Hammerhead has attracted John's interest, presenting IR's space monitor with a problem.
The rogue sub did not go totally unnoticed, however. High overhead, a hijacked satellite picked up their presence and sent an image, not to the World Navy, but to Thunderbird 5.
It had been an unusually quiet summer. No major storms despite another half-degree rise in average global temperature, and John Tracy had found time to hack into the Global Weather Watch system, gaining another useful set of eyes. Now one of the newly infected satellites had called in with an unexpected sighting in the Arctic Ocean.
John punched up the image. He was International Rescue's point man; their look-out and trouble shooter. Very little of any importance got past him, thanks to hijacked satellites, computer systems and police scanners the world over. Without him, International Rescue would have been utterly blind.
Now, John's pale brows twitched together slightly as he gazed at the weather satellite's offering.
"What the hell...?" He murmured softly, keying in a higher magnification. With a second keystroke the ocean 'disappeared', leaving behind the ghostly image of an unidentified attack sub hovering over a ridge of jagged sea-mounts. "What are you doing out there?"
John Tracy shared with his four brothers a tenacious, brave and curious nature. Though graver and more quiet than the others, he was several times as stubborn, and never forgot a fact, or dropped a mystery. And now, for good or ill, Hammerhead had piqued his interest.
"Five, cross-reference," he said aloud. "Jayne's Naval Archives: Submarines of the world." Then, as almost an afterthought, "Second cross-reference; Electric Boat: attack sub schematics."
Thunderbird 5's quantum computer processed the command and considered for perhaps an atto-second, coming back almost before John finished speaking,
"No matches found. Next query?" Its voice was feminine and gently British, programmed to very much resemble that of a certain English noblewoman. John paused to think, then responded,
"Right..., Cross-reference: known surface and sub-surface military and merchant marine activity, previous forty-eight hours to present, delineated area."
Two prospects turned up this time, neither of them what he was looking for. A World Navy fleet ballistic missile sub had been through the area 26.724 hours earlier, but she was a huge, wallowing tub by comparison with this darting shark. Then, some two and a half hours ago, the Monsanto Valiant had steamed past with a cargo of protein pellets and artificial milk powder.
"Next query?" the computer gently reminded him, loath to return to another eternity of null operations. John nodded.
"Course and speed of targeted craft, Five, and projected destination."
"Heading S by SE with minor course corrections to avoid navigational hazards, speed 26 knots. Projected bearing: 66.61 degrees latitude, 42.28 degrees longitude. Probable destination: Murmansk, Kola Peninsula, Barents Sea."
John didn't wait to be prodded again.
"Computer, list activities for targeted craft at stated location, with probabilities for each."
Between one breath and the next, the computations were completed, and announced.
"Espionage, military, industrial or terrorist... 43.0211 percent statistical probability. Attack on shipping or port facilities... 27.3820 percent statistical probability. Criminal smuggling of drugs or banned arms... 12.2721 percent statistical probability. Remainder divided between lesser likelihoods of, in order of decreasing probability: Arctic research, illegal immigration, fishing-fleet advance spotting, treasure hunting, pleasure cruising..." And so on, and so forth, from the vaguely possible to the down-right ridiculous. John had ceased truly listening somewhere after "Attack on shipping or port facilities". Ordinarily decisive, he now found himself on the sharp horns of a dilemma. International Rescue was not a police force. They existed not to prevent wars or stop crimes, but to save the lives of those who would otherwise have perished. Yet..., clearly there was more than a little danger to the citizens of Murmansk in this unknown submarine's secret errand. Question was, should he interfere, or not?