Rima

by Purupuss

Time moves on; people move on... But when your world starts imploding around you, can things ever be the same?

3. Chapter 3 - Close to Home

It's Friday. Time for...

Chapter Three: Close to home

Scott stared down at the pair of legs that stuck out from beneath the digital table. "Haven't you got this thing working yet?"

Alan snickered. "He's so fat he probably can't reach the electronics."

A screwdriver appeared from under the table and made a suggestive gesture.

"Be nice, John," Virgil chuckled. "We've got ladies present."

"Oops. Sorry, Ladies.… Where's Brains?"

"He is still in my aeroplane," Lady Penelope explained. "We decided that we wouldn't disturb him until we were ready to hear what he has to say."

Tin-Tin crouched down beside the table so that she could see underneath it. "Can I help you?"

"Probably," John smiled at her in the shadows. "Can you check that the magdon chip is slotted home correctly?"

Tin-Tin prised a panel off the top edge of the table and, holding a torch as she peered inside, gently prodded a computer chip. "It looks corroded."

"Like the wiring under here. That's the problem with being so close to the sea. Can you replace it?"

"I'll see if there's a useable spare in the storeroom."

"While you do that, can you check if there's any useable wiring?"

"What are the rest of us supposed to do while you lay around?" Alan asked as his wife trotted away on her errand.

John pulled himself out from under the table so that he was able to look up at his youngest brother. "How about making me a cup of coffee? I'm parched." He looked at his watch. "I'm usually on cup number five by now."

"Let me, Mister John," Parker offered. "H-I'm not doin' much standin' 'ere."

"Thanks, Parker." John looked about the room. "Where's Gordon?"

"He hasn't surfaced since he got here," Scott told him. "Not that there's much that he can do until Brains is ready. And Brains won't be ready until you've got this thing working." He tapped the top of table and weird electronic patterns swirled about its surface. "You're not going to electrocute yourself, are you?"

"No." John reassured him. "Not enough power."

"Hasn't anyone here heard of pen and paper?" Virgil asked. "Do we really need the digital table?"

Scott frowned. "We don't all like working with canvas and paint, Gustav."

"It's not Gustav talking," he was informed. "Anyway this table's technology has been superseded."

"I don't care if it came out of the ark," Scott growled. "So long as it works and we can all see Brains' plans. Ah… Here's Tin-Tin."

"Good." John accepted some new wires and wriggled back under the table. A short time later the table top stabilised into the accepted soft hue of green baize.

John crawled out from underneath and brushed his clothes down. "Let's check that it works." He entered a few codes into a keypad and what appeared to be blank pieces of paper appeared at each seat. "What are Tracy Industries' shares doing?" he mused as he tapped the keypad again. A report appeared in front of him, and he studied it closely. "Good. The market's not missing me yet."

"Why don't we get Brains?" Virgil asked. "Will our wristwatch telecoms work now that we're on the island, John?"

John nodded. "They should. Has he got much that needs to be brought out of the plane?"

"'Eaps, Sir," Parker told him, handing him a hot mug.

Virgil put his sunglasses on. "Then we'd better get down there and give him a hand."

"The monorail to the hangar works," Alan said. "It's about the only thing in the place that still does. But we blocked off the spurs to the Thunderbird hangars, so we're going to have to walk between them when we check out the craft."

Scott put his freshly made cup of coffee on the table. "We'll worry about that later. In the meantime let's get Brains up here. Would you mind telling Gordon that we'll be starting soon, Tin-Tin?"

"It would be a pleasure, Scott," Tin-Tin informed him. "This is beginning to feel like old times."

Brains was still deep in studious thought in the passenger cabin of FAB4. He looked up when shadows fell over his computer screen. "S-Scott…? Alan…? John...?" He looked out the window seeing palm trees waving in the gentle zephyr. "Have we landed?"

Alan chuckled. "You landed about an hour ago."

Scott indicated the computer. "Does the fact that you're in full concentration mode mean that you've come up with something?" he asked.

"P-Possibly." Brains started packing all his research and equipment into manageable piles.

"Let me take some." Virgil picked up a large pile of papers.

"Thank you, ah…" His mind still clouded in a fog of facts and figures, Brains stared owlishly at him.

"Believe it or not, that's Virgil," Scott explained, "looking like one of Gustav's paint brushes."

"Oh! Er… Sorry, Virgil."

"It's all right, Brains." Virgil pulled his sunglasses down so that he could look over them. "There are some days I don't recognise me either."

-F-A-B-

"Gordon." Tin-Tin tapped on his door. "We're nearly ready, Gordon."

She was just beginning to wonder if he had heard her, when the door slid back. His hair was a mess, giving the impression that he'd been lying down, and he ran his fingers through it to try to smooth it back into place. "Sorry, Tin-Tin," he apologised, "I've been trying to work out how I'm going to break the news to Dad."

She gave his hand a squeeze. "Just tell him. He'll understand."

"He'll remind me that he told me it would all end in tears if I married Marina." Gordon sighed. "He was right."

"Your father has never been one for recriminations," Tin-Tin reminded him. "Would you like a cup of coffee? I'm going to have to make some more. Everyone else's is getting cold."

He managed a smile. "That's sounds great. Thanks." He wandered into the lounge. "Hi, Penny."

"Hello, Gordon. How are you?"

He fixed her with a wry grin. "I suppose everyone's told you that I'm getting a divorce?"

"Ah…" Lady Penelope hesitated. "It has been mentioned."

"You mean they've been gloating?"

"I think that their attitude is more of sorrow," Lady Penelope corrected. "They are sorry for you."

"If anyone else said that I wouldn't believe them. But since it's you..." Gordon indicated the digital table. "I'm surprised this thing still works." He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"It does thanks to John and Tin-Tin." Lady Penelope smiled at the pretty Eurasian as a coaster and Gordon's coffee was placed at his elbow.

The digital table erupted into a rainbow of static.

"Maybe that's not such a good idea," Gordon suggested, moving his mug to the table's bezel.

Tin-Tin frowned. "That shouldn't happen." She placed her own mug on the table and the surface remained placidly green.

"Odd." Gordon watched as Lady Penelope placed her coaster, cup and saucer on the table, which showed no signs of complaint. "Guess it must be me." He shifted his mug back to its original position.

The table repeated its multi-coloured performance.

Tin-Tin giggled. "It is you, Gordon."

"Everyone's a critic."

There were sounds from the direction of the monorail entrance. Scott was the first to appear, his arms filled with papers. "That was weird. The monorail stopped working of its own accord and then started again."

"Somehow I don't think fixing whatever's wrong with that is going to be a priority over the next few months," Virgil commented. "Do you want these papers on the table, Brains?"

"No. On the coffee table will be fine."

Alan dumped his armload of books onto the table. "We had visions of having to carry all this through the complex… Where's my coffee?" He screwed up his nose. "It's cold."

"I'll get you another," Tin-Tin offered. "Would anyone else like a fresh cup?"

She was back with a tray full of steaming brews by the time Brains had inserted his computer into the slot beneath the digital table, set up the connection between the two pieces of equipment, and got himself ready to explain his findings. He looked at Scott. "Shall I, er, start?"

"It's what we're all here for," Scott reminded him. "We're all dying to know if you have the answer to the world's problem."

A map of the world was displayed across the surface of the table. "As you all know," Brains began, "The SHAKER has predicted that the majority of the world's fault lines are going to, er, create a cataclysmic event in four months time." Red lines appeared on the map showing the length of the impending disaster. "Most of these events are going to happen along recognised tectonic boundaries, such as the Pacific's so called ring of fire." He had a smaller map on the table in front of him and as he circled the Pacific Ocean a corresponding circle appeared on the larger map within view of his friends.

"Right around our home," Alan grumbled.

"As you can see, the fault lines of the Pacific plate and its adjoining plates are close to, if not under, the Pacific Ocean. When Doomsday occurs, not only will these areas along the fault lines suffer from various seismic events, but tsunami will also spread out across the ocean." Blue lines started bleeding out from the red ones through the waters of the world. "The same holds true for most of the world's oceans."

"Any chance the tsunamis would cancel each other out when they met in the middle of the ocean?" John asked.

"Unlikely," Brains admitted. "The meeting of two tsunamic systems would probably compound the energy displacement, rather than diffuse it." The blue lines met and seemingly bounced off each other, reversing their course.

"So any coastal land would be hit by two tsunamis," Lady Penelope surmised, as the blue lines swamped smaller islands and invaded continental coastlines.

Brains looked at her through his thick spectacles. "At least two," he conceded.

"How big are these waves going to be?" Gordon asked, as the blue lines washed far inland.

"Imagine any disaster movie you've seen," Brains advised. "And triple it..." Those around the table stared at him in shock. "Also, with the seismic disturbances of the magnitude we're expecting, the tsunamis could, er, bounce around the globe for days, if not weeks."

"Assumin' the world's still h-in one piece," Parker muttered.

"Earthquakes, as you know," Brains continued, "are caused when the forces caused by friction built up between tectonic plates are released suddenly. The amount of energy released and the depth of that release dictates how violently the 'quake is felt on the Earth's surface." He spied his coffee cup and took a sip.

Everyone waited, knowing that Brains needed to proceed at his own pace. The fact that there was no sign of his stutter showed that he was completely focussed on their discussion.

He set down his cup. "My theory, and I would like to point out that it is only a theory; a hypothesis based on historical data, many calculations, and guesswork... My theory is that if we were to cause the faults to release their energy at an earlier time and at a deeper depth than those predicted, we will reduce the size of the events at the surface. An earthquake may still be felt, but, if my theory is correct, it will not be the cataclysmic event we are all fearing."

Scott steepled his hands in front of him. "Okay. I think we understand the theory. But how do we put it into practise?"

"We will need to bury explosive charges deep into the Earth's surface; timed to detonate in a precise order."

"How deep?" Virgil asked.

"Between twenty and fifty kilometres."

"Fifty kilometres!" Virgil sat back. "The Mole's never gone any deeper than one K!"

"I-I," the first hint of doubt about his plan had ignited Brains' stutter, "I wasn't anticipating any of you physically drilling that f-far into the Earth. I envisage a much smaller drilling device burrowing down before it releases its payload."

"A nuclear explosion?" John asked.

"No. I was considering an acoustic shock. It will be safer to transport the detonator and easier to control the amount of energy released."

Scott was more interested in working on the logistics of the plan. "How are we going to get these 'detonators' down to where they're going to release their payload?"

"These devices will operate in a manner similar to a conventional rocket launching into space," Brains explained. "Not a single-stage self-contained booster spaceship like Thunderbird Three, but one that has booster stages which ignite, give the rocket the necessary push forward, and then fall away." He drew a rough sketch on the table and the image appeared in front of each member of his audience. "But there will be a limit to the propellant such a small device can carry. It will need assistance to start it on its journey into the ground."

Alan stared at the drawing in front of him. "What kind of assistance?"

"We will have to launch the device as far into the Earth as we can; using the equipment we have available. I have calculated the most promising locations on the Earth's surface. These locations have been chosen for their ease of access, as well as proximity to the Earth's centre and to recognised seismic faults."

"Proximity to the Earth's centre?" Virgil queried. "Such as…"

"You're thinking of the Mariana Trench, aren't you!?" Gordon demanded.

"I did o-originally," Brains admitted. "But the Earth is not exactly spherical in shape. It is an oblate spheroid, slightly flattened at the poles and bulging at the equator. The Mariana Trench, at eleven degrees north of the equator, is further from the Earth's core than some locations within the Arctic Circle. These Arctic locations are roughly 40 kilometres closer to the Earth's core and also, because of the Earth's shape, are found in relatively shallow waters. However I have discarded them as potential drilling points as they are too inaccessible due to location and ambient temperatures."

"So you have chosen the Mariana Trench!" Gordon repeated.

Brains nodded. "Where the Pacific Plate is subducted under the Mariana Plate. To be precise, I have decided that the optimum position for launching one of the acoustic concussion generators is at the bottom of the Challenger Deep." On the electronic map, an orange glow off the coast of the Philippines appeared and pulsed gently.

"But that's the deepest known point in the ocean!" Gordon exclaimed.

"I-I am aware of that."

"Thunderbird Four's never gone down that deep!"

"T-True. But we've never tested her to her limits."

"Limits! She'll have to dive at least five thousand fathoms. That's way beyond her theoretical limits!"

"Five thousand fathoms?" Lady Penelope enquired. "How deep is that?"

"Ten to eleven thousand metres!" Gordon spluttered. "Thirty thousand feet!"

"Well," Alan mused. "That's half to a fifth of Brains' hypothetical required distance."

"That's also 100 megapascals of pressure on her hull!"

Virgil gave a low whistle. "That's a lot..."

"A lot! Virgil! That's over 1000 atmospheres!"

"'Scuse me," Parker apologised, "but H-I don't h-understand. Watcha mean 1000 atmospheres?"

"I've heard it described," John explained, "as the equivalent of the weight of 1,600 elephants on every centimetre of your body."

"Oh," Parker mouthed. "Ta."

"We don't even know if she can withstand that kind of pressure!" Gordon slapped his hand on the table. "Especially after seven years of rotting in her pod!"

"I'm sure Brains has taken that into consideration, Gordon." John, noticing that Scott had chosen not to interrupt Gordon's outburst, decided that as second eldest it was his place to take the lead. "Let's hear the mechanics of his plan before we start stressing over the details… Okay?"

Gordon took a deep breath. "Yeah. Okay… Sorry, Brains. I guess I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Not at all, Gordon. I want you all to, er, consider the ramifications of my suggestions."

Virgil leant forward. "So, are you suggesting that Thunderbird Four's going to have to, for want of a better phrase, lay all these charges at various underwater points around the globe?"

"No. We will not have time for that," Brains admitted. "All three detonators will take time to burrow into the Earth's crust. The other two detonators will be, er, launched from the lowest points on the Earth not under water."

"The Dead Sea's the lowest," Parker offered. "H-I remember learnin' about that when I was at school. H-If H-I remember rightly it's 1369 feet below sea level."

"You are quite correct," Brains congratulated him. "In a manner of speaking."

"Huh? Watcha mean?"

Brains didn't elaborate. "I propose that The Mole," he glanced at Virgil, "should bore down into the Dead Sea Transform," another orange dot pulsed on the map, this time next to the Mediterranean, "until it has reached its maximum depth and then launch its acoustic concussion generators further into the Earth."

"Before The Mole gets the heck out of there," Alan muttered.

"Where's the third site, Brains?" Scott asked.

"At a point on the Earth's surface that is even deeper than the Dead Sea. One thousand metres deeper and yet it is not covered by any of the world's seas or oceans. It's a place called the Bentley Subglacial Trench."

"The Bentley Sub-glacial Trench?" Alan echoed. "Never heard of it. Sounds cold."

"It is," Brains agreed. "It is 2540 metres or 8333 feet below sea level and is buried under ice in Antarctica at 80 degrees south, 105 degrees west." An orange dot pulsed on the great white mass at the bottom of the map. "Should the ice melt it would be covered by sea water, which is why the Dead Sea is recognised as being the lowest place on Earth instead of the Bentley Subglacial Trench."

Parker pointed at the map. "But h-it's nowhere near a faultine."

"It's not near a known faultline," Brains corrected. "But, ignoring that issue, my hypothesis is that the sudden disturbance of the Antarctic plate will take, er, the pressure off the neighbouring plates."

"Seems to me you're relying a lot h-on 'ypotheseses."

"Unfortunately, Parker," Brains stared at the older man through his thick spectacles. "That is a-all we've got. This is a new, er, situation for us all."

"If this trench is buried under metres of ice," Scott began. "How are we going to reach it?"

Brains looked at him. "I propose two missiles fired from Thunderbird One in quick succession. One to melt the ice and the second carrying an ACG."

"So I'm going to be strafing a blank, buried target?"

"Yes."

As if it was adding its own perspective on their conversation the digital table sent a psychedelic wave across its screen before settling back into its portrait of the Earth.

"You can't blame me this time," Gordon grumbled. "I wasn't touching it."

"One of the wires must still be loose," John reassured him.

Tin-Tin had more important things to worry about rather than the table. "When do you think we should start operations?"

Brains looked at her over his spectacles. "We will need to deploy the detonators inside three months. That will give them the necessary time to reach their goal and detonate before the faults release their energy of their own accord."

"Three months!"

Virgil was taking notes. "So we're going to need Thunderbirds One, Two, Four, and The Mole. We're going to need Thunderbird Five to facilitate communications between us all, which means we're going to need Thunderbird Three to get to it." He laid down his digital pen. "It's going to take a lot of work to make sure all the craft ready. That's before we even think about starting work on the detonators and Thunderbird One's missiles. Can we do it inside three months?"

There was silence as everyone contemplated the task ahead of them.

"IF we do this," Scott began, "and it's a big if, we're going to have to give it one hundred percent. Who knows what repairs and preparations we're going to have to make before we can even start thinking about undertaking this rescue. Does anyone want to back out now?"

"I think that the fact that we're all here says that we're committed to doing something," Gordon commented, as everyone else shook their heads. "Besides, I've got nothing to go back to." Brains fixed him with a curious look.

"We've got to at least try," Alan added. "What are our options if we don't? Sit back and wait for the world to implode on itself?"

"Sit back?" John started going through the calendar on his smartphone. "Who's got time to sit back? I've got meeting after meeting. There're three on the 27th..."

"I'll need time off to visit my lawyer," Gordon noted. "The sooner I can get divorced from Marina the better, but I want to go and tell Dad in person that I am getting divorced before I do anything else."

John brought up the next date on his calendar. "I've got a couple of important meetings on the 28th..."

"My next race is next month," Alan admitted. "If I miss that, I'll lose all chances of winning the championship."

"I might be able to forgo the meeting on the 29th. Robert can handle that one..."

"My show opens on the 30th," Virgil remembered. "And I've got to be there for all the preparations leading up to it. That'll take a couple of days."

"The 30th!" John exclaimed. "That meeting on the 30th is very important. That's to finalise the Martin contract. Must get Emma to send through the reports..."

"Reports!" Gordon snapped his fingers. "I've got to write up the reports about my last expedition. Chris's been on my back over that."

"That meeting on the 1st is important. I can't miss that…"

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Scott had been listening incredulously to this recital of prior engagements. "Well, excuse me!" he snapped. "We'll just tell everyone that we're too busy to save the world, shall we? Maybe we should ask the planet to not self-destruct until some time when we can all make space on our calendars!?"

What followed was an embarrassed silence.

"I guess I can deal with the lawyer over the phone," Gordon admitted. "At least then I won't have to meet with Marina again. And as for the reports; what are they going to do? Send someone down here to the middle of nowhere to point a gun at my head to force me to write them up?"

"I don't really have to be at the show," Virgil conceded. "My manager will rip me off as usual, and people will go around reading meanings into my paintings that aren't there, but…" He shrugged.

"It's only a car race," Alan accepted. "It's not like it's a matter of life and death if I don't participate." He frowned. "But what excuse can I have for not racing? Just because I've told everyone that I've got this superstition about having my photograph taken during a series, doesn't mean that I haven't got a reasonably high public profile."

"Say you want to spend the planet's final days with your family," Scott suggested. He looked at John who was frowning at his smartphone. "What about you?"

"Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want to help out. But it's not that simple…!" At Scott's exasperated sigh, John leant forward. "Look! If I could just drop everything I would! But consider my position, Scott… No. Consider our position. This," he indicated the smartphone, "is International Rescue's lifeblood. The reason why we had to shut down in the first place was because of the way the markets reacted to Jeff Tracy not being at the helm. They're only just beginning to accept me as someone who's managed to keep the boat on an even keel, and Tracy Industries' values are finally reverting to the levels they were at before Dad had the stroke."

"Which means we have the money to do this," Scott told him.

"Does it? We haven't checked out the state of our equipment yet. For all we know the wings could have fallen off Thunderbird One! We've got to undo seven years worth of decay and neglect inside three months and bring everything up to scratch, and that's going to take more than time and manpower. It's going to take money! Lots of money!"

"Are you saying that we don't have the funds to even try?" Virgil asked.

"No. As things stand I think we'll be okay. But when the markets discover that I've taken leave and that no one named Tracy has taken over Tracy Industries, International Rescue's lifeblood could drain away!" John sat back. "And if you don't consider that a good enough reason, then try this. Dad worked hard to make Tracy Industries the global success that it is. I couldn't be the one to ruin it all for him."

"Then why not put him back at the helm?" Alan suggested.

John stared at him as if he were crazy. "What?!"

"Why not? Obviously you can't give him anything too… Umm..."

"Difficult," Gordon offered.

"I was thinking more along the lines of taxing. Difficult he'd thrive on. We all know that his brain's fine, it's just that his body's not working so well. He needs something to stimulate him and this could be it."

"He wouldn't be able to attend any meetings," Virgil noted. "We can understand him, but complete strangers wouldn't be able to."

"John…" Alan persevered. "Surely there are people you can trust to take on the more difficult bits like meetings? Dad didn't employ idiots or anyone he didn't trust, and I know you haven't either."

John gave a slow nod of agreement, but didn't comment.

Gordon concurred. "Alan's right. Dad's probably bored stuck at home all day. He'd relish the opportunity to take on more responsibility and it would stop him worrying about what we're doing."

"That's a good point," Virgil agreed. "And knowing that we're restarting International Rescue would probably give him a boost. We all know how crushed he was when we said we had to shut it down."

Scott pushed home the winning argument. "And the markets would see that there was still a Tracy at the helm." "And not just any Tracy, but Jeff Tracy!" He stared at his brother who was still gazing at the smartphone as if it held the answers to their problems. "How about it, John? Are you with us?"

John looked at him. "I'll need a day or so to check Dad's willing, and to make arrangements for the transition."

Scott could see that this was a fair compromise. "Good. Then that's done. First thing…"

"What about Stewie?"

Scott froze; staring at Virgil.

"Stewie?" Alan frowned as he looked between his two brothers. "What about him?"

"It's his 17th birthday next week," Virgil explained. "And he's going to be sitting his private pilot's certificate. Were you planning on being there, Scott?"

Scott gave a slow nod. "Yes, I was… But I can't now... Can I?" He ran his hands through his hair. "How am I going to explain it to him?"

"Come with me when I go to talk to Dad," John suggested. "I'd rather you were there to reassure him that we're going to be doing everything properly anyway. Then you can go and see Stewie."

"But what do I say to him? He's been looking forward to this day for years…" Scott slumped in his chair. "And so have I. And I can't go and do what's important to me when I've just told you guys you can't do what's important to you!"

"I think we'll get over it," Virgil reassured him.

Alan grinned. "Just as long as you don't stay until after the party."

"Go, Scott," Gordon told him. "Wish Stewie good luck and a happy birthday from us all."

Scott thought for a moment. "No," he decided. "We're all going to go and tell Father tomorrow. We'll give ourselves one day to get the rest of our lives in order before we commit ourselves to re-launching International Rescue."

"Can we spare the time?" John asked. "We're going to be working to a tight schedule."

Virgil indicated his notes. "It'll give us a chance to get some supplies. Then we can make a start on minor repairs while we wait for the bigger items to be freighted in."

"What about Kasey, Virgil?" Tin-Tin asked. "What is she going to think about you disappearing into the middle of the Pacific Ocean for three months?"

Virgil pretended to be more interested in his notes. "Kasey's not part of the picture now."

"What!" Everyone stared at him.

Everyone except Scott who helped to deflect their attention away from his brother. "If anyone's interested, Farrah and I aren't together any more either."

John switched his focus to his elder brother. "Is that why...?"

"Getting back to more important things," Scott interrupted. "Once we've checked the state of the equipment, we will fly out."

"Do I take this to mean that you are all serious about reforming International Rescue?" Lady Penelope asked.

"Yeah," Parker added. "H-It sounds dangerous, h-even compared to what you did before you h-all disbanded. What with missiles, an' detonatin' bombs underground, an' divin' down to the depths, an' all."

Scott shrugged. "Like Alan said before, what choice do we have? Now, order of priority. We'll start by working on Thunderbird Three..."

"Thunderbird Three?!" Gordon stared at him.

"Yes."

"What about Thunderbird Four?"

"We will work on Four once we've checked over Thunderbird Three…"

That wasn't good enough for Gordon. "Thunderbird Four should have top priority!"

"Thunderbird Four is a high priority," Scott admitted, "but we need Thunderbird Th..."

"If I'm going to have over 100 megapascals of pressure on me then I'll need to know that Four's hull can withstand it!"

"We all need to know that Thunderbird Four's hull won't be compromised," Scott soothed. "Don't worry, Gordon..."

"Don't patronise me!" Gordon's chair went flying as, furious with his eldest brother, he leapt to his feet.

Scott flinched. "I wasn't…"

"That deep in the water with that much pressure on her, Thunderbird Four could be crushed like an egg! With me in it! Is that what you want, Scott?!"

Uncomfortable by the way the exchange was heating up; the others pretended to make notes on their digital papers.

"No! Of course not." Scott could feel the situation slipping out of his control and knew that the last thing International Rescue needed was for Gordon and him to have another falling out. "Trust me, Gordon, we'll do all we can to preven…"

But Gordon wasn't in the mood to listen. "Even Thunderbird Two's going to be more important than Thunderbird Three! Right, Virgil?"

Virgil, looking like he'd rather not be dragged into the argument, gazed at the wall.

"Both Thunderbirds Four and Two should have a higher priority than Thunderbird Three! We'll only be using her as a taxi!"

Knowing that to speak now would only inflame the situation, Alan bit his tongue.

"You are right, Gordon," Scott agreed. "As far as the actual mission is concerned, Thunderbird Three isn't important. But she's still got a high priority because…"

Gordon pushed himself away from the table and, breathing heavily, stalked over to the window so he could look out over the calming Pacific Ocean.

"Gordon…" John got to his feet and walked over to his brother's side. "Scott knows how important it is to make sure that Thunderbird Four can withstand all that pressure. We all do. None of us want to see you risk your neck any more than necessary."

Gordon grunted.

Taking this as a good sign and keeping his voice quiet and soothing, John continued to speak. "Just like we all know it's important that each of our Thunderbirds and The Mole are going to be able to do what we ask of them."

Immensely grateful for John's intervention, Scott took a chance that Gordon wasn't going to fly off the handle at him again. "We're all going to be taking a risk and none of us wants to see the others in any danger. But, Gordon, you know none of us is going to be able to do anything without good communications!"

"I know," Gordon grumbled.

"And for that we need to know that Thunderbird Five's operational."

Gordon clenched his fist against the glass. "I know," he said again, his voice almost a whisper. He pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane.

"And we're not going to find that out until we get to the space station."

John drove home the final argument. "And to get there we need Thunderbird Three."

"I know," Gordon repeated.

"With any luck Thunderbird Three won't need a lot done to her and we can start work straight away on our next highest priority, Thunderbird Four." Scott shared a look with John that said that Thunderbird Five was probably a higher priority, but didn't articulate the fact.

John placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Are you ready to sit down again?"

Gordon heaved a sigh. "Yeah." He reclaimed his seat. "Sorry." Avoiding everyone else's eyes, he didn't speak again throughout the rest of the meeting.

Scott made a note on his digital paper. "Anyone else want to say anything?"

"Yes," Virgil nodded towards the wall. "I think we're going to have to get new portraits."

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Scott, having had enough of his brothers' idiosyncrasies, threw his pen down in disgust. "Gustav, leave!" he snapped. "We'd like Virgil's input here."

Virgil fixed him with a level stare. "And you're getting it. What I mean is that we were younger and a lot fitter when we started International Rescue. We've been trying to work out if we can get our equipment operational in time, but what about us?" He looked at his brothers. "Are any of you as fit as you were when those portraits were created? I know I'm not. I've been jogging through Central Park every day, but I'll freely admit that I'm not in the same shape that I was when we started."

"And some of us have even more shape than we had when we started," Alan prodded John's slightly rounded midriff. John knocked his hand away.

"Do you think we're wasting our time, Virgil?" Scott asked.

"No," Virgil responded. "But I do think we've got more work ahead of us than we realise. We've got to get the equipment ready and we've got to prepare ourselves as well. And I'm not talking about only physically, but also mentally. Can you imagine any of us putting other aspects of our lives before International Rescue eight years ago?"

"No," Alan admitted. "Eight years ago International Rescue was our lives."

"At least John has a non-physical role," Tin-Tin offered. "And you'll be able to spend your spare moments working out in Thunderbird Five's gym."

"But I need to be fitter than I am for space flight," John admitted. "And so that I can help everyone get the equipment ready. I've got to pull my weight... Pun not intended…"

He sighed. "When I started working at Tracy Industries I was determined that I wasn't going to become just another fat corporate body. I had every intention of going to the company gym every morning, but I felt like everyone was staring at me. Oh, look. There's the new boss, Jeff Tracy's son." He shrugged. "You've got to admit that as Space Monitor I didn't exactly get endless opportunities for socialising. I wasn't used to being surrounded by large groups of people. So since a public gym wasn't for me, and work meant that I didn't have a lot of spare time to work out in my apartment, I decided that I'd take the stairs to and from my office every day. But every day I seemed to have a meeting at eight o'clock, which meant that I didn't have time to take the stairs. So I didn't..." he confessed. "I haven't exercised in months."

"Well, you're going to start now," Scott promised. "We're all going to start a regular fitness programme. Gordon, do you want to coordinate that?"

Gordon, his eyes still down, nodded.

"Thanks... Now, let's see…" Scott made a note on his digital pad. "Personnel allocations seem pretty straight-forward. We'll need full communications, so John you'll be manning Thunderbird Five. I'll be using Thunderbird One to strafe the Bentley Subglacial Trench. Gordon will have to do the Mariana Trench deployment, leaving Virgil and Alan to man The Mole in the Dead Sea…"

Tin-Tin grasped her husband's hand "Is it going to be possible to get the Thunderbirds up to operational standard in only three months?"

"We won't know until we see them," Scott admitted.

"Then I suppose we should go and take a look." Virgil pressed home a full stop on his digital page.

No one moved. They all sat there, waiting for one of the others to make the first move.

Realising that they'd reached an impasse, Lady Penelope asked, "Could the Thunderbirds have deteriorated at all, Brains?"

He gave a slow nod. "Without c-continual maintenance, such as they received when International Rescue was operational, yes."

"Lummee," Parker muttered.

"Externally Thunderbird Three looks okay." Alan shrank back when his brothers' eyes turned on him.

"How do you know that?" Scott demanded. "We sealed up all access to the hangars!"

"Ah..." Alan cast a furtive look at his wife. "When I, um, realised that we might be restarting operations, I, er, opened up the walkway from the lab to Three's launch bay... Ah... To save ti..."

The digital table started its disco lighting act again. Only this time it was accompanied by a shimmer that sashayed through the room, sending little tsunamis dancing in their coffee cups. The oriental wind chime on the far wall started to tinkle as windows rattled in their frames.

"What the..." Scott looked up to see one of the books on his father's shelf slide down its neighbour. "Earthquake?"

The shimmering stopped and the digital display returned to its normal utilitarian image.

The map on the table top disappeared as Brains replaced it with a seismographic readout. "Oh."

"Oh!?" Alan exclaimed. "What the heck does Oh mean? The quakes aren't supposed to start for another four months!"

"W-we are presently on a volcano, Alan."

"I'm aware of that, Brains, I've lived here for a large part of my life. But it's supposed to be extinct. The whole volcanic field's moved away from here over the millennia... Hasn't it?"

"Alan's right," Tin-Tin agreed. "I thought it was now under the Kermadec Trench."

"We are still sitting on a highly active plate," Brains explained. "Magma is rising beneath Tracy Island."

Alan frowned. "Meaning our home is going to erupt at any time?"

"Not any time..." Brains clarified. "A-Approximately three months."

His announcement was met with exclamations from all around the table. "Three months!"

"It can't erupt in three months!" Scott insisted. "That's when we're going to be dispersed all around the planet. We won't be able to do anything to stop it...!"

"Assuming we can," Virgil added.

"I-I can not exactly say that the eruption will occur in three months. This programme isn't as advanced as the SHAKER. It may be l-later."

"Or earlier?"

"Yes."

"Great!" Alan threw his pen onto the table. "We're not only going to be working under pressure, we're going to be living and working on a pressure cooker."

"Would it be possible to move your centre of operations elsewhere?" Lady Penelope asked.

"We could," Scott admitted. "But that would take time. Time we don't have."

John ran his hand through his hair. "Is this eruption linked to Doomsday?"

"Yes," Brains confirmed.

"Then why is this eruption predicted to happen one month earlier than Doomsday?" Virgil demanded. "Have we got our facts wrong? Are we going to have to bring our plans forward one month?" He slumped back in his chair. "We may as well give up now."

"You know it's an i-inexact science, Virgil, but I believe that the predictions for Doomsday are correct. This eruption, and any others around the globe," the map returned to the table top, "are merely, er, an overture."

"I don't think much of the opera."

Lady Penelope had been studying the map. "Could there be unexpected volcanic eruptions elsewhere in the world?"

"Yes. B-But they will be localised enough that people will be able to be evacuated."

"Brains. Can you give us your honest opinion," Scott begged. "Is there any point us recommissioning International Rescue?"

Brains fixed him with an earnest stare. "Scott. Every mission you and your brothers undertook carried an e-element of uncertainty. The reason why International Rescue were called in was because the odds had been against the people you rescued. This time is no different."

"But every time International Rescue at least had a slim chance of success. What chance have we got this time?"

Brains' stare was unwavering. "A slim one."

Everyone was silent as they absorbed what he was saying.

Gordon pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Well, what are we sitting here for? The longer we wait, the slimmer our chances get. Let's go see priority number one."

-F-A-B-

Thunderbird Three stood in her launch bay, her nosecone pointing towards an almost impervious plug of cahelium, concrete, and rock.

John gazed up at the gigantic number three. "I never thought I'd be looking at a Thunderbird again." He patted one of the boosters. "Let alone touching one."

Scott circled the giant spaceship. "You're right, Alan. She does look in good shape."

"But what about the engines?" Virgil asked, bringing Thunderbird Three's schematics up on his tablet computer. "And the electronics? And the internal structures?"

Gordon made an irritated noise. "Glad to hear you're starting the challenge with a positive frame of mind, Virg."

"We've increased the power plant's output," Tin-Tin offered. "It should nearly be at full capacity by now. We'll be able to run the diagnostic programmes on all the Thunderbirds."

Scott stared up at one of Thunderbird Three's firmly sealed hatches. "Once we get inside. How do we do that without causing too much structural damage, Brains?"

The engineer actually smirked. "I foresaw the day when y-you all would want to relaunch International Rescue," he admitted, and the brothers exchanged mystified looks as he reached into the bag that he'd brought with him. "I-It's taken longer than I, er, anticipated, but I had planned for that eventuality."

"How," Gordon queried, "had you planned for 'that eventuality'? And why?"

"After s-seven years of International Rescue, I c-couldn't see any of you being happy in 'mainstream' jobs long-term." Brains pulled out a box about the size of a pack of cards. "So when we sealed all the Thunderbirds' hatches I laid a s-strip of seizeite around each entrance first. It helped to seal the hatch, until the trigger's placed in a certain spot." He indicated the box.

"But the whole point of sealing the hatches was so that no one could ever get access to the Thunderbirds," Scott reminded him.

"Then why didn't you destroy them?" Brains enquired.

The brothers glanced at one another.

Scott was determined not to be sidetracked. "You deliberately installed a method of opening them? What if someone, not us, tried to break in?"

"Firstly, only I knew about the s-seizeite," Brains told him.

"That's true," Virgil conceded. "This is the first we've heard about it."

"Secondly, the seizeite is hidden b-beneath the seals you all installed," Brains continued. "It is not, ah, visible to anyone unaware of its existence. Thirdly, the seizeite actually aids in sealing the hatch until such time as the release mechanism is engaged. And finally," grinning, he pulled the twin antennas from out of the box, "y-you have to have the exact trigger for each Thunderbird, and know exactly where to position it. Only I know these secrets."

John gave Lady Penelope a sideways look. "Sounds to me like you've been a bad influence on him."

"Or a good one?" Lady Penelope's silvery laugh wafted through the little group. "I am beginning to believe that Brains has missed his calling."

"Never mind all that," Gordon said impatiently. "Let's open her up. What do we do, Brains?"

"I need to be able to place this trigger up there." Brains pointed to the airlock that had formerly been the portal through which the couches had passed on the hydraulic ram.

They looked upwards, craning their necks to see the patch at the bottom of the nacelle where the entrance hatch used to be.

"'Ow are you goin' to get h-up there?" Parker asked.

It was a reasonable question.

"Jetpacks?" Gordon suggested. "There should be some stored down the tunnel." He pointed into the gloom that contained the tracks the couch had travelled from beneath the lounge.

"All the jetpacks have been deteriorating for seven years," Virgil responded. "I'm not prepared to use any of them until they've been fully checked over, and they're going to be a low priority. But I'm willing to trust something as low tech as a ladder. Is there still one in the storerooms?"

"Yes," Tin-Tin watched as her husband circled Thunderbird Three slowly. "We use it for cleaning out the guttering."

"A ladder's not going to be long enough," Gordon scoffed. "We need something with a higher reach."

"What about the scissor-lift?" Tin-Tin suggested. "Assuming that it still works, there should be enough power to operate it."

"The woman has brains," Scott admitted. "Which is more than can be said for the rest of us. Let's go and check it out, Fellas."

Most of the Tracys hurried out of the hangar, following the rails that had conveyed the couches between their destinations.

"H-I don't think H-I've h-ever been this close to Thunderbird Three, m'Lady," Parker admitted as he admired the orange craft before him. "H-It's 'uge!"

"It is indeed," she agreed. "I have seen it launch, but I have never been close enough to touch it."

"What do you think? Can they get H-International Rescue goin' h-again?"

"I think they are going to try. And I think they are the world's only hope."

On the far side of the launch bay, Alan was lost in thought as he stared up at his rocket. Tin-Tin slipped her arm through his. "What are you thinking, Alan?"

"Huh? Oh... Just thinking."

"Are you excited that you're going to be flying Thunderbird Three again?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I thought this part of my life..." he gave a guilty smile, "I mean our life was over. Brains might have believed we'd restart International Rescue one day, but I never did. I think I'm kind of in shock."

"I knew you'd come back to it."

Alan stared at her. "You did?"

"Yes."

Animated talking over a mechanical whine could be heard growing louder and Alan's brothers, riding along the rails, reappeared in the launch bay.

"Virgil wants to cut out the couch in the lounge," Gordon announced, swinging himself down from the scissor-lift.

"It'd save carrying things right through the complex," Virgil grunted as he descended the platform's ladder to the ground. "Are you going up, Brains, or do you want one of us to do it?"

"I-I'll do it. I kn-know where the trigger goes." Brains pocketed the item in question and then, with more assuredness than would have been expected of someone who spent his life cooped up in a laboratory, climbed the ladder and attached his safety harness to the protective cage. "S-Send me up, S-Scott." The others watched as he rose on the hydraulic ram to just below the nacelle, carefully stuck the trigger to the edge of where the hatch was concealed, and then descended again.

As Virgil trundled the scissor lift out of harm's way down the tunnel, Brains took another box out of his bag. Entering a code caused a rainbow of lights to run up one side of the box, until only the orange one remained lit and the number three showed on the display. "Good. The trigger has been armed."

A safe distance away from the explosion down the passage, the group huddled together to await Brains' next instruction. He held out the detonator. "Would you like the privilege, Alan?"

Alan smiled. "Thanks, Brains."

"Push that button and the seizeite should release the hatch."

"I think I can manage that." Alan looked around the group, his palms suddenly sweaty. "Everyone ready?"

Scott smiled at him. "We're ready, Alan. Let 'er rip."

Alan pressed the button and there was an almost disappointingly small explosion from the launch bay. They gave the air a moment to clear and then walked back into the cavernous hangar.

The seal lay on the floor beneath a clean, rectangular hole in Thunderbird Three's base. "C'mon, Fellas," Scott commanded. "Let's get moving."

John looked up towards the emergency ladder that ascended the length of Thunderbird Three's entry tunnel. "It's going to be a long climb."

"Don't you think you'll be able to do it?" Gordon challenged.

"Just try and stop me... You first, Alan."

"Right." Alan donned a headlamp torch and clambered onto the scissor-lift. "Who else is coming?"

"If you don't mind, I think I'll wait here," Lady Penelope offered. "Unfortunately I am not wearing the proper shoes for ascending ladders."

"H-I'll wait with you, m'Lady," Parker offered, relieved that he was not expected to clamber up several hundred rungs after his mistress.

Brains looked about him. "I will inspect Thunderbird Three when we have reinstated the e-elevator. In the meantime I will start an inventory of what supplies we h-have available to us."

Virgil slipped his computer into a pouch and slung it across his back. "I'll take notes for you, Brains."

"Thank you."

Scott was the last to climb onto the platform. "Are you coming, Tin-Tin?"

"No. I shall explore around here with Brains. We need to know what we have that is still usable and what we will need to purchase."

Once they'd ascended to the entrance hatch the real work started. It was a long climb, over half the length of Thunderbird Three until they finally emerged at the top of the entry tunnel. There, headlamp torches shining beams into the darkness, they looked about them.

Virgil stretched his arms. "I've got to start pumping something with more resistance than a paintbrush."

John had hauled himself out of the entry tunnel and collapsed onto the floor so that he was able to use the bulkhead as a backrest. "I know I'm out of shape, but this is ridiculous! Gordon, I'm first priority in your exercise regime."

Gordon crouched next to his brother. "Starting with something not too strenuous, huh?"

John managed a smile. "I'd appreciate that. Build me up to ultra-marathon standard slowly."

Scott shone his torch on to the pair of them. "We've still got to climb up to the control room. Are you coming with us, John?"

John flapped a weary hand. "You guys go on ahead." He looked around at the life-support and other electrical systems. "I've got plenty to keep me occupied here."

Scott looked at Virgil. "How about you? Are you up to another climb?"

Virgil grinned. "I'll be right behind you."

They climbed again, bypassing the sleeping quarters and storage bay, until they finally reached the main control room.

Alan shone his torch about the room. "She's not looking too bad..." He ran his fingers along the top of the flight console. "Not too much dust." His torch fell on a button on the console. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for there to be some power left in the batteries." He pressed the button and, as though she were taking a long time to awake from sleep, Thunderbird Three's cabin lights resurrected themselves.

"At last!" Scott exclaimed. "Something's going in our favour." His watch beeped at him. "John?"

"Look's like Thunderbird Three's still got some life left in her."

"Yeah. We've got to hand it to Brains. When he builds something, he builds it to last."

"Don't speak too soon," Gordon warned as the lights flickered, before settling into a luminous glow akin to several candles.

"It's better than nothing." Virgil unslung the tablet computer. "How does it feel to be back in Thunderbird Three, Alan?"

"The honest truth? Weird."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "It does feel weird."

"Let's hope she's got enough power to run the diagnostic programmes." Virgil plugged the computer into the flight console and watched the tablet's screen as a series of numbers scrolled downwards.

Drained of their precious energy, the lights dimmed some more.

Alan, sitting in his old control seat, lightly caressed the console. "Come on, Baby. Don't give up on us now. Not when we need you more than we ever have before."

"Easy, Alan," Scott's wristwatch warned. "I know that the lighting's romantic in here, but what's Tin-Tin going to say when she discovers that you've got another love interest?"

"Are you doing anything constructive, John?" Scott asked his watch. "Or are you just eavesdropping on our conversation?"

"I'm being very constructive. Now that I don't have to hang on to the flashlight, I can see that we've got some corroded wiring down here."

"That may not be an issue," Scott reminded him. "If we're only using Thunderbird Three to ferry you to Thunderbird Five, I doubt we're going to need the portable radio safety beam transmitter console."

"Just being a good Boy Scout and being prepared in case we're thrown a curve ball." John, enjoying doing something that didn't involve endless paperwork, was sounding almost obscenely cheerful.

Virgil disconnected the computer. "I think we've got enough information for Brains in the short term. Shall we move on?"

"Which Thunderbird are we going to check out next?" Gordon asked.

Cautious, in case he set off another eruption, Scott thought briefly. "We'll let Brains make that decision; just in case he's got any other little surprises up his sleeve. If he doesn't, I think Thunderbird One's going to be the easiest to access." He waited to see if there were any complaints from the pilots of Thunderbirds Four and Two.

Gordon and Virgil made no comment.

-F-A-B-

Brains hadn't made contingencies for breaking into any of the hangars and that was why the Tracys and their friends found themselves back in the lounge, staring at a pair of light fittings.

"Whatever we do, it's going to mean putting a hole in the wall," Gordon commented. "Why don't we just get some sledgehammers?"

John had collapsed onto one of the couches. "Planning on taking your anger at Marina out on the wall are you?" he asked.

"I'm not mad at her. I just don't love her anymore."

"Surely we've got something a bit more high-tech than sledgehammers," Alan stated. "We are International Rescue. We were supposed to have the most advanced equipment in the world."

"How about oxyhydnite?" Tin-Tin suggested. "Brains and I found two cylinders."

Scott and Virgil grinned at each other. "Oxyhydnite!"

"You know what happened to you two the first time you used it," Gordon warned.

"And once Brains had worked out how to stop us passing out, there was nothing better at cutting through walls," Virgil reminded him. "Where are these cylinders, Tin-Tin?"

"We brought them up to Brains' lab."

"Right!" Scott rubbed his hands together. "Let's go get 'em."

He was almost feeling excited when, once again kitted out in his full face mask and with a cylinder of oxyhydnite strapped to his back, he faced the wall that stood between him and Thunderbird One. "All ready?" he checked. "Is your hood sealed correctly?"

He felt a feeling of déjà vu as Virgil smiled back at him; his brother's mask hiding the blue hair and goatee. "Yep."

"Then let's do it!" Scott lit the end of the oxyhydnite wand. Seconds later he'd cut an outline big enough for them to walk through. He switched off the gas and then removed his mask. He wiped his face, wet from the heat of the mask and excitement, on his sleeve.

Alerted by the lack of noise, Gordon stuck his head into the room. "Is it safe?"

"It's safe," Scott confirmed.

"Then get that wall out of the way and let's see her!"

Together Scott and Virgil put their shoulders to the wall and pushed. The wall resisted, budged and then fell into Thunderbird One's hangar; a cloud of dust heralding anyone's first sighting of International Rescue's rocket plane in seven years.

"After you." Virgil stood back to let his brother take their first steps into the hangar.

"Thanks." Scott accepted the offer and stepped up onto the remains of the wall.

Then he froze.

"Scott? What's...?" Virgil pushed past the human obstacle. "Oh, heck."

At first glance, Thunderbird One seemed intact. She stood on her trolley as if she were waiting to be transported down beneath the swimming pool before being launched into her role as the fastest aeroplane in the world.

Then you noticed the wing.

The port wing, to be exact. At some point over the last seven years, possibly during an earlier earth tremor, the wing had found a life of its own and had sprung outwards, crumpling itself against the concrete wall of the hangar.

Gordon stepped up to the handrail and surveyed the damage. "I guess Thunderbird Three's been bumped down the priority list."

Virgil leant over the rail and tried to get a closer look. "We're going to have to replace the entire wing."

"And the hydraulics," Scott added gloomily. "And who knows what else."

"Cheer up." John put his arm about his brother's shoulders. "If that's the only problem we've got, we'll be able to fix it in no time. Right, Brains?"

Brains, making rapid notes into his tablet computer, made no comment.

"Check the cockpit," Tin-Tin suggested. "Then we can run the diagnostic programme."

Scott pulled himself together. "You said you had the power plant up to full capacity, Tin-Tin?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Good." Scott marched over to a manual override switch. "Are you ready to go across to open her up, Brains?"

Brains' indicated Thunderbird One's trigger. "I-I am." He stepped onto the gantry platform.

Scott lifted the cover protecting the manual override and flicked the switch. Slowly, surely, almost miraculously, Brains moved out over the gap between the little group and the Thunderbird. He checked his computer, measured a distance down the right side of where the entrance hatch had been and then placed the trigger onto that spot on the hull. "Bring me b-back, Scott."

He joined everyone else in the lounge.

Virgil frowned at the gap in the wall that he and Scott had cut less than twenty minutes earlier. "Is there any chance that the seizeite will blow the hatch into here?" He eyed up the possible trajectory of a sizeable rectangle of reinforced metal. "It could take out Father's desk."

"U-Unlikely, Virgil. The explosive quality of seizeite is very localised." Brains held out the detonator to Scott. "Your turn?"

"Yeah, why not." Scott accepted the detonator and with no hesitation, pressed the button. There was a popping followed by a rattling sound. "I hope the hatch didn't take out anything important when it fell." He handed the detonator back to Brains than then approached the hole in the wall. Looking through he could see right into Thunderbird One. "She looks okay from here."

"But how does she look from inside?" Gordon asked. "Go across, Scott. I'll operate the gantry."

"Thanks, Gordon... Anyone want to come with me?"

"I will," Virgil offered. "Brains?"

Brains joined them on the short trip. When they reached the cockpit he looked about him. "On the, er, surface she looks intact."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "She doesn't look too bad." He leant on his pilot's seat and it toppled backwards. He muttered something under his breath.

Virgil crouched down so he could see the gimballed mechanism. "That's not a major. Some of the bolts have corroded through. It'll only take seconds to replace them."

"She's been in a hangar sealed against moisture, dust, and outside interference for seven years, Virgil. What possibly could have corroded them? And if they're corroded, what else is?"

"H-Hopefully we're about to find out," Brains offered, as he plugged his tablet computer into Thunderbird One's main console.

The screen remained blank.

Slightly down-heartened they travelled back and met the rest of the group in the lounge.

"Well?" Tin-Tin demanded. "What did the diagnostic programme say?"

Brains indicated his computer. "It didn't work."

"There wasn't enough juice," Virgil diagnosed. "Thunderbird Three's larger batteries must have held their charge for longer than One's. One of the first things we're going to have to do is unseal the power connections so we can charge up all the Thunderbirds' batteries. Once we've done that we'll have some idea what we're up against and we'll hopefully find it's not as bad as we fear."

Scott patted him on the back. "I appreciate your optimism. Now do you feel up to seeing Thunderbird Two?"

-F-A-B-

Thunderbird Two's hangar was going to be the hardest nut to crack. Their options were to take the pilot's chute down from the lounge, with no guarantees that whoever or whatever slid down it wouldn't end up splattered all over the hangar floor; cutting through more obstacles than there were doors under the Thompson Tower as they followed the long circuitous route along the monorail track; or to cut through the back wall of the conventional aeroplane hangar into the cliff face.

They chose the last option.

Once again the oxyhydnite had been put into use, carving through the basalt rock that concealed the mega-hangar that housed International Rescue's heavy-duty equipment.

"There," Gordon grunted as he shoved a jack into position. "One nudge from that and we'll be inside."

"Give it a nudge then," Virgil suggested as he replaced his oxyhydnite mask with a pair of sunglasses.

Scott gave an exasperated sigh. "For Pete's sake, Gustav. Go home!"

"The glare from the oxyhydnite torch was a bit bright," Virgil explained. "I'm resting my eyes."

"What?" Alan stared at him in bewilderment. "You're going to be entering a dark cavern and you're resting your eyes?"

"The power is on in Thunderbird Two's hangar," Tin-Tin reminded him. "It won't be dark."

Gordon activated the jack and the section of the rock face fell inwards, revealing a black hole. "Looks pretty dark to me."

Virgil shone his torch inside. "I can't see anything." He shone the beam onto the displaced wall and took a cautious step forward.

"No wonder you can't see anything if you're wearing sunglasses," Scott grumbled. "Where's the power switch?" He felt his way along the interior wall and pulled down a large lever. The sudden illumination of the cavernous hangar after the near total darkness left most of them blinking against the bright light.

Then they saw Thunderbird Two.

"Strewth," Parker cursed.

Gordon stared in disbelief. "I think we've found a new candidate for priority number one."

When the Tracys had made the decision to decommission the Thunderbirds they had agonised over what to do with Thunderbird Two. The two options had been to leave her sitting on the hangar floor or standing on her hydraulic legs. In the end they'd decided to leave her standing; the theory being that if anyone did discover her hiding place, it would make it harder for the intruders to gain access to the powerful aircraft.

It had been a mistake as nearly as big as Thunderbird Two herself.

Her front port leg had collapsed and she leant at a drunken angle with her nose pointing towards the ground. Her other three legs, unable to hold the huge weight of the transporter, showed signs of buckling.

"Gordon's right," Scott confirmed. "Two's our main priority in the short term. No one's going near her until we've got her stabilised and we've got to do that A.S.A.P. before she collapses any further."

"Hopefully the gantry crane will, er, still be operational," Brains mused. "We will have to use it to support the weight of Th-Thunderbird Two and remove the legs before we lower her to the ground."

"Why don't we use the elevator cars to support her?" Gordon suggested.

"The elevator cars..." Scott nodded his approval. "That's not a stupid idea."

"I have been known to have sensible ideas sometimes."

Lady Penelope looked at the sombre man standing next to her, his emotions hidden behind his sunglasses as he gazed at the aeroplane that had once been his pride and joy. "Did you anticipate this?"

Virgil removed the glasses. "I thought there may have been a possibility. Especially with those earth tremors."

"How long will it take to replace the legs?" John queried.

"D-Depends on how much damage has been done," Brains responded.

"Roughly?"

"Roughly...? Er..."

"How ever long it takes, it's going to take time," Scott interrupted.

"Then stop talking, Scott, and tell us what to do!" Gordon demanded. "Let's get that crane operational and get those elevator cars out here!" Giving Thunderbird Two a wide berth, he hurried towards the pod vehicle storage bays. "C'mon!"

Bewildered Virgil watched his brother's departure. "But what about Thunderbird Four?"

Gordon turned, still walking backwards. "Don't worry about Thunderbird Four, we can check on her later. She's not going anywhere if we can't use Thunderbird Two." He resumed his trek.

"Gordon! Wait!" Scott ordered, jogging after him.

"What!" Gordon rounded on him.

Scott skidded to a stop, aware of the anger in his brother's voice and the furious flush to his face. "Uh... Let's get some sort of plan sorted before we go off half-cocked, okay?"

"We're wasting time, Scott!"

"Not if we do this properly. Virgil, you take control of the crane."

"Right."

"In this confined area I'd rather use the manual controls instead of the remote, so the rest of us will take an elevator car each. Gordon, you get car two and stabilise the front starboard side."

Muttering something about how some people seemed to think that they were all stupid when they quite were capable of working things out for themselves, Gordon agreed.

"John. You've got car three and you can take care of the rear starboard end..."

"Okay."

"Alan. Car four and rear port side."

"Done."

"I'll take the master car and..."

Tin-Tin folded her arms. "Wait until Brains has opened the elevator cars and they've been refuelled."

Scott, keyed up by the idea of doing something practical, sagged. "For a moment there I forgot everything had been decommissioned." He sighed. "Okay. Virgil, do you want to check the crane over, while we open the elevator cars? We may as well take a look at Thunderbird Four while we're at it."

"Okay." Virgil pocketed his sunglasses.

"Can I borrow your shades?" Gordon asked.

"Borrow them?" Virgil looked surprised as he handed them over. "You can if you want. But why?"

"The light in Pod Four might be a bit bright after being in this mausoleum." Gordon leant closer. "And I'd hate for anyone to see a grown man cry," he whispered.

Virgil gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. "I hope you won't need them." He indicated his wristwatch. "Let me know how she is."

At first glance Thunderbird Four looked to be in good shape. Then Gordon noticed the faint white tinge to her yellow paintwork. "Oh, no."

"What is it?" Lady Penelope asked. "It looks like a type of mildew." She ran her fingers across the hull. "The surface feels corroded."

"It is. The white discolouration is scale," Gordon told her.

"Scale?"

"Metal corrosion caused by oxidation. Like rust."

"That don't sound good." Parker touched the metalwork. "Don't feel it neither."

"It's not." Gordon circled his submarine, casting a critical eye over every joint and rivet.

From the main hangar they could hear the sound of an engine coming to life for the first time in seven years.

"I'm sorry, Gordon," Scott apologised. "I thought we'd thoroughly washed her down."

"Yes." Alan frowned. "Didn't we paint her with anti-fouling paint afterwards? Why didn't that work?"

Gordon finished his circuit. "Don't worry about it. Apart from the scale she looks in good shape. I'll give her a quick coat of anti-corrosive now to prevent further damage, and then we can come back to her later. Do you guys want to go and make a start on breaking into the elevator cars?"

He was sounding so unconcerned at Thunderbird Four's weakened state that it took the rest of the group a moment to react. "Uh… Yeah… Okay..." Scott agreed. "That sounds like a good idea. And you can start making a list of what we'll need to make sure she's seaworthy. We'll give you a call when we need you to give us a hand."

Gordon gave a nonchalant nod.

Somewhat nonplussed by the aquanaut's lack of emotion, the rest of the group moved away deeper into the complex. They found the four elevator cars lined up with all the other pod vehicles. Each and every machine was decorated by a thick coating of dust and numerous spider webs.

"There has to be a, er, breach in here somewhere," Brains mused. "This place should be airtight. There shouldn't be any way that dust or sp-spiders can get in."

Scott ran his finger along the Firefly's scoop. It came away black. "If there is a breach it could help to explain the scale."

Brains was still mulling over the unexpected discoveries. "The earthquakes may have, er, opened up a previously unknown rift in the cliff."

Alan turned to look back towards the main hangar. "Maybe they warped the cliff face door?"

Brains nodded his agreement. "Th-That is an excellent hypothesis."

"That's something we'll have to look at later," Scott noted. "In the meantime…" he gestured towards the master elevator car.

Brains stepped forward, placed a trigger at a precise point on each of the elevator cars' hatches and then retreated a safe distance. "Would you like to open the master car, L-Lady Penelope?"

"I should be honoured," her ladyship responded. She accepted the detonator and held it high. "This feels like quite an occasion... I hereby launch the Master Elevator Car. May God bless her and all who sail in her." To the sound of accompanying chuckles she pressed the ignition button. With a soft boom, the door to the machine detached itself from the body of the vehicle.

"Thank you." Brains accepted the detonator back, changed the ignition sequence, and then held it out to Tin-Tin. "W-Would you like to open car two…?"

Back in pod four, Gordon was staring forlornly at Thunderbird Four. Although he hadn't made use of Virgil's sunglasses, at this moment he felt as close to tears as he had done in years. It seemed as though his life was spinning out of control as he faced one catastrophe after another.

The Catastrophe that was Doomsday.

The Catastrophe that was his marriage to Marina.

The Catastrophe that was his pending divorce.

The Catastrophe that was Thunderbird Four.

And on top of all this there was his catastrophic…

"Virgil to Gordon."

Gordon shook himself and raised his watch to his face. "Go ahead, Virgil."

"How is she?"

"Not good," Gordon admitted. "She's covered in scale."

"Scale! Oh, heck! Is it bad?"

"Bad enough. I was just going to give her a coating of anti-corrosive and then help you guys stabilise Thunderbird Two."

"Will she need much work?"

"Maybe a new body. I was thinking of attaching a second skin to help her withstand the Mariana's pressures anyway, so we're going to have to get double the cahelium."

"I hope John's right when he says we've got enough money for all this."

"Yeah. How's the crane?"

"The crane's fine, apart from a bit of dust and a few cobwebs. Where is everyone?"

"Unleashing the elevator cars."

"That'll take a bit of time, so I'll come down and give you a hand to stabilise Four. We can't have her deteriorating any further than she already has."

"Thanks, Virgil. I really appreciate it."

And Gordon meant it.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

It had taken hours to get Thunderbird Two to the stage where they felt they could safely leave her unattended. All the elevator cars had needed refuelling before four of the Tracy boys drove them into position fore and aft of Thunderbird Two. While Brains and Tin-Tin controlled the two cranes that held the mighty transporter aloft and Lady Penelope and Parker stood by watching and feeling redundant, Virgil abseiled down the outside of his aeroplane and cut each leg free. As soon as each tubular metallic structure had hit the ground with an eardrum-shattering clang, an elevator car drove into place, ready to catch Thunderbird Two should the crane lose its grip. Once all four legs had rolled clear, Virgil clambered back up into the crane to supervise the next stage of operations; the lowering of the aeroplane down onto all four elevator cars.

It was a weary group that, finally convinced that there was no chance that any more damage could happen to Thunderbird Two, dragged themselves back to the lounge...

"John..." John found himself hauled by the arm into Scott's room. "I want you to do something for me."

Curious, John looked at his eldest brother. "What?"

"Will you keep an eye on Gordon? This divorce is obviously affecting him more than he's letting on."

"I'd noticed. But why me?"

"He seems to accept you talking to him. You've seen how he reacts towards me."

"We've all seen. What on Earth happened between you two?!"

Scott made a dismissive gesture. "That's not important."

"Not important! The pair of you didn't talk for months! It might be important if I want to make sure I don't make the same mistake."

"You won't," Scott grunted. "I'd guarantee it..."

"Are you sure? He nearly bit my head off three times before we'd even left American soil!"

"But at least you are still talking… Will you look out for Gordon?"

"Of course I will..." John hesitated. "In return, I want you to do something."

"What?"

"Forget about Gustav."

Scott stared at him. "Huh?"

"We all know how much you don't like this persona Virgil's taken on; including Virgil. He's let you get away with your comments because it's you, but even he'll have his limits. And in the not too distant future when time's getting short and our tempers are getting shorter, you'll say one negative thing too many and he'll erupt quicker than this volcano we're on. And if you two blow yourselves apart you'll destroy this family. And if the family's destroyed, that'll destroy International Rescue. And if International Rescue's destroyed, then the world will have no chance of survival."

"Thanks for not putting me under any pressure."

John chuckled.

Scott sighed. "It's not that I don't like Gustav. It's that he's not our brother! You do realise that that's Virgil's real hair, not a wig?"

Shocked, John stared at him. "What?"

"See what I mean. That's not our Virgil."

"I know it's not what we expect of him. But do I have to remind you that we spent seven years of our lives pretending to be those hedonistic playboys lazing around our tropical paradise with no regard for the outside world? You can't get more fake than that." Scott made no reply and John patted him on the shoulder. "Look, maybe he's even greyer than you and he's trying to hide it."

"John..." Scott ran his hands through his hair. Then he shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'm turning into a cantankerous old man."

"Don't say that! You're not that much older than me!" John regarded his brother's downcast face. "You're not old, Scott."

"Aren't I? When I think about what we've got to achieve and how long we've got to do it, I feel about one hundred."

"And I feel one hundred and fifty. At least you're still fit and have got some muscle." John's playful punch to Scott's abdomen was blocked.

"Don't do that," he was told.

"Forget the way Virgil looks. I think he's shown today that even beneath that blue hair and everything, he's still Virgil and he's still going to give this challenge one hundred percent. I mean, look at us! I've gained weight and you're going grey..."

"Don't remind me," Scott growled.

"But that hasn't changed who we are underneath. So we're older! We're also wiser." Scott still didn't look happy. "What's really wrong?"

Scott hesitated. "I don't know if I'm the one to lead us."

John frowned. "Scott?"

"Everyone's changed. I mean: you're one of the most powerful businessmen in the world..."

"Only by default."

"And you're my boss." Scott paused. "Virgil's a stranger, Gordon bites my head off as soon as I open my mouth, and Alan's not a kid anymore. He's married! Now I've got to consider Tin-Tin as well as him."

"You've always considered Tin-Tin."

"But what if I'm the wrong person to take control this time? Who's to say that one of you won't do a better job?"

"Is this Scott Tracy talking? Is this the man who has got one of the best radio receivers in the country so that he can listen in on emergency broadcasts? Is this the man who still tries to formulate plans of action as if he were still in charge of International Rescue?"

Scott was silent. He'd regretted letting his family know about that particular hobby, as it had given his brothers nearly as much fuel for teasing him as his leaching hair colour.

"Scott," John continued, "it's precisely because things have changed so much that we need you in control. You leading us is going to be the one bit of stability we've got as the world literally crashes around our ears. And if you were to suggest this to anyone presently waiting for us in the lounge, or Dad, there's not one person who would say that you're not the man to lead International Rescue. Besides," John offered his brother an engaging grin, "there's not one of us who'd want to take your place."

Scott grunted. "Just make me a promise," he requested. "If I look like I'm going to stick my nose into Gordon's private affairs, pull me out."

John nodded. "Deal."

There was a sound in the hallway. "What are you two doing hiding in here?" Virgil asked.

Scott responded almost too quickly. "Just discussing what we've got to do to before we become fully operational."

"Does that include fitness tests? Brains wants to give each of us full medical examinations."

John spread his arms wide in a self-depreciating gesture. "Fail."

"He also wants to siphon off some of our blood in case we decide to spill it at any point."

"Fair enough," Scott conceded. "It's what we did before. Just as well I'm going to miss tomorrow's blood bank appointment."

"That's one of many reasons why I'd never get a tattoo or do drugs," Virgil admitted as they headed towards the lounge. "It might not be much, but I know that by donating blood regularly I'm helping at least one person."

John gave Scott a meaningful glance. "See?" he hissed.

When Scott Tracy took his seat at the head of the digital table, there was no sign of his earlier insecurities. "Well, now that we've got some idea of what we're up against, does anyone want to pull out? If anyone does I want to assure you that there will be no recriminations. We've all moved on in seven years, and we've all changed. We're older," he glanced at John, "and hopefully wiser. It's not reasonable to expect that we're all going to be willing to risk our lives one more time."

"Father never expected us to all be part of International Rescue first time around," Virgil recollected, drawing an ornate letter V on his sheet of digital paper. "But that didn't stop us from joining." He finished the upwards stroke of his initial with a big tick and pushed it towards the centre of the table. "I'm in."

"Even dealing with all the pressures of the Mariana Trench has got to be better than dealing with all the pressures from Marina." Gordon tried to put a fancy tail on his letter G and failed. So he drew a plain and simple tick on his sheet of paper. "I'm not as artistic as Gustav here," he confessed as he flicked the page out onto the table.

"I wish I wasn't starting with such a handicap," John admitted, "but that's not going to stop me from doing all I can." He pushed his J and tick to the centre of the table.

"Alan," Scott began, "we'd understand if you and Tin-Tin…"

Alan held up his hand to interrupt him. "You might understand, but we wouldn't. Tin-Tin and I have already discussed this, and we've agreed that no matter what sacrifices it may entail, we've got to do what we can." He drew a tick on a digital page.

Tin-Tin drew another tick beside her husband's. "And that's a mutual decision."

"Thanks." Scott smiled at the bespectacled man at the other end of the table. "I hope you're going to say that you're with us Brains, because we're going to be lost without you."

Brains blinked at him. "I n-never considered not helping." He ticked the sheet of paper in front of him.

"I don't suppose that there is a lot that I can do," Lady Penelope admitted as she inscribed LPC-W on a piece of paper. "But I would like you all to know that if you do require my talents, I am available." She ticked the page.

"An' that goes for me an' all," Parker agreed, ticking the page that had been passed to him by his employer.

"We won't advertise our intentions just yet," Scott advised. "In case we get people's hopes up unnecessarily; but when we do go public, I would hope that any criminals who might be after our secrets will be more interested in saving their own necks than trying to get to us. But I know we can count on you to keep your ears and eyes open to support us."

"Of course, Scott." Lady Penelope inclined her head. "And you? Are you prepared to, to quote yourself, risk your life?"

Scott drew an S on his sheet of paper. "Before I do…" and he received surprised stares from almost everyone at the table, "I need to know... Do you still want me to coordinate everything?" He didn't look at John. "I've sort of taken control up till now, but if anyone thinks that someone else could do a better job, then I don't mind stepping aside."

"We've let you take control because we expect you to be in control," Virgil told him. "Because we know you can take control."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "You've always bossed us around in the past, so why change the habit of a lifetime?"

"Are you all sure?" Scott clarified. "Things are going to get tougher and more stressful before we'll be ready to act. And we're going to need a clear chain of command. No second thoughts down the line. No second guessing me…"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Gordon snapped. "Are you going to tick that piece of paper or aren't you?!"

Scott ticked the piece of paper.

Virgil doodled on a white page. "What would you have done if we'd said we wanted Tin-Tin to take command?" he asked, and Tin-Tin uttered a little exclamation of surprise. He grinned at her. "She's shown she's capable of keeping her head and marshalling us all when we're losing ours."

"I would have endorsed your decision fully." Scott gave his sister-in-law an appreciative smile and got himself a clean sheet of paper. "Okay… Now that we know we're all on board, we'd better start giving out assignments. We're going to be stretched thin. Brains... Do you want to put your energies into designing and building the detonators?"

Brains inclined his head. "I-I would appreciate that, Scott."

"Right." Scott made a note. "Will you need Tin-Tin's assistance?"

"Yes."

Scott wrote Tin-Tin's name beside Brains and the heading 'detonator'. Then he wrote 'Thunderbird Four'. He hesitated and then looked at Gordon. "Can we leave you in sole charge of repairs to Thunderbird Four, Gordon? If we could spare someone else we would. Don't forget that if you need help you can ask."

Gordon nodded. "Yeah, that's okay."

Scott stared at him for a moment as if shocked by the lack of complaint; then he turned to his brother in the adjacent seat. "I know she's going to be a big job, Virgil, but can I leave you with taking care of Thunderbird Two?"

Virgil was already jotting down notes and ideas. "Not a problem. So long as I can call on Gordon when I need an extra pair of hands, and he calls on me when he needs help."

Gordon patted him on the back. "Guaranteed."

"Thanks." Scott put their names in the required columns. "That'll leave us three," he indicated himself, John and Alan, "to prepare Thunderbird Three for flight. Once she's operational we can go and check out Thunderbird Five."

"She's going to be more than a five minute job," John reminded him. "All her controls are probably iced up. We're going to have to bring her online again slowly; giving all her electronics time to warm and dry out. Only then will we be able to run her diagnostic programmes. We're likely to be up there for several days."

"Which means that we're going to have to take enough food to sustain us for several days," Alan commented. "And bedding." He shivered. "Our mattresses are going to be frozen solid! That's assuming that Thunderbird Five's still liveable. The pseudo-gravity generator's probably not working."

Scott made a note. "If worst comes to the worst we'll camp in Thunderbird Three."

John looked across the table to the engineer. "Are we going to need you to detonate the siezite on Thunderbird Five, Brains?"

"N-No." Brains looked apologetic. "I, er, thought that the vacuum of space might cause the siezite to behave in unexpected ways, and I was also concerned about the potential for, er, damage in the explosion."

"So, we're going to have to open her manually." Scott laid down his pen and looked at the group. "I know we'd planned to, but we won't fly out tonight. We're all tired, and some time to think about what plans need to be made and what supplies need to be brought back with us tomorrow won't hurt. We'll fly back to the States first thing in the morning. Is everyone okay with that?"

He listened to the murmurings of assent and got to his feet. "Good. Let's go see about making some dinner."

Virgil picked up a tablet PC. "I'll be down in the equipment room checking out the supplies."

Gordon picked up another computer. "I'll help you, Virg."

"Thanks."

"Thank you, Parker," Lady Penelope acknowledged as he held her chair out for her. "Perhaps you would be so good as to take my bags to my room?"

"Yes, m'Lady." With her bags already stored in her bedroom, Parker realised that her ladyship wanted him to make himself scarce. With a bow and a "'Scuse me, Mister Alan," he made a dignified exit.

Lady Penelope turned to the youngest Tracy, who'd hung back as if he'd wanted a word with her. "I believe it will be a stressful few months for you all. I do so wish that we could do more to help."

Alan glanced about to check that he could speak without being overheard. "There is something that I'd like you to do, Penny," he whispered. "But I can't explain now. I'll give you a call when I get the chance. Is that okay?"

"Of course, dear boy." Lady Penelope smiled at him. "I shall await your call."

To be continued…