fair."

"Water?" Evans pressed gently, moving to straighten the sheets around the little boy. Jeff was still reeling from 'spikes and poison'. He couldn't come close to dealing with 'wanted to shoot me'.

"And I was scared that Allie would forget about us when he grows up, but Scotty said I shouldn't worry 'cause he was going to get me back in time to take Alan to school." Gordon's voice trailed off, his eyes closing and his breathing once again settling into a steady rhythm. Jeff was out of his bed before the doctor could object, caressing his little boy's cheek. There were tears in his eyes, and he blinked them back hard.

Evans gave him a moment, waiting patiently until he looked up.

"Scott?" he asked quietly.

"Getting stronger." Evans offered him the latest update, and Jeff tried not to fret that it was as vague and non-committal as the last half-dozen he'd asked for. Mina Evans gave a gentle sigh. "We've drained the excess fluid. He's starting to fight off the infection now he's not struggling so hard to breathe." She looked down thoughtfully. "'Almost drowning' and the water he breathed in might have something to do with how quickly the infection settled in his lungs, although I'd guess he was already ill before that." She looked sombre. "His fever still has us worried. We thought we'd broken the worst of it, but it's rising again."

Jeff closed his eyes, hand resting on Gordon's forehead. He'd never forget seeing his precious eldest boy wracked with convulsions as his fever spiked dangerously high. He didn't think his weakened son could stand another bout.

"I've only just got him back," he said softly. "I can't lose him again."

"It won't happen." This time it was Virgil's voice that caught them by surprise. Jeff turned to see both Virgil and John watching them quietly. "Scott won't leave us behind."

There was no logic to it, and Evans' expression was cautious to say the least. Jeff should have dismissed Virgil's assertion as wishful thinking. Instead, he drew comfort from his son's certainty.

"Did our talking wake you?" Jeff asked, keeping his voice low and still stroking Gordon's hair.

Virgil shrugged and John glanced off to one side, avoiding the question.

"I'm sorry," Jeff offered nonetheless. He gave his sons a fond but somewhat exasperated look. "You two ought to be asleep. I'll wake you if there's any news about Scott. I promise."

Again, Virgil gave that small, non-committal shrug. He looked up tentatively. "Dad, has Mr Vaughan said anything else about Uncle Jim?"

Jeff couldn't suppress his shudder, concern for his old friend rearing its head beside his deep fear for Scott. Vaughan had left the hospital not long after the Tracys were settled in their ward. His work to secure the Weather Station would go on for some time, not least until the shuttle, hastily prepped on its launch pad, reached the satellite and confirmed that there was anything left up there to secure. With communications physically severed, there was no telling whether Villacana's final, vindictive commands had got through before the lines were cut, only that without Scotty's quick thinking and imaginative distraction they certainly would have done.

"I'll wake you if there's any news about that too," he assured his worried sons. He sighed, rounding Gordon's bed to stand instead between his second- and third-born, and reaching over to tuck first Virgil and then John in. "Come on, boys. It's way past your bedtime." He threw a fond glance along the line of hospital cots. "Even your little brothers have figured that out. Time to follow their example."

John turned over in his bed to look at his brothers, disturbing the sheets Jeff had just arranged. "Gordon thought Allie would forget him," he said quietly, looking up at his father in a silent plea for reassurance.

Jeff perched on the edge of John's bed, meeting his son's eyes. "They're back with us," he said firmly. "We're together. Our family is whole again and nothing’s going to break us apart. No one's going to forget anyone."

"'d never forget Gordy!" Alan's sleepy protest seemed to come from a huddle of blankets topped by a mop of golden hair.

Gordon, to all appearances asleep until that moment, sighed and shifted in his bed. He rolled towards his little brother, making a small sound of protest as the IV and monitor cables pulled. "Love you too, Alan," he murmured without opening his eyes.

Evans was watching in exasperation. "How do you cope?" she asked, keeping her voice low, but amused.

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Usually by not trying to sleep four of them in one room," he muttered back. "And with a healthy dose of patience borrowed from their mother. Can you find me a book to read them? Something soothing?" He looked again at his four boys, all of them wakeful and none of them well enough to be. "It's going to be a long night."

Travis rubbed at his tired eyes and glanced up at the clock. Midnight. Near eight hours since he and Vaughan had brought the two missing children in.

He'd co-opted a vacant doctor's office, reluctant to leave the hospital until there was more definitive news about the eldest boy, but still too keyed up to cope with the mindless boredom of waiting. He'd spent the time working on a report, knowing that with firearms discharged and civilians, even suspects, injured, he'd need to make his statement and justification clear.

Coates and Kearney had brought Villacana and his men in, getting them medical treatment where necessary. Villacana himself was under psychological evaluation. The man was catatonic, completely unresponsive to stimuli, as if the emotionless mask he'd always kept between him and the world had finally closed around him for good. With his plans, his life and his grand revenge all torn out from under him, the man had simply stopped, and it was far from clear whether he would ever start again. If he did, he would regret it. The first thing he’d hear would be the charges against him being read out. Vengeance for its own sake was anathema to Travis, but he couldn’t fault Jeff Tracy’s vehement insistence that the man be brought to justice and would support him all the way in his pursuit of that goal.

And if Villacana never came around…? Well, maybe that would be justice too, in its own way. A large part of Travis thought Villacana’s mental implosion was akin to his retreat to San Fernando: just another way for him to deny the reality of his place in the world and escape the consequences of his actions. A quieter, more thoughtful, part of him wasn’t so sure. The glimpses of Villacana’s mind he’d had over the last few days were enough to give him nightmares. He didn’t want to imagine being trapped inside it, with nothing but anger and the bitter knowledge of his own inadequacy for company.

Vaughan had vanished from the hospital some time ago, first to try to provoke a response from their erstwhile adversary, and then to take control of the NASA team that was scouring San Fernando and dismantling the biggest threat to world security since the end of the last war. He'd sent word half an hour ago that between them, one or another of Villacana's recording devices had seen almost everything. The man would be tried and convicted – in his absence if necessary – largely on the basis of evidence that he himself had provided.

More welcome still had been the news Vaughan passed on from the Weather Station. Jim Dale and his crew had not had an easy time of it. They'd had to work quickly to restore environmental and systems control after Villacana's malign influence was removed. After that there'd been little for them to do but speculate about what was happening on San Fernando, and whether repairing their antennas in the hope of news would merely transform them back into helpless pawns. The shuttle had found a station full of anxious technicians and frayed nerves. Jim Dale had physically shaken the shuttle commander as he demanded news about Scott and Gordon Tracy. The shuttle crew, and the many friends and family waiting back on Earth, had been far too relieved that the station personnel were alive to take offence at their brusque questions.

It was certainly a weight off Travis' mind, even if was officially none of his business. Technically his involvement in this whole affair began and ended with the recovery of his missing persons, a recovery that he was still quietly rejoicing in as a genuine miracle. In theory there was nothing stopping him going home. He had a first draft of his report, written raw and unprocessed from memory, complete on the screen in front of him, and Coates had already called to tell him not to come in until he felt ready the following morning. Even so, he felt jittery, restless. The roller-coaster ride of the last few turbulent days just didn't feel like it was over.

Striding to the office door, Travis set out on a search, not so much for coffee as someone to share it with. He stepped into the corridor, blinking to accustom his eyes to the dim night-time light levels. He was turning to his left when a soft grunt of pain drew his eyes back around to the right.

Virgil Tracy was pale in the dim light. One hand supported most of his weight against the wall, the other was pressed to his ribs. He shook his head, his expression determined, and set off again, walking a few stiff steps before forced to stop and wait for the pain to ease.

Travis didn't have to ask where he was going, although he was mildly surprised that the boy had made it this far alone. Evidently Jeff and his other sons had finally drifted off to sleep after the news from the Weather Station came through. Travis could only hope he would get Virgil back to the Tracys' ward before one or more of them woke in a panic to find him gone. There was no chance of that though, until Virgil had done what he came for.

The eleven-year-old looked up with a mixture of plea and defiance in his eyes as Travis approached. The inspector tutted gently.

"You realise that Mina will have my hide for this?" he said, his tone matter of fact as he slipped a hand around the boy's shoulders. "Keep holding onto the railing, Virgil, and lean on me. I'll get you there."

Virgil gave him a shocked look, and then a quick smile that brightened his entire face.

"I don't think Doctor Mina would hurt you," Virgil observed. The boy grunted again, still in pain but moving more easily for the support. "She likes you. Just a little."

Travis almost stopped mid-step, looking down at the boy in astonishment, but Virgil pulled him onwards. "You're seeing things, Virgil."

"I just see what's there," Virgil shrugged. "That's why I draw it."

Travis shook his head, exasperated. There was a moment of silence between them, as they walked the last few metres along the corridor to Scott's room. Travis stopped in the doorway as Virgil took a hesitant step into the room. The nurse noting down readings on his brother's left frowned before giving Virgil a resigned smile and waving the boy in. On the right, his mother was fast asleep, her head resting on one arm, which rested in turn on Scott's pristine white mattress. Scott himself lay in the centre of a vast array of medical equipment, not one but two drips draining into the shunt in the back of his hand.

The boy was still, but the flush that had coloured his cheeks since Travis had first seen him was gone, and, while he was still breathing through an oxygen mask, his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Virgil took a step forward, looking inquisitively at the nurse.

"How is he?"

The nurse hesitated, glancing at the boys' sleeping mother, before rounding the bed and laying a hand on Virgil's shoulder.

"It's Virgil, isn't it?" she asked softly. "Well, Virgil, we won't really know until he wakes up. Your brother's been very sick. His fever went very high before it broke and that can do nasty things."

Virgil gave her the same vaguely annoyed look that Travis remembered well from their first conversation, that John had given him when he'd tried to reassure the worried boy, and that he'd got even from an exhausted, babbling Gordon during their helijet journey. Travis shook his head. If the Tracy sons were here for any length of time, the hospital staff were going to find out that condescension would not make their lives any easier. Jeff and Lucille Tracy did not produce easily misled sons. For now though, Virgil didn't call the woman on it.

He tilted his head as he looked at his brother. "Can't you wake him and find out?"

Travis sighed, coming forward to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm afraid it doesn't work quite like that, Virgil. Scott won't wake up until his body is ready for him to, and the doctors can't just make that happen."

Virgil rolled his eyes at the detective. He moved to stand by the bed, almost brushing against his mother, and fixed his eyes on his eldest brother's face.

"I need you, Scott," he called softly. "Wake up."

Scott was drifting, a warm, comfortable feeling surrounding him. He vaguely remembered a darker, colder place, full of noise and fear and pain. He hadn't much liked it, he recalled. His fragmented memories were full of urgency and chaos and confusion.

Even so, something niggled at him. There were other memories, mixed in with the bad ones that seemed so much more recent and immediate. He could remember feeling warm and comfortable before, familiar arms wrapped around him. He remembered eyes, faces, names and a need to be back there, to find them, so intense that it very nearly shattered the fuzziness.

Not quite. Lethargy dragged him back down, urging him just to rest and not fight the quiet brightness surrounding him. He was floating, sensationless, a long way from anything that could hurt him. That was good. Why give that up?

"I need you, Scott." It was the answer to his question. He'd give up the comfort and ease because this soft voice, and the others that went with it, needed him. He didn't question where it had come from or how it had known what to say. This voice would reach him anywhere, anywhen. It had been far too long since he'd heard it. He strained towards it, wanting, needing to hear more. "Wake up."

The warmth faded, becoming less like a sea of soothing water and more like the familiar comfort of his bed back home. He shifted against the mattress, trying to pull the blankets up around his shoulders, but feeling things pull painfully against his arm and chest. Murmuring a protest, he squirmed, moving his head a little. There was noise. Wrong noises, pinging and buzzing that shouldn't be in his bedroom. Something was pressing against his face, and he flailed a hand upwards towards it. Another hand caught his before he could dislodge the oxygen mask, long fingers gently holding his own.

He stilled at the touch, his eyes drifting open and meeting warm brown eyes intent on his. Memory returned and his hand tightened around Virgil's even as he held his brother's gaze, putting all his concern and relief into his eyes.

"Virgil," he said in a soft wheeze. Virgil looked up to someone else for permission before easing the mask to one side and holding a straw against his lips. Scott sipped eagerly, coughing when he found he was struggling to swallow properly, and sighing in resignation when Virgil carefully repositioned the mask. There was a nurse fussing around Scott, checking his pulse and other readings, and pressing a call button. Hospital then. Not the first time for a trouble-prone Tracy, and almost certainly not the last. Scott sighed again, resigned to being prodded and poked. He was still holding Virgil's hand, as tightly as he could manage, but now Mom was there too, looking down at him with glad eyes a couple of shades paler than his brother's.

"Scott honey!" her voice was choked with tears, her hand very gentle as she stroked his hair. Scott tilted his head, leaning into the comfort of her touch.

"Where's Gordy?" he managed, more clearly this time. Mom was crying still, and Scott turned back to his brother, knowing that he could depend on him. Vague, fever-distorted memories returned to him, of a deep voice and a hand stroking his brow as he tossed and turned. "Dad?" he asked tentatively. "Virge, is everyone all right?"

Virgil smiled at him, leaning against Mom as she pulled him into a delighted hug.

"They are now," he said simply.

Epilogue

The jet was small, sleek and black. Her smooth curves made her look as if she were soaring just standing on the ground, and the thought of the technology hidden inside made his hands itch. It was love at first sight.

"She's beautiful!" Scott whispered, standing in the part-open door of the hangar. He came forward, reaching up to touch the leading edge of her wing and stopping with his hand hovering above it. "I love it, Virge!" He grinned, glancing towards the back of the hangar. "I want one!"

Chestnut brown eyes crinkled in amusement. Virgil was sitting on a bench, level with the rear of the 'plane, arms around his knees and head resting on them as he watched his brother.

"Don't say that near Dad. He'll get you one. Maybe one day, anyway. When he's rich. He'll find someone to make the fastest 'plane ever, and give it to you as a present."

Scott couldn't help pulling a face. He grimaced as he circled the 'plane and dropped onto the bench beside the younger boy.

"Don't. It's getting kind of embarrassing."

Their father had started buying his sons gifts even before they'd left the hospital, showering them with everything they might want or need. Scott was pretty sure it had started as an effort to shake all five boys out of their somewhat shocked reaction to what had happened. By the time Jeff himself went back to work it seemed to have evolved into an unconscious effort to explain to them that his sons were still more important to him than the money. Now, a month after Scott and Gordon rejoined their family, it was starting to look a lot like a compulsion.

Virgil laughed softly. "Johnny reckons that Mom will make him stop after all this." He waved a hand, taking in the NASA headquarters surrounding them, the sounds drifting from the marquee that had been set up next to the airstrip, and the reason for it all. "Gordon and Alan have decided to just make the most of it while it lasts."

Scott nodded, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head back to enjoy the sight of the lovely little aircraft.

"You realise people will be looking for you?" Virgil asked after a few moments.

"Looking for both of us," Scott corrected. He shrugged, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks after the long ceremony. They seemed to have spent most of the day either sitting rigidly on uncomfortable chairs, or on their best behaviour as they were introduced to very important people. "I don't think it will take Mr Vaughan three days to find us this time."

Scott had intended the comment to be light-hearted. The look Virgil gave him told him it was still far too recent a memory to be joking about. Scott sighed.

"They could always ask John. He told me where you'd gone." He shot a sideways glance at his closest brother and frowned a little. "How did Johnny get the codes for this place, anyway?"

Now Virgil did smile. "Some fiendishly complicated plan using Gordon as a distraction for Mr Vaughan, and Allie to get Mom out of the room, as far as I can tell. While we were waiting with Dad for Inspector Travis and Doctor Mina to arrive, and everyone else was in Mr Vaughan's office." Scott shot his brother a mildly reproving look and Virgil held up a hand in protest. "Hey, I just told John I wanted to show you Mr Vaughan's jet. He was the one who said to leave it to him."

Scott laughed, giving Virgil a sidelong glance. "And that didn't make you suspicious?"

Virgil grinned back at him, changing the subject.

"Is Uncle Jim still apologising to Dad?" he asked curiously.

Now it was Scott's turn to feel uncomfortable with the memories. He shifted on the bench, turning to face his brother.

"Dad told him that if he didn't shut up, he'd hit him, and then invited him around for dinner."

Virgil laughed. "It's sort of nice to see things getting back to normal."

Scott nodded, closing his eyes for a few moments.

"Gordy's still talking a lot," he said quietly. “Mom says he needs to think things through, and get what happened out of his system. She says it’s a good thing.”

He could kind of see what she meant. Scott guessed it was better for Gordon to talk about anything and everything on his mind than to bottle it all up. That didn't make it any easier for the thirteen-year-old to listen to their ordeal described over and over again through his little brother's eyes. He'd barely spoken about it himself, going through it once for the police report and then flatly refusing to say anything more. Why should he, when Gordon was more than happy to tell everyone whatever they wanted to know? He opened his eyes to find Virgil looking at him, a little concerned.

"He's been quieter lately," the younger boy offered. He frowned. "And I think he's worked out that everyone gets worried when he babbles like that. He's starting to do it deliberately."

Scott sat up, startled. "You're kidding?"

"Uh-uh," Virgil shook his head. "I heard him explaining to Allie yesterday. He said that if everyone expected him to talk a lot, he could say anything he wanted and no one would tell him off. Alan didn't really get it."

"Thank goodness – I don’t think I could deal with two of them! Wait ‘till I get my hands on… Oh!" Scott laughed, realisation striking. Virgil gave him an enquiring look. Scott grinned back. "You'd already sneaked off. You didn't hear what Gordy said about his medal."

"I never sneak!" Virgil protested. He frowned, curious as to what had amused his brother. "So what did Gordon say?"

"He'd given it to Allie to play with. He said that it was very nice and kind of shiny, and that saving the world was good and all that, but that he'd kind of done it by accident, and next time he got a medal he wanted it to be for something he was actually good at, like swimming or something, because that would be more fun."

Virgil stared at him, wide-eyed. "He said that?"

"Very loudly. To the World President."

Virgil stared for a couple of seconds longer before dissolving into the giggles that Scott had heard from him far too seldom of late. He chuckled himself, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes again.

"Yup, definitely nice to see things getting back to normal."

Virgil's laughter subsided. "You're not quite there yet, are you, Scott?"

Scott let the question fall into silence, knowing that Virgil didn’t need his answer. He kept his eyes closed, fighting off the lingering memories with his brother’s wordless support. It was a minute or two before he felt a tug on his shirt. The ribbons from his medal had been trailing from his breast pocket. Now Virgil pulled it free, turning the silver disk over in his hand and rubbing a finger across the carved surface.

"It is kind of shiny."

"You've got mine, now show me yours." Scott made the instruction soft. Virgil wouldn't meet his eyes, hands dipping into the pocket of his slacks to bring out a slightly less ornate medal on a bright red ribbon. He dropped it into Scott's outstretched palm without comment.

It had been a long ceremony. It had started with commendations for Inspector Travis from the President of Dominga and for Mr Vaughan from the President of the United States. Uncle Jim, Commander of the World Weather Control System, had got his award from the World President himself, congratulated for his quick thinking and actions. Scott would have rather it had stopped there, and knew that Virgil felt the same. The younger boy hadn't wanted to go on stage to accept his bravery award, not even when the World President read out a citation saying that saving the world had to start with valuing every human life, and that Virgil's courage in saving his father demonstrated that. Flushed red and uncomfortable, Scott's younger brother been grateful to sit down again, and Scott hadn't had a chance to speak to him before he and Gordon were bundled up to the stage for their own presentation – rewarded not only for saving the lives of the Weather Station crew, but also potentially millions of others.

"I don't want it. Not really. But Dad said…" Virgil was looking down at his hands, turning Scott's medal over and over. "Dad said that even if something goes wrong, whatever happens afterwards, and even if you were scared or angry or whatever when you did it, it doesn't stop something being brave."

Scott looked down at the disk cradled in his own hand. The miniature carving in its middle was of a boat foundering in towering waves. There were two figures in the water, bobbing heads no more than pinhead-sized. It was beautiful, and perhaps one day Virgil would be able to treasure it. For now, though, it felt as catastrophically insensitive as the intricately carved picture of San Fernando on his own medal. They didn't need the reminders.

"We didn't do it because we thought there'd be medals at the end of it. We didn't think we were being brave, or do it to feel good about ourselves later. We just kept going, because it was what needed to be done, and because if we didn't, that would be giving up."

"We couldn't do that." Virgil met Scott's eyes, the two of them understanding one another perfectly. "We had too much to lose."

Scott nodded.

"I'm proud of you, Virge," he said seriously.

The younger boy grinned. "And if anyone was going to get shipwrecked and end up saving the world, it was going to be my big brother," he said, shuffling down the bench so he could get an arm around Scott's shoulders and pull him into a hug. "You're amazing sometimes, Scotty."

Scott pouted. "Only sometimes?" he protested, lips twitching into a smile.

He slipped Virgil's medal into his own pocket for safe-keeping, knowing without looking that his brother was mirroring his action.

"So, do you think Mom and Dad have missed us yet?" he asked idly, enjoying the quiet of the cool hangar interior.

"Scott! Virgil!"

Virgil cocked his head to one side, hearing the near-panic in their father's rapidly-approaching call.

"I guess so." He raised an eyebrow at his older brother. "Ready to face the world again?"

Scott Tracy climbed to his feet. He raised his head, shaking his dark hair back from intense blue eyes and setting his shoulders firmly. Virgil stood too, quiet but confident, and there beside his brother every step of the way.

"Let's go," Scott told him, leading Virgil out into the bright sunshine.