SECRETS AND LIES by JAIMI-SAM RATED FRT

International Rescue embarks on a difficult and hazardous ocean rescue mission – unaware that one of the people they save will prove to be a danger to their entire organization...

ONE

It was still well before dawn on Tracy Island – the deep black velvet of the sky not yet ready to betray even the slightest hint of pink at the horizon. Scott Tracy, the eldest of billionaire former astronaut Jeff Tracy’s five sons, stood on the balcony outside his quarters with glass in hand – feeling the warmth of the twelve-year-old single malt as it trailed down into his stomach. The sweet-smelling tropical breezes were balmy even at this hour, the silence broken only by the soft slap of waves against the shore below. This must be the most peaceful place on Earth, he thought. How ironic that International Rescue lives here.

He glanced back at the bed he had spent barely three hours in that night. Most people knew he was a light sleeper, but the truth was, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, voluntarily, through an entire night. It was often assumed it was a habit he’d picked up during his military service. But his family knew differently – they were all used to him roaming around the house at odd hours of the morning in the grip of an insomniac fit. They shrugged their shoulders at guests’ questions, as if to say, What? It’s just Scott. He’s always been like that.

He leaned on the balcony railing, staring out into the night with unfocused eyes. He’d had the nightmare again. It had been a while since its last nocturnal visit, and he’d hoped this time it was finally gone for good. Part of the trouble was, try as he might, he could never remember it well enough to get a good handle on it. All he knew was that he always woke up covered in icy sweat, heart hammering as if he’d just run a four minute mile, a sick feeling of dread deep in his guts that sometimes took hours to go away.

Scott took another swallow of the whisky, needing its bite and fire inside him. Why was he doing this now? He had to snap out of this funk. Tracy, what you need is a good, solid rescue operation, he told himself irritably, running a hand through his thick dark brown hair. Tire you out until you can’t stand up – then you’ll sleep.

A sudden shout from the interior of the house jolted him out of his contemplations. He quickly pulled on the pair of shorts he’d been wearing before he went to bed, and headed toward the sound, glad to have something to do.

In the lounge, Gordon, the fourth Tracy son and only aquanaut in the family, was planted in front of the vidscreen. "Hey, Gordo, what are you doing up?"

Gordon waved at him to shut up, turning up the volume on his chair’s touch-pad. Curious, Scott looked at the screen.

A grim-faced news anchor was talking. "...Once again, we’re now receiving confirmation that disaster has struck for the crews of at least three of the yachts competing in this year’s Southern Oceans Cup. Billed as the world’s most dangerous ocean race, the competition involves fifteen yachts, each with a crew of eleven, traversing what can be the most treacherous stretches of water on our globe."

A map of Antarctica appeared on the screen, a dotted red line tracing a course around the continent, beginning and ending at the tip of Western Australia.

"The pressure just took a nose dive," Gordon said, eyes glued to the screen. "That’s really bad news, especially down there in the roaring forties."

"Roaring forties?" Scott asked, not as well versed in the terminology of the seas as his brother. But the anchor was talking again, as a red X appeared on the map, close to the Antarctic coast, south-south-east of Cape Horn. "Two hours ago, the leading competitors were halfway through the notorious Drake Passage, between Cape Horn and the northern coast of Antarctica, when they encountered an alarming drop in barometric pressure. The weather, it seems, is living up to its worst potential. This was the last transmission from the Canadian yacht, Snowbird, before we lost satellite contact with the race participants."

"Hey, what’s going on?" second-eldest brother Virgil asked sleepily, wandering out into the lounge in his pajama bottoms, tufts of chestnut-colored hair sticking straight up on end.

Scott and Gordon both shushed him as the newscast on the vidscreen cut to grainy, low-light footage of what could have been anywhere to Scott’s untrained eyes, but was evidently the cabin of Snowbird. Several men and women in foul-weather gear huddled around the spokesperson, a bearded man in his forties. "It’s not an iceberg," he was saying hurriedly into the camera, the strain clear in his voice. "It’s a wave. I wish you could see this sonofabitch – it’s gotta be eight stories high. It’s like the side of a cliff."

The man glanced over his shoulder briefly, then back at the camera. "If we’re really lucky, we might be able to – "

There was a sudden crash, and the sound of splintering wood. The cabin on the screen reeled sideways, oilskin-clad bodies flying everywhere in a dark blur of arms and legs. Somebody screamed – and the monitor went dark.

"Jeez," Virgil said, sitting down heavily on the couch. "That’s not good."

Scott couldn’t suppress a smile. Virgil was well-known for waking up more slowly than his brothers, and they never knew what odd utterances they were going to get out of him until his brain was back on-line again. Under normal circumstances, Scott would have considered it his familial duty to hold up three fingers and make his brother count them. But right now, he was too caught up in the news story. No matter how many rescues he’d been a part of, he never became immune to the fear of people in real distress.

The anchor was back on. "As far as we can ascertain at this hour, at least two of the competitors, Snowbird and one of the American ships, Spirit of Nantucket, have capsized in mountainous seas and gale force winds reaching sustained speeds of sixty knots and above. A third yacht, the Australian Melbourne Melody, is reported to be in serious trouble, possibly having lost her mast after being struck by lightning. The Royal Australian Air Force is mounting a search and rescue attempt, but the yachts are well out of helijet range, and even in calm seas it would take thirty-six hours to reach them by sea. The men and women on board those vessels out there may not have that long."

Scott stood up and went across to his father’s desk. He hit the comlink. "International Rescue calling Thunderbird 5."

The Nordic blond features of John, the third Tracy brother, appeared on the vidscreen that instantly replaced his portrait on the wall. "Thunderbird 5, go ahead, Scott."

"John, have you been monitoring the Southern Oceans Cup race?"

"Affirmative." John’s grey-blue eyes were somber. "It sounds like they’re in pretty bad shape down there."

"That’s what I thought. Keep an eye on it, John. Let us know right away if they start asking for help."

"F.A.B., Scott."

"Son, this is one time we shouldn’t wait to be asked." Jeff Tracy strode into the room, somehow managing a fittingly commanding presence despite his paisley silk dressing gown and slippers. "Gordon, you’ve sailed the Drake passage a couple of times. Am I right?"

"Yes, father. Those capsized yachts don’t have thirty-six hours. With waves like that, they could be smashed to pieces at any time. And once they’re in the water, at those temperatures..."

Jeff nodded, coming around Scott to sit at his desk. "John, contact the local authorities and tell them we’re on our way. Thunderbirds are go!"

Scott felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as he headed straight across to his familiar spot on the wall. He turned, raising his hands to grip the two fake light fixtures that hid his entry controls. As the section of wall began its 180-degree revolve, he heard his father issuing orders. "Virgil, Gordon, Pod 4. You’d better take Alan, too – we’re talking about eleven people per yacht, that means more than thirty people are in trouble out there. And Virgil...take some coffee with you."

The wall section completed its turn and thunked into place, blotting out the sounds of the lounge behind him. Straight across from Scott now was a sight he never tired of – the sleek silvery tower of Thunderbird One, waiting on her pad just for him. It suddenly occurred to him that this beautiful machine was the closest thing to a full-time mistress he had, and he smiled despite himself. Tracy, you have got to get a life before it’s too late...

Once the bridge had extended to the open entry hatch, Scott was into his uniform and taking his seat at the controls in less than two minutes. "Base from Thunderbird One. Beginning descent to launch position."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One." His father’s voice crackled in his ears.

As the ship began its way down the long ramp from her hangar to her launch position, Virgil’s chute had reached the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, depositing him in the pilot’s seat. Yawning, he pulled back on the lever that brought the wheel forward into position, flipped on the lights, and watched the instrument panels hum into life. He was climbing into his uniform by the time Gordon slid into the cockpit via the passenger entrance, and his eyes lit up as he saw the thermos in his younger brother’s hands. "Oooh. Caffeine. I might not hit anything on launch today."

Gordon grinned, handing it over and moving to the uniform rack. Virgil could joke all he liked – but in reality he was the most precise pilot of them all, and the only time he had ever hit anything was when the USS Sentinel had accidentally shot him out of the air. Even then, he’d managed to make it back home to crash on the runway at Tracy Island, where it was easy to clean up the mess. Very convenient. Very Virgil.

Already sipping the coffee, Virgil sat back down in the pilot’s seat and started the conveyor belt under Thunderbird Two. As soon as he’d picked up Pod 4, they would be on their way to the rescue zone. "Base from Thunderbird Two. Tell Alan if he doesn’t get his ass down here in the next two minutes, he’s going to miss the bus."

Back in Thunderbird One, Scott had finished the pre-flight check by the time his craft reached level ground at the bottom of her ramp. He pushed forward on the control levers, guiding her into launch position. "Base from Thunderbird One, request permission to launch."

Directly above him now, the swimming pool finished its sideways slide. He watched the indicator until the blinking red light changed to a steady green. "Thunderbird One, you are clear to launch."

"F.A.B. Thunderbird One is go." Scott hit the ignition switch, and the adrenaline surged back as Thunderbird One’s massive rocket boosters roared to life beneath him. He pulled back on the controls, feeling the hard push against his back as she lifted off, climbing swiftly and steadily up into the night. Tracy Island shrank rapidly behind him until it was nothing but a tiny dot against the moonlit silver-black of the ocean. "Base from Thunderbird One, I’m on my way. Estimate arrival at rescue zone in approximately fifty minutes."

"F.A.B., Scott. Thunderbird Two is right behind you."

It wasn’t until that moment that Scott suddenly wondered where he was going to land when he got there.

There was a voice, coming from somewhere, and it wouldn’t leave her alone. She struggled to separate it from the other noises that swam around inside her head, failing at first. Crying...someone was crying, somewhere, and there were other voices, pitched low. Muffled, as if from far away, there was something else she recognized with a jolt that brought her to awareness – the scream of an angry wind.

"Tally," the voice was saying again, right beside her ear. "Tally, can you hear me?"

Michael. Tally Somerville finally realized the person talking to her was her brother.

Very slowly, she managed to get her eyes to open. There was a dim source of illumination coming from somewhere, like a flashlight with a very weak battery. It was unbelievably cold. Tally had to try her voice a few times before she could get out more than a salt-water-dried croak. "Mike...where are we...?"

"Are you hurt?" He was brushing her sodden hair away from her face, peering at her in the gloom.

"My head...I think...so cold..." Awareness was leaching back bit by bit. She was draped forward over something hard, maybe a table. Most of her lower body was freezing.

"You’re in the water, Tally," he said. "Can’t get above it any more...too high now."

"The water..." Tally gasped as memory flooded back – the pressure dropping, the wind and rain, the wall of water eight stories high that had smashed them into oblivion.

She stared at the man who was not only her brother but also the captain of the Spirit of Nantucket. "Oh, God, Mike – we’re upside down! We’re under the boat!"

Thick, claustrophobic panic rose up in her throat, threatening to choke her. Michael gripped her shoulder so hard she flinched from the pain. "Tally, please," he begged, voice low and edged with despair. "Some of us...didn’t make it."

That stopped her. Tally dragged in a huge breath, staring around the cabin – and then trying not to. "Who?" she said, finally.

"Bob. I think he was knocked out when we went over. He was face down when I...found him. Cathy...her neck was broken."

The tears stung her eyes. "What about the others?"

"Some broken bones. I think they’re going to be okay. It’s just so damn cold, it’s hard to tell..."

Thank God for the survival gear Michael had insisted they all put on before entering the Drake Passage, she thought. They had all griped about it at the time, but without its protection they would all be dead or dying from hypothermia by now. "Mike," she said, asking the question he’d been dreading. "What are we going to do?"

"They’ll get us out. They have our position. By now search and rescue is on the way. We just have to hang on."

He was trying his best to hide it, but she knew him. He was afraid. "Search and rescue from where, Mike?" she asked, her voice very quiet now. "We were two days out, and helijets can’t fly in sixty-knot winds."

He answered her only with his silence. She took another deep, shaky breath. "Can we at least help the others?"

"Can you move?"

"I think so."

"Come on, then. I found the first aid kit – it’s over here."

With thirty minutes of Scott’s flight still to go, Jeff Tracy’s voice crackled over the comlink. "Thunderbird One from Base."

"Thunderbird One – go ahead, father," Scott acknowledged.

"John and I have been in touch with the race officials. They had taken the precaution of stationing helijets on the Antarctic mainland, but even if they were within range of the rescue zone, they still couldn’t take off in this weather. The RAAF is still thirty-five hours away." He paused. "I bet you’ve been wondering where you’re going to establish mobile control."

The corners of Scott’s mouth twitched. "Well, let’s just say I’ve been doing some pretty fancy calculations on hovering at high wind speeds."

His father laughed. "It’s not as bad as that, son – not yet, at least. There’s a Nimitz class aircraft carrier in the area – the USS Colin Powell. She’s been on maneuvers with the Chilean Navy and she was on her way back home to Norfolk, Virginia. The American government has diverted her to assist in the rescue."

That’s great, father – I can put down on her deck. Do we have rendezvous coordinates?"

"John’s working on it with the commander of the Colin Powell. Stand by."

"F.A.B." Scott glanced down at his radar scope, clearly able to see the very bad weather he was flying into. This one wasn’t going to cut them much slack.

Captain Andrew Howard of the USS Colin Powell stared out over the heaving deck of his ship as she ploughed her way at maximum speed through the ever-roughening seas south of Cape Horn. Heading into sustained winds of sixty knots and worsening, gusting to over 150 knots, with sheets of icy rain driving almost vertically across a deck that had become slick as glass, he had ordered all aircraft secured below and all non-essential personnel to shelter. In all his years sailing the oceans, he had never encountered a storm this savage. "Ted," he said to his executive officer, "What’s the latest word on those capsized yachts?"

Before Commander Ted Lawrence could answer him, the communications officer was signaling them. "Sir, it’s International Rescue requesting permission to land."

"Tell him he’s clear. And get a team out there to secure him as soon as he’s on deck – we don’t want to go down in history as the ship that let a Thunderbird slide off into the drink."

Commander Lawrence allowed himself a smile. Captain Howard stared upwards through the darkness and rain, trying to make out the incoming lights of a craft they had all heard about, but never seen. "Those International Rescue guys must be crazy," Lawrence muttered under his breath. "I wouldn’t even try to land in this. I hope he’s good."

"I hope he’s lucky," Howard answered brusquely.

"There!" Lawrence had spotted Thunderbird One’s running lights, lowering out of the sky toward them.

Howard glanced back over at his communications officer. "Give him windspeed and direction – it’s gusting to 150 knots out there, and if he doesn’t watch it he’s going to slide like a duck on pack ice. Ask him if we can be of any assistance."

In the cockpit of Thunderbird One, beads of sweat had broken out on Scott’s forehead as he fought to keep his descent steady in the driving winds. "Thank the Captain for me," he grunted, "But unless he can control the weather, I don’t think there’s much he can do."

"Thunderbird One, this is Thunderbird Two," Virgil’s voice came over the comlink. He sounded worried. "We’re still an hour behind you, Scott. These headwinds are killing us. It looks very bad on the radar – are you going to be able to put down on that carrier?"

"Piece of cake," Scott grinned tightly. "It’s only sixty knots without the wind shear, after all."

"Sixty knots?" Virgil sounded incredulous. "Scott, that’s impossible! You’ll put her in the drink."

"Oh, now you’ve gone and made it a challenge, Virg." Scott switched frequencies back to the Colin Powell. "USS Colin Powell from Thunderbird One. Give me all the lights you’ve got – I’m coming in."

Swinging around toward final approach, he could see the carrier below him now, the deck lit up like a Christmas tree to guide him in. Carrier landings were something he had never encountered during his military service – not many ships in the Air Force, after all. But they were well known as the acid test of a pilot’s skill, even in calm seas.

Christ, he thought, looking down at the moving target that was steaming away from him at upwards of thirty knots. It’s like landing on a postage stamp. A postage stamp that was also heaving up and down in the dark, with savage winds trying everything within their power to blow him sideways off his approach. His only plan was to make the opposite of a normal landing run – keeping the wings close to the fuselage, waiting until the last possible moment to lower the struts – and maybe, just maybe, the reduced surface area of the Thunderbird would cut down the wind drag enough to tip the odds in his favor. He hoped.

The only problem was, she was a beast to control at this altitude and these speeds without her wings. "Come on, baby," he muttered under his breath as she yawed sickeningly underneath him. "Don’t fight me now, or we’ll all end up going for a swim..."

"Scott," Virgil was in his ears again, voice edged with anxiety. "What’s happening?"

"Can’t talk now, Virgil. I’m a little busy." Scott was still struggling to lower the nose, but the winds kept buffeting her sideways and up. The carrier was close below him now – too close, he suddenly realized. His airspeed was still too high – he wasn’t going to make it on this pass.

The microburst warning clamored in his ears. Before he could do anything about it, a mighty gust of wind caught the Thunderbird in its fist, throwing the craft hard to starboard as if it weighed no more than a kid’s toy. Without wings to stabilize her, she rolled through forty degrees, Scott fighting desperately to get back control. He saw something very big flash past the corner of his vision and twisted his head around – realizing with horror that he was headed straight for the bridge island.

"Pull up, son, pull up!" the Captain shouted into the radio link. He and the rest of the bridge crew howled and covered their eyes as the Thunderbird’s landing jet fired straight at them, scorching the metal of the bridge structure dangerously close to the observation glass. But it did the trick, blasting her up and over the island with inches to spare.

It took Scott almost another minute to bring the charging Thunderbird back under control, sweating from every pore in his body and hurling invective at the wind the whole way. God, that had been close – he’d almost killed himself and the entire bridge crew of the Colin Powell. Wiping that thought from his mind with an effort, he concentrated on the problem at hand. Somehow, he still had to land this bird.

Maybe Virgil was right. Maybe it couldn’t be done.

And then a crazy thought struck him. Very dangerous – completely insane, in fact – but it just might work. Virgil, I’m real glad you can’t see this...

The booster rockets flared as he swung the Thunderbird wide around the bridge structure, coming in as low as he could. There came the wind again, showing its teeth, trying its best to sweep him sideways. Okay, Tracy, just like you’re landing back at the island. The carrier directly below him again, he throttled back on the thrusters, firing the landing jet in a controlled burst. Thunderbird One’s heavy tail section swung down through ninety degrees, her nose cone now pointing straight up into the stormy sky. Scott allowed himself one glance down at the very hard deck underneath him. Then he cut the engines.

It felt like dropping off a cliff. Thunderbird One literally fell out of the sky, plunging tail-first like a stone. Every nerve in his body screaming, Scott forced himself to look only at the altimeter, counting off the seconds. "Four, three, two, one..." At the last possible moment his hands moved in a blur of speed, firing the thrusters, giving her just enough of a burst from her landing retro and the pitch-yaw jets in her nose cone to knock her descent out of vertical. Thunderbird One’s nose scythed down, wings swinging out, landing struts dropping into place. She smacked into the deck of the Colin Powell with bruising force, bounced, and hit again. But this time she stayed down.

He could hear the cheers of the bridge crew over the comlink. "Son," the Captain said, "That is probably the worst landing I have ever witnessed in my entire career. Welcome aboard."

The forward mess hall of the Colin Powell was sparsely inhabited at this pre-dawn hour, but several Navy personnel were scattered throughout the tables, doing their best to eat despite the unusually severe pitching and rolling caused by the storm. One young seaman raced into the mess at top speed, skidding to a halt at a table occupied by two of his friends. An older man, seated nearby in heavy weather gear nursing a cup of coffee, glanced over with a frown of annoyance.

"I’m telling you, it was wild!" the young seaman was saying, voice pitched high with excitement. "I’ve never seen a landing like it!"

"Now come on, Hicks," one of the others shook his head. "Quit yanking my chain. Nothing could put down in this weather. It’s gotta be blowing fifty at least out there."

"Sixty," Hicks said. "I mean, I heard International Rescue were the best, but you should have seen this baby hit the deck."

The man sitting nearby didn’t move, only a slight tilt of his head in their direction betraying his sudden interest.

"International Rescue?" That had got the attention of the young seaman’s friends.

"Yep. The pilot’s up with the Captain in the bridge right now. Come on!"

All three men scrambled to their feet and hurried out of the Mess Hall. The man sitting nearby watched them go. Then he finished his coffee and stood up. Disguised he might be, but there was no hiding the look of unholy joy that burned in the eyes of the Hood.

TWO

Within twenty minutes after landing, Scott had established mobile control on the bridge of the Colin Powell, and was sipping gratefully on a steaming cup of coffee. Through the observation windows he had a clear view of his beloved Thunderbird, lashed securely down to the deck with steel cables. "Base from Mobile Control. Are you receiving me? Over."

Nothing except the crackling of static. Scott switched frequencies and tried again. "Base from Mobile Control, are you receiving me? Over."

It was John’s voice that answered him. "Mobile Control, this is Thunderbird 5. Scott, the storm is wiping out surface and most satellite communications. You’ll have to relay through me."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird 5. Thunderbird Two, are you receiving me?"

"Loud and clear, Scott. I hear you’re going to need a fresh pair of tighty-whities after that landing."

"Very funny, Virgil," Scott grunted – but he couldn’t help but grin. "What’s your ETA?"

"Should be flying over the rescue area in twenty three minutes. What’s their condition?"

"Unclear at this time," John’s voice chimed in. "RAAF Air Sea Rescue has managed to keep satellite contact open with only two of the yachts, both of which are toward the rear of the group. They have no visual on the capsized ships. One bit of good news, though – it looks as though the crew of the Melbourne Melody have been rescued by the British yacht, the North Sea."

"Thanks, John." Scott said. "That’s one less for us to worry about. Link us both up with the GPS locators for our targets, will you?"

"Coming right up."

Two small dots of light appeared on the radar screen in front of Scott, representing the capsized yachts – the Snowbird and the Spirit of Nantucket. He looked at the unforgiving weather pattern right on top of them and sighed. "I just hope they’re still alive in there."

For Virgil, the remainder of Thunderbird Two’s flying time to the rescue zone was the longest twenty minutes in his recent memory. He usually didn’t mind the fact that his elder brother was always on the scene first, since most of the time he got to even the score in terms of actual usefulness once he arrived. But this time, with no information forthcoming from the rescue area, he was acutely aware of the clock ticking. He could only echo Scott’s prayer that the men and women they were trying to reach would manage to stay alive long enough for International Rescue to do them some good.

One blessing – Thunderbird Two, with her huge bulk and high flying altitude, was able to make most of the journey in relative comfort. Gordon stood up from the co-pilot’s seat, stretching his legs. Ever since the high-speed hydrofoil accident that had almost killed him a few years before, he couldn’t sit still for long periods of time without stiffening up. "How long now?"

"Two minutes less than the last time you asked, Gordo." There was no bite in Virgil’s words, though – he understood only too well. They were quiet again for a time, watching the rain drive across the cockpit shields, both thinking their own private thoughts. Then a soft, snuffling noise made them look at each other. "Is Alan asleep again?" Virgil said, incredulous.

Gordon glanced over his shoulder at the bench seat, just as the tow-headed youngest Tracy brother let out another snore. "Yep – I don’t know how he does it. Guy could sleep through a hurricane."

The beeping of a monitor alarm alerted them to the end of their journey. "Well, you’d better wake him up," Virgil smiled, "Because we’ve arrived, and he’ll pout if we let him miss the rescue."

The lower Virgil took Thunderbird Two, the harsher the conditions got. It took every ounce of his considerable skill and concentration to fly the slow circular search pattern through gale force winds, all the while staring down, struggling to make out anything at all in the abysmal weather. "I think I saw something," he said suddenly, voice taut with the effort of keeping his ship level.

"Where?" Alan stared, straining his eyes in the dark and the rain.

"Look at the size of those swells," Gordon murmured, pointing at a crest sweeping by beneath them that had to be forty feet high. "This is really going to be hell."

Virgil and Alan caught their brother’s reflection in the cockpit shields, all of them remembering other rescues, other trips to hell and back. For better or worse, this was what they lived for. "Bring it on," Virgil said.

"There they are!" Alan shouted suddenly. "I see them!"

From the air, the capsized hulls of the Snowbird and the Spirit of Nantucket looked like the bleached undersides of two dead whales, bobbing like corks on the surface of the cold grey water. Virgil opened the comlink. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two – we have visual contact with the capsized yachts. They’re close together in a small area, but there’s no sign of life."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two," Scott’s voice came back. "Virgil, what about the thermal scan?"

Virgil smiled slightly at the sound of his elder brother finishing his own thoughts. They were quite a team. "Running it now, Scott."

Nobody spoke, all of them anxiously watching the screen as Virgil guided the Thunderbird over the capsized craft. If the sophisticated thermal imaging sensors didn’t pick up any appreciable heat sources, there would be very little chance that there was anyone left to rescue.

For a long time there was nothing. Then the screen sprang to life, fuzzy green-illuminated forms crowding upon each other in both locations. "Good news!" Virgil whooped. "We’ve got live ones down there!"

He could hear the relief in his brother’s voice. "Gordon, you’d better get moving," Scott said. "And be careful – it’s bad out there."

"On my way." Gordon headed toward the back of the cockpit, where he would pass through into the pod and enter Thunderbird Four, International Rescue’s very own yellow submarine.

"Okay, Scott," Virgil said, "I’m going to make my approach run and drop the pod."

"F.A.B., Virgil. Keep me posted."

"F.A.B." Virgil began to bring the great green Thunderbird around.

The minute Pod 4 hit the water, Gordon was pitched right into the teeth of the storm. The incredibly rough seas played catch with the heavy steel structure, tossing it from crest to crest as if it weighed nothing. Even with his usually ocean-proof stomach, he was feeling distinctly queasy within moments as huge waves tipped the pod almost on end, then immediately rolled it through nearly forty-five degrees. A couple of loose objects from inside the pod, probably tools, thwacked into the submarine’s hull. It crossed Gordon’s mind that he’d better get outside quickly – before something bigger broke free from its restraints.

The pod door opened easily enough, the long track extending out and down to the surface of the angry grey ocean. Getting Thunderbird Four out proved to be a lot more difficult. The insane rolling of the pod almost unseated her from her track twice – Gordon had several bad moments when he was sure she was going to go over all the way and land on her back like a beached turtle. Then one enormous swell exploded right underneath, kicking the rear of the pod so high into the air that the submarine was catapulted forward, tumbling straight down into the cliff-like canyon between the waves. She hit the boiling water hard, the wave crashing down on top of her like a piledriver. Gordon could do nothing but let her go, concentrating only on trying to stay upright – knowing from long experience that resistance to the forces of nature would only make things worse.

"Gordon," Alan’s anxious voice came over the comlink. "Are you okay? That didn’t look too good from up here."

"No kidding," Gordon grunted, thinking that he now understood exactly how it felt to be an ice cube in a blender. Deep enough under the surface to get the submarine back under control, he took stock of the instrument panel, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "I’m a little banged up, but I’m okay. Better keep an eye on the pod, though. It’s pretty hairy up there on the surface."

He switched on the headlights and the tracking sonar. "Okay, Thunderbird Two, I’ve got them," he said. "On my way."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Four," Alan acknowledged.

Gordon brought Thunderbird Four around in the direction of the capsized yachts, trying not to think about how he was going to get the submarine back into the pod when this was all over. At the last moment he remembered to hit the remote to close up the pod. His brothers would never let him live it down if it sank behind him because he’d left the door open.

The surviving crew of the Spirit of Nantucket had all lapsed into silence by now. Tally was beyond doing anything more for anyone – even herself. The water had risen again, and she couldn’t feel her body any more. She floated miserably next to her brother, struggling against the soporific effects of the intense cold, listening to the wind shriek outside the hull.

"I’m sorry, Tally," Michael said, forcing out the words through frozen lips. "I don’t know what I was thinking. I should never have let you come."

She managed a wry smile. "Not your fault. I twisted your arm, remember?"

Another oversized wave smashed into them, picking up the Spirit of Nantucket and hurling it sideways. Tally went under the water as the boat rolled. She broke the surface again, gasping and choking. "Mike? Mike!"

She found him floating nearby, a foot under the water. "Mike!" she screamed, forcing her frozen arms to drag him up to the surface, pulling him against her, holding his face out of the water like they’d taught her when she was sixteen and working the summer as a lifeguard. He lay limply in her arms, dead weight, a nasty gash on the side of his head. He was so cold, the blood wouldn’t even run. Oh, God, Mike, please wake up, she begged silently. I don’t want to die alone...

And then, against all odds, a miracle happened. Above the howling wind, she heard a sound that tore a sob from her throat. Jet engines.

Gordon had put it off long enough – he was going to have to come up now. Bracing himself, he pointed Thunderbird Four’s nose toward the surface.

It was an utter nightmare. The waves were unbelievable – he tried to plough the submarine through them rather than surf their crests, but the conditions were so bad he had very little say in the matter. And as if that wasn’t enough, the freezing rain blowing horizontally across the surface of the water kicked up clouds of spray that reduced visibility to almost nothing. It was a tribute to the superior construction of the capsized yachts that they had not broken up completely under the relentless pounding, he thought.

He quickly found out that maneuvering Thunderbird Four near enough to the yachts to effect a rescue, without letting the waves throw him against one of the far more fragile craft, was next to impossible. He tried over and over again, but every time he got close, he had to take swift evasive action before the submarine’s sixteen-ton steel mass punched a hole though the nearest hull. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Four," he said at last, frustration clear in his voice. "This isn’t working. I can’t get close enough. We’ll have to come up with another way."

Up in the hovering Thunderbird Two, Virgil’s shoulders were starting to feel the strain of the constant manual adjustments that were needed to hold the massive craft in place in these gale force winds. He glanced at Alan as Gordon’s transmission came through. "Understood, Thunderbird Four. Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two."

On the bridge of the Colin Powell, Scott was standing at the observation windows, staring down through the sheeting rain at Thunderbird One on the deck below. This was the part of the rescue operation he hated the most. Yes, he had to be in charge, and sometimes that meant being removed from the scene of the action. He knew all the reasons, and the logical part of his brain accepted that they made sense. But he’d rather be doing anything, anything, other than this endless waiting.

The sound of Virgil’s voice made him swing around. "Mobile Control, go ahead, Thunderbird Two," he said, crossing back to the console.

"Scott, we need a Plan B," Virgil said. "The seas are so rough that Gordon can’t get close enough to the yachts without destroying them."

Time for Jeff Tracy’s eldest son to make him proud. This was what Scott did better than any of them – think on his feet. "Well, guys, I can think of one way. But you’re going to have to come and get me."

Back in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, Virgil and Alan exchanged puzzled glances. "Go ahead, Mobile Control," Virgil said. "What’s the plan?"

Trapped under the hull of the Spirit of Nantucket, Tally Somerville heard the worst sound of her life – her miracle, fading away into the distance. The jet engines were leaving.

"I’m sorry, Mike," she whispered to her brother, lying unconscious and probably dying in her arms. "It’s all over now. I guess there was no way to get us out."

There was nothing to do now but wait to die.

 The Hood was a master of blending into the woodwork in order to pass through any place undetected. That unparalleled ability had even been responsible for his nickname, given to him by the police and military forces of the world – none of whom knew which of the myriad of faces he presented to them was really his own. Nobody had any idea what his real name was. Sometimes he didn’t even remember it himself without an effort, it had been so long since anyone had called him by it.

With the amount of excitement surrounding the arrival of International Rescue on the Colin Powell, it took him much longer than usual to find a good vantage point to survey the situation. Everywhere he went, there were far too many people. Then a scrap of overheard conversation triggered a stroke of genius. With no planes able to land or take off in this weather, the catapult control pod – a small windowed dome protruding above the deck, where the catapult control officer operated the machinery required to launch the carrier’s fighter planes into the air – would be deserted. From there he would be able to see the entire deck, while being unobserved himself.

On his way, he allowed himself a moment to shake his head at the incredible way fate worked. He had been on board the Colin Powell to steal secrets – for sale to the highest bidder, of course – having received a tip that they would be testing a new fighter jet with a totally different propulsion system while supposedly on "maneuvers" with the Chilean Navy. His mission successful, he had been making plans to depart the carrier at her next stop and return to his secret hideout in his native Malaysia, when the Colin Powell had suddenly changed course without explanation. Try as he might, all the Hood had been able to find out was that the orders came from Washington, from the highest levels.

And now he understood everything. Jeff Tracy had picked up the phone.

The Hood climbed the ladder into the catapult control pod, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness and driving rain outside. His eyes glittered as they fell on the sleek silver arrow of Thunderbird One, a scant hundred feet away. That meant the eldest Tracy brother, Scott, must be the one on the bridge with the Captain.

The Hood hated the Tracys without reservation. He wanted nothing more than to watch Jeff Tracy and his five sons die slow, lingering, painful deaths. It was something he fantasized about endlessly, thinking of all the torturous ways he would make it happen, when he finally got his chance. They had made him look like a fool more than once, costing him time, money and even worse, lucrative alliances with others – and you didn’t do that to the Hood and think you could just walk away. He also knew what would hurt them the most – exposure as the team behind the most famous secret organization in the world, International Rescue. But one thing kept him from calling the news services and unmasking them – greed. He knew that he had only just scratched the surface of the incredible machinery and resources International Rescue had stashed away, somewhere. And to keep themselves hidden the way they did, so that not even the most sophisticated satellites could pick up any traces of where they took off from and went back to, they must possess technology the rest of this world could only dream of. Technology that could make the Hood the richest man in the world. But in order for that to happen, he had to find International Rescue’s base of operations and find out how they did what they did. And that meant, at least for now, he couldn’t risk anyone else finding out the Tracy family’s best kept secret.

Something was happening out on the deck. The Hood watched as the huge green bulk of Thunderbird Two – without its cargo pod, he noted – approached low over the deck. Virgil Tracy was having a tough time of it – even a craft of her size and weight was buffeted mercilessly by the high winds. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, one of which swung her around almost 180 degrees, her landing jets finally fired and she settled down on to the deck safely, albeit a lot less smoothly than usual. A movement caught the Hood’s eye – a yellow utility vehicle was speeding across the deck toward the newly arrived Thunderbird. In the darkness it was hard to tell, but he thought he saw... Yes! He’d seen a flash of the blue International Rescue uniform beneath the heavy coat of one of the men. He watched as Scott Tracy disappeared into Thunderbird Two’s rear cockpit hatch, and the great craft’s rocket thrusters fired, launching her up again into the storm.

Leaving Thunderbird One sitting all alone on the deck of the Colin Powell. The Hood was so stunned at his incredible good fortune, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

THREE

Thunderbird Two was back at the scene of the rescue in less than ten minutes. Long before that, Scott had changed into a waterproof survival suit and was immediately on the comlink to Gordon. "Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Two. What’s the situation, Gordon?

"Not good, Scott. One of the yachts – I think it’s the Snowbird – is almost submerged. I don’t know if anyone’s still alive in there – they might have already run out of air."

Scott swore under his breath. He hated being behind the eight ball like this. Shit happens, Tracy, he told himself, as he had done many times before, on many other rescues. You can’t foresee everything. "Okay, Gordon, then that’s the one we start with. Stand by – we might need you to submerge and keep that yacht from sinking."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two."

"Rescue zone directly below us now, Scott," Virgil announced. When there was no immediate response, he glanced around, seeing the worry etched on his brother’s dark features. "She’ll be fine. The Navy will take care of her for you."

Scott flicked a glance in his direction, making a face. Virgil knew him too well. "I know. I just hated leaving her there without one of us nearby. But I didn’t see any other choice, under the circumstances."

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "It’ll be all right," Virgil reassured him. "I’ll tell John to keep on top of the Colin Powell’s captain. He’ll make sure they keep a guard on her."

"Scott, are you ready?" Alan appeared from the depths of Thunderbird Two’s cockpit, also now clad in a survival suit, over which he wore a safety harness. He tossed a second harness to Scott and began to pull on his gloves.

Scott caught the harness and stepped into it swiftly, snapping it into place. He and Alan headed for the passenger slide that would take them down to Thunderbird Two’s forward hold, directly underneath the cockpit floor. "Okay, Virgil, take us down as close as you can."

"F.A.B., Scott. Good luck." Virgil heard the slide start downwards, and said a silent prayer for his brothers’ safety. For what we are about to do...

Thunderbird Two’s forward hold was a large area where she stored rescue equipment such as the grabs and the escape pod. Scott’s plan involved the use of both. It was going to be difficult and very dangerous, but it was also the only way he could see to make this rescue possible. Under normal conditions, they would simply have lowered the four-man escape pod to bring people up. But with winds gusting past 150 knots, the pod would become a lethal weapon, whipping around at the end of its steel cable. They needed a way to anchor the other end, and for this they needed the grabs.

Alan climbed on to the T-bar above the massive grabs, clipping his harness to the thick reinforced steel cable. Scott reached up, securing his own harness to a metal stanchion embedded in the roof, and both men pulled on their goggles. Scott opened the panel that concealed the manual hatch controls and hit the green button, stepping back as the two sides of the hatch slid open below him.

The wind was so fierce it sucked their breath away. True to his word, Virgil had lowered Thunderbird Two until she was only a little more than a hundred feet above the capsized yachts – any lower and she ran the risk of being hit by a rogue wave. Scott pulled his headset mike around. He had to raise his voice above the shrieking gale. "Okay, Virgil, lowering the grabs!"

"F.A.B., Scott. I’ll hold her steady."

Scott looked up at Alan. His brother nodded, taking a firm grip of the cable. "Let’s do it!"

Scott gave him the thumbs-up and reached back to the controls. With a lurch, the cable winch began to wind out, and in seconds his brother was gone into the howling winds below the hovering Thunderbird.

Despite everything, Alan wasn’t prepared for the sheer fury of the storm. The only way he could hold on was to lie prone on the T-bar at the top of the grabs, arms and legs wrapped around the heavy steel. Making it worse, as soon as the grabs were clear of the protection of Thunderbird Two, the fierce winds caught them and dragged them out at an angle. He could feel the cold even through his suit, although the thermal protection made it bearable. Despite the odds, this stood a good chance of working, he thought – provided he didn’t fall off, freeze or drown.

He stared downwards at the mountainous grey seas as he descended, the bobbing hulls of the two yachts coming closer and closer. He spotted Thunderbird Four, waiting about ten yards away from them. He wondered if Gordon could see him, and waved anyway – grinning as Thunderbird Four’s headlights blinked off and on again in acknowledgement. The submarine was moving now, taking up position beside what was obviously the sinking Snowbird, guiding them in.

Alan glanced upward toward the Thunderbird’s open hatch. He couldn’t see Scott, but he knew his brother was directing the lowering of the winch with every ounce of skill he possessed, calling out continuous, minute course adjustments to Virgil in the cockpit. Not for the first time, Alan was grateful for the almost telepathic relationship between his two eldest brothers – they really were something to behold when they were working as a team like this. He felt the wind shift as Thunderbird Two came slowly about, positioning the grabs until they were directly above the Snowbird.

Okay, Alan, showtime. With an effort that made the muscles in his arms and legs crack with strain, Alan pulled himself to an upright position on top of the grabs. Ten feet. Nine. Eight. Seven. "Okay, Scott, open her up!" he shouted into his headset mike.

The grabs spread out below him, like an immense robot hand opening its fingers. Four. Three. Two. Thunk. The metal fingers slid down either side of the yacht’s white hull. "Now, Scott!"

The grabs clamped down. For a second it looked good. Then Alan saw the hull begin to split. "Too much!" he yelled. "She’s breaking up!"

The grabs relaxed their grip just a little. Alan waited, holding his breath – then let it out again in a rush as he saw it was going to work. She was holding steady, and the hull wasn’t splitting any further. "F.A.B., Scott – good job!"

Now he just had to hang on and wait.

Up in Thunderbird Two’s hold, Scott was putting phase two of his plan into operation. Working swiftly, he cannibalized several different pieces of equipment to make one jury-rigged rescue device. Dragging the suspended escape pod over to the hatch, he attached a set of powerful robot winches on to one side, clamping them in turn over the heavy steel cable attached to the grabs. This would enable him to use a remote to guide the pod down to the Snowbird and back up again to the safety of Thunderbird Two. The pod would retain its own secondary cable attached to the roof, as a fail-safe. Even though it meant operating both sets of winches at the same time, a nightmare of coordination under any circumstances, it was the only way to be sure their backup systems were adequate for the job. It wouldn’t do any good to get those people out of the capsized yacht, only to lose them because of a winch failure.

Scott grabbed harnesses and cutting gear and threw them into the pod, closing its door again tightly behind them. He tested the remote by signaling the pod to climb down the cable three feet, then back up again. Perfect. "Okay, Virgil, here we go. Hold her as steady as you can."

"F.A.B., Scott."

Scott hit the switch and the pod started the long descent towards the yacht below. He just hoped they still had enough time to get those people out.

Fifteen minutes later, Alan had cut through the hull of the Snowbird and was hauling out survivors. Most of the crew were in bad shape, either from injuries or hypothermia or both, and just getting some of them into the pod was a slow, hideously difficult job. He could have done without the impatient voice of his brother in his ear, too – even though he knew that Scott’s brusque manner in an emergency situation was only his way of masking very real concern. "I’m moving as fast as I can, Scott," he said into his headset mike for the fourth time. "There’s only one of me."

"I know, Alan...I know." Scott stared down at the rescue in progress, frustrated at his inability to help his brother. But somebody had to get the pod back up into Thunderbird Two, and with Virgil flying the ship, that only left him. If it broke down at the top of the cable and there was nobody there to get the people out safely...

The pod was on its way up now with its first load of evacuees. It climbed slowly up the cable, the robot winches performing their duty perfectly. Not for the first time, Scott silently blessed the unparalleled, seemingly inexhaustible inventive talents of the man who was responsible for every one of the fantastic engineering marvels in the International Rescue arsenal. The man he and the rest of the Tracy family called Brains.

The pod arrived at the top and Scott caught it, swinging it over beside the open hatch. Four shivering people tumbled out, three men and one woman. Scott shepherded them quickly into a corner where he had stacked a pile of blankets and supplies. "Is anyone in urgent need of medical attention?" he asked.

They shook their heads. "Okay," he nodded, handing out blankets. "There’s food and hot drinks and emergency medical supplies here. Help yourself to whatever you need, and just try to keep warm while we get to the others."

And then the pod was on its way back down for the second run.

Dawn was finally breaking above the horizon as the pod made its last run up for the crew of the Snowbird. It was funny, Scott thought, that although the storm had not lessened very much in severity, and not much light was really visible through the heavy clouds, somehow the coming of day always made a situation seem less desperate. "Okay, Alan," he said into his headset mike. "Get ready – I’m going to release the grabs."

"F.A.B., Scott." Alan clambered back up on to the t-bar atop the grabs, getting ready for the transfer to the remaining yacht, the Spirit of Nantucket. "Ready," he said at last, breathing hard.

"Okay, Alan. Virgil?"

"Ready when you are, Scott."

"F.A.B." Scott gazed down through the open hatch toward the water. "Releasing grabs...now!"

He could see Alan clinging on tightly as the great metal fingers opened up, letting go their hold of the Snowbird. "Virgil, left two degrees."

Thunderbird Two shifted her heading slightly. Trailing behind her now, just brushing the water’s surface, the grabs swung over in the direction of the second yacht. Easy does it...Not too fast...

"Alan!" Scott’s stomach lurched as he heard Virgil’s frantic shout from the cockpit. "Look out for that wave!"

They stared in horror as a rogue swell sixty feet high crashed into the free-floating grabs, hurling them sideways toward the Spirit of Nantucket. Ripped away from his grip on the t-bar, Alan slipped to the end of his harness tether, right between the heavy steel fingers. "Pull him up, Scott!" Virgil yelled. "Get him out of there!"

But there wasn’t enough time. Scott had shoved the winch lever hard over the second he heard Virgil’s first warning, but the motor couldn’t move fast enough to pull Alan clear of the Spirit of Nantucket. They both heard the sickening crunch and their brother’s cry of pain as the grabs slammed him into the yacht’s capsized hull. "Alan!" Scott shouted. "Alan, can you hear me? Alan!"

Nothing. "Gordon, can you see him?" Virgil asked frantically. "Is he..."

Don’t say it, Virgil, please... Scott begged silently. It was his own private superstition – if you never said the word out loud, it wouldn’t come true.

"I...I think he’s..." Gordon’s voice sounded shaken. "He’s not moving, but...

Then Scott heard it – a faint groan. "Alan! Alan, can you hear me?"

But his brother wasn’t coherent. All Scott could hear now was harsh breathing. "Get him up here now, Scott," Virgil said, in a tone that didn’t encourage any discussion.

"I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, Virg. I’ve got to go and get him."

"Scott!" But the protest fell on deaf ears. Scott was already rappelling down the steel cable towards his youngest brother.

When the side of the hull split open directly above her, the splintering crash jerked Tally up out of the semi-conscious state she’d slipped into a half-hour before. This is it, she thought at first. This is how it ends. She stared upwards at the stormy sky, bracing herself for the wave that would flood the interior of the crippled yacht and send them all to watery oblivion. She would try not to hold her breath. She’d heard it was worse if you tried to hold your breath.

Then she realized with a start that she could hear the sound of engines again, above them. They came back for us...

She dragged Michael’s limp form over to the only other remotely conscious crew member, Mitch Robertson. "Mitch, they’re here to get us! They’re here!"

Mitch stared at her through glassy, uncomprehending eyes. "Mitch," she said urgently, "Can you hold Mike for me? I’ve got to let them know we’re alive in here!"

At last, she saw a spark in his eyes. He managed a nod, and she wedged Mike into his arms. "Hold on to him," she said. "Keep his head above the water. I’ll be right back."

Forcing her frozen limbs into action, she swam back to the hole in the ship’s hull. Now if she could only get to the opening...

A swell hit the ship and rolled it sideways. As the Spirit of Nantucket righted herself again, the water rushing back gave her the boost she needed to catch hold of the splintered hull material at the edge of the hole. Ignoring the blood, mostly unable to feel the damage she was doing to her hands anyway, she hauled herself up until she could see through the opening.

She wasn’t prepared for what she saw. Hovering above them was an enormous green aircraft of a type she had never seen before, trailing a long steel cable down toward the yacht. Following the cable down, she discovered what had caused the gaping hole. Some kind of immense steel grabbing device was caught on the wreckage of the yacht’s hull, and there was a man pinned between them, obviously hurt.

Tally forced herself up higher, getting first one knee on to the edge of the opening, then slowly and painfully dragging herself to her feet. Pushing the stabbing pain to the back of her mind, she managed to make it across the opening to the side of the injured man, holding on to the grabs for support. He was breathing in shallow gasps. "Can you hear me?" she shouted over the wind.

"Why...does everyone...keep asking...that...?" Alan managed between short, panting breaths. "I didn’t...get hit...in the ears..."

Tally grinned. This one would be all right – he was a fighter. "Where are you hurt?" she asked.

"I think...my ribs...are broken..." he grunted. "Can’t...breathe..."

He broke off with a gasp as the hull moved, sending waves of crippling pain through his body. Tally grabbed his hand in both her own, overcome with the need to help this man who had risked so much for her and her friends. "It’s going to be all right," she said firmly. "You hear me? You’re going to be all right."

Alan managed a smile, eyes closing as he slid into unconsciousness. No, Tally thought angrily. It isn’t fair... "Who are you?" she demanded out loud.

"International Rescue, ma’am." Tally jumped as another man in a survival suit slid into view down the steel cable attached to the grabs.

International Rescue? Tally was stunned. She’d heard about this legendary organization – everybody had. But she'd never seen them in action. They almost seemed more legend than reality, and she'd often wondered if the stories people told about them were true...that they would come out of nowhere, no matter what the risk, and save people who had no other hope of survival...only to disappear again like ghosts before anyone could learn who they were or where they came from.

These two were awfully solid for ghosts, she thought.

Before she could ask him any questions, though, the newcomer had turned his attention to the injured man. "Alan," he said urgently. "Alan!"

"I talked to him a moment ago, before he passed out," Tally offered, knowing he would need the information. "He said he thought his ribs were broken. He was having trouble breathing."

She was rewarded with a quick, appraising glance. "Thanks. How many of you are in there?"

"We had a crew of eleven, but two are..." She couldn’t say the word, but he seemed to understand, nodding.

He struggled to free the grabs from where they were caught on the shattered hull. She helped him, and together they pulled the metal fingers clear. "I have to get him up to the ship," he said. "Then I’ll be back down for you. Can you hang on?"

"Yes," she said. "We can hang on."

She thought she saw him smile. Then he glanced upward at the great craft hovering above them. "Okay, Virgil, pull us up," he said. "And easy does it."

"F.A.B., Scott." She was close enough to him to hear the radio response.

The winch started up and the grabs rose into the air, taking the two men with them. "Don’t worry," the one called Scott shouted to her as he went. "I’ll be back."

Tally believed him. She clung to the side of the opening, shivering in the freezing rain, watching them until they disappeared up through the opening in the bottom of the ship.

When she looked back on it afterward, Tally had trouble remembering all the details of what followed. True to his word, Scott had come back down to the Spirit of Nantucket in just a few minutes, and the crew were winched one by one aboard the rescue craft, which she now knew as Thunderbird Two. She insisted on staying down with the crippled yacht until the last, making sure everyone else was off before she would finally allow Scott to harness her to the cable. He wrapped his arms securely around her from behind and told the one called Virgil to pull them up.

After the incredible strain of the past twelve hours, she felt a strange calm seep through her as the hoist lifted them high up into the air. The shattered hull of the Spirit of Nantucket below her seemed remote and unfamiliar now, as if this had all happened to someone else. "Are you okay?" Scott shouted in her ear. She nodded her head yes. Everything was going to be okay now. She could even see, far away on the horizon, the signs of the storm finally clearing.

Then they were up inside the forward hold of the vast ship, and Scott was swinging them clear of the hatch. He unclipped their harnesses and turned, doing something on a panel against the wall. The hatch slid closed, leaving the wind and rain behind.

Tally walked unsteadily over toward the little group of survivors, muscles aching with exhaustion, a little unsteady on firm ground after being out on that heaving sea for so long. Someone put a blanket around her shoulders, someone else pressed a plastic cup of hot liquid into her hand. Hot coffee. God, it tasted good.

She spotted her brother, lying on an inflatable pallet, his headwound dressed. One of the other survivors was attending to him, a first aid kit open beside him. She didn’t see the injured International Rescue man anywhere.

She glanced back over at Scott, who had taken off the hood of his survival suit, revealing tousled dark brown hair. He was taller than she had realized, at least six-two, and even in her exhausted state she couldn’t help noticing that he was very good-looking. She smiled wryly – it was a phenomenon she’d seen before, in other areas of the rescue business. For some reason, there seemed to be a high concentration of handsome men in the ranks of firemen and paramedics.

Scott saw her looking at him and crossed the hold toward her. "I have to go up to the cockpit now," he said. "We have to pick up our submarine before we take you to the aircraft carrier."

She smiled at his tone. This man had just saved their lives, and now he was apologizing for having to leave them alone for a few minutes. "Don’t worry," she said reassuringly. "Go and do what you need to do."

"It might get a little bumpy," he said. "The sea’s still pretty rough down there."

"I’ll warn them," she said. "We’ll be fine, Scott."

For a moment she wondered if the use of his name had been a mistake – there was a brief narrowing of his cobalt blue eyes. "How is your friend?" she said, pushing past it. "Is he going to be all right?"

She saw him relax slightly. "Yes, I think so. And thank you, by the way. Knowing what his injuries were before he passed out was very important to transporting him safely up here."

She nodded. "It was the least I could do. After all, he got hurt trying to get to us."

He started to move away, then hesitated, half-turning back toward her. "I just want you to know...you handled yourself very well down there."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "You got any openings?"

She was rewarded with the briefest flash of a grin. Then he was gone, striding across the hold to an elevator at the far side. "Get someone to look at those hands," he called, before the doors closed behind him.

Surprised, she looked down, remembering that the palms of her hands were torn and bloody from the shattered hull of the Spirit of Nantucket. She hadn’t realized that he’d noticed.

As Scott had promised, the maneuvers to pick up the pod were rough and bumpy – but they were prepared for it and protected the injured, and everyone came through fine. On the short ride to the Colin Powell, Tally busied herself checking on the other survivors, helping to treat the wounded. Before she knew it, they had landed on the carrier and US Navy personnel with utility vehicles and stretchers were helping her and the others out of the Thunderbird – which now had a solid midsection, she noted. As she climbed into one of the vehicles, she glanced across the deck and saw another craft that clearly wasn’t US Navy – a silvery rocket ship with TB1 painted on its tail section. Thunderbird One, she thought.

She looked for Scott as the Navy organized them for transport, but she didn’t see him again. The International Rescue man who came down into the hold to organize their departure was one she hadn’t seen before, younger than Scott, with red-gold hair and eyes the color of amber. She didn’t get a chance to speak to him before she left Thunderbird Two, and even as the utility vehicle that carried her and her brother sped away across the runway of the carrier, she heard the ear-splitting roar of rocket engines. She turned just in time to see an amazing sight – the two Thunderbird craft igniting their horizontal jets and lifting straight up, together, off the deck of the Colin Powell.

She lifted her hand in a wave, not knowing if they could see her. She watched as Thunderbirds One and Two turned in the air in perfect unison, then, with a twin blast of their powerful rear thrusters, disappeared into the morning sky.

As soon as Tally and her escorts reached the aircraft carrier’s infirmary and she was sure her brother was being taken care of, she asked to be shown the nearest bank of satellite phones. Other survivors with similar ideas had begun to crowd around, but she managed to find a free phone, lifting one of the receivers and dialled a number she knew by heart. A man answered after the third ring. "Joss Kowalski."

"Joss, it’s Tally."

"Oh, my God, Tally – we’ve been watching the news! We thought you were all dead for sure!"

"Not quite. There were a few bad moments there, but get this – International Rescue showed up and got us out! They took us to an aircraft carrier – the Colin Powell. Mike’s got some kind of head injury – the medics are looking at him now. I’ll fill you in on all the details later."

"International Rescue!" he said, obviously impressed. "Well, you got what you wanted. This is going to be one hell of a story. I don’t see how Mason can keep you off the vidscreen now."

"Forget the story," Tally said impatiently.

"Forget the story?" he sounded incredulous. "Tally, you and your brother almost died out there – along with thirty other people! The whole world was watching, for God’s sake!"

Tally smiled. She could barely contain her excitement. "Oh, Joss, trust me – the piece I have in mind is so much bigger than one little boat race disaster. We’re talking a Peabody and a whole shelf of Emmys."

"I hate when you talk crazy," he said. "What could possibly be bigger than this?"

"You’ll see, Joss. You’ll see. Oh, and Joss...be a pal and call my mother, will you?" And with that she hung up, leaving him spluttering at a dial tone as she went back to see how Michael was doing.

FOUR

Twenty minutes into Thunderbird Two’s flight home, Alan started to cough up blood. Gordon rushed back to his brother’s side in the sleeping quarters as soon as he heard the painful, racking sound come over the monitor. He didn’t like what he found. Alan was barely conscious and deathly pale, the skin under his eyes dark and bruised looking, and he was fighting for every labored, wheezing breath. Gordon made his brother look at him. "Alan, it’s okay, we’ve got you," he said, trying to keep his voice level and reassuring. "We’re going to get you to a hospital."

Alan managed a nod, but there was the beginning of panic in his eyes as he coughed again, bright red foam spraying from his mouth. Saying a silent prayer of thanks for the EMS training his father had insisted they all keep up, Gordon grabbed the blood pressure collar and wrapped it round Alan’s arm. "Virgil, we’ve got trouble."

Virgil wasted no time after he heard what his brother had to say. "International Rescue from Thunderbird Two. Request immediate steer to hospital facilities."

His father’s voice was in his ears immediately. "Virgil, what is it? What’s happened?"

"It’s Alan, father. He’s coughing up blood and Gordon thinks his lung may be punctured."

Virgil could hear a woman’s gasp – and realized too late that Tin-Tin must be standing with his father listening to this transmission. He swore softly under this breath – he hadn’t wanted her to find out about Alan’s injuries like this.

"It’ll be all right, Tin-Tin," he said, trying to believe it himself. "Gordon’s back there looking after him. We just need to get him to a hospital so they can fix him up."

"Okay, Thunderbird Two," Jeff’s voice again. "Reroute immediately to Sydney. I’ll arrange for an ambulance with police escort to meet you at the airport, and Penny can fly in from Bonga Bonga to meet Alan at the hospital. Just make sure you get him out of his uniform. Dr. Grant just landed – Tin-Tin and I will bring her with us in the jet. We’ll be there as soon as we can."

Virgil was already punching instructions into the navigation computer. The great green Thunderbird began to bank to the right. "F.A.B., father. But what about Thunderbird Two?"

"Take her to Bonga Bonga – there’s plenty of room for you to hide her there. I’ll have Scott meet you, and the two of you can rendezvous with us at the hospital. Penny’ll arrange for a helijet for you."

"Virgil," Gordon said, "His heart rate is rising and his B.P. is 90 over 70. Poor breath sounds on the left side."

"Sounds like a tension pneumo. He needs needle decompression now."

"I know," Gordon said grimly. "Prepping a chest tube."

Moving fast, he grabbed a chest tube and betadine swabs. Swiftly cutting open the side of Alan’s uniform, he swabbed the skin between his ribs and tore open the bag that contained the tube. Don’t think about it, he told himself, feeling the sweat start on his palms. Just do it.

"I’m sorry, Alan," he said. "This is really going to hurt."

Alan was too far gone to answer, eyes closed, skin now tinged blue from lack of oxygen. His own pulse racing, Gordon took a deep breath and began to insert the chest tube. It was much tougher than he had remembered from his training. Hard as he pushed, it seemed like the damn thing just wouldn’t go in.

Alan groaned, his arm flailing toward this new source of agony – trying to push it away. "Easy," Gordon said, biting his own lip with concentration, knowing from past personal experience exactly how bad it was to be on the receiving end of this. "It’s gonna be okay..."

Then, at last, a popping feeling – and a rush of air through the tube. Gordon exhaled with relief. Somewhere in the process, Alan had passed out again, but he was breathing easier now.

"Gordon, what’s going on?" Virgil demanded.

"I’m in," Gordon said. "He’s out of danger for right now. Just get us to that hospital."

"Don’t worry," Virgil said. "Dad, you’ll have Scott meet us there?"

"Yes, son. Let’s get him on the line – he should know what’s going on. Thunderbird One from Base."

They all listened to the crackling of static for two or three seconds. Jeff tried again. "Thunderbird One from Base. Come in, Thunderbird One, over."

No answer. "It could be the storm, father," Virgil suggested. "We had trouble with direct communication earlier. Maybe it’s worse where he is."

"You could be right. John, can you raise him for us?"

"No problem. Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five, are you receiving me? Over."

But there was still no response. Virgil felt something stir uneasily in the pit of his stomach. "Let me try, father. Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two. Can you hear me, Scott?"

Once again, there was nothing but the soft hiss of static in their ears. "John," Jeff said, "What’s his location?"

There was a brief pause, then John came back, sounding confused. "I don’t know, father. He’s...gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" It came out more sharply than Jeff intended.

"That’s exactly what I mean, father. There’s no signal from Thunderbird One’s GPS. I have no idea where he is."

It took a few seconds for them all to digest this information. Then Virgil said: "Run a check on his last known position, John. I’ll take Thunderbird Two and..."

"You’ll do no such thing, Virgil," his father broke in. "You have to get Alan to the hospital in Sydney. Don’t worry – we’ll find Scott."

Realizing there was no choice, Virgil reluctantly acquiesced. But he didn’t like it.

Considering his lack of sleep the night before, Scott was weary to the bone by the time Thunderbirds One and Two lifted off together from the deck of the Colin Powell. "Base from Thunderbird One. Mission accomplished. We’re coming home."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One. How is Alan?"

Virgil chimed in from Thunderbird Two. "We’ve stabilized his ribs – we don’t think anything else is broken. He’s in a lot of pain, but we can’t give him much in the way of painkillers in case they compromise his breathing."

"Right," his father said. "I’ll relay that to Dr. Grant – she’ll be here by the time you get back. She’ll take a look at him and tell us what she thinks. Sounds like he’ll be out of action for a while, in any case."

"Yeah," Scott said. "But he did a first class job out there today, dad."

"Of course he did, son. He takes after his brothers."

Scott smiled. "See you when we get home. Thunderbird One out."

He flexed his aching shoulders and settled in for the flight home, glad that he flew a fast ship. His clothes were stiff with dried saltwater and he smelled like day-old fish. He desperately needed a long, hot shower, followed by bed for about twelve hours. Well, you got your wish, he thought. You’ll sleep like the dead tonight.

His tired mind drifted back over the rescue, and he found himself thinking about the girl who had been such a help to him during the last part, after Alan was injured and he was left to finish by himself. She’d been a real trouper, getting right in there with him, pushing and pulling and dragging her fellow crew-members to the gap in the stricken yacht’s hull so he could haul them out and winch them to safety. She had refused to leave, too, until everyone else was clear. He wished he ran into people like her at every rescue site – it would make his job a lot easier.

It suddenly registered on him that she was pretty, too. He wondered what her name was.

A shadow fell across him from behind. Scott had no chance to react – freezing as something hard and cold dug painfully into the back of his neck. "Don’t move. I will kill you, I promise you."

Something about that voice... Scott’s mind was racing. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Never mind who I am. Just do exactly as I tell you. Now reach over, very slowly, and turn off your GPS."

As if for emphasis, the gun barrel dug harder into his neck muscle, making him wince involuntarily. "Now look," Scott started, playing for time. "If it’s money you’re after, my organization will..."

"I don’t want your father’s money, Tracy!" the man behind him snapped. "Now turn off your GPS before I run out of patience!"

Memory clicked into place finally, a chill running down Scott’s spine as he realized who his hijacker must be. This was going to be bad.

Not seeing any immediate way out of the situation, he reached over obediently and flipped the switch. The display on the GPS went dark.

"Good, Tracy. Now you’re listening to reason. Keep doing that, and you might also keep your head attached to your shoulders."

"What do you want, Hood?" Scott said slowly. "I’m not going to tell you anything. You must know that."

The Hood chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. "You won’t have to, Tracy. When your father finds out I have his precious eldest son, not to mention one of his Thunderbirds, he’ll give me whatever I want."

"I think you’re underestimating my father," Scott said quietly. But he knew the man behind him was right. Nothing would be worth the loss of one of his sons to Jeff Tracy, not even if it meant risking the exposure of their entire organization.

"We’ll see," the Hood grated. "Now I want you to turn right ten degrees and take a heading of..."

Up until that moment, Scott’s mind had been racing a mile a minute, trying to come up with a plan to get himself out of this. A detached kind of calm descended over him now as he made his decision. "No," he said, simply.

The Hood broke off in mid sentence. "What did you say?"

"I said no," Scott repeated. "I’m not going to let you use me to hurt my family."

"You fool!" the Hood spat, grabbing a handful of Scott’s hair and yanking his head back brutally. He dug the barrel of the gun into the pilot’s throat. "I will blow your stupid head off!"

"No, you won’t," Scott managed to gasp out. "If you kill me, you have nothing to bargain with. And you don’t know how to fly Thunderbird One, let alone land her in one piece."

The Hood roared in fury and lashed out, hitting Scott hard across the face. Scott tried to go with the blow to lessen the damage, tasting blood on the inside of his mouth. "You’ll have to do better than that," he grunted, bracing himself for the follow-up he was sure would come.

The Hood moved the gun barrel, jamming it against Scott’s right shoulder blade. "This pistol is loaded with hollow point ammunition, Tracy. When I pull this trigger, it will take them a very long time to put what’s left of your shoulder back together. Let’s see how many people you will be able to rescue without your right arm.

He’d had a good run, Scott thought. If he was going go anyway, he’d sure as hell take this bastard with him. Without warning he shoved the control levers all the way forward, throwing Thunderbird One into a steep dive. Warning lights spattered red at his eyes. "Go ahead, you son of a bitch, shoot me," he ground out through his teeth. "Of course, then I won’t be able to pull us out of this dive."

Thrown off balance as the deck suddenly became a steep slope, the Hood staggered sideways, grabbing at the wall struts to keep himself from falling. Sheer fury boiled up inside him, but he knew there was nothing he could do, unless he planned on committing suicide. Thunderbird One was hurtling straight down toward the Pacific Ocean in an insane game of chicken, and Scott Tracy was ready to take her all the way rather than hand her over to his family’s arch-enemy.

Scott stared at the altimeter, numbers racing backwards at a crazy speed. "We’ve got about sixty seconds left before we hit! What’s it going to be, Hood?"

There was no answer. Something moved beside him and the sudden rush of wind made him twist around. He saw something he hadn’t expected – the Hood had strapped on one of the jetpacks from the equipment locker, and opened the hatch. "Oh, no you don’t," Scott shouted, lunging sideways to grab the other man before he could bail out.

The Hood fought him off, clubbing him savagely with the butt of the Magnum. Scott staggered back, momentarily dazed. It was enough for the Hood to swing around and dive head first through the open hatch.

Collision alarms began to blare. Dizzy and nauseous from the blow, Scott fought his way back to the pilot’s seat. Twelve hundred feet. Eleven hundred. Got to get her leveled out... He throttled back the thrusters as far as he could without losing all maneuverability, and pulled hard on the control levers. But Thunderbird One had the bit squarely between her teeth now, her screaming death dive generating g-forces so strong that he couldn’t shift the levers even an inch. Eight hundred feet. Seven hundred. Six hundred. He wrapped his arms around the levers and hauled back with everything he had, feet braced, shoulders cracking from the strain. Come on, baby, come on... It was like trying to lift a Mack truck. Four hundred. Three hundred. And then, with excruciating slowness, shuddering through her entire frame, the silver Thunderbird finally began to level off.

It was too late. She wasn’t going to make it. At the last moment Scott realized the hatch was still open. He kicked out at the hatch control, watching it slide shut with a scant two seconds to spare.

And then there was no more time. Thunderbird One hit the water, her angle of impact throwing her back into the air like a one hundred forty ton flying fish. She smashed down again with tremendous force, hydroplaning across the surface with the speed of a runaway freight train. Trailing chunks of wing and tail section in her wake, she finally slithered to a steaming, shuddering halt.

The last thing Scott remembered was something hitting him very, very hard. Everything after that was black.

The Tracy jet was fifteen minutes into the flight to Sydney when the comlink signal began to flash. Jeff flipped the switch. "Jeff Tracy."

"Dad, it’s John." Mindful of his father’s extra passenger, Dr. Elizabeth Grant, John had disabled the video link. He kept his words as cryptic as he could while still getting the message across. "I have news about the...lost package."

Jeff could feel Tin-Tin’s eyes on him. He said a silent prayer for good news before he answered. "Go ahead, John."

John’s voice was very quiet. "It’s, uh, been traced to a location two hundred miles south of the Solomon Islands. Package code is ERB.

"Oh, Mr. Tracy," Tin-Tin whispered, her eyes filling with tears. They were both only too well aware that ERB was an acronym for one of Brains’ inventions, the Emergency Recovery Beacon. Designed as an automatic fail-safe, it only began transmitting in the event of one of the Thunderbird craft going down. John was trying to tell them that their worst fears had come true – for reasons unknown, Thunderbird One had crashed into the ocean.

Jeff had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could trust his voice to sound normal. "Well, John, at least we know where...the package is. Tell Virgil right away, will you? He’ll know what to do."

"Will do, father." Thankfully, the unnatural conversation ended, and Jeff was left alone to try to deal with the fact that the bottom had just dropped out from under his world. Surely there could be nothing more dreadful for a parent than a moment like this. Oh, God, Scott...

"Everything all right, Jeff?" Dr. Grant, perceptive as always, leaned forward in her seat. Tin-Tin turned her head away to conceal her wet eyes, pretending to be very interested in the view from her window.

"Oh, yes, I’m sure it will be," Jeff congratulated himself on the even tone of voice he managed to produce. "We lost an important...package, this morning. But it seems like we’ve located it now."

"Well, I hope it’s in one piece," she smiled.

He didn’t trust himself to respond to that one.

"Maybe he’s okay," Gordon said, determinedly trying to look on the bright side. "Maybe he had a malfunction and he had to ditch."

"After turning off his GPS?" Virgil asked pointedly. "And if he was having problems, why didn’t he tell us?"

Gordon shook his head. "I don’t know."

"Okay," Virgil said, getting a hold of himself. "This is what we’re going to do. Get on the radio to the hospital. Tell them we need their parking lot, and we’re coming in hot. We don’t have time to go to the airport – we’ve got to get to Scott as soon as possible. Anything could be happening out there."

"But, Virg, what if they can’t clear the parking lot in time? That’s a lot of cars..."

"Well, tell them if they don’t, they’ll have one hell of a barbecue on their hands when this baby comes down on top of them."

Gordon knew better than to argue with his brother when he got that look on his face. When they were kids, Scott might have been the irresistible force, but Virgil was the immovable object. Not much had changed in that department.

He sighed and opened the comlink to the hospital.

Quite a crowd had gathered at the front entrance to the hospital by the time Thunderbird Two’s immense form appeared in the sky. Virgil noted with satisfaction that the staff had taken their request seriously – there wasn’t a vehicle in the entire parking lot directly in front of the main building. "See, Gordo, that’s what happens when you don’t take no for an answer."

Gordon ignored him. He headed back to the sleeping quarters to prepare Alan for transport.

People stared and pointed as Thunderbird Two swung in low over the hospital building and fired her landing jets, settling to the tarmac in a roar of smoke and flame. Even before they could get the hatch open, an ER team with a gurney was running out to meet them, flanked by armed hospital security. Gordon forced himself to let the experts take over, watching anxiously as they transferred Alan to the gurney and started their emergency workup. "Take good care of him."

One of the doctors looked up at him and smiled. "Don’t worry, mate. Leave it to us."

Gordon realized he was still hanging on to the gurney. He stepped back reluctantly, and the ER team was gone, racing back across the parking lot toward the hospital. Seriously torn, Gordon stood there for a moment. Then he glanced up at Thunderbird Two’s cockpit shields, sixty feet above him, knowing Virgil was watching the departure of his youngest brother and feeling exactly the same. They had to go, he thought. They didn’t have any choice. Alan was in good hands now, but Scott...

He’ll be all right, Gordon told himself firmly as he ran back into the Thunderbird and closed the hatch. He has to be.

FIVE 

He was lost. He was looking for something, something urgent and important – but somehow he’d taken a wrong turn, and he was beginning to panic... He didn’t know where he was, all these white corridors looked the same, and he had been running forever... What was he trying to find? He couldn’t remember, try as he might... There were people everywhere, but all they did was stare at him as he ran past, horrified expressions on their faces.

Then a door appeared in front of him. The sight of it stopped him dead in his tracks. He stood there, looking at it, heart pounding in sudden dread. He didn’t want to go through that door. A weird light shone through the cracks around it, and he knew in his gut that something terrible was waiting for him on the other side. But it was no use. Like a condemned man on the walk to his execution, he started slowly toward it, reaching out to push it open. When he saw his hands he realized with a shock that they belonged to a young boy – and they were covered in blood.

"Scott. Scott, can you hear me?"

There was a face floating over him. Defying his feeble attempts to focus, it lurched, slipped sideways, then swam back again. He tried to raise his head to get a better look, and instantly regretted it. The pain was excruciating, like someone driving a metal spike through his skull.

"It’s okay, Scott. Just take your time."

He knew that voice. If he could just remember...

"Gordon," he croaked.

"Yeah, it’s me. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Oh, God, he was going to vomit. It must have been obvious, because he felt hands lifting him up, supporting him while he threw up violently. He could hear Gordon’s voice talking to him, reassuring him, telling him to take it easy. Then the blackness flooded back in and he didn’t remember anything else.

Some time later, he gradually became aware of his surroundings again. The sounds came first – the low-frequency throb of engines. He opened his eyes slowly, struggling to focus. Every muscle in his body was bruised and battered, as if he’d been run over by a freight train. Where...

And then, all in a rush, memory returned. He struggled to sit up. "Gordon, Thunderbird One’s in the water! I’ve got to – "

He broke off, his surroundings doing a sharp revolve. He shut his eyes against the dizziness and the return of nausea.

"You’ve got to take it easy, Scott." It was Virgil’s voice. "You’ve had a bad crack on the head and you’ve probably got a concussion."

"Virgil...?" Scott opened his eyes again, squinting against the light. All of a sudden he knew where he was – the sleeping quarters of Thunderbird Two. "How in hell did I..."

"John picked up your ERB after you ditched," Virgil explained. "We took Alan to the hospital in Sydney and then we came looking for you."

"Alan’s in the hospital?" This was news to Scott.

"Yeah, it was a bit more serious that we thought – Gordon thinks his lung is punctured. He started coughing up blood on the way home, so we rerouted. Dad and Tin-Tin are on their way right now." He smiled at Scott’s stricken expression. "He’s going to be okay, Scott. Don’t worry. And no, it wasn’t your fault."

Scott made a face. Then: "Virg...what about Thunderbird One? Is she...?"

Virgil shook his head. "You got lucky. Brains’ flotation collars worked like a charm. I dropped the pod and Gordon towed you to a nearby island with Thunderbird Four. He got you out and we hoisted you aboard. He’s got her under a camo net and he’ll wait with her until Brains arrives with the equipment."

"How bad...?"

"Gordon checked her out. He said he thinks it’s mostly wing and tail section damage – no major structural cracks that he could see. Brains and Tin-Tin will have her back in the air in no time." Virgil handed him a cup of water. "Here, drink some of this."

Scott tried to smile. Even his face hurt. "Got any aspirin?"

Virgil went to get the first aid kit. He came back, handing Scott a packet of analgesics. "I’ve got to get back to the cockpit. Think you’re up to moving?"

"I think so." Scott slowly swung his legs out from the bunk and tried to stand. The dizziness returned momentarily and he weaved, grateful for Virgil’s steadying arm. "Whoa. Is this floor level?"

Virgil grinned. They moved slowly to the cockpit together. "While we’re getting you to the hospital," Virgil said, "You want to tell me what the hell happened to you? One minute you’re on your way home, and the next thing we know your GPS is off and you’re not answering the radio."

Scott slid gratefully into one of Thunderbird Two’s passenger seats and filled his brother in on the whole story of his hijack and subsequent crash into the ocean. Glancing across his flight instruments as he listened, Virgil’s expression grew darker with every sentence. "Scott, you could have killed yourself with a stunt like that. What were you thinking?"

Scott knew his brother well enough to hear the fear under his angry words. "I was dead anyway, if I didn’t try something," he said, quietly. "I’m not prone to unprovoked suicide attempts, Virg – you know that."

Virgil couldn’t help it – his mouth twitched suddenly as an incongruous thought struck him. "Well, there was that time in Paris, at the top of the Eiffel Tower," he said.

Scott had to smile at the memory. "Unfair comparison," he said. "I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I was drunk."

"Uh-uh. You were very, very drunk."

"Yeah, but she was very, very pretty."

Virgil grinned broadly. "Yes, she was."

Scott sighed. "And she went home with the gendarme who arrested us."

"Yeah," Virgil sighed with him. He saw Scott knead at his aching head with his fingertips, trying to ease the relentless throbbing. It brought his mind back to the matter at hand. "We’ve got to find a way to stop this guy, Scott," he said. "We’ve had too many close calls. We might not be so lucky the next time."

Scott looked up at him. "No argument there. We’ll talk to dad about it when we get to the hospital." He got to his feet slowly, still feeling like hell, but at least able to maintain his balance fairly well now. "I’m going to get cleaned up, and if I were you, I’d think about doing the same thing. We both smell like last Friday’s catch of the day."

Despite himself, Virgil had to smile.

When Jeff Tracy returned to the observation window outside the recovery room, the sharp worry lines that had been etched so deeply into his face had softened. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward looked around as he approached, noticing the change. "Jeff?"

"Good news, Penny. They’ve found Scott and he’s all right. I don’t know what happened yet, but Gordon’s with Thunderbird One and we’re going to get Brains out there right away. Virgil is bringing Scott here so the doctors can check him out, just in case."

"Oh, Jeff, that is good news," The beautiful British blonde smiled at him. "Goodness, what a day you’ve all had."

"It’s been a busy one, all right," he admitted. He stood with her, looking through the glass to where Tin-Tin sat beside Alan’s unconscious form, holding his hand. He had come through surgery with flying colors, and the doctors didn’t expect any undue complications. Still, he’d have to stay in the hospital at least a week, and there would be convalescent time after that. "Penny, I want to thank you for coming here so quickly. It made me feel so much better to know you were here for Alan when he arrived."

"I’m just glad I was at Bonga Bonga when it happened," she said. "I always think it’s better if these things stay in the family, so to speak."

He smiled down at her. "I couldn’t agree more."

"That nice doctor you brought with you...what is her name...?"

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Grant. She’s been covering the islands in our area for about a year now."

"Yes. She doesn’t know, I gather?"

He shook his head. "Oh, no. We told her he got hurt moving equipment we were airlifting to the island."

"She must think you’re all quite accident prone."

Jeff grinned. "You had a brother, Penny...you know what boys are like. I’ve got five of them, every onea live wire with a mind of his own. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for things like this to happen once in a while, even if we weren’t doing what we’re doing."

"I suppose not." Penelope looked through the glass at Alan for a moment, eyes clouding with memories of her own. Then: "It’s going to be a while beforeAlan wakes up, Jeff. Why don’t we go and find ourselves a cup of tea?"

Jeff hesitated. "Okay," he said, after a moment, "I suppose that would be all right. I could use something to drink – although I can’t promise it’s going to be tea."

Penelope smiled. "I’ll just go and tell Tin-Tin where we’ll be."

They were still in the cafeteria, deep in conversation, when Scott and Virgil arrived an hour later. Despite the occasional recurrence of what he referred to as uneven floor syndrome, not to mention a headache that could crack concrete, Scott was feeling a little stronger – so they had decided to follow the original plan to hide Thunderbird Two at Bonga Bonga and take the helijet into Sydney. "Hey, Dad, Penny...look what I found floating around in the water," Virgil greeted the two at the table as they approached.

Scott looked in one piece, if a little the worse for wear, Jeff noted with relief. "What happened to you, son? You had us really worried."

"I had me worried, " Scott admitted. "I’ll tell you all the gory details – but first, how’s Alan doing?"

"He’s in recovery now...should be waking up soon. The surgery went fine," his father said. "How’s your head?"

"Nothing a bucket of aspirin wouldn’t fix," Scott said, pulling up a chair. Beside him, Virgil did the same.

"Have Elizabeth check you out," his father said. "She’ll probably want to get you x-rayed, just to be safe."

"I’m fine, dad, really."

"Now, Scott," Penelope said, "I think you’re exaggerating just a little. You don’t look at all fine."

"Gee, thanks, Penny," he smiled. But she was right – he felt watery and transparent, and when he moved his head it stabbed at him as if someone was trying to split it open with an axe.

"Liz is probably with Alan now," Virgil said, standing up. "Come on, let’s go get you looked at."

"Okay, okay," Scott grumbled. "If I must."

It wasn’t until the two of them had left again that Jeff let himself sag a little in his seat, feeling suddenly gray and drained. The events of the last few hours were catching up with him, and the continual emotional highs and lows had left him exhausted. "Your boys are safe," Penelope said softly, as if she could read his thoughts – touching a comforting hand to his arm. "That’s what counts. Everything else is just details."

He nodded. "Thanks, Penny."

"You’re quite welcome, Jeff. You’re quite welcome."

True to Virgil’s prediction, he and Scott found Dr. Elizabeth Grant in the recovery room, checking on Alan. A tall, athletic, lovely brunette with eyes the color of warm sherry, Elizabeth radiated a calm strength that went beyond her twenty-nine years. She also had a love of flying that rivaled the Tracy family’s own, and she had quickly become a favorite visitor to the island – even if, as their doctor, those visits tended to be under less than ideal circumstances.

"Scott, Virgil," she smiled as she saw them come in. "It’s good to see you." They came up either side of her and gave her greeting hugs.

"How’s my favorite flying doctor?" Scott grinned. "It’s been a while."

"Yeah, three whole weeks," Virgil chimed in. "We were on the verge of pushing someone off the roof to get a visit."

"I hope that’s not what happened to Alan," she said in mock disapproval.

"How is he?" Scott asked, sobering a little as he looked down at his youngest brother. It was more painful than he could have imagined to see Alan like that, dark bruises under his eyes, chest swathed in bandages, hooked up to monitors and IVs and oxygen lines.

"He’s doing fine." Elizabeth put down Alan’s chart. "He’ll be coming around soon, and then we’ll be able to move him to his room."

"Dad said he’d have to be here a week," Virgil said.

She nodded. "He’s young and strong, and he tolerated the surgery well, but a collapsed lung and four broken ribs is nothing to be taken lightly. Depending on how he does over the next couple of days, we might be able to release him by the end of the week." She looked at them both sternly. "But he’s going to have to take it easy for at least four weeks after that, to give things a chance to mend."

"So I take it that means we’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the near future?" Scott asked innocently.

She rolled her eyes. "Scott Tracy, do you ever give up?"

He grinned, totally unaffected.

Virgil stifled a yawn. Elizabeth turned to him, looking at him more closely. "You look all out, Virgil," she said. "How long have you been flying?"

He glanced guiltily at Scott. "Ten hours, give or take. But it feels like twenty. I didn’t get much sleep the night before."

She shook her head. "Well, as your physician, I am telling you to stay out of that pilot’s seat and get a good night’s rest. You’re not hurt, are you? Jeff said you were with Alan when the accident happened. "

Before he could say anything, she pushed him down into a chair and took out a pencil light, checking his pupils. "Hey," Scott protested, "What about me? I was the one who crashed!"

Elizabeth just stared at him. Virgil couldn’t help it – he burst out laughing at the expression on her face.

The first thing he was aware of was the pain. Alan tried to take a deep breath, and nearly cried out at how much it hurt. He bit it back with an effort, trying to get his eyes open. They felt sticky, like his eyelids were glued together.

"Alan," a voice swam down toward him. It sounded kind of familiar. "Alan, can you hear me?"

If he kept his breathing really shallow, he could just about bear it. A cool damp cloth wiped gently over his eyelids, and he found he could open them easier now. Bright light stabbed at him and he flinched, closing them again quickly.

"Alan, it’s me, Tin-Tin."

Tin-Tin. Alan felt a rush of relief through the agony in his chest. He forced his eyes back open and tried to focus. This time he saw her, sitting beside him, holding his hand. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasping sound.

"Shhhh," she said softly. "Don’t try to talk. You’re in the hospital."

Hospital?

She saw the confusion in his eyes. "Virgil and Gordon brought you here after you got hurt in the rescue. Do you remember the rescue?"

It took a moment – then he had a sudden image of the rain and wind, Thunderbird Two hovering overhead, the escape pod traveling up the cable. Then he was swinging with the grabs, the rogue wave smashing him into the hull of the Spirit of Nantucket. He managed a nod.

There was the sound of a door somewhere to his right. "Elizabeth, he’s awake," Tin-Tin said.

"Oh, good." Dr. Elizabeth Grant came into view on the opposite side of the bed. "Alan, how are you feeling?"

He had to try twice before he could get his voice to work. "Great," he managed to gasp.

Elizabeth shook her head. "You Tracy boys," she said. "For real now, Alan, I want you to rate your pain on a scale from 1-10."

"For real?" he croaked. "11."

She smiled. "I know. You sustained four broken ribs and a punctured lung in the accident, and then it seems like a rather inexperienced paramedic gave you a needle decompression in the field when you developed a tension pneumothorax. He saved your life, but it wasn’t the neatest job I ever saw."

Tin-Tin squeezed his hand. He looked over at her, saw her discreetly mouth Gordon’s name. He managed a smile.

Dr. Grant was looking at his chart. "Now that you’re awake we can do something about that pain," she said. "You’ll be feeling better in no time. Tin-Tin, why don’t you go and tell Jeff that Alan’s awake?"

"Okay," Tin-Tin said. She gave Alan’s hand another squeeze. "I’ll be right back, Alan."

A nurse came in as Tin-Tin left and began prepping a morphine drip. "We’re going to give you control over the drip, Alan," Elizabeth explained. "You just hit the button on the pump when you need more painkiller, okay?"

That button’s going to get a workout, he thought, eyes watering from the pain as he tried to get enough air into his lungs to speak again. He thought better of it and settled for the all-purpose – and much less painful – nod.

He watched the nurse hang the drip and swab his arm, inserting the catheter needle. The relief was immediate and marvelous, the pain replaced by a drug induced high, like floating on a white puffy cloud. "I think I love you," he croaked to the nurse.

She laughed. "You’re quite a celebrity, Mr. Tracy. Everyone saw International Rescue bring you here yesterday in person. They landed right outside the hospital in the parking lot."

Alarm penetrated the blissful morphine haze. "International Rescue?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said, smiling. "They picked you up after the accident. Virgil told me. He said it’s a shame you got to ride in one of those wonderful machines of theirs when you’re not going to be able to remember a thing about it."

"Yeah," Alan said, trying to mask his relief and sound suitably disappointed at the same time. "Bummer."

Elizabeth glanced at the nurse. "He’s not going to feel that for a while, not through all the morphine. But I’m sure we’ll hear about it when he gets better."

The nurse nodded. "Boys and their toys."

Elizabeth grinned. "Isn’t that the truth."

Satisfied that Alan was resting comfortably after being moved to his room, Elizabeth finally left the hospital three hours later, leaving instructions with the hospital staff to page her if anything happened. Earlier, she’d had them run a CT scan on Scott, and after finding a couple of small blood clots at the injury site, she had ordered him to stay in the hospital overnight. Grouse and grumble as he might, she wouldn’t budge, threatening to ban him from the air if he didn’t listen. Reluctantly, knowing full well his father would back her one hundred percent, he had given in and allowed her to check him in for observation.

Jeff Tracy had arranged for accommodations for all of them at a nearby luxury hotel. As Elizabeth swiped the key card and entered the dark outer room of her suite, she was conscious of a sudden feeling of unease – the hairs on the back of her neck prickling as though somebody was watching her. Don’t be silly, she thought. You’re just tired. Shrugging it off, she reached for the light switch.

She never made it. Strong arms grabbed her from behind. She struggled to free herself but her assailant’s grip was much too powerful. She couldn’t move at all. And then she smelled something familiar...

"Virgil Tracy," she gasped out, "You scared the crap out of me!"

He laughed, spinning her around to face him. "What gave me away?"

"You’re wearing the after shave I gave you, genius."

"Oh, shut up," he said, pulling her close, his mouth seeking hers hungrily. Her arms slid up around his neck and she lost herself in his kiss.

"I’ve missed you," he said after a long while, holding her tightly against him, inhaling the scent of her hair. "I thought you’d never get out of that hospital."

"Well, you wouldn’t want me to leave your brothers there without adequate medical treatment, would you?" she asked.

"Those two? Screw ’em," he said amiably, kissing her again.

"No thanks," she murmured against his mouth. "I’m taken."

His arms tightened possessively around her, his mouth growing harder and more demanding on hers. She could feel the heat as his body began to react to their closeness. "Virgil," she said breathlessly, "Wait..."

After a moment, he lifted his head, bemused. "Huh?"

"I’m sorry...I’m all sweaty and nasty...I need to take a quick shower. Just give me five minutes, okay?"

"You smell fine to me," he said, kissing the side of her neck.

"Please?"

He sighed. "Okay."

"I’ll be right in." She had to smile at his expression. "Why don’t you go and slip into something more comfortable?"

"Okay," he sighed again, sounding like a little kid who’d been told he had to wait to open his presents on Christmas morning.

"Uh, Virgil..."

"Yeah?"

"You have to let go of me, honey..."

"Oh." Reluctantly, he released her. She laughed and headed straight for the shower.

"Five minutes!" she called over her shoulder.

She stripped off her clothes, grabbed the soap and stepped quickly under the hot spray, wanting to get back to Virgil as soon as possible. A few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she opened the door to the suite’s bedroom.

He was sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep.

Elizabeth shook her head, smiling. She sat down beside him, stroking his thigh very lightly. "Virgil?"

His only response was a soft snore. Oh well, she thought, at least he managed to take his clothes off first... She sighed, taking off the towel and tossing it on to a nearby chair. She turned out the lights, snuggled into bed close to him and pulled the sheet up over them both. Virgil murmured something in his sleep. His arm slipped around her instinctively, pulling her close, spooning her against him. She was so tired herself, it didn’t take long for her to drift off.

She awoke in the pre-dawn hours to the delicious, shivery feeling of his mouth slowly moving over her neck and shoulders from behind, his arm still wrapped securely around her. "Why, Virgil, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

"What pocket?" he grinned wolfishly against her skin. She giggled as he turned her over and pulled her underneath him in one smooth move.

He paused, gazing down at her, the expression in his dark eyes tender and hungry at the same time. She reached up and stroked his face, brushing the hair back from his forehead. "I love you," he said.

"You’d better," she grinned.

And then she cried out as he proceeded to prove it, way past the possibility of any doubt.

SIX

Scott awoke, like always, before dawn. He lay there for a few minutes, staring in frustration at the ceiling – wondering how his brain always knew when to kick in, no matter what time zone he happened to be sleeping in.

It was useless, of course. Once he was awake, he might as well get up. He lifted his head slowly, pleased to find that at least it felt a lot better than it had a few hours earlier. The stabbing pain had subsided to a dull ache that he could handle with no problem. He decided he could handle taking a walk around.

Scott didn’t like hospitals. He always had to steel himself to walk into one, although he wasn’t sure he really understood why. There was something about all those white walls and the endless maze of identical corridors that would close in on him without warning, filling him with an urgent, claustrophobic need for fresh air and open skies. Even when it was one of his own family in there, he frequently spent at least part of visiting hours on a bench in the gardens outside.

The pretty young nurse at the central station called out as she approached. "Mr. Tracy, you shouldn’t be out of bed."

"I can’t sleep," he said as he approached, smiling ruefully. "It’s a problem I have. I don’t suppose you have any coffee?"

"Now, Mr. Tracy..."

He leaned his arms on the counter in front of her, unconsciously turning on the charm that had made him very popular on campus, years ago. "Please?"

She hesitated. It was very hard to look at him and say no. "Okay," she smiled. "One cup."

He grinned. She went to get it for him.

Left alone, he turned around, taking in his surroundings. All those white walls... A movement caught his eye – someone had entered a room about halfway down one of the corridors that branched off from the central hub. Needing the distraction, he decided to check it out.

When he got there, he found himself at the observation window of a recovery room much like the one his brother had occupied right after his surgery. In the bed was a fair, bearded man in his mid-thirties with a bandaged head injury, hooked up to monitors just like Alan had been. Something stirred in his memory – he wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he’d seen this man before, somewhere.

Then a young woman came into the room from the adjoining bathroom, and he understood. He recognized her immediately, even though she looked quite different from when they had met only a few hours before. Her long, honey blonde hair had been matted and darkened with salt water then, but he’d know those sea green eyes anywhere. She was the woman who had helped him on the Spirit of Nantucket. And she wasn’t just pretty, she was downright beautiful.

Unobserved, he watched her through the glass as she sat at the man’s bedside. Scott remembered him now – he had been one of the other survivors of the capsized yacht. She took his hand, leaning in, talking to him softly. Scott felt something odd stir in his gut...and realized, to his surprise, that it was jealousy.

Tracy, you are way out of line, he told himself firmly. Come on, get your ass out of here before she sees you.

But he couldn’t move, his feet somehow rooted to the spot, gazing at her.

"Mr. Tracy, you need to go back to your room." The nurse had found him. She pressed a mug of coffee into his hand. "Here, you can take this with you. Come on, please, before you get me into trouble."

Very reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him away from the observation window and back toward his room. It was for the best, he told himself. Complications like that, he didn’t need. His life was difficult enough already.

Behind him, Tally Somerville caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked around at the observation window – but by then Scott and the nurse were gone.

It was too late, Virgil thought desperately – he wasn’t going to make it. The ropes were slipping and Thunderbird One’s fuselage was sinking fast – and no matter what he tried he couldn’t get the hatch open. Somehow everyone else had disappeared, and he was all alone, diving again and again into the glassy green water until his chest felt like it was going to explode. But there was nothing he could do. The last rope slithered away and he watched, horrified and helpless, as the silver rocket plane slipped away from him into the murky depths – taking his brother with her.

A loud beeping sound stabbed at his ears. He swung around, the water suddenly becoming an animate object, clutching at his arms and legs. What...?

He jerked awake with a start, breathing hard, covered with cold sweat. It took a moment for the hotel bedroom to swim into focus around him. Relief flooded into him – it had all been just a bad dream.

The grabbing feeling he’d experienced had been the sheets, he realized, which had become wound tightly around him as he tossed and turned. It took Virgil a minute to disentangle himself. Daylight was streaming in through a crack in the curtains. He could hear Elizabeth in the next room, talking quietly on the phone, and he realized that it had been the sound of her pager going off that had awakened him.

He lay back on the bed, the dream still trailing cold fingers through his insides. He and his brothers had all learned to live with the nightmares – they were a hazard of the job. They came up against death and devastation every time they went out on a rescue, and it was near impossible, sometimes, to leave it behind them. Sometimes it helped to talk about it. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes it would take days for the really bad ones to go away.

"Hi." Elizabeth was standing in the doorway, wearing a hotel bathrobe. "I didn’t know you were awake."

Virgil sat up, reaching out to her. She came forward into his arms, letting him pull her down and wrap her tightly against him, not knowing that he needed the warmth of her body to melt the last of the nightmare’s ice. "What is it?" she asked softly, puzzled.

He didn’t answer her for a long moment, holding her, face buried in her thick golden brown hair. "It’s nothing," he said at last. "Was that the hospital?"

"Yes. They wanted to tell me that Alan came through the night very well. Nobody can find Scott, which I suppose is a good thing."

He grinned. "I suppose." Privately, he would have taken bets on where Scott was – at least halfway to the tiny Pacific island where Brains and Gordon were working on Thunderbird One. He wondered if his elder brother had tried to call him in his room earlier...and if so, what he’d thought when he couldn’t reach him, especially since none of his family knew anything of his romantic involvement with Elizabeth Grant.

"I’m starving. What do you want for breakfast?" Elizabeth reached over him for the phone to call room service. Virgil took advantage of the situation, parting her robe and sliding his hands inside. "Mmmm. That’s not fair," she murmured, but he wasn’t listening.

Tally stifled a yawn as she came out of her brother’s hospital room. She hadn’t gotten much sleep since they had arrived via helijet from the Colin Powell the night before. Michael’s condition had taken a turn for the worse not long after the International Rescue team had left them and the other survivors aboard the aircraft carrier, and the Navy medics had made the decision that he needed to be airlifted to Sydney for immediate surgery.

He’d come through it well, and she’d spent what was left of the night with him in the recovery room. Satisfied with his progress, the doctors had moved him to a room early that morning, and Tally finally felt that she could leave him long enough to get a cup of coffee.

In the caféteria, every conversation she passed by seemed to be about the Southern Oceans Race yacht rescue. Tally couldn’t help but smile as she listened to some of the accounts, whose sheer drama put the reality of the experience to shame.

As she got into the checkout line behind two nurses, she heard one of them say, "I wish you’d seen it – International Rescue called and told us to clear the parking lot. I never saw such a plane – great big green thing, landed on rockets. Made a lovely mess of the tarmac."

Tally’s head came up. Thunderbird Two, she thought. It had to be.

"Wow," she said, managing to sound suitably impressed. "International Rescue was here?"

The nurse turned round, eager to include Tally in her gossip. "Oh, yes. They brought one of the victims in," she said. "A young man with broken ribs and a punctured lung."

Tally felt an excited shiver run up her spine. A reporter didn’t often get lucky breaks like this. She knew first hand that International Rescue had left all the survivors on the carrier – so the one they’d brought to the hospital had to be their own operative, the man who was trapped by the grabs against the hull. What had Scott called him? Alan. "Is he going to be all right?" she asked, carefully keeping the recognition out of her voice.

"Oh, yes. Went through surgery yesterday, came out fine. He’ll be here at least a week, though."

Tally paid for her coffee and headed straight for the nearest vidphone.

A young blonde woman answered on the other end. "WNN Assignment desk. Oh, hi, Tally."

"Hey, Shelley. Is Joss around?"

"He’s down in Photo. Hold on, I’ll switch you through."

Tally waited, sipping her coffee. She smiled politely at the trio of people passing her – a good-looking man in his fifties, a pretty young Eurasian woman, and a beautiful blonde woman with luminous blue eyes.

"Tally, where are you?" Joss’s ruggedly handsome face appeared on the screen.

"Sydney," she said.

"Sydney, Australia?"

"Yes, Sydney, Australia," she smiled, flexing stiff neck muscles. "Mike needed an operation. They flew us here from the carrier last night."

"Jesus, Tally – is he going to be okay?"

"I hope so," she said. "I’m going to have to be here a few more days, though."

"Okay, I’ll tell Mason. Just keep in touch.

"How is Mason?" she asked. "Still pissed at me?"

"With a vengeance. He really wants that rescue story. Rescues are getting huge numbers right now."

She smiled. "Well, you can tell him that he’s in luck, because I’m working on the mother of all rescue stories. I promise you it’s going to knock his socks off."

"Tally, what are you talking about?" She was frustrating him again, she could tell by the way he ran his hand through his shaggy blond hair.

She looked up and down the corridor before she spoke. "I’m going after International Rescue," she said. "I’m going to be the first to tell the world who they really are."

Getting Thunderbird One home was going to be a long, frustrating process.

Scott and Tin-Tin took off from Sydney in the Tracy jet at six a.m., arriving at the coordinates Virgil had given them an hour and fifteen minutes later. As they circled above the tiny South Pacific island, their trained eyes picked out the camo net in the shallow water just off shore, concealing the floating Thunderbird’s one hundred fifteen foot long fuselage from prying eyes. They couldn’t see her, but they knew Thunderbird Four was also there, tethered to her much larger sister. The only visible vehicle was the blue and white Tracy seaplane, floating close to shore. Nobody was moving yet in the base camp under the palms on the narrow strip of white sand.

Scott handed over the controls to Tin-Tin and moved to the rear of the plane, strapping on a parachute. He attached a metal supply container to a snap hook on his belt.

"See you back home," he said. "Keep an eye on Alan for me."

The words were light, but she knew how deeply he felt them. "Don’t worry, Scott," she smiled. "As soon as Mrs. Tracy arrives from the mainland, she will take care of him for both of us!"

Scott grinned. "If we could market that apple pie, we’d make a fortune."

Tin-Tin’s laugh was still in his ears as he launched himself out through the cabin door into the open sky.

Gordon must have set proximity detectors surrounding their camp, because moments after Scott pulled the ripcord that unfurled his parachute, his brother was out of his tent and staring up at him. Scott landed on the beach in a spray of sand, and Gordon ran to meet him, helping to drag in the yards of nylon that had landed partially in the clear blue water. The two brothers exchanged a bear hug. "Thanks," Scott said. "Virgil tells me you pulled me out back there."

Gordon grinned. "I dunno why I keep doing things like that. I’m never going to move up the chain of command this way."

They walked back together toward the little base camp. "You look like hell, incidentally," Scott said.

"Thanks," Gordon retorted. "I bet you slept in a bed last night. Some of us haven’t seen civilization in days."

"I brought breakfast." Scott indicated the supply container. Gordon’s face lit up.

"Okay," he said, "You can stay."

By the time Brains stumbled, yawning, out of one of the tents, Scott had breakfast almost ready. "Do I, uh-uh, smell eggs?" the scientist asked, cleaning his glasses on his shirt. He put them on and focused on the new arrival. "Oh, hi, uh, Scott."

"Hey, Brains," Scott greeted him. "Least I could do. How’s Thunderbird One?"

"She’ll be a-a-all right," Brains said, taking the offered plate of eggs and bacon. "I-I’ve finished the preliminary ah-ah, diagnostics, and she’s safe to ah, move, but we’ll have to tow her home."

"Okay." Scott hid his frustration with an effort. "So that’s what we’ll do. How soon can we get underway?"

"Ah, right a-after, ah, breakfast," Brains smiled, spearing a big forkful of eggs.

It took nearly two hours to pack up base camp, load all the equipment and reattach Thunderbird Four’s tow cables to Thunderbird One. Scott fussed over the process like an overanxious mother hen, sick with guilt at the sight of his beloved Thunderbird missing chunks of her wing and tail sections. It didn’t help that Brains repeatedly reassured him that the damage was superficial and would be easily repaired once they reached home.

At long last everything was ready. Scott argued with Gordon that since he had had a rest, he should take over Thunderbird Four while his brother rode with Brains in the seaplane. But Gordon wouldn’t have any of it. Scott had never towed anything with the submersible, let alone a one hundred forty ton rocket plane, and this wasn’t the time for first attempts. What if the flotation collars gave out and he had to dive after Thunderbird One in the ocean? Grumbling, knowing he was right, Scott gave in at last and reluctantly took the pilot’s seat in the seaplane – which Brains was more than glad to relinquish.

"Thunderbird Four from seaplane. Ready for take-off."

"F.A.B., Scott," Gordon’s voice came back. "Moving out now."

Scott fired the engines. The seaplane skimmed forward over the glass-smooth water, rapidly picking up speed. The air currents caught her wings and she surged up into the sky, climbing swiftly. Scott’s spirits lifted with her. He never tired of that magic moment when he became, once again, part of the sky instead of a creature bound to the earth.

"Seaplane from Thunderbird Two, is that you, Scott?" It was Virgil’s voice. Surprised, Scott banked the seaplane, searching the sky until he saw the great green Thunderbird approaching from the west.

"Hey, Virg. About time you showed up. Sleep well?"

He could hear his brother’s grin. "Like a petrified log. Sorry I didn’t get your message this morning."

"Ah, well, who needs you? I found something else with wings."

"So I see." Thunderbird Two began to descend in a slow, sweeping arc. "Going in to pick up Pod 4 now."

"F.A.B." Scott made a circle of the island, coming back directly over Thunderbird Four. The submarine was making slow but steady headway, plowing through the calm water with Thunderbird One in tow. If the weather held they should make it home in a little over three hours.

He settled in for the flight. Behind him, Thunderbird Two swooped down toward the water like an enormous bird of prey. Her landing jets fired, Virgil swinging her into position and lowering her down over the floating pod with the precision of long practice. The electromagnetic seals thunked into place and she lifted back into the sky, whole again. Virgil banked her gracefully eastward into the morning sun, following his brothers home.

The young guard behind the security desk smiled at Tally as she came in through the front doors of the Sydney bureau of the World News Network. "Good morning, Miss. ID, please."

"I’m Tally Somerville from the New York office," she said. "There should be a pass waiting for me."

The guard checked his computer screen. "Ah, yes, Ms. Somerville." He clicked a couple of keys, pulled the temporary pass from the printer. He checked the picture against her face. "Here you are. Make sure you wear this at all times when you’re in the building."

"Thanks," Tally smiled. She went through the metal detector and the guard buzzed her through the main doors.

Upstairs in the news bureau, a familiar face greeted her. "Tally! How the hell are you, kiddo?"

"Graham!" Tally hugged her old friend, veteran WNN reporter Graham Hamilton. Graham was a big grizzly bear of a man with a deep, growly voice, intimidating to those who didn’t know that his demeanor hid a heart as big as the continent of Australia. "How are you?"

"Let’s see... Long hours, crappy pay, no life... Pretty good, I’d say. How about you? When are you and Richard going to set that wedding date?"

The pain sucker-punched her in the gut. He didn’t know, she realized. "There isn’t going to be a wedding. Richard and I broke up two months ago."

He studied her suddenly pale face, steering her quickly into his office. He gestured for her to sit opposite him at the paper-strewn desk. "I don’t believe it," he said, genuinely astonished. "I thought..."

"So did I," Tally said quietly. "Apparently we were both wrong."

"What happened, kiddo?"

She hesitated for a long moment, staring at her hands. The memory, still too fresh, was making her feel sick to her stomach. "He...met someone else."

"Oh, no. After four years?"

She nodded slowly. "One minute I’m picking out wedding invitations...the next I’m getting calls from the New York Times society editor asking me for a comment on a tip that my so-called fiance is apparently intending to marry someone else."

"Son of a bitch," Graham said, shaking his head. "He didn’t even tell you himself?"

"No. They met in the Hamptons last summer when I was on assignment in Hong Kong. They’ve been seeing each other ever since."

"Behind your back, eh? Classy guy," Graham snorted.

"Yep. I should have known something was wrong. I was just working too hard to see it, I guess."

"Still, kiddo, finding out from the New York Times is a little rough."

"Yeah. Public humiliation – my favorite thing. That was his mother’s doing – she and my mother can’t stand each other, which figures. Always trying to outdo each other on the party circuit. She couldn’t wait to deliver the bad news."

"How did your family take it?"

"How do you think?" Tally said, the bitterness creeping into her voice now. "My mother thinks it’s all my fault – I should have been standing guard over him, instead of being gone on assignment. She thinks of men as things that can be stolen...like Richard was a car, or a piece of jewelry, for God’s sake."

"So that’s why you went on that yacht race with Michael," Graham said, understanding now. "To get away."

"Partly," she said. "It sure came along at a good time. But I’ve been having such trouble getting a break from that asshole Mason. I thought maybe this would be a good enough story that he’d finally cut me some slack."

"Well, Mason can be an asshole, all right...but he’s not usually an unfair man," Graham said. "You two don’t get along?"

She looked at him for a moment, deciding whether to tell him the truth. "Not nearly as well as he’d like," she said, carefully. "If you see what I mean."

It took him a second, but then comprehension dawned. "Wait a minute...he hit on you?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. Not too subtly, either."

"And you turned him down, of course."

"Yes. And he’s treated me like a copy clerk ever since."

"And you haven’t done anything about it?" Graham was outraged.

"Oh, come on, Graham, what can I do? He’s a man, and he’s got thirty years in the business. I open my mouth and no news network in the Western hemisphere will touch me with a ten-foot pole. I’ve just got to keep plugging away and hope he gets over it. Either that or come up with a story so big his ratings Jones gets the better of him."

"I’m so sorry, kiddo," he said. "You understand, I want to kill him."

"Get in line," she said, smiling despite herself.

Graham pulled open a desk drawer and came up with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. He blew the dust off one and handed it to Tally. "Here...hold this."

She laughed as he poured. "Graham, you are such a cliché."

"Aren’t I, though?" He reached over and clinked his glass against hers. "To better days."

"Oh, yeah," she said determinedly, knocking back half of the golden liquid in one swallow.

"Speaking of which, you said you needed some help," he said, settling back in his chair. "What’s the story?"

"I know I don’t need to say this, but this is strictly between us," she said.

"That big, huh?"

She nodded. "I’m going after International Rescue."

There was silence for a moment. Then he gave a short laugh. "Can’t be done, kiddo. I know. It’s been tried at least a dozen times."

"I’ve met them, Graham – they rescued Mike and me from the Spirit of Nantucket. I can identify at least three of them, and I know where one of them is right now."

He paused, looking hard at her. "You’re serious. You’re really going to try this."

Her chin came up defiantly. "I’ve got to, Graham. It’s my chance – I know it. After all the shit I’ve been through this past couple of years, this one finally landed right in my lap. I’d be a fool not to give it my best shot."

"And Mason would be a fool not to air it," he said slowly, nodding. "Not to mention the shitload of awards you’d probably win. Well, you know I’m in your corner. I don’t know how much help I can be, but whatever you need..."

"Thanks, Graham," she smiled. "I knew I could count on you."

He clinked glasses with her again. "Well, kiddo, I’ve got to admit, if anybody could get an exclusive with International Rescue, it would be you."

Tally laughed.

SEVEN 

Air Terrainean Flight 432 to Sydney from Kansas City via Los Angeles had one very upset passenger on board that day – Ruth Tracy. She had only been back in the States a week, making a slow round of Tracy family visitations, when she got the phone call that her youngest grandson had been badly injured. She was on a plane to Australia in less than two hours.

Jeff, Lady Penelope and Parker were at the gate to meet her when she arrived. Grandma Tracy ignored the latter two as she came out into the concourse, heading straight for her son like a ship in full sail. "Jefferson Tracy, I want a word with you."

"Blimey," Parker muttered. "Better ’im than me."

Penelope smiled at the sight of the usually confident and self-assured Jeff Tracy suddenly adopting the body language of a teenager in trouble. "Now, mother," he began uneasily.

"How many times have I told you that if you’re not careful these boys are going to get hurt!"

"Mother, I didn’t..."

"Oh, you didn’t, did you? And how did Alan manage to break four ribs and puncture a lung, I ask you? I guarantee he wasn’t diving into the swimming pool!"

"Mother," Jeff said again, glancing around him nervously.

Grandma squared off. "Oh, here we go again. You and that wretched secret organization of yours, taking precedence over everything."

Jeff looked as if he was about to have a stroke. "For God’s sake, keep your voice down!"

"Don’t you tell me what to do, I’m your mother!" she snapped. "Now where is Alan?"

Helplessly, Jeff gestured ahead of him down the concourse. Grandma swept forward. "Nice to see you, Penelope...Parker," she said as she passed, as if greeting the ladies from her quilting circle.

"Gawd," Parker said, watching them go.

Penelope had to cover her mouth to prevent the laughter from exploding.

Tally sat back from the computer, rubbing tired eyes. She glanced at the time. Four p.m. – she had been working on the research for six solid hours with only a quick break for lunch, and she felt like she still hadn’t learned anything at all about International Rescue.

She was beginning to understand what Graham had been trying to tell her. There were numerous vidclips and print articles about the exploits of this secret organization, but none of them contained any useful details about the craft or their crew beyond straight descriptions of how the rescues had gone down. It seemed that nobody had ever interviewed any of the operatives, either during or after a mission. And there were no photographs or videos at all.

She reached for the vidphone. After a few rings, the screen cleared and a very sleepy Joss appeared. "Hello..?"

"Joss? It’s Tally."

"Tally? What time is it...?" Behind Joss, in the darkness of what was obviously his bedroom, Tally could see a naked woman sit up.

"Joss, honey, who is it?" the woman asked plaintively, leaning over. There was a brief scuffle and the screen went blank. Tally grinned as she saw the words "SOUND ONLY SELECTED" appear.

"Four o’clock in the afternoon in Sydney," she answered, "And I have a splitting headache. Why aren’t there any pictures of International Rescue?"

"For God’s sake, Tal...it’s two in the morning..."

"You’re my shooter, Joss... Who else am I going to ask?"

"Okay...okay." He gave in. "I checked the files today and saw the same thing, so I asked around. Bad news. You can’t take pictures of them."

"What do you mean, you can’t take pictures of them?"

"They have some kind of jamming frequency. Sonic waves, something. Nobody knows how they do it. It doesn’t matter what you use – sixteen mil, beta, digibeta – everything comes out unfocused and pixilated."

She sat back in her chair, digesting this. "Even still shots?"

"Everything."

"Well, what about the operatives themselves?"

"Same thing. A friend of mine in Atlanta tried to take a picture of his kid with one of those guys once. He said the guy didn’t get mad about it or anything...guess he knew the shot wouldn’t turn out."

Tally rubbed her temples. "So we have to find a way to turn off whatever it is they’re doing before we can even get a picture. More good news."

She could hear the woman in Joss’s apartment again. "Joss, who is that?

"Hush, honey, it’s business," he said. "Tal, can we talk about this when you get back?"

"Okay," she said, softening. "And Joss...thanks. I mean it. I’ll be home by Thursday, and the first round at O’Malley’s is on me."

"Just the first round?" He was smiling, despite himself – she could hear it in his voice.

She sat staring into space for a long moment after he hung up, thinking. Then she glanced at the clock again. It was time to go and check on Michael...and perform a little experiment at the same time.

After looking in on her brother, Tally had a brief conference with the doctors. Although they expected Michael to make a full recovery, he wasn’t ready to be moved at this time – and they certainly would not hear about him making the long flight home. Trying not to remember how difficult the conversation had been, she told them that she had been in touch with her parents, both of whom would be arriving the next day from the U.S. to take over her brother’s care – so she could go back to New York while she still had a job with WNN.

Then she went back out to the central nurses’ station, where one of the two nurses who had been gossiping about Thunderbird Two’s arrival in the cafeteria was working her shift. Tally had spent time over the last couple of days getting to know her, and the investment was paying off nicely.

"Hi, Dorie," she said. "How’s it going?"

Dorie smiled. "Hi. When are your parents coming in?"

"Tomorrow," Tally said, grimacing a little.

"Tomorrow? Aren’t you flying out tomorrow?"

"Two hours after they arrive," Tally nodded. "Trust me, with my mother and me, it’s for the best."

"I hear that," Dorie grinned. "My mom and I fight like cats in a sack."

Tally leaned on the desk. "By the way, I saw those scorch marks in the parking lot today," she said. "You were right – that International Rescue ship really did make a mess!"

Dorie lit up at a chance to gossip, just like Tally had known she would. "Oh, you’re not kidding," she said. "You should have seen it. All that smoke and flame."

Tally grinned. "Exciting, huh? Wish I’d seen it." A pause, then: "How’s the guy doing?"

"Guy?"

"The one they brought in. With the broken ribs."

"Oh," Dorie smiled, handing a chart over to a passing doctor. "He’s doing fine. Nice guy – really good-looking, too."

"Really?" Tally leaned forward conspiratorially.

Dorie waved her hand in dismissal. "Oh, don’t waste your time...he’s got a girlfriend. Very pretty, too, which figures. She’s hardly left his room since she got here, except when one of the rest of his family is around."

"His family?" Tally was instantly on alert.

"Oh, yes," Dorie nodded. "He’s been surrounded by them since he got here. I’d have thought that girl was his sister, except that she’s Eurasian, and he’s about as blond as he could get."

Tally sighed. "All the good ones are taken."

"Excuse me, young lady." Tally turned to see that a handsome woman in her seventies was standing beside her at the desk, addressing the nurse.

"Yes, Mrs. Tracy?" Tally couldn’t help noticing that the normally laid back Dorie became instantly attentive at the sight of this woman.

"Has my grandson’s dinner arrived yet?"

"No, Mrs. Tracy. It should be here momentarily, though."

"Well, it’d better be," Grandma Tracy muttered. "Lord knows we’re paying enough for it."

Tally exchanged a smile with Dorie as the old lady walked away. "She’s loaded," Dorie confided as soon as Grandma was out of earshot. "At least, her son is. Funny how some people never really get used to having money."

The nurse glanced at her watch and stood up. "Well, it was nice chatting with you, but my shift’s over and I’ve got to get home. My boyfriend will be screaming for his dinner – and unlike the Tracys over there, I can’t afford delivery service from a five-star restaurant! See you tomorrow."

Knowing when to back off, Tally swallowed her frustration. She smiled and nodded as Dorie picked up her bag and left. She still hadn’t managed to get either the patient’s name or his room number. Damn that old woman and her timing, she thought. So close...

There was nothing else for it. She was going to have to go exploring.

Alan Tracy was feeling pretty good. Not only was he no longer in any pain, thanks to the blissful relief of the morphine pump, but he had a continual stream of women waiting on him hand and foot. Tin-Tin left his side only when she absolutely had to, and Elizabeth Grant and two very attractive nurses never seemed to be far away. And now his Grandma had arrived and immediately begun organizing everybody. Declaring the hospital food "hog slop" and unfit for her grandson to eat, she had gone on a sampling expedition to several local restaurants until she found one she approved of enough to order delivery. Now Alan was eating almost as well as if he were back on Tracy Island.

Even his brothers had temporarily stopped picking on him. "Alan, wash the Mole..." "Alan, steam clean the engine..." and "Alan, get those oil stains off the concrete..." had been replaced with "Alan, take it easy..." and "Alan, can I get you anything..?"

All he needed was for someone to peel him a grape and his happiness would be complete.

Elizabeth had been by earlier to talk to him about rehab. "Don’t get used to the morphine," she warned him. "We’ll have to wean you off it soon, and those ribs are going to hurt."

He wasn’t looking forward to that. But for now, he intended to make the most of things.

He was half-dozing, eyes closed, when he heard the door opening to his right. He turned drowsily toward the sound. "Tin-Tin?"

Before he could get his eyes all the way open, a flash of light blinded him. "What the hell...?"

Footsteps hurried away, and the door closed. He blinked to clear his vision, but the room was empty again.

"Alan, did you call me?" Tin-Tin entered the room from the bathroom on the other side.

She stopped when she saw the look on his face. "What is it?"

"You’d better call Dad. I think somebody just took a picture of me."

"It’s always possible it was innocent, Jeff," Penelope pointed out. "The whole hospital has been talking about how Alan arrived. He’s become quite a celebrity in his own right."

"’Er Ladyship’s quite right, Mr. Tracy," Parker chimed in. "It could ’ave just been a souvenir ’unter."

"I know," Jeff growled across the hospital cafeteria table. "But I don’t think we should take any chances."

"No, Jeff, we shouldn’t. Do you want to move him?"

"I don’t know... I’d have to find a way to square it with Elizabeth, somehow. She’s not going to want to allow it this soon, and I can’t tell her why it’s so important to us."

Penelope paused as a couple passed by the table, arm in arm. "You have state of the art medical facilities on the Island," she pointed out. "As long as the doctor is nearby, it shouldn’t be a problem."

Jeff frowned. "You’re right, of course. And I’d feel a whole lot better if Alan was back home where we can protect him. Especially after what happened to Scott."

He stood up. "I’m going to talk to Elizabeth. Wish me luck."

Penny smiled, watching him walk away. She wasn’t worried. In all the time she had been around him, she had never known Jeff Tracy fail to get anything he really wanted.

"You have got to be out of your mind!" Elizabeth Grant rounded on Jeff before he had finished his first sentence. "Alan was seriously injured. He needs to be in the hospital for at least another four days!"

"We have excellent hospital facilities on the Island," Jeff said patiently. "You know that. And with you nearby..."

"Jeff, what if something went wrong? What if he coded in the middle of the night? I wouldn’t be ‘nearby’ enough for that."

"Do you really think that would happen?"

She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down and be professional about this. It was very hard to be truly objective about any of the Tracy family, considering her relationship with Virgil. Which his father didn’t know about, she reminded herself. "No. Not really. He’s strong and healthy and he’s been doing extremely well. But I have to start weaning him off the morphine soon, and then he needs to start rehab. I want to begin magnetic field therapy to help his bones heal quickly, and he’s going to need ice treatment for the swelling..."

"Come and stay with us for a week. Or two, if that’s what it takes. I’ll bring in a therapist – anything you want." Jeff would worry about the security problems later – his son’s safety was his first concern at the moment.

Elizabeth stared at him. "I can’t just take off..."

"Money’s no object, Elizabeth," he said.

She sighed, knowing he wasn’t trying to insult her integrity. "It’s not about money, Jeff. I have a practice..."

"...And you have a backup who can fly your rounds for you. Hell, I’ll pay him if you want me to. Just say yes."

Elizabeth wondered if anyone ever won an argument with this man. She exhaled, giving in. "Okay," she said. "But he can’t fly with that lung, not yet. We’ll have to take him by sea."

Jeff grinned, reminding her irresistibly of Scott. "You make the arrangements. I’ll go find us a boat."

"A slow one!" Elizabeth called after him.

It wasn’t until he was gone that she suddenly realized she had just agreed to spend at least a week, maybe more, on the same small island as Virgil. The most time they had ever spent together in the almost one year they had been seeing each other had been three months ago – when a weekend getaway on a secluded Malaysian island had turned into three days after they’d been stranded there by a typhoon. Virgil had taken full advantage of the excuse, and they hadn’t left the suite once the entire time. Her knees still went a little weak at the memory.

Maybe this was her chance to find out the answer to one puzzling question – why he steadfastly refused to tell his family that they were a couple. He claimed that he loved her. It was time, she thought, to find out where he really stood.

It wasn’t a very good picture – a little blurry from movement of the camera, and the expression would have made a driver’s license photo look like a professional headshot. But the young blond man was clearly recognizable. Tally had been right. This was the International Rescue operative who had been injured in the Southern Oceans Cup rescue.

Obviously whatever prevented photographs being taken of the International Rescue craft and their crew had not been in operation in that hospital room.

Jazzed by her triumph, Tally slipped the tiny digital camera back into her overnight bag and leaned back in her seat. She checked her watch. They would be landing in New York in three more hours.

After her parents had arrived and they were visiting with Michael, Tally had taken her opportunity to slip away, escaping the inevitable argument with her mother about her work taking precedence over her life. Dorie had been on duty again at the nurse’s station, and Tally just had time to do a little more sleuthing before she leaving for Sydney airport to make her flight. Since the International Rescue operative had woken up before she had been able to steal a look at his chart, she still didn’t know his last name.

"Oh, he’s gone," Dorie had said at her inquiry, shaking her head. "His doctor checked him out last night."

"Gone? To another hospital?"

Dorie leaned forward, lowering her voice to avoid attracting the attention of the head nurse, who was heading their way down the corridor. "Nobody knows for sure," she said. "Apparently the family wanted to take him home – wherever that is."

"You don’t know? Doesn’t it say on their chart?" Tally was pushing her luck here, but she was short on time. And anyway, Dorie didn’t seem to mind.

Dorie shrugged. "The address is for their corporation in New York."

Time to take a big risk. "Dorie, what was his name?"

"Dorie!" The head nurse’s voice came from right behind Tally. Damn, that woman moved fast. "You know it’s strictly against the rules to talk about patients unless it’s to members of their family. I’m surprised at you."

"I’m sorry," Dorie mumbled, going scarlet with embarrassment.

The head nurse fixed Tally with a suspicious stare. "Now unless you have a question about your brother, young lady, I suggest you leave Dorie here alone while she still has her job."

Tally raised a hand in surrender, backing off. "I’m sorry," she mouthed at Dorie in apology. Dorie shook her head, shrinking under the head nurse’s withering gaze. Tally had made good her escape, only able to hope that Dorie wouldn’t get in any more trouble on her account.

She had a long time to think about the situation on the flight home. So International Rescue had whisked their injured operative out from under her nose. Score one for them. She didn’t know for sure if the move had been triggered by the picture she had taken the night before, but it was certainly likely – considering the lengths they normally went to, to avoid being photographed. If only he hadn’t woken up as she crept into his room. But the flash was the only thing she could think of on the spur of the moment to prevent him from seeing her face long enough for her to make her escape.

It wasn’t over yet, she reminded herself with a small determined smile. She was on their trail, and she intended to stay on it until she caught up to them again. No matter what it took.

EIGHT 

Dirty, sweaty and exhausted, Scott was supremely grateful to strip off his work clothes and step under the hard pounding water of a very hot shower. He stood there for a long time, head down, letting the heat seep into his tired muscles. It had been worth all the grueling hours of hard physical labor, though...thanks to his stubborn refusal to quit, Thunderbird One’s refit was complete and she was airworthy again, thirty-six hours ahead of Brains’ most optimistic schedule.

He just hoped she wouldn’t be needed tonight.

He was almost too tired to eat, but when he at last emerged from the shower, the tantalizing smell of steak wafting from the kitchen proved too much for him. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and headed out in search of the source.

He heard Virgil at his father’s desk, talking on the comlink, and took a detour to see what was going on. "Wait a minute, John," Virgil was saying as he entered the living room. "Liz is coming here? For how long?"

"At least a week," John said from the vidscreen on the wall. "Maybe longer. Depends on how long Alan needs her. They moved him to the ship tonight – they’re going to spend the night in Sydney harbor and sail for home in the morning."

"John?" Scott said. "What’s this about Alan?"

"Oh, hi, Scott," John greeted him. "Dad’s decided to discharge Alan early and bring him home. Apparently Elizabeth would only agree to it if he had a doctor’s care on a continual basis for at least the first week."

Scott was instantly suspicious. "Why so soon? Did something happen?

"Someone tried to take a photograph of him in his room," Virgil supplied. "We don’t know why – it might just have been a curious patient, but after what happened to you..."

Scott nodded. "Damn right." He thought about it for a moment, and grinned. "Come to think of it, it’ll be nice to have a little extra female company around the house."

"But what about the security problems?" Virgil burst out with such vehemence that both Scott and John turned to look at him in surprise. "What if we have to launch Thunderbirds?"

"Well," Scott said mildly, "I guess we’ll handle it somehow. We’ve managed before, and it’s not for very long."

"Well, I think it’s a very bad idea," Virgil stood up, scowling. "I think Dad must be out of his mind."

"What’s wrong, Virg?" Scott asked. "I thought you liked Elizabeth."

"I do!" Virgil stomped toward the doorway. "That’s not the point."

Scott exchanged a glance of amused bewilderment with John. "What’s gotten into him?"

John shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he needs a vacation."

"Bro, we all need a vacation," Scott said ruefully, easing tired shoulders.

John laughed. Scott signed off the transmission and went in search of steak.

The rescue siren went off at six a.m.

Scott, out of bed as usual, was down by the pool having a peaceful early morning cup of coffee when the silence was shattered by the familiar summons. He took off at a run for the long curving flight of steps that led to the villa.

Virgil and Gordon were already there. As ranking officer in his father’s absence, Scott slid in behind the desk. "What’s happening, John?"

"An insurance company skyscraper in New Jersey has been severely damaged by a car bomb, Scott," John told him. "Several floors have collapsed and the underground parking is completely cut off. Rescue workers were making progress when high levels of gas began to register on their instruments. Seems like several gas lines under the building have been ruptured. Conventional rescue can’t proceed because of the threat of a gas explosion, and there are at least sixteen people trapped down there, four of them in one of the elevators.

"Okay, John...how many levels down are the trapped people?"

"Most of them seem to be on the fourth level. But the elevator is all the way at the bottom, ten floors down."

Scott’s mouth twisted. "Love the easy ones. John, find Dad and tell him our status is go. Virgil, Gordon, Pod 3. We’re going to need the Mole – and probably the Firefly."

He swung around and headed for the wall. "Okay, people...let’s move!"

It was cold in New Jersey in January. Scott could see snow thick on the ground as Thunderbird One screamed out of the sky on final approach, nose up, spewing fire and smoke from her landing jet. He spotted the fire chief and several of his men racing to meet him as he descended the ladder. He pulled on heavy coat and gloves as he waited, glancing up at the steel gray clouds that were darkening now in the setting sun.

God, it was freezing. That’s what you get for living on a tropical island, Tracy, he thought. You’re getting soft.

Mobile control was set up in minutes at a safe distance from what remained of the forty-story insurance company building. The building had occupied its own business park, the land for several hundred yards around consisting of grounds and parking lots. At least that meant no nearby buildings were in danger if the gas went off.

"Thunderbird Two from Mobile Control. What is your ETA?"

"Fifty seven minutes, Scott."

"That’s not so good. Can you cut that down?"

"Maybe... What’s the situation?"

"The building’s lost a couple more floors. If one more support column gives way the whole structure’s going to come down. The fire department is keeping everything covered in foam – we can’t afford a fire."

"What kind of shape is the parking garage in?" Virgil asked. "Is the roof holding up?"

Scott looked up, nodding his thanks as the fire chief handed over a roll of blueprints. "So far so good, but we’re seeing structural cracks. I don’t know what’s going to happen if we lose the rest of the building."

"Not to mention if something sparks all that gas," Virgil said.

"You had to say that, didn’t you?" Scott unrolled the blueprints. "I’m going to have a way in figured out before you arrive. Just get here as fast as you can."

"F.A.B."

Scott turned to the fire chief and together they pored over the building plans. "The elevator with the four trapped people is here, on level ten," the chief said, pointing out a block of four elevators in the center of the garage structure. "The remaining people are on the fourth level, approximately here." He indicated an area about halfway in from the left side of the structure.

"Why so many in the same place?" Scott asked. "Did they all leave together?"

"Not exactly," the fire chief grimaced. "It’s two minivans full of kids from soccer practice. Eight and nine year olds."

Jesus. Scott stared at him. "How many adults?"

"Two. Four more in the elevator."

Scott hit the comlink. "Virgil, you’ve got to move your ass. We’ve got ten little kids under that building."

He gazed across at the ruined structure, feeling utterly and completely helpless.

Scott’s nerves were at screaming point by the time Thunderbird Two’s huge bulk appeared on the skyline. He had been over every detail of the situation at least ten times and made three exhaustively detailed circuits of the building, looking for some way to do something – but he couldn’t even find a hole big enough to put his remote camera down there. The approaching roar of his brother’s engines made him swing around in relief, searching the sky for the running lights. He ran back across the parking lot to Mobile Control. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two. Don’t put her down too close, Virg – your jets could set off the gas."

"F.A.B., Scott," Virgil came back. "Coming in to land just west of your location."

The firemen and other onlookers stared open mouthed as Thunderbird Two swooped out of the night sky. Scott always forgot what an impressive sight she must be to someone who had never seen her before – two hundred fifty feet of solid green muscle, sixty feet high, landing jets belching thick columns of fire as she settled to earth with the astonishing grace of his brother’s piloting skills. As soon as her wheels touched the ground she reared up high again on her struts, exposing the pod with the big white number three painted on the front. The pod door swung down, forming a ramp, and Scott heard the powerful engines of the Mole cough into life.

The fire chief stood beside Scott, eyes riveted to the Mole as she lumbered down the ramp and headed toward them. "What the hell is that?"

"We call her the Mole," Scott smiled. "She’s going to help us get those people out."

The Mole halted beside Scott, the rear cabin door sliding open in invitation. "That’s my ride," Scott said, unable to resist a quick grin. "I’ll keep you informed on what’s going on under there."

The fire chief nodded dumbly, still staring up at the huge boring machine. Desperately glad to be in action, Scott vaulted up the steps and in through the door, which slid shut behind him. The Mole lurched forward, heading for the pile of rubble on the outskirts of the ruined building.

"Where do they get these things?" the fire chief said, to nobody in particular.

On board the Mole, Scott came forward to where Virgil and Gordon sat at the drive and navigation controls, respectively. Underground the Mole was blind, depending completely on her sensitive instruments to guide her to her destination. "We’re going to need the dicetylene jets when we bore," Scott told them. "We can’t afford a single spark down there. Got the masks?"

"On board," Gordon acknowledged.

The Mole came to a halt. "Strap in," Virgil ordered. "We’re going in."

Scott and Gordon took their seats and fastened their belts. Virgil hit the switch and the rear of the Mole’s cabin began to rise up into the air, pointing her bit straight down at the rubble. "Dicetylene jets on. Boring...now."

The Mole’s massive bit began to whirl in an ever-increasing spiral. She crawled forward on her tracks, sliding down until her spinning nose touched the rubble. They braced themselves as she took her first bite of concrete. There was hardly a shudder inside the cabin.

"Like a knife through butter," Virgil smiled with satisfaction.

"Right two degrees," Gordon said, eyes on the instruments.

"F.A.B."

As the Mole tunneled through the concrete into the parking lot, Scott watched the ultrasonic scanner over Gordon’s shoulder, mentally overlaying the building plans on to the screen. "Should be nearly there," he said, after a couple of minutes.

"Entering Level Four now," Gordon nodded.

"How’s the dicetylene holding up?"

"Fine," Virgil said. "Not a spark in sight."

"We’re through!" Gordon announced. "Shut her down, Virgil."

The Mole’s engines died away to silence. "What’s the gas level?" Scott asked.

"Put it this way," Gordon said, glancing at the readings, "We’d better hurry."

"Let’s do it." Scott broke open the equipment locker and handed both his brothers a gas mask. He pulled on his own and shoved more into bags. "Everybody take one. Let’s go get those kids."

The fourth level of the structure was mostly intact, with some subsidence toward the western side of the building. They quickly located the two parked minivans. "Are they in there?" Gordon asked.

Scott peered in the side windows of one vehicle. "Yep – they’re all passed out from the gas." He tried the doors, but they were locked. He hefted the fire ax. "Stand clear – I’m going to break the glass."

He swung the heavy ax into the window portion of the sliding door. The safety glass crazed but didn’t break. Scott put his back into it, swinging again. This time the glass gave way at the bottom of the window. Scott tore at the pieces with his gloved hand and slipped his arm in, fishing for the door catch.

The door slid back and Gordon and Virgil were inside, scooping up small bodies and applying gas masks. "They’re alive!" Virgil said, his voice edged with relief.

Scott was already swinging the fire ax at the window of the second vehicle.

When all the masks had been strapped in place, they transferred the unconscious children and adults to the Mole. Scott was rummaging around in the equipment locker as Gordon lifted the last one aboard. He straightened up, shoving gear and more masks into a bag. "Get them out of here," he said. "I’m going after the ones in the elevator."

Virgil twisted round in the drivers seat, frowning. "No, Scott – wait for us. We can bore straight down to the tenth level."

"I know, Virg, but if the gas has gotten to those trapped people, they could be dead before you reach them. I’ve got to try to get masks to them as quickly as possible."

"I’ll go with you," Gordon said, standing up.

"Sorry, Gordo – the Mole’s a two man operation," Scott said. "Get back down here as quick as you can. I’ll see you on level ten."

He jumped down from the Mole to the concrete floor of the parking garage. Virgil swore in frustration as the cabin door slid shut. "I hate when he does that."

The Mole’s engines roared into life and she began to reverse up into her bore hole. Scott swung around, eyes searching for the central elevator structure where four more people were trapped – six floors further down. Spotting its location, he began to sprint across the concrete toward it.

Halfway there, the sky fell in.

On board the Mole, Virgil and Gordon were almost hurled from their seats, the tunneling machine bucking wildly. Fighting to keep her on course, Virgil hit the comlink. "International Rescue to fire chief," he said urgently. "What just happened?"

"We lost the rest of the building," the fire chief’s voice strained voice came back. "The roof of the parking structure just completely caved in."

Scott... Virgil felt sick. He glanced at Gordon and saw his fears mirrored in his brother’s eyes. "We’ve got to get these kids to the surface," he said, voice leaden.

Gordon nodded. "I know."

Virgil threw the Mole into overdrive.

To Chapters 9 - 16 >>