Chapter Seven: The Grind

"T minus ten and counting."

"Affirmative, Tin-Tin," Alan confirmed. "All systems are go for launch in ten minutes."

Even though he'd just done it, Alan ran his eyes over Thunderbird Three's control panel to check all was well. It was an instinctive gesture, born out of many years of flying the spaceship to Thunderbird Five. This time however the launch wasn't a hurried affair. It was the first time that Thunderbird Three was going to leave Earth's gravity in seven years and no one was prepared to rush it.

"She's looking good." Alan grinned at his wife's image on the monitor connected to launch control in the lounge. "Nearly as good as you, Honey."

"Sweet talker," Tin-Tin chided with affection. "Just remember that you're married to me, not Thunderbird Three."

Assured that no one else was listening, Alan leered at her. "Say... Tin-Tin... When we get back from Thunderbird Five, why don't you and I have a celebratory reunion party...? Just the two of us... You could wear that black nightie..."

"Why, hello, Gordon…" Tin-Tin glanced in the direction of the patio that looked down over the swimming pool. "What are you doing up here?"

Alan blanched. "Gordon! He didn't hear me did he?" he hissed.

Tin-Tin laughed. "I was joking, Alan. Gordon's still in the blast room with the others." She checked the chronometer on the wall of the lounge and watched as the second hand moved up to the vertical. "T minus nine..."

Down in the passenger launch cabin, Scott grimaced at John. "The suspense is killing me!"

John agreed with him. It was two days after he'd fainted and Brains had decided that he was strong enough to withstand the forces he'd have to endure to leave Earth's gravity - and had supplied him with a carton of mega-strength iron tablets to fortify him during the following days. Everyone else had had a suspicion that if John had been grounded, he would have mutinied, or at least stowed away on board Thunderbird Three. "I'll let you into a secret, Scott. I'm scared I'll black out."

"Yeah," Scott admitted. "It's been years since we've done this. I never had any problems with being down here in previous launches because I never had time to think about it. This time I've still got another," he looked at his watch, "eight point five minutes before I can even unfasten myself from this chair."

"At least you're used to sudden accelerations. The fastest I've had to move these last seven years was the time I spilt my freshly made, very hot, coffee on my trousers ten minutes before I was due to meet the CEO of one of the biggest construction firms in Europe to discuss a multi-billion dollar cooperative agreement. I was a lucky my pants were made out of Tracy Textile's latest and greatest invention!" Now sounding like a sales rep detailing a wonder product, John continued. "Self-cleaning, rapid-drying, Tracon. Guaranteed to bounce back from any liquid emergency as good as new."

Scott laughed.

"T minus eight..."

In a blast-proof bunker just off Thunderbird Three's launch bay, things were equally dull and stressful. Virgil, Gordon and Brains, dressed in fire-retardant suits, were ready to dash to the rescue should the spaceship go up in flames. In the meantime they were cooling their heels and hoping that their services wouldn't be needed.

"Boy, this thing's hot," Gordon pulled at the neck of his suit and fanned his face with his hood. "I thought they were supposed to be fire-retardant, not fire-starting. I'm burning up!"

Brains went to a nearby water-cooler and poured out three cups. "Th-There you are." He handed one to Gordon. "Th-That should cool you down."

"Thanks." Gordon accepted the cool liquid and held it against his overheated forehead. Then he gulped down a huge mouthful; on which he gagged. "That tastes like we haven't changed the water since the last time Thunderbird Three launched!"

"Oh..." Brains took a tentative sip and screwed up his face. "You m-may be right. It hasn't been a h-high priority."

"Maybe we should change that priority list."

"T minus seven."

Virgil cast a concerned eye over the console that displayed Thunderbird Three's readouts and was marginally reassured by what he saw. "It's hard to believe that we used to be so blasé about Thunderbird Three launching; almost as if sending a rocket into space was as common as driving a car to the shops. Now I think I'm more knotted up inside than I was the first time we launched her."

"Me too," Gordon agreed. "I'd be happier if we'd had longer to test her. Heck, I'd be happier if we had longer full stop! This first week's flown."

"Tell me about it," Virgil agreed. "When I think of everything we've got to do in only three months…" He shook his head.

Gordon sympathised. By his workstation Virgil had tacked up several lists of things to do. One was headed "Urgent" – underlined twice in red. One was headed "important", one "necessary", and one "if time". It had seemed to Gordon that every time he'd gone past these lists the "Urgent" column had gotten longer while the others had shrunk.

"Wh-What stage are you up to with your repairs to Thunderbird Four, Gordon?" Brains asked.

"I've programmed the computer with schematics of the panels I'm going to need for both skins," Gordon told him. "Now that the sheets of cahelium have arrived I'm going to start cutting today. With any luck I'll have the internal hull ready by the end of the week and, depending on what hiccoughs I come across, I'm hopeful I'll be able to relaunch her in the middle of next month."

"Don't forget to let me know if you need help with anything," Virgil reminded him. "How far have you progressed with the detonators, Brains?"

"Tin-Tin and I are, er, working on the acoustic concussion generators. Th-The virtual simulations are working well and I am, er, hopeful that we will start assembling a prototype th-this afternoon."

"It sounds interesting," Virgil admitted. "I wish I had the time to see what you're…"

"T minus six."

"…doing."

The minutes ticked by. "T minus five minutes and counting," was followed by "T minus four and then "T minus three."

Alan heard Tin-Tin say "T minus two… Start ignition sequence."

"Starting sequence," Alan responded, and flicked a few buttons on the control panel. "All systems green… Applying power to engines." Slowly he pushed forward on a lever.

In the passenger launch cabin Scott and John felt the vibrations build up beneath them.

They heard Tin-Tin's voice through the intercom. "T minus one and counting… Fifty seconds to launch… Forty Five seconds… Forty…"

Scott wriggled in his harness to make sure he was braced against his seat, and then pulled the straps tighter. "Ready, John?"

"It's too late to back out now, even if I wasn't."

"…Thirty seconds to launch…."

Fire fighting equipment strapped firmly to their backs; hoses grasped firmly in their gloved hands; fire-retardant hoods down and sealed firmly to their suits; Brains, Gordon and Virgil counted down the seconds.

"…Fifteen seconds to launch… You're clear to go, Thunderbird Three."

"Engines at twenty five percent." Alan pushed the lever further forward.

"…Ten seconds to launch…"

"Thirty percent…"

"Nine…"

"Thirty Five…"

"Eight…"

"Forty…"

"Seven…"

"Forty Five…"

"Six…"

"Fifty percent thrust…"

Everyone joined Tin-Tin in her countdown.

"Five seconds…"

"Four…"

"…Seventy five percent thrust…"

"Three…"

"…and holding…"

"Two…"

"…standing by…"

"One…!"

"Full power!" Alan pressed the lever as far forward as it would go. Thunderbird Three trembled as her engines developed full thrust for the first time in over seven years, and then launched herself to the sky.

"We have lift-off!" Tin-Tin grabbed a portable microphone and ran out onto the patio. Thunderbird Three was already a large dot in the sky by the time her eyes had adjusted to the glare of the morning sun. "Goodbye and good luck, Alan."

Alan, pressed back into his seat by the g-forces Thunderbird Three was producing, didn't hear his wife's farewell. His blood was pounding in his ears; adrenaline was coursing through his system; he felt a pressure on his chest and tingling in his extremities. Then he felt free.

He'd forgotten what a buzz a rocket launch could be. These past seven years he'd come to believe that nothing could top a dog fight with another competitor on the racetrack; nothing was better than crossing the winning line first after a hard fought race; nothing in the world could surpass standing on the top of the victory dais…

Nothing except feeling the power of his space ship pushing against Earth's gravity towards the weightlessness of space… Nothing except feeling Thunderbird Three respond to his every command…

Nothing except the knowledge that he was going to be doing something to help others…

-F-A-B-

"Well, we're still in one piece," Scott undid his safety harness, stood and stretched. "Let's get up there."

"Wait!" John caught his arm and held him back. "Give him a moment alone with her."

"Alone with her?!"

"Thunderbird Three."

"Oh!" Scott's frown of confusion cleared. "I thought for a moment you meant that he'd smuggled Tin-Tin on board." He looked upwards towards the flight deck. "I guess we're not in that much of a hurry…"

-F-A-B-

Brains pushed his hood off his head. "The launch, er, went well."

Virgil removed his own hood and smiled at the little engineer. "It sure did, Brains. It makes me think that we might just have a chance at pulling off a miracle and saving the planet."

"Well, in the meantime, I'm more interested in saving my mouth from that foul tasting water," Gordon said. "I'm going to get myself something tastier to drink. Are you two going to join me before we head back to the sweat shops?"

"No, thanks," Virgil said. "I'm going to get into something cooler and then get down to work."

Gordon took a detour through the lounge on the way from the kitchen. He found Tin-Tin standing on the patio; still staring up towards the heavens.

His heart went out to his sister-in-law and he placed his glass on the coffee table before he joined her on the patio. "He'll be back before you know it," he reminded her; giving her shoulders a brotherly squeeze.

Tin-Tin sighed. "I know. It's just that this is the longest we've been apart since we've been married."

"Well, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Although I think Marina and I are the exception to the rule."

Tin-Tin sighed again. "I wish my father was here."

"He's still arriving tomorrow, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm drooling so much in anticipation of that first mouthful of his home cooking, that I could fill my swimming pool." Gordon realised that rather than brightening, Tin-Tin seemed to be getting more despondent. "Cheer up. Alan's only going to be gone for a few days. Just think, in three months you'll have him all to yourself. By the time you get back from Arnie you might be asking me for the number of my solicitor."

Tin-Tin managed a small smile. "I could never do that."

Gordon gave her another squeeze. "I'm sure you're right. At least you two started out on the right foot. You were friends before you started your relationship."

His efforts at cheering her up seemed to be achieving the opposite effect. "Oh, Gordon..." Tin-Tin leant into him as she tried to offer comfort of her own. "I wish I could help you."

"Don't worry about me." Gordon wrapped both arms about her. "My problems are all my fault and no one else's. You just concentrate on getting that detonator operational in time." He kissed her on top of her head.

"Oh, yes…" The pair of them turned when they heard a voice behind them. "Alan's barely through the stratosphere and you're already making a move on his wife."

Gordon released Tin-Tin and glared at a smirking Virgil, now dressed in his work overalls and steel toe-capped boots. "Tin-Tin knows I'd never do that."

"That's true," Tin-Tin admitted. "If there's one thing that I'm absolutely, totally confident about, it's that I know I can trust my four brothers-in-law... And Brains," she added as an afterthought.

"But not Alan?" Gordon teased.

"Well..." she teased back. "Maybe I trust him just a little bit."

Relieved that Tin-Tin seemed to be a bit happier, Gordon turned to his brother. "Are you going to surprise everyone and have a shave before Thunderbird Three gets back?"

Virgil, maintaining that they didn't have much time and that every second was precious, had forgone shaving this past week and his face was covered in a thick brown fuzz peaked by his blue goatee. "If Scott can't deal with the way I look then that's his problem not mine," he snapped. He turned on his heel and, sky-blue ponytail swinging angrily, stalked out of the lounge.

Bemused, Gordon and Tin-Tin looked at each other.

Gordon scratched his head. "Who mentioned Scott?"

Tin-Tin was frowning. "Something's been bothering him about Scott for a while."

"I'm beginning to think that it's just as well we're all going to be going our separate ways on this mission," Gordon mused. "Because I think we're going to have to relearn to trust each other. Really trust each other…. And speaking of going separate ways, I must love you and leave you, my Lady." He kissed Tin-Tin on the hand and left her giggling.

He caught up with Virgil in the fastenings store. "Is everything all right?"

Virgil looked surprised. "Yes. Why?"

"That comment you made about Scott had me wondering if everything's okay between the pair of you."

"Just as okay as between you two," Virgil retorted. Then he pulled himself up short. "I'm sorry. Forget I said that." He offered his brother an apologetic grin as he pulled a drawer out from the wall of fastenings and started counting out bolts into a container. Beneath the drawer an electronic device weighed the remaining bolts, calculated the number left behind, and printed the result in red digits on an adjacent display; as a remote computer recorded the tally and calculated how many more could be used before those bolts would need to be replenished.

The brothers ignored the behind the scenes activity. "Did Scott tell you what happened between us?" Gordon asked as Virgil slid the drawer home again.

Virgil shook his head. "No. Scott's very good at keeping things to himself." He moved along to the washers store.

Gordon had heard a note of bitterness in his brother's voice, but decided against the direct approach. He took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips. "I'll say one thing for Marina, I don't know what brand she used, but her cranberry juice always tasted better than any other. Would you like a mouthful?"

"No, thanks. I can make do with water while I'm working. I think we've refreshed most of the water-coolers down here."

"Thank heavens for that." Gordon took another sip and thought. "I was going to start putting the inner hull sheets through the CNC cutter this morning. I wouldn't mind a hand lining them up."

"Sure. Just give me a moment to finish this." Virgil counted the equivalent number of nuts into his container alongside the bolts and washers and slid the drawer home. He indicated the readout which stated that 20,356 nuts were still housed in the drawer. "Did that change?"

"I didn't notice."

Virgil took out a couple more nuts and slid the drawer shut. The readout remained the same. He pulled out the drawer, removed still more nuts, and pushed it home again with more force. The readout remained obstinately on 20,356. "What's wrong with this stupid thing?!" He tried pulling out other drawers before finally, exasperated with the whole unit, slammed his hand against the panel that concealed the computer's workings. The wall of red numbers went blank. "Oh, great! Just great!" He yanked the drawer out again, sending nuts flying onto the floor. "Stupid computer…"

"Calm down," Gordon advised. "It might just need a reboot."

"After seven years it needs more than a reboot! It needs replacing! What if we run out of something because the computer's not giving an accurate reading?!"

"Then we'll get John to have a look at it when he gets home," Gordon suggested. "He'll be happy to be able to do something constructive."

Virgil looked at the nuts in his hand and then dropped them back into their drawer. "I guess so…" He slammed the drawer shut. "Did you say you wanted me to give you a hand?"

"If you wouldn't mind…"

Virgil followed Gordon into the computer numerical controlled equipment room. "How are you doing this?"

Gordon put his empty glass on a worktable. "At the moment I'm concentrating on the internal hull. It's going to be attached to Thunderbird Four's original framework. Then I'm going to lay a honeycomb of hexorhombi between that and the outer shell, which'll be made out of cahelium."

"Light but strong," Virgil approved. "Sounds like a good plan."

"She's got to be strong," Gordon admitted. "When I think of the pressures she's going to have to withstand, it makes my blood run cold. I'm going to be down in the deepest part of the world's oceans, literally miles away from help. At night I close my eyes and I can see the portholes pop out of Thunderbird Four's frame as all that weight of water presses down on top of her. I hear her collapsing about me as she's crushed like an egg. I'll be crushed before Thunderbird Four ascends 50 metres. I'll be helpless as the water rushes in."

Virgil frowned. His brother was sounding more than a little concerned at what lay ahead of him. "If it rushes in," he corrected.

"If Thunderbird Four remains intact enough to get to the surface," Gordon continued, seemingly without hearing Virgil's comment, "I'll either have to ascend so fast that I'll die from the bends; or so slow that I'll run out of oxygen before I reach safety! I can't sleep for thinking about it!"

"But none of that should happen, should it?" Virgil asked. "Not with the precautions you've got planned."

"I'm working from a theory. That's all we're doing this time, aren't we? Working from theories and hypotheses!"

"Good theories, based on hard evidence," Virgil soothed. "It's just like every other rescue we've done."

"No it's not! You don't know what it's like to be overwhelmed by the sea! I don't want to live through that again! I couldn't live through that again!"

"Gordon, the odds of that happening..."

Not listening, or not hearing, Gordon started pacing up and down. "I don't want to go through that pain again; I don't want to relive that helplessness. I know what Neptune is capable of when you invade his territory and I don't want to incur his wrath. Virgil!" Gordon grabbed the front of his brother's overalls. "What am I going to do? I'm going to be diving down to where Neptune lives. I'm going to be facing him again! And he's going to try to crush me! I know he is! He tried once and he failed and I know he's waiting for the opportunity to try again…!"

Virgil, growing more worried about Gordon's apparent growing hysteria, gently prised his brother's fingers free of the blue material.

Gordon let go and started pacing again. "Once you've completed laying your charge you may as well head straight home because Neptune won't want to release me from his clutches! Once he gets you in his grip you're trapped forever. And you can't beg him for mercy. Not Neptune. He wouldn't listen to mere mortals like us. Cahelium and hexorhombi! What good is that against the god of the sea?!"

"Calm down. You're being silly!"

"I'm going to have the full weight of the Pacific Ocean on top of me! All that weight of water on one little submarine! Thunderbird Four and I won't have a chance! I'll never see you guys again!" Now clearly panicking, Gordon grabbed at Virgil's sleeves, bruising his brother's upper arms. "I'm going to die, Virgil. I'm going to die!" Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip.

"You're not going to die!" Virgil tried to free himself from the limpet-like hold. "You are not going to die! We'll make sure that Thunderbird Four's strong!"

"Strong!?" Gordon gave a bitter, but hysterical, laugh. "Strong?!"

"Let me go…"

"We've only got four months! Less that that! How can we make her strong in that amount of time? And you've got to get Thunderbird Two ready. And Scott and Alan and John have got to get Thunderbird Five ready..."

Virgil could feel his little brother trembling. "Let me call Brains..." he suggested.

"And you've got to get The Mole ready! And Brains and Tin-Tin have got to get the detonators ready! Detonators! I've got to carry explosives down to the deepest part of the ocean… I..." Gordon wiped his forehead with his sleeve and gulped. "I..." Chest heaving, his legs seemly turning to jelly, he fell against his brother.

"Gordon!?" Virgil exclaimed, alarmed by this sudden collapse. "What's wrong?"

"C… Can't bre…" Gordon gasped.

His arms freed, Virgil grabbed his hyperventilating brother to support him. "What did you say?"

"I… I c-can't" *gulp* "breathe!"

Virgil, struggling with the full weight of a muscular swimmer, was becoming seriously concerned.

Apparently haunted by some otherwise unseen apparition, Gordon looked around wide-eyed. "The… The..." He clawed at his face. "Get it off me!" he shrieked.

"There's nothing there!" Virgil grabbed the clawing hand as several red marks appeared on Gordon's cheek. "Come and sit down."

"Dying!" Gordon moaned, his legs giving way. "I'm dying…"

"No you're not!" Virgil hauled him upright. "Listen to me, Gordon. You are not dying!"

"Help…" *gulp* "Help – me – Virgil."

"I'm trying to. Now listen to me! You are not dying. This is a panic attack. Now, don't try to talk," Virgil advised as he lowered Gordon onto a seat. "Let me feel your pulse." He took Gordon's arm and was not surprised to feel the racing beat. "Calm down, Gordon. Try to take deep, slow breaths."

"I... I..." Gordon gulped again. "Sick..."

"You feel like you're going to be sick?"

Gordon nodded.

Unwilling to leave his brother, who still appeared to need him for physical support, Virgil tipped his nuts, bolts and washers onto the ground and held out the container. "Use that."

Gordon clung to the bowl. "Hot... So hot... I..." He flexed his fingers. "T... Tingling."

Virgil saw the gesture. "Your fingers are tingling?"

Gordon nodded, pulled at his collar and then dropped the container, wrapping his arms about him. "C-Cold." He shivered.

"Can you support yourself for a moment?" Virgil ran across to the nearby first aid kit and pulled a thermal blanket out of it. "Here, wrap this around you."

"Th-Thanks."

Virgil sat next to his brother, pulling him close to try to warm him up. "I'm going to call Brains, okay?" he said, rubbing Gordon's back.

"No!" Gordon grabbed Virgil's watch arm. "Don't..." He took a deep breath. "Don't do that!"

"Gordon," Virgil protested. "Look at you! You're having a panic attack! I can't leave you like this!"

"I... I'll be all... right. I... I'm feeling better."

"Gordon..."

"No," Gordon repeated. "I'm..." he swallowed and tried to take a deep, calming breath. "I'm all right. Honest." The red-head looked pleadingly at his big brother. "Don't disturb Brains. Here..." he stuck out his arm, "take my pulse again." Virgil hesitated and then accepted the invitation. "It's slower... Right?"

Virgil nodded. "It is slower."

"See, I told you there's nothing to worry about…" Gordon swallowed again. "I'm thirsty. Would you mind getting me a drink of water?"

"Will you be okay for a moment?"

Gordon managed a wan smile. "I'll be all right."

Virgil dashed across to the nearby water cooler and filled Gordon's cranberry juice glass. When he returned Gordon had his arms across his knees and had buried his face into them. "Here."

Gordon straightened. "Thanks." Still shaking, he accepted the glass. Water sloshed all over his hands.

"Let me help you." Virgil held the glass steady as he helped his brother to drink. "Feeling better?"

"Yes." Gordon let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and relaxed back against the wall; pulling the thermal blanket about him as if its embrace added to his sense of security.

"Have you ever had a panic attack before?"

"No…" Gordon opened his eyes. "I've seen them, as you know, but I've never experienced one. I had the symptoms, didn't I? I thought I was dying…"

"Did you really?"

"Yeah. I felt like something was pressing down on my face; smothering me… I couldn't breathe properly." Gordon laid his hand on his chest. "My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it was trying to break my ribs. But what was weird was that while I was fully aware that it was probably a panic attack, another part of me was convinced that I was on the way out. One minute I was hot, the next I was cold. I was shaking. My hands are still tingling a little bit…" Gordon flexed his fingers. "It scared me, Virg."

"You gave me a heck of the fright too, but I didn't think you were dying. I thought you were sick."

"For a moment there I thought I was having a stroke like Dad. One minute I was fine, the next I was out of control. It was as though all my problems were smothering me: Marina, the divorce, Doomsday, diving down into the Mariana, worrying about Thunderbird Four, Tracy Island erupting, being scared for you guys..." Virgil watched closely for any signs of the distress that Gordon had suffered earlier, but there were none. "It was as though everything came crushing down on top of me all at once and there was nothing I could do about it."

"Can I help?"

"Don't worry about me, Virgil, I'm overtired, that's all. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I arrived here. I kind of doze off and then wake up again thinking I've been asleep for hours and then discover that it's only been about ten minutes."

Virgil frowned. "Are you really having that much trouble sleeping?"

Gordon nodded. "Even Brains picked that up when he gave me my physical. He spotted an overdose of some type of hormones in my system or something."

"This could be serious. Can he do anything?"

"I don't want to have to use drugs unless it's really necessary," Gordon explained. Then he shrugged. "I suppose I could always try sleeping in our quarters in Thunderbird Two. I always got a good sleep in there."

"That might not be a stupid idea," Virgil agreed. "Or use a SWSG." The slow-wave sleep generators had helped them have short but restful naps when on long rescue missions.

"If any of them still work." Gordon placed his hand on Virgil's arm. "Please, don't tell Brains. He's got enough to worry about."

"Don't you think we should tell Scott?"

"Not Scott!" Gordon looked alarmed at the suggestion. "We can't tell Scott! He'll only stress unnecessarily. You know what he's like."

"I thought I did," Virgil admitted.

"Huh?"

Virgil ignored the query. "Forget Scott's our brother. He's the commander of International Rescue. Our commander! What would you have said, when you were commander of the bathyscaphe, if you found out that someone had had a similar problem and hadn't reported it to you?"

"I'd have disciplined them. But this is different! We had to live together in a confined space."

"And we're not now?"

"If Scott learns that I temporarily lost it he's going to take me off the squad! There's no one to replace me! No one has the skills I've got, and no one will have the time to learn them."

Virgil had to admit that Gordon had a point. But that didn't stop him from trying to press home his argument. "Gordon, even if this was only a one-off attack, it still wouldn't hurt for Scott, or Brains, or someone to be aware it happened in case it happens again."

"You're someone." Gordon shrugged the thermal blanket from off his shoulders and started to fold it up.

"But…"

"And you're aware of what happened. You're the one who's working in the next hangar. And you're the one who'll be dropping me at the danger zone. So why do we have to tell anyone else?"

"Because…" Virgil tried, and failed, to think of a definitive answer. "All right," he agreed reluctantly. "But you've got to call me the instant you think something's wrong. Okay?"

"Okay."

Virgil indicated his watch. "Buzz me and I'll come running."

"Thanks."

"Even if it's a false alarm."

"Thanks, Virgil. I've got the picture."

"But don't think I'm happy that you're not telling Brains," Virgil grunted.

"Like I said, I got the picture." Gordon stood and started folding the blanket into the smallest package he could. "Are you scared?"

Virgil looked surprised at the question. "Scared?" He took the end of the blanket to help fold it.

"Of what you've got to do?"

Virgil considered his answer. "I'm not scared by the idea that I've got to drill down into the Dead Sea Transform. It's not that much different to what we've done before, and I think, compared to the rest of you guys, I've got the easy job. It's other things that frighten me."

Throughout their years in International Rescue, Gordon had never been aware of any situation where his older brother had expressed any form of fear. "Like what?"

"Like… It's been years since I've done any work on this scale." Virgil waved his hand, encompassing the CNC machines around them. I did some maintenance with the Hawks, but I didn't have time for that once I became the captain."

"Hawks?"

"New York Hawks Aerobatic Team."

"Oh…" It took a moment for this bit of information to sink in. "You're the captain of the New York Hawks Aerobatic Team?"

"I was. I resigned to come here."

"But I saw those guys fly once. They were great!"

"Thanks."

Gordon was shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't be part of the Hawks!" he exclaimed.

"You sound like Scott! Believe it or not, I'm a pretty good pilot!"

"I know that!" Gordon back-pedalled. "I've always known that. I couldn't have trusted you to drop me into the ocean and then pick me up again if you weren't. And I had no issues with your piloting skills when I did that air-to-air transfer from Thunderbird Two to Fireflash. It's just that I didn't know that part about the Hawks!"

"I was keeping it secret," Virgil admitted. "I wanted to surprise everyone sometime, but the opportunity never arose."

"That's a pity, I would have loved to have seen Scott's face when he realised it was you doing those loop-de-loops."

"So would I."

"Anyway, getting back to the present," Gordon dropped back into the seat next to his brother. "So what if you haven't done a lot of large-scale maintenance lately? It's just like riding a bicycle, isn't it?"

"I wish it was. I let my welding compliance certificate lapse about two years ago."

"But surely you don't need a piece of paper to know what you're doing?"

"Don't you believe it. I've already looked up the Internet and my old text books four times to check that I was doing everything right."

"And you were, weren't you?"

"Yes," Virgil conceded.

"See!" Gordon cheered. "Nothing to worry about!"

"But I am worried. I'm the one who's had the formal training. You guys have all got a good… Um…" Virgil thought for a moment. "Basic's the wrong word."

"Informal?" Gordon suggested. "As in a lack of formal training?"

Virgil nodded. "That'll do. You've all got a good informal knowledge of how to do things, especially anything related to International Rescue's systems and your own specialities, but I'm the one who's going to be relied on to do the…"

"Formal," Gordon suggested.

Virgil managed a wry smile. "…work. I'm the one who's got to confirm that your welding's up to the standard required to withstand the pressures of the deep; and I no longer have the certification to show that I've got the expertise to do it. Plus there's so much that has to be done; and so little time to do it. That's what really scares me…"

"That," Gordon agreed, "is scary."

And another thing that worries me," Virgil added. "Do you get the feeling that we are lacking the cohesion that we had before?"

Gordon nodded his understanding. "Tin-Tin and I were discussing that before I came down here."

"And what did you decide?"

"That it's just as well that we're all going to be operating separately."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "It's scary, isn't it?"

Gordon gave a big sigh, and tossed the thermal blanket onto the table next to him. "You've got tons to do and I'm holding you up. You could be having a shave instead of talking to me."

"Just be glad that I take the time to have a shower." Virgil rubbed his bristly jaw. "Why have you got such a thing about me not shaving?"

"That that two-tone look doesn't suit you..." Virgil managed a chuckle. "But let me tell you one thing, Virg..." Gordon turned to face his big brother. "I don't care what Scott thinks. I trust you. I don't care what you look like or what you've been doing. You could have been doing body painting in a nudist colony for the last seven years..." This time Virgil laughed. "...and I would still trust you. I know that you'll give International Rescue one hundred percent."

Virgil smiled. "Thanks, Gordon. Hearing you say that means a lot."

"But I do have one question."

"What's that?"

"I keep wondering who you're hiding from behind those whiskers."

Virgil held Gordon's eye. "I'm hiding from the failure who stares at me from the mirror every morning."

Unprepared for Virgil's sudden brutal honesty, Gordon didn't react when the in-house intercom buzzed them.

Virgil stood. "I'll get that..."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Thunderbird Five loomed dark and forbidding, silhouetted against the pinpoints of celestial light. Alan switched on a powerful spotlight and swung it, its beam invisible in the vacuum of space, so it was pointing at the space station.

Like a magic trick Thunderbird Five appeared out of the blackness.

"She looks okay from this angle," Scott stated. "Let's do a slow circuit, Alan."

"Right." His actions as much instinctive as through conscious thought, Alan nudged Thunderbird Three in a slow orbit of her sister ship.

"How does she look to you, John?" Scott asked.

"Dead," was the blunt answer. "She always used to be bright and welcoming whenever I returned home." His brothers noted the "returned home" statement, but didn't pass comment.

Alan adjusted their trajectory so that they were circling about Thunderbird Five's vertical axis. "Anyone see anything of concern?"

"Negative," Scott replied. "Bring her alongside the docking port, Alan. It's time you and I did a spacewalk."

John said nothing. He knew that he should be one of the two attempting the dangerous spacewalk; an idea that had quickly been vanquished when he'd attempted to get into his spacesuit. He could do it up, but it was so tight that walking was uncomfortable and sitting impossible. Even in the weightlessness of space, restricted movements would be a serious handicap.

He watched as his brothers discarded their civilian clothes and pulled on their spacesuits. They could have worn their International Rescue uniforms tucked away in the uniform lockers, but John had an uncomfortable feeling that Scott and Alan, knowing that his uniform was unlikely to fit him, had decided against wearing theirs in order to spare his feelings.

He'd never been one for self-pity. He'd always been different; more intelligent than his peers and less muscular than his brothers, and he'd always accepted that as a part of what made John Tracy John Tracy. But at that moment, and not for the first time, he hated himself and what he'd become.

"She's all yours, John," Alan said, forcing him out of his reverie. "No joyriding off to the nearest nebula, okay?"

John managed a smile. "I've got plenty to keep me occupied, thanks." He checked that his brothers' suits were sealed against the hostile environment that they were about to enter, and then watched as the airlock closed between them.

He was alone in Alan's spaceship, while his brothers worked to gain entry to his space station.

Suddenly furious, he ripped a page out of his notebook, screwed it up, and threw it on the floor. It did nothing to relieve his anger, but he didn't want to risk throwing something harder in case he caused catastrophic damage to what was presently his life capsule and their only way back to the safety of home.

-F-A-B-

"I wish Brains had come up with an easy opening option for breaking into Thunderbird Five," Alan griped, as he clipped his safety restraint to the frame that surrounded the work platform beneath the docking port. "Cutting through this plug so that we can dock Thunderbird Three and then cutting open the airlock to Thunderbird Five without causing any damage is going to take forever."

"True," Scott admitted. "There's a limit to what you can do in a vacuum. Still..." he triggered the ignition sequence that warmed up his acoustic disintegrator. "Let's do it!"

Together the pair of them set to work.

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Brains, engrossed in the birth of a new tool in International Rescue's armoury, took a while to realise that his assistant was no longer working studiously at his side. In fact she was sitting at the end of the workbench and looked rather pale. "Tin-Tin? Are y-you feeling all right?"

"I'm sorry, Brains," Tin-Tin apologised, and massaged her hands. "But I felt a little tired."

He put down his ruler and moved closer. "Can I get you something to make you feel better?" he asked solicitously.

Tin-Tin shook her head. "I'll be all right. It's just that with the excitement of Father coming to live with us tomorrow, and the stress of Thunderbird Three's launch, and the worry that Thunderbird Five's not going to be able to be recommissioned, and…"

"And Alan leaving?" he asked; surprising her with his astuteness.

"Yes." She blushed lightly, which had the positive effect of returning some colour to her cheeks. "I'm already missing him." She sighed. "And I'm starting to wish that I'd done more work with Alan's racing team. I haven't worked this hard in years. We've hardly stopped for a break this week."

"I'm, er, sorry, Tin-Tin, but we do ha…"

Tin-Tin held up her hand. "I'm not asking for sympathy or that you expect less of me than you do. I'm just taking a while to get used to having my brain switched on for extended periods of time and using my hands so much." She gave Brains a gentle smile. "Maybe, instead of playing the race driver's wife these last few years, I should have been working for you."

"We didn't know that Doomsday w-would happen," he reminded her. "And as much as I would have, er, appreciated your assistance, it wasn't practical." He noticed that she was still massaging her fingers. "Is something wrong with your hands?"

"They're a little tingly," she admitted.

"Paresthesias?" he queried, and frowned. "That c-could be symptomatic of m-many things."

"Or it could just mean that I've been using my hands for longer than they're used to," she corrected. "Don't worry about me, Brains. You've got more important things to do." She slid off her stool. "What are we doing next?"

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

Inside Thunderbird Three John was working too. He could have spent his time stargazing, after all it was the best view of the heavens that he'd had in almost a decade, but he knew there would be plenty of time for unearthly pleasures. Now, he had a job to do.

He had decided days ago that if he couldn't do something practical on this first trip back to his Thunderbird, then he may as well do something that would help his brothers survive what they were going to face in three months time. Therefore he'd loaded the training simulator, used during their International Rescue days for mimicking different rescue scenarios, into Thunderbird Three's control room.

He started by wiping almost all of the existing terrain, disaster, and other data from the simulator's computer memory. He wanted the four scenarios they were going to be training for to be as realistic as possible, and he didn't need a small thing like a lack of memory compromising his brothers' safety.

Then he started programming, with occasional glances at various instruments to ensure that Thunderbird Three wasn't drifting and that his brothers were okay.

Alan and Tin-Tin's rescue was the first, because it was the one closest to his personal strengths. Star charts were easy to download into the computer's memory banks. Jupiter's orbit was carefully programmed so that the gas giant would be where the astronauts would expect to find it. Asteroid 2070SB was created out of photographs and pieced together to form a three dimensional image. Some of this was guesswork, but for an astronomer of John's calibre, the guesswork was based on personal knowledge and verified information.

John sat back, satisfied with his morning's efforts. He still hadn't programmed in the processes of attaching the booster to 2070SB; that would have to wait until Brains had finished designing it and he had a better idea of the device's size and weight. But in the meantime there were three other rescue scenarios to work on.

He decided to start with Gordon's. As he trawled the World Wide Web and numerous educational and research institutions to find the necessary photorealistic pictures, he realised that he had struck a problem. Nowhere could he find up-to-date photos of the Mariana Trench. Mankind had been so obsessed with looking outwards towards outer space the last few decades that inner space, beneath the oceans, had been all but ignored.

Stumped he sat back. But he wasn't prepared to let his younger brother battle the unknown without adequate preparation.

Suddenly inspired, he called Tracy Island. "Brains! Can you put me through to Gordon?"

"O-Of course, John. I think he's down in the CN..."

John grinned. Brains, so caught up in his work, had transferred his call before he'd finished his sentence. He hadn't heard the slight note of concern in the little scientist's voice.

"CNC room."

"Virgil? I was looking for Gordon."

"I..." Virgil glanced over at his brother, who was frowning at him. "I was giving him some help. Er..." Unsure if Gordon was ready to communicate with anyone else so soon after his panic attack, Virgil hesitated. "Can I take a message?"

"Yes. Ask him if he thinks the underwater probes will be strong enough to withstand a trip to the bottom of the Challenger Deep? I want to get some up-to-date pictures for the simulator."

Gordon indicated that he would continue the call. "I heard that, John. I haven't checked the probes out, but assuming that there's no degradation to them, I see no reason why they shouldn't get some good quality shots."

"Good."

Virgil excused himself, indicating by sign language that Gordon should call him when he wanted assistance.

Gordon nodded his understanding and then fixed his full attention on John's call. "The problem is, how do we get the probes to the Mariana Islands and who do we trust to operate them once we get there? None of us can be spared."

John had an idea. "Maybe Lady Penelope would like a northern hemisphere tropical holiday? She can use her yacht for a few innocent cruising expeditions."

"I like the way you're thinking, John," Gordon declared. "Do you want to give her a call and see if she's free?"

"I may as well. I've got more time on my hands than you," John agreed. "How are things going down there?"

"Ah... slowly," Gordon conceded. "We're going to need your skills when you get back. Virgil's gone into a spin because the stock controller's stopped working."

"I thought he sounded a bit distracted."

"I told him to reboot it."

"Knowing him, he's probably rebooting it with those steel-toecapped boots of his," John chuckled. "Tell him not to panic; it'll be one of the first things I check out when I get home."

"Thanks, John. We'll all appreciate that." Before John had a chance to ask more questions, Gordon continued. "How are things going up in space?"

"Great. Alan hasn't lost his touch with Thunderbird Three. I'm working on the simulator while they're outside unplugging Thunderbird Five's docking port."

"How long have they been at it?"

John checked his watch. "Must be close to three hours. We did too good a job sealing her up."

"Yes, you did. And they're making sure that they do a good job unsealing her so they don't damage Thunderbird Three or Five. And now, John, I'd better do a good job and go and check those probes. Don't forget to report in when you've docked or you've spoken to Penny. Whichever comes first."

"Will do, Gordon."

Gordon disconnected the call and took a deep breath as his anxieties gnawed at him. John had no idea how grateful he was that someone was taking his welfare seriously. He knew that the rest of the family cared, but they all had their own concerns, and a tangible example of someone offering to help meant the world to him.

-F-A-B-

"Anybody home?"

John turned to the microphone that was part of the control panel. "I haven't slipped out for a burger, Scott."

"Well, we wouldn't mind 'slipping in' for something less tasty. It's lunchtime! How about opening the external hatch?"

"Opening now." John watched as the lights indicating that the external door was open, then closed, and finally that the air pressure in the airlock was the same as he was experiencing. Then he pushed the button that allowed the internal door to slide open.

"Whew!" Alan removed his helmet and placed it on his pilot's seat. "That's got to be close to the longest spacewalk I've ever done." He rubbed his gloved hands together. "Those acoustic disintegrators start to affect you after a while. My hands are all tingly."

"So are mine," Scott admitted, as he pulled off his gloves.

The acoustic disintegrators were a device that emitted noise at the frequency that would disintegrate whatever it was you desired to remove, without damaging any of the surrounding materials. Out in the vacuum of space it was impossible to hear the sound, but you could still feel it as you pressed the acoustic disintegrator up against the blockage, and John reflected that after three hours it was no wonder that both brothers' hands were feeling irritated. "And I thought my hands were shot after pounding at the keyboard," he admitted. "Ah…" He tried to appear casual. "How much more do you have to do?"

Scott kept a straight face. "I'd say we'll be at it for another three hours."

John felt his face fall. "Oh."

"Until we get into Thunderbird Five proper. We can dock Thunderbird Three any time."

John's face lit up. "You're through?!"

Scott grinned. "We're through. We would have been through twenty minutes ago, but we wanted to make sure that there was nothing remaining that Thunderbird Three can snag on. We don't want to scratch Alan's baby, do we?"

Alan was grinning too. "So what do you say, John. Do you want to have lunch first; or dock Thunderbird Three and then have lunch?"

John did his best to appear calm and unconcerned. "You guys have been working for hours. You're probably starving."

"Oh, we are," Scott agreed. "But I'm sure we won't faint from hunger in the next ten minutes. So, you want to do it, Alan?"

Alan gave a casual shrug. "Sure. Why not?" He shifted his helmet to the floor and slipped into his seat.

"Well, John? Do you want to touch your 'bird?"

John couldn't bear it any longer. "Will you stop teasing me, Scott! Of course I want to touch her! Now stop wasting time and let's dock!"

Scott turned to their youngest brother. "It's over to you, Alan."

"Okay." Alan ignited the engines and swung Thunderbird Three around in a graceful loop so that her nose was pointed directly into the docking port. "Fingers crossed." Carefully, more carefully than he'd ever docked her before, he manoeuvred his spaceship into the circular tunnel that linked the two craft together.

John waited patiently as Thunderbird Five swallowed them up.

Finally Alan cut the engines. "Docking complete." He indicated a circle of green lights that had lit up on the control panel. "We have an airtight seal." He smiled at John. "She's through there," he indicated Thunderbird Three's airlock.

John could feel his heart pounding as he stepped up to the circular door. It slid upwards and he stepped through to the exterior hatch, hearing the internal door whisper shut behind him.

Alan checked the seal again. "Opening exterior hatch."

John heard his brother's voice and barely had time to react as Thunderbird Three's exterior hatch opened, presenting him with his first close up view of Thunderbird Five in over seven years. He reached out and touched the exterior airlock hatch that was the personnel link between Thunderbirds Three and Five. The metal was cold and yet it warmed his heart. He might not yet have the key to the door, but he was finally home. Suddenly impatient, he took a step backwards. "You can let me in again."

When he re-entered Thunderbird Three's control room he was greeted with two puzzled frowns. "Was something wrong?" Scott asked.

"No. I was wasting time standing there looking at a locked door. The sooner we have lunch, the sooner we can check out her interior."

Scott grinned. "Alan, why don't you go and make a start refilling the oxygen tanks, while John and I see what delicacies we've got on board?"

Alan was clearly hungry after his morning's work because he made no comment as he hurried out of the control room.

Scott picked up his oxygen tank and placed it against the wall.

"Scott…"

Scott turned. "Yes?"

"Thanks." John looked slightly embarrassed. "Thanks for letting me touch Thunderbird Five."

Scott picked up his helmet. "I know I'm not the most sensitive of guys," he admitted, tracing the outline of the International Rescue logo on its side, "but your comment about letting Alan have some time alone with Thunderbird Three got me thinking. When we were opening up Tracy Island I was excited at the prospect of seeing Thunderbird One again. I didn't think I would be; I thought I'd left that part of my life well and truly in the past and that it didn't mean anything to me any more. But when the moment came to step through that door…" He shrugged, rotating the helmet in his hands. "And this is only a plane that I'd fly from point A to point B on occasion… But you lived in Thunderbird Five. It was your home, your security, your…" He shrugged again. "I'm no good at words. But you gave up a lot before we shut down International Rescue and I… no, we figured that you deserved the chance to get reacquainted with Thunderbird Five alone." He finally looked at his brother.

John smiled at what had turned out to be quite a long speech. But conversely his reply was short. "Thanks."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"Delicious" wasn't a word that John would have used to describe lunch. Not that he cared. He was only hours away from exploring Thunderbird Five again.

"You're not eating," Scott noted.

"I'm supposed to be dieting, remember?"

Scott screwed up his face. "If anything's going to encourage anyone to give up food it's this tasteless garbage."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "Thank heavens Kyrano's moving back to the island tomorrow. We're finally going to get some real food!"

"Which, fortunately for my diet, we won't be sampling for the next few days," John reminded him. "What with this tasteless food and working in zero gravity, I might be able to move in my spacesuit by the end of this trip."

"The problem with that is that you'll be losing muscle not fat," Scott warned. He turned back to the younger blonde. "So you've got no qualms about living with your father-in-law?"

"None."

John pretended to grimace. "Imagine being married to the daughter of an expert in half a dozen martial arts!"

"And worse still," Scott played along, "knows how to handle a knife!" He gave a dramatic shiver. "It'd make you think twice about having a lovers' quarrel, let alone a full blown argument."

"Laugh all you want, Fellas, Kyrano and I have always got along" Alan told them. "Besides, remember that at least I've got married. I don't see gold bands on your fingers." He enjoyed a brief moment of pleasure at seeing his elder brothers exhibit some discomfort.

Ignoring his returning sense of inadequacy, and the fact that he was missing Emma, John tipped the rest of his lunch into its wrapper. "I suppose we should be grateful that Alan didn't marry someone like Marina."

This time Scott's shiver was genuine. "I don't know what Gordon saw in that woman! I couldn't stand the sight of her!"

"We guessed," Alan drawled.

"She's going to be out of his and all our lives soon, Scott," John reminded him. "Don't go giving yourself an ulcer over her now."

Scott devoted the last of his anger into screwing up his lunch's wrapper and then got to his feet. "Come on, Alan. The sooner we get that hatch opened the sooner we can do some real work."

"And I've got a call to make," John admitted. "I've got a job for Penny."

"Doing what?" Scott asked as he rechecked his oxygen tank.

"Taking one of our probes and getting footage of the Mariana Trench so I can feed the images into the simulator."

Scott, reaching for his helmet, stopped. "That's a good idea. Gordon's clearly worried about his mission. Some practise will help him gain some confidence." He slipped his helmet over his head. "And I won't have any complaints if you do the same for the terrain above the Bentley Subglacial Trench."

"How hard can that be to replicate?" Alan asked and pulled on his own helmet. "It'll all be white."

"That's what worries me. It's all white with an occasional volcano rearing up out of the snow. I'll need to know exactly where each hill is in relation to the trench."

"Don't worry, I'm making sure everyone's terrain is up-to-date. I've already done all I can on yours, Alan. I was going to work on Gordon's next, but I'll hold off now until Penny gets us the pictures. It's relatively easy to get photos of Antarctica and I'll have to do a bit a research to get the correct data for the geological strata beneath the Dead Sea Transform, but I'll make sure you all have plenty of time to practise."

"Thanks, John," Scott said and submitted to having his spacesuit checked for potential leaks. Both he and Alan were going to be working within Thunderbird Three's airlock, but it was wiser to take precautions in case something happened to the seal between them and the airlessness of space.

When he was finally satisfied that his brothers were protected against that hostile environment, John let them into the airlock.

"Give our love to Penny," Alan instructed as the internal door slid shut.

John looked at his watch, calculated the time difference between his location and England, and decided that it wasn't too inconsiderate a time to give her a call.

Lady Penelope answered almost immediately, her smile of greeting warm. "Good day, John."

"Hiya, Penny. I've got a favour to ask of you."

Her eyes lit up. "I can be of assistance?"

"I think so." John explained about his problem with the lack of images of the deepest known part of the world's oceans. "Do you think you can help?"

"I should be delighted, dear boy. If the world is going to end, why shouldn't I treat myself to a tropical holiday? And of course I can get some holiday photos while I'm there. What is the weather like in that part of the world at the moment?"

"Oh, er, I hadn't checked," John admitted. He dialled up a weather web site. "Oh… It says here stormy. They're getting the tail end of Typhoon Ita. Is that going to cause problems?"

"Dear me, no," Lady Penelope laughed. "It shall add to the drama. It's always these little excitements that make holidays so memorable, don't you think?"

John smiled at her unperturbed attitude. "I'm sure you'll have a ball."

"I shall do my best."

"Thanks, Penny, Gordon's going to love you for this. We all are. Anything that can help him survive his divorce and everything else has got to be good."

Lady Penelope's eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you know about Marina's background?"

Surprised by the question, John shrugged. "Not a lot. I tried to have as little to do with her as possible, except when I had no option, and I got the impression that she felt the same about me once she discovered that I didn't have a hotline to Dad's fortune." He thought for a moment. "I think her family is from out east somewhere. Why?"

"I'm trying to get a better understanding as to why Gordon married her," Lady Penelope told him. "Just a girl's idle curiosity."

"Well, don't forget that curiosity killed the cat," John warned. "We don't want anything happening to you… I'd better get back to work."

"Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Penny. Oh! And Alan sends his love." John laughed.

Lady Penelope's eyes twinkled. "Only Alan?"

"Penny, you've got my everlasting loyalty and devotion." John signed off.

Lady Penelope sat for a moment, regarding the blank screen of her powder compact. "Curiosity may have killed the cat," she quoted. "But information brought it back. And I have a feeling that there is a lot of information that I am yet to find. Starting with what's on the bottom of the ocean… Parker!" She rang a heavily embroidered bell pull.

He responded almost immediately. "Yes, m'Lady?"

"Get out the Rolls Royce, Parker, and alert George to prepare the yacht for sailing."

"Sailing, m'Lady? My H-I h-enquire h-as to where we is going?"

"Our first port of call will be Tracy Island. We shall fly there. Then we shall meet up with FAB2 in the vicinity of the Philippines."

Parker bowed his head in understanding. "May H-I ask why we h-are going to the Philly-pines?"

"We are going to have a diving holiday into the Challenger Deep," Lady Penelope responded, and gave a refined laugh at her butler's expression of horror. "Cheer up, Parker. It is all in the name of service to International Rescue."

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

"How's it going, Alan?"

"My back's killing me," Alan grunted; on his knees as he disintegrated the last of the sealant around the bottom of the hatch.

"What's the matter, Kiddo?" Alan could hear the laughter in Scott's voice. "Getting old?"

"I'm not as old as you, Grandpa." Alan retorted as he straightened his aching back. "I'm done." He got to his feet. "Do you want to check my work while I check yours?"

"Good idea." The two brothers changed places and inspected each other's workmanship, occasionally zapping a miniscule particle away from the door.

They'd been working on the interior airlock hatch; the one which led directly into Thunderbird Five's control room. It had been the last line of defence against unscrupulous criminals and general busybodies and, like all the plugged and sealed defences, had done what had been asked of it; including doing a reasonable job of keep International Rescue out of the communications satellite.

Finally Scott stood back. "You've done a good job."

"So have you." Alan rotated his shoulders to try to loosen the muscles. "Is it time to let John in?"

"I think so." Scott switched channels. "Are you receiving me, John?"

"Strength five, Scott."

Scott grinned. This close to his Thunderbird and John was already slipping back into International Rescue mode. "Time to get suited up. We're going in."

"Okay."

John was in the process of struggling into his spacesuit when Scott and Alan returned to the warm air and artificial gravity of Thunderbird Three. "I think I need a shoehorn," he grunted as he struggled to slide the suit up his back.

"Take your time," Scott advised. "We'll replenish our oxygen supplies while we're waiting."

Five minutes later, and after John had submitted to jokes about his lack of mobility in his spacesuit, they were ready to make their first foray into Thunderbird Five. They stepped into Thunderbird Three's airlock and closed the door behind them.

Scott switched on the small but powerful headlamp that was attached to his helmet. "Okay, Alan. Let's do it!"

"Removing oxygen and decreasing artificial gravity," Alan announced, punching a code into a keypad.

John felt his body start to feel a sense of weightlessness for the first time in years. "This is better than going on a diet," he joked.

"Air pressure and gravity neutral." Alan opened Thunderbird Three's exterior hatch.

John, using a low powered jet pack, and closely followed by Alan and Scott carrying a combined heater/dehumidifier between them, floated out of the rocket ship and into the access passage leading to the main body of the satellite. He held a small keypad and he placed this on a panel embedded in the bulkhead and keyed in a code. The final airlock slid open, revealing the interior for the first time in seven years.

John stood at the entrance and surveyed what had once been his control room.

Here lay the lifeless corpse of Thunderbird Five.

She was as cold and as still as a morgue. Gone was the light that had accompanied his daily chores. Gone was the never-ending chatter of the voices of the world. Gone was the warmth and feeling of unquestionable security.

She was dark.

She was silent.

She was dead.

She was cold.

Icy cold. A thin film of ice covered every square inch, as if the spirit of all those who'd visited had shrouded the lifeless steel and electronics. Respiration, both human and vegetative from the hydroponic garden that had long ago been destroyed, had left water droplets in the air and some had frozen upon contact with the cold metal. As John looked around the control room 'airborne' ice crystals sparkled and danced in the movement of his headlamp's light. With no gravity to speak of there were no icicles suspended from the work surfaces or rising up from the floor; just an expanse of shimmering whiteness. It would have been beautiful if he hadn't known that it was deadly to Thunderbird Five's sensitive electronics.

He felt his heart grow cold; nearly as cold as Thunderbird Five.

"Oh, man…" He heard Alan's almost whimpered exclamation in his earpiece and realised that, while Thunderbird Five had always been his 'bird, his youngest brother had spent long enough here to feel the same sort of emotional attachment. Even Scott, whose stays had been sporadic, was clearly numbed by what had become of International Rescue's communications satellite.

John gave himself a mental shake. If they were going to have any chance at reversing the damage within three months, they were going to have to start working straight away. "Are we going to set the dehumidifiers up?" he asked.

Scott appeared to pull himself together. "Alan and I can take care of that. Why don't you have a look around and start taking an inventory of what needs replacing and what can hopefully be repaired. Don't be afraid to list any luxuries you might want; within reason. If you're going to be trapped here alone for four months, you've got to be comfortable."

"And let us know if you run into any polar bears!" Alan joked, trying to boost his brother's morale.

John pretended to shudder. "If I see any, all you'll see is a blur as I run past."

"Don't let Gordon hear you say that," Scott grinned. "He'll add it to your exercise regime."

"If he does that I'll put a shark in his pool," John retorted. "Give me a yell if you need a hand."

"Will do..."

To be continued…