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John chewed at the end of his touch-pen, a thoughtful frown upon his face as he cocked his head to one side and tried to decipher the complicated terminology of Brains' status report from Thunderbird 5. The scientist had been onboard the space station for almost a week now, and the repairs were nearing completion. Replacing the energy converter in the secondary backup generator had taken a lot longer than Brains had first anticipated, as he had encountered numerous technical difficulties along the way. The excess heat produced by the faulty generator had caused further problems for the secondary system, resulting in Brains needing to perform a number of smaller repairs which, although relatively easy to fix, had taken time to complete. But Brains didn't seem to mind about the extra time he was spending up in space, and Gordon certainly wasn't going to complain about missing his rotation this month. The aquanaut, unlike his older blond brother, wasn't a great fan of the stars. He became easily bored when there wasn't a pool nearby.
Smiling to himself, John scrolled down the page and tried to make sense of what Brains had written. After a few minutes, he shook his head in frustration and stood up, slipping the pad into his pocket. I guess I'll just have to call Brains and ask him to explain it all to me. I mean c'mon, what the heck is a 'cybrallic energy converter'? I didn't even know there were any of those onboard the station! They must be a new model that Brains installed after all the damage done during Spring break.
Stepping out into the hallway, John sighed deeply and pulled his door closed behind him. He had long ago made a habit out of doing this; he and his brothers had discovered that Gordon was less likely to set up a prank in your bedroom if the door was closed. Unsurprisingly, all members of the Tracy household (except, of course, Gordon himself) made sure that their doors were kept firmly shut. It wasn't paranoia; it was self-preservation.
Suddenly, John felt his wrist watch begin to vibrate. Coming to a halt, he glanced down at the device, noticing that the six coloured lights around the edge of the watch-face were flashing constantly. A rescue call!
Breaking into a jog, John swiftly made his way down the corridor, heading in the direction of his father's office. It was quite a distance away from the main living area of the villa, and it took almost a minute before he made it to the side corridor that lead up to what would no be the Command and Control Centre. Running up the stairs, John passed the row of storage units that lined the right-hand wall, darting around the corner and making a final sprint to the end of the hallway, where the door to his father's office was located.
He came skidding to a halt in front of the door, pressing his hand to the recognition panel and watching as a single bar of yellow light scanned over his palm and fingers. A second later, there was an affirmative 'beep', and a smaller door in the centre of the titanium barrier slid open, revealing the room inside. The office had already transformed itself into Internation Rescue's control base; the large raised platform in the middle of the room gleamed as the light shone off several diagnostic screens and communications controls. Jeff sat behind the main control desk, facing the line of portraits along the back wall. The room was lit by the overhead lights, which glared at full intensity to compensate for the fact that the metal shutters over the massive window had blocked out all natural sunlight. Thomas stood behind Jeff's command chair, one hand stretched out to support himself on the desk as he leant over Jeff's shoulder and peered at the screen in front of him.
"Understood, Brains," Jeff was saying as John stepped into the room and came to stand beside Thomas. "Is there any way we can pinpoint subterranean instabilities?"
On the screen, Brains sighed and shook his head "The sp-spe-, um, experts are trying to ascertain that right now, uh, Mr. Tracy. They've, uh, assured me that the right wing of the c-c-complex is still perfectly sound. But they, uh, still aren't sure about the stability of the reactor units."
Jeff nodded in understanding, flicking a switch beside him to deactivate the emergency signals as the rest of the family entered the room, the sound of their footfalls rising to a metallic clatter as the Tracy sons stepped up onto the platform and came to stand behind John.
The signals having been deactivated, John immediately felt the difference as his watch ceased to vibrate, but the skin around the device still tingled with that familiar buzzing sensation. Rubbing at his arm in an attempt to stop the tingling, John jumped slightly as a hand slapped down on the centre of his back, and Gordon's head appeared beside his.
"What's wrong with the world this time?" the red-head asked, his serious tone belying the light-hearted implications of his words. Jeff swivelled around in his chair so that he was facing his sons, then frowned, doing a quick head count.
"Where's Virgil?" he asked, one hand resting on the control panel as he raked the fingers of the other through his hair.
"Right here."
The middle Tracy-son ran up to join the rest of his family beside the control desk, breathing heavily. John looked over at him and grinned, spotting a streak of blue on his brother's cheek. Apparently, Virgil had been using his oil pastels when the emergency signal had been sent. Choosing to ignore the smudge, John turned back towards his father as Jeff cleared his throat.
"Alright, boys, here's the situation," he began. "Approximately seventeen minutes ago, there was an earthquake in a Callingiri, west Australia. Earthquakes that violent are uncommon in that area, and it caused a considerable amount of damage to the nearby rural areas. However, the local fire and rescue services believe that they have the situation under control."
"So," Scott interrupted. "They don't need International Rescue?"
Jeff frowned at his eldest son's statement and shook his head. "That's not the full extent of the damage, Scott," he continued. "About two miles outside of central Callingiri sits the largest carbon-syrilium processing unit in the world. Now, although there are structural supports placed throughout the foundations of the complex, the earthquake has caused such significant ground movement, that the supports have begun to collapse. Dozens of workers, most of them lead scientists in the refining industry, have become trapped in the main building, which was badly affected by the earthquake. The left wing has all but been reduced to rubble, and the passages that lead to the exits have become blocked by debris from the initial 'quake. A large amount of equipment was damaged as a result of the building's collapse, and fires have sprung up in several areas of the complex. The fire services, although well equipped, don't have the technology to tackle fires of that magnitude, and their paths have been blocked by the fallen debris on the grounds surrounding the main complex. They sent out an emergency call a few minutes ago."
John's mind was buzzing almost as much as his wrist as he processed the information that his father had just relayed to him. Fire. Lots of fire. At a carbon-syrilium processing unit. Oh boy, this is bad. That stuff is very temperamental when it hasn't been properly synthesised. And if it's still in the process of being reduced, a large temperature increase in one of the reactors could cause a massive explosion. And if the reactor cases have become damaged during the earthquake...
John knew that this rescue would be a lot more dangerous than many of the others he had been on in the past. If the fires could not be brought under control by the emergency services, the refining canisters would slowly begin to heat up. And once the syrilium exceeded its activation energy, the substance would begin to react and, well...boom.
They didn't have much time to spare.
"Brains," said Jeff, turning back towards the screen, "I'll brief the boys on the finer details of the rescue once they're airborne. In the meantime, contact the site officials and let them know that help is on the way. And keep us informed of the situation."
On the screen, Brains nodded his head once, his years of experience allowing him to maintain a neutral expression. "F.A.B."
Jeff disconnected the call and turned back towards his sons, who had been standing silently behind his chair awaiting instructions. Sitting up a little straighter, the Tracy patriarch slipped into his role as their commander as easily as a man slips into a pair of comfortable and well-worn shoes.
"Scott, Alan, launch Thunderbird One. Once you're airborne, increase speed to maximum and get yourselves to Callingiri as fast as you can."
Scott and Alan nodded, darting off to their own portraits. Jeff watched them go before turning to his remaining sons.
"Virgil, Gordon, John, you're in Thnderbird Two. Take Pod 3; you'll need both the Firefly and the heavy cutting gear. Since we don't know how stable the ground's going to be underfoot, I want you to load the hover-sleds onto the pod before you launch.
"The Mole will be useless here; the ground's too unstable to risk tampering with the foundations. Be sure to keep in contact with Thunderbird 5 at all times. Brains is trying to ascertain which area of land is stable enough to support Two's weight. We'll keep you informed of any changes. Fly fast, boys."
Nodding sharply, John strode around the front of the control desk and stepped into the single-person elevator behind his portrait. Holding onto the rail on either side of him, he glanced over towards his father, who was now standing up out of his chair. Jeff took a moment to look each of his sons in the eye, then gave a brief nod and smiled.
"Thunderbirds are go!"
Automatically, John looked up at the ceiling, pressing the button on the underside of the right-hand rail. He felt his stomach drop as the elevator descended quickly, but kept his gaze focused on the number '5' that had been painted in the very centre of the ceiling. Brains had painted similar numbers in each of the lifts, so that the boys had something to focus on when they were making their way towards to hangers. Brains had always told them never to look forward when the lift was descending, as the glass panel was transparent, and watching you hurtled downwards through metres of rock and steel would not only make you feel as dizzy as hell, but would probably turn your stomach. On the very first mission two years ago, John had made the mistake of ignoring the scientist's advice, and had arrived in the hanger unable to walk in a straight line, as green as a garden legume and thoroughly miserable. Scott had found the whole situation hilarious, until the younger Tracy had barfed up all over the pilot's boots.
Feeling the lift slowing to a halt, John allowed his gaze to drift away from the ceiling and gazed out through the transparent screen in front of him. The sight of Thunderbird Two's gleaming green body stole his breath for a moment, as it ever did. The sheer size of her still surprised him, for in memory she never seemed so...impressive. And although she wasn't John's 'bird, he had to admit that she was a damn fine aircraft. There wouldn't be a rescue organisation without Thunderbird Two.
There was a slight shudder as the lift locked into place, before the transparent door slid open and John stepped out onto the metal plates of the catwalk that lead to Thunderbird Two's side access hatch. Breaking into a jog, he heard the loud thudding behind him telling him that his brothers had also arrived. Punching in the access code, he waited for the green doors to slide open, before turning towards his younger teammates.
John glanced towards the younger of the two. "Gordon, load the extra gear into Pod 3. I'll double check to make sure that we have sufficient fire-proof equipment stored in the bay."
Gordon nodded, turning around again and sprinting out of hatch, his feet thundering along the catwalk as he ran back towards his elevator, preparing to descend the extra level so that he could load the equipment. John stepped into International Rescue's primary rescue vehicle, Virgil just behind him.
"Virgil, head up to the bridge and prepare for launch. It's your 'bird, you have command of her. Warm her up for us."
"F.A.B, John."
As his younger brother sprinted off in the direction of the command deck, John sighed again, turning around and walking in the opposite direction down the corridor, heading for the storage bay entrance. It was a room adjacent to the Pod bay where all the general equipment – stretchers and climbing gear, spare uniforms and protective suits; things that would be needed in most rescue missions – was stored. His stomach fluttered nervously, as it always did before the start of a mission. Although he was sure you never really became accustomed to this sort of life, he did have less experience than the rest of his brothers – except Alan, of course. There had been a time, right at the start of International Rescue two years ago, when Thunderbird Five had not yet been completed and he had participated in each and every rescue alongside the three senior Tracy sons. But once Five had been brought online, he'd known he'd found his real place in the organisation. Still, a change of pace was called for every so often, and he had to admit that doing the actual rescuing was a lot more beneficial than watching it all from a space station.
Nodding in satisfaction at the neat rows of equipment, he exited the storage bay and made his way towards the bridge to join his brother.
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Scott zipped up his flight suit, concealing the light t-shirt beneath the heavier fabric. Securing his International Rescue pin in place, he grabbed his gloves out of the closet and jogged into the cockpit of Thunderbird one, pulling a glove onto his right hand hurriedly. Alan grinned over at him from the co-pilot's chair, his blond hair a little more ruffled than usual.
"That took you long enough."
Scott frowned disapprovingly, sliding into his seat and pulling on his other glove. "I've got longer legs than you, Shorty. There's more uniform to put on."
Alan pulled a face. "That," he drawled, "was the most pathetic excuse I've ever heard."
"Whatever," Scott mumbled good-naturedly, reaching above his head and flicking the switches to fire up the energy generators. The panels before him immediately flared into life, a soft high-pitched hum beginning to rise from deep within the body of the aircraft. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Alan reach up and secure the communicator to his left ear, positioning the Mike in the direction of his mouth. Smiling, Scott turned his attention back towards the controls.
He's better than Gordon. It took months for Gords to realise which way up the communicator went. I always thought it was rather obvious, but apparently I was mistaken. Or perhaps Gordon was just doing it to get on my nerves. That wouldn't surprise me. The things that kid used to do when he first became a member of International Rescue...
Half-smiling, half-grimacing at the thought, Scott reached up a hand to his own ear and tapped it with two fingers. "Thunderbird One to base."
"Base here, Scott," his father's voice replied. "Reading you loud and clear."
Scott shifted his position slightly, gripping at the controls of his 'bird, itching to take her up into the sunset skies. "All systems are green. Requesting permission to launch."
"Permission granted. Thunderbird One is clear for launch," his father replied, and Scott heard the usual loud klaxon as the pool began to slide back. Natural sunlight exploded into the darkened hanger and, with a wince, Scott flicked another switch, tinting the glass.
Scott glanced across to make sure that Alan was fastened in correctly, then checked the reading one last time, before pushing forward on the throttle. He felt his stomach shift slightly as the aircraft slowly began to ascend towards the early evening sky, breaking free from its clamps and soaring up and away from Tracy Island. He could feel the power emanating from the magnificent ship; it hummed through his fingers as he gripped the controls, running up his arms and legs like a thousand in waves of euphoria. The adrenaline surged through his bloodstream, keeping him alert and awake, oblivious to anything except the task at hand. Checking to see that he had made it a safe distance away from the island, Scott settled back in his seat and pushed forward on the throttle once again, increasing the speed to maximum. He immediately felt the difference, and smiled as the ocean flew by beneath the belly of his aircraft.
"You really shouldn't fly this close to the water, Scott."
Scott's lips twitched. "Thank you, Virgil."
Adjusting the flaps, he felt her gaining height until he was soaring at level with the clouds. Alan glanced down at the flight diagnostics, nodding his head. Scott allowed himself to smile this time. His brother was right, flying at forty feet at the speed his was currently flying at would not be wise. His father would personally ground him for the rest of his life (and a good portion of the next) if he crashed Thunderbird One over a foolish stunt like that. If they even survived the crash, of course, which would be unlikely.
Shaking his head, Scott moved his thoughts away from such a morbid topic, concentrating instead upon his flying. He glanced over at Alan again, as the teenager established a video-link with Thunderbird 5. Brains' head appeared on the screen, and the scientist broke into a smile, which Alan returned brightly. Scott tried to keep his eyes on the flight data, knowing that small distractions cost lives.
"Hey, Brains. Any more news on the situation?"
"Not yet, Alan. But there's something you and Scott n-n- have to know about the rescue mission. Your father asked me to explain it to you, but I think that it'll be, uh, faster if John summarised the situation instead, since I've already spoken to him on the subject. I need to, uh, c-call the fire chief at the danger zone to, uh, appraise myself of the situation."
Scott nodded, adjusting his angle to compensate for wind speed. "Let us know how things are, Brains. Alan'll patch us through to John."
"F.A.B."
Moments later, a two-way video link had been established between the Thunderbirds vehicles. Scott glanced towards the communications screen briefly.
"I guess you heard that?"
The astronaut nodded. "I'll make it as brief as I can, but you need to understand the dangers involved here. Carbon-syrilium is refined from pure carbon dichromate. During the refining process, it has to be reduced to a viscous liquid substance so that they can remove all the impurities. At this stage, it is highly volatile. It has to be kept in secure anti-static containers, as the slightest spark could ignite the liquid and cause a serious explosion. Now, this poses two major problems to us during the rescue. Firstly, the initial earthquake may have caused damage to one or more of the containers, in which case the smallest flame that it comes into contact with will cause the whole thing to blow. And secondly, the fires that have started as a result of the damaged electrical lines will be producing large amounts of heat. Now, when volatile carbon-syrilium is heated, it forms a vapour. The more vapour it forms, the greater the pressure within the container. And if the pressure gets too much..."
"Boom," Alan concluded softly.
John nodded seriously, his face grim. "Big boom. We want to avoid that at all costs. The activation energy of carbon-syrilium is quite high, so we should be safe for a little while. The quicker we put those fires out, the better. But if the pressure's already too high by the time we get there, there'll be nothing we can do to stop it."
Scott frowned worriedly. He didn't like the idea of sending his younger brothers into a ticking time bomb. Glancing down at the monitors to assure himself that all was well, he sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair.
"Is there any way of knowing which canister is about to blow?"
"I've had a word with the site officials," the astronaut replied, rubbing at his chin absently. "They have monitors connected to all of the canisters. The readings are sent to an energy station about half a mile away, so they won't be affected by the damage that's been caused to the complex itself. They'll be able to supply us with hand-held pressure scanners, which should give us some indication of which canisters are the most volatile."
"Well, that's a something, at least," Scott muttered. "Anything else we need to know?"
"The vapour is toxic if it builds up in the lungs. Our helmets should protect us so long as we use the oxygen tanks instead of the filter. The local rescue and fire crews have enough spares for the survivors, so all we need to focus on is getting the victims outta there."
Scott nodded. "What's your ETA?"
John glanced down at a panel nearby, pausing for a moment to study it. "Forty-one minutes," he stated. "Yours?"
Alan, who had just been ascertaining this exact reading, replied, "Thirty-two minutes, give or take a few seconds."
"Rodger that," John replied, reaching towards the screen. "Keep us posted. Fly safe, guys. Keep him in line, Al."
"F.A.B. Thunderbird One out."
Once the call had terminated, Scott sent his brother a fond look, risking his control over the aircraft as he leaned over and ruffled Alan's hair. Alan frowned and pushed his brother's hand away, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, betraying his amusement.
"Dude, you're flying one of the most advanced pieces of technology known to mankind," he complained. "Is this really a safe time to be doing...doing that."
"Doing what?" Scott countered innocently. "I wasn't doin' anything outta the ordinary, was I?"
"Nope," Alan sighed, flicking a switch on the control panel and activating the backup lighting system - the sun was already beginning to set, and the clouds were a pale orange on the horizon "Sadly, you weren't."
Scott laughed again, glancing down at the guidance readings and adjusting their course accordingly. "Glad to hear it, Al. Glad to hear it."
And so, even as the Tracy boys smiled companionably, the horizon continued to darken and Thunderbird One streaked through the dimming sky towards it. Little did the two pilots know that the night ahead would be full of unforeseen shadows; it was a darkness from which they, and their team members, would struggle to return.
Thanks for reading! That's all for now. The next instalment will be out on Saturday, so tune in for chapter nine!
As always, any feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Have a great week!
