Triple Jeopardy – Chapter 08

Scott's chest was not having a good day.

Neither was the rest of him, but it was his ribcage that had really taken a beating. Initially, it had had to deal with not one, but two breath-expelling drops into the Beetle's five-point safety harness. Now, he'd landed so hard and fast that his pilot seat's automatic-adhesion system had reached its limit and he'd been thrust against his safety belts, for a third time crushing his breath out of him. Thunderbird One's chest strap, the one that Virgil had always said would do more harm than good, felt like it had sliced across his lower ribs.

His leg strap had hurt his already bruised shins too, but with his boots offering a degree of cushioning, it was his torso that had sustained the most punishment. Now he gasped for air, trying to drag in what oxygen he could, before realising that the oxygen mask was hanging close by. He grabbed it clumsily, held it to his face, and took a deep breath.

He needed that.

As the gas coming from the mask re-oxygenated his blood, he began to feel more in control. Still sore, but at least he was able to comprehend that he was alive… Even if he wasn't sure that he could say the same about his ship.

He needed to see what state Thunderbird One was in.

Letting the oxygen mask and what remained of the oxygen go, he released the restraining straps and stood, falling to his left against the sloping floor. He found himself pressed up against the bulkhead and braced himself against it for a moment as he tried to regain his strength and balance.

When he felt strong enough to stand on his own on the uneven surface, he reached out for the switch that opened the door…

-F-A-B-

Gordon was the first one out of the rescue cage and running towards the downed aeroplane's pilot's cabin; Alan, slightly hampered by the medical kit he was carrying, close on his heels.

Gordon stared at the curved sheets of gun-metal grey cahelium that prevented him from seeing that his brother was all right…

Or not. "Stand clear!" He ordered, reaching out for the trigger that would eject the emergency exit.

He was unprepared when the standard entrance hatch slid open and nearly didn't have time to react when his eldest brother spilled out, landing in his arms. He only just managed to keep his footing as he staggered backwards, his wetsuit-clad feet slipping on a small cluster of rocks.

"Scott!" Dropping his bags, Alan grabbed at his brother to steady him. "Are you all right?"

"I'm…" Scott attempted to straighten and grimaced as his bruises pulled. "I'm fine. Just… had… the wind… knocked… out of me. Already had oxygen," he added, gesturing with his thumb into his cabin when he saw Alan reach down for a small cylinder.

"Lie down." Alan attempted to guide his sibling onto the uneven ground.

"I don't need to lie down… I'm all right," Scott protested, pulling his arm free. He sat on the edge of Thunderbird One's entrance hatch frame. "Just give me a minute to catch my breath." He inhaled, staring at his second-youngest brother. "Why are you - in your wetsuit?"

"In case you had to ditch in the ocean."

"What could you have done then?"

Gordon shrugged. "Crossed that bridge when we came to it."

Scott shook his head disbelievingly.

Gordon was about to suggest that they should radio and let everyone know that there was nothing to worry about, aside from a trashed Thunderbird, when Thunderbird Two approached. The roar of her VTOL jets was almost deafening when she swung around until her nose was pointing towards the peak and her tail was jutting over the Pacific Ocean. They had to shield their faces from being sandblasted as, crushing several innocent coconut trees in the process, the mighty transporter landed.

The sand had barely settled and exhaust fumes dissipated, before an entrance hatch opened and John was running towards his siblings. They decided that he must have made the landing in the body of the aircraft as Virgil exited his aeroplane a good five seconds behind him.

Both skidded to a stop with the same breathless query. "Are you all right?"

Scott gave a dismissive wave. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure that I believe you." Gordon folded his arms. "You said that you needed oxygen."

"The landing knocked the wind out of me. Nothing else. I'm fine."

Virgil made an exasperated sound. "That safety harness…"

"Yes, Virgil, that safety harness. That safety harness saved my life and stopped me from being injured. The oxygen was only to get me on my feet again as I got my breath back. You can stop your fussing."

John, however, was unwilling to stop 'fussing'. "If you needed oxygen, then I think Alan should check you over... Just to make sure you're okay."

"Yes." Alan agreed.

"No." Scott rejected.

But John, much to Scott's chagrin, wasn't prepared to give up. "What does your monitor say?"

"My monitor?" Scott eyed his watch with a glance that was barely long enough to take in the readout. "That I'm fine."

"That wasn't much of look. Let me see."

"There's nothing to look at, John."

"I think we should let Alan make that call. He's the chief MO. Show him."

"I don't need to show him."

"C'mon, Scott," Alan begged. "At least let me see your monitor so I can reassure myself, and these guys, that there aren't any issues."

"No." Scott folded his arms, keeping his wristwatch hidden from his interrogators.

"If you don't need to show Alan, then show Alan," Gordon suggested, giving all his brothers a momentary pause for thought. "Then he can reassure us that you're all right… At least until we bring Brains back from Thunderbird Five for a proper examination."

"I don't need Alan or Brains to do anything. I'm all right."

"You may know that, but we don't," Virgil reminded his eldest brother. "And that's because we haven't seen the evidence to prove it."

"The evidence is here; standing in front of you!" Making a sweeping gesture, Scott indicated himself, and let out an exclamation of annoyed protest when John grabbed his watch arm. Scott pulled the limb free before his brother had the opportunity to push any buttons. "This is my body that we're talking about and I know better than you guys that it's okay. I don't need to show you, or anyone, anything!"

But Alan was as unconvinced as their brothers. "If you'd rather," he offered, "we can go somewhere private. These guys don't have to watch."

"They won't be watching because there's nothing to watch, because there's not going to be an examination, because there doesn't need to be one!"

"Or…" Alan persisted, with all the stubbornness that he displayed at a rescue, "one of the others can check you over. I don't mind, and it's not like they don't have the knowledge nor experience. I'm only the medic because I've got the most up-to-date certificate."

"And he's desperate to show his stuff before the ink dries," Gordon added. "Humour him, Scott."

"I'm not humouring anyone. Alan may have the most advanced medical knowledge of us all, but that doesn't mean he's going to give me a complete physical just because I've got a couple of bruises."

"If it'll make you happier, we'll hide the rectal thermometer first."

"Gordon…"

Alan, realising that 'humour' and stubbornness weren't getting them anywhere, decided to try 'loving, but stern'. "Sorry, Scott, but you're not the arbiter here. I am as chief MO. You know as well as I do that it's Dad's rule that the MO has the last word and none of us are going to go against it. We," he indicated the group, "all agree that you should be checked over. For our own peace of mind…"

Scott snapped. "NO!" He looked disgusted with his brothers. "Geez… And you guys have the cheek to complain about me being a mother hen."

What followed was an awkward silence as Scott's brethren looked at each other and wondered how they could broach the subject again without increasing his ire even further.

"Ah…" Gordon decided he'd risk making another suggestion. "Shouldn't we let base and Thunderbird Five know Scott's okay… Or at least standing?"

"Finally: a sensible suggestion!" Scott exclaimed. "Call Brains, John."

"But…"

"Everyone must be worried sick by now," Gordon theorised. "The last they heard you were being chased by a flying broomstick."

Scott frowned. "Huh?"

"Brains confirmed that it was Whitney's design and we agreed that it looked like a witch's broomstick."

Deciding that this line of thought had the potential to lead into an inane discussion, one he didn't have the energy to continue with; and believing that their disagreement had been sorted, Scott resumed the mantle of coordinator. "Let's check out the damage to Thunderbird One. If it's possible…"

"Scott…"

Scott ignored John's attempted interruption. "…to airlift her out of here, we will…"

"Scott…"

"I don't want to leave her unattended."

"Listen…"

"And I don't want to leave any debris behind."

"Scott."

"We still don't know why I was attacked by that craft…"

Scowling, John gave an exasperated shake of his head and looked at Virgil.

…Who decided that he should at least attempt to let their siblings know that John had important information to share. "Scott…"

He too was ignored. "…and we don't want to take the chance that it was someone after International Rescue's secrets."

"Scott."

"Once we've found everything…"

"Scott! Will you listen to…"

"I've listened to you Virgil, and I'm not going to again until you say something sensible."

"Sensible? Just don't blame…"

Scott turned his back on his elder two brothers and continued addressing the two youngest. "How long's the debris field?"

After a glance at a frustrated pair of siblings, who were both glowering at the rescue coordinator, Alan pointed towards the ocean. "You left part of the tail unit on the beach. The rest of it's polluting the ocean somewhere."

"And… the starboard wing's disappeared," Gordon added. "It's in the trees..." He waved his hand in the direction of the forest on the other side of the rocket plane. "Somewhere."

Scott nodded his understanding. "We'll need to retrieve what we can. And that includes the wing."

"We've got to find it first."

"It's a dirty, great, big, hunk of metal," Alan reminded them all. "How hard can it be to lose?"

"Then let's find out. I'll go this way," Gordon volunteered, "and you can go the other. Meet you back here in ten minutes." He disappeared around Thunderbird One's nose.

In the brief silence that followed, John saw his chance. "Scott!"

"What!?" Scott snapped. "I thought I told you to radio base, John."

"And I've been trying to tell you that I can't!"

"Why not?!" Scott snapped again, and then, realising that he was over-reacting, softened his tone. "Sorry. Why can't you?"

"Because, as Virgil and I have been trying to tell you; but you were being so pig-headed that you were refusing to listen; when you crashed, the impact must have switched Mobile Control on."

Scott frowned. "But you said Mobile Control was toast."

"Not the primary module in Thunderbird Two. The auxiliary unit that you were carrying."

"Brains told me that you two were having problems. It's that bad?"

"Yes."

"Whoa! Back up the Thunderbird and let us all get on board," Alan interjected. "Why is the auxiliary unit being switched on a problem?"

"Because there's a fault in the system," John explained. "Initially it appeared to be confined to the Comm-Loc unit, but after the lightning strike the whole system's gone haywire."

"How?"

"Mobile Control was hit by dry lightning, which fried it."

"I know that. Two's hold smells of burnt electronics."

"When it happened, the Mark II got zapped by the energy pulse. Afterwards it was disrupting all our radio communications as well as global positioning data."

"What do you mean disrupting?"

"I mean that Thunderbird Five had to reboot to reset her systems."

"And now?" Alan switched on his watch.

"And now it's impossible to radio home." To prove his point, John raised his watch arm to display a screen of static. Then, as his brothers checked their own timepieces, continued. "Thunderbird Two's stronger radio signal managed to reach Thunderbird Five, but communications were so disjointed that it was as good as useless."

Virgil nodded. "And Thunderbird Two was registering that it was located somewhere inside the core of Mt Everest."

"And this glitch will be affecting Thunderbird Five too?" Alan asked.

"Yep." John sighed. "Brains must be stressing to the max. So long as the Mark II's still transmitting, he can't reach us. He won't even be able to radio base."

"In that case…" Alan folded his arms and gave his elder brother a what are you waiting for look. "Shut it down."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'll show you." John led the way to the cargo hold further back down Thunderbird One.

Scott, after a moment's hesitation and with a quiet groan as he reluctantly regained his footing, followed.

"See…" John ran his hand along the join that marked the storage hold's hatch's boundary to where it disappeared into the dirt-covered airbag. "I can't get in to shut it down."

Crouching down, Alan examined the problem himself. "Can we re-right Thunderbird One by re-inflating the airbag?"

"It was probably holed during the landing, but we'll give it a go."

With a thoughtful frown on his face, Virgil evaluated Thunderbird One's situation. "Her hull's curvature may mean that the jacks in Thunderbird Two can't get the purchase required to bring her to the vertical… But…" He evaluated the open area around them. "…if we have the room and we can use the Firefly's blade to assist them and stop her rolling… It might be possible."

"We'll start by seeing if we can re-inflate the bag," Scott instructed him. "Do you want to get the air-pump, Virgil?"

"F-A-B." Virgil headed back to Thunderbird Two, stopping when he thought he heard a noise above them. Scanning the skies for the source of the sound he saw nothing and heard no change in pitch nor speed. Deciding that it had to be a commercial flight that wouldn't have even seen the island, let alone International Rescue, he continued walking.

-F-A-B-

Far above the five men of International Rescue, the source of their troubles examined a video of the scene below him.

The Hood had long heard of this craft that had been designed by one Terrance Whitney. Like others, including Lady Penelope, he'd instructed his network of spies to seek out any information about this aeroplane that was rumoured to be as fast as, if not faster than, any terrestrial craft in the Thunderbird fleet.

And if that rumour was true, The Hood wanted that aeroplane.

So, when his spies told him that there was evidence that the aircraft had been manufactured and test flown, The Hood knew that this was the time to act. Act before the rest of the world learnt of this treasure and claimed it for their own.

Achieving his goal had taken something that The Hood had in short supply: trust. He'd trusted one individual to infiltrate the clandestine aircraft building facility and install his own programme into the aeroplane's onboard computer. Of course, the fact that The Hood was holding that individual's mother hostage, had done wonders to ensure the man's unwavering compliance.

The woman had been released; dumped in a remote location with only a tracking beacon to keep her company; when The Hood received word that the new aircraft was under his control.

Delighted with his new toy, he'd had a practise run by bombing the factory where it had been assembled. Partly to ensure that no one could follow him; partly to destroy everything relating to the aeroplane; but mainly for the pure joy of it.

He'd thought that his day couldn't have got any better, when he got the news.

International Rescue were in Australia.

If there was one aircraft that could match his new toy for speed, it was Thunderbird One. However, if he could knock that ship out of the skies before International Rescue were even aware of the new craft's existence, then those skies would be his and his alone.

And so The Hood had programmed Whitney's craft, turning it into an aviation bloodhound. It had sniffed out the unsuspecting Thunderbird One and followed it doggedly, no matter what the cursed pilot threw at it. And all the while The Hood had followed behind at a safe distance in his hoverjet.

At first The Hood had raged when his initial attempt at aerial dominance had failed. But then he told himself to calm down and re-evaluate the situation.

He prided himself on being fast thinking, adaptable, and willing to forego one goal when better one presented itself. Ridding the world of the supersonic Thunderbird One had been his aim; an act of revenge and to extinguish a possible aerial competitor; but that goal had been forgotten when a better proposition had presented itself.

Thunderbird Two.

Whitney's creation and Thunderbird One were the scalpels of the aviation world. Fast, razor-sharp and, when in the hands of a skilled operator, able to cut through the air cleanly and with surgical precision. But, ultimately, designed for only one task. Speed.

By comparison, Thunderbird Two was a flying Swiss Army Knife. She may have been slower than the other two aeroplanes, but she was still one of the three fastest aircraft in the world. Plus, she had the advantage of being able to carry more and, and The Hood was sure of this, had lots of other useful secrets waiting for him to discover.

Having sent the two fastest aircraft on the planet to their gravitational doom, The Hood reset his goal and dropped out of his hoverjet, allowing the craft to continue flying; not caring where it landed, what it intercepted, nor what damage it did when it finally crashed to Earth.

Thunderbird Two was on the ground, unattended, and would soon be his.

-F-A-B-

"Has your cabin sustained much damage?" Alan asked.

"No." Trying to keep his movements looking natural, Scott began the walk back to the entrance hatch. "She's built to last."

"Just as well. I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Dad and Grandma that you'd killed yourself."

"No chance of that." Scott stopped at the door. "See for yourself."

Alan leant inside to take a look around. "A pity the floor's not as gimballed as your seat."

"Yeah. That's why I fell out. I lost my balance."

John had crouched down and was examining what he could see of the airbag beneath the rocket plane. "I can't see any tears or holes. We might be lucky."

"I hope so…" Scott indicated a figure walking towards them, a large unit carried on his back like a pack. "And it looks like we're about to find out."

They all forgot about the airbag when Virgil, without warning, collapsed to the ground…

And didn't move.

-F-A-B-

The Hood grinned. That was one of his opponents out of the way. And the way that neither that man, nor any of the others, had been looking in the direction that he'd arrived, clearly none of them had heard his arrival via his hover-jetpack. He might be making up his plan as he went along, but it was clear that the gods were on his side. Today, things were going his way.

Time to rid himself of the other three obstructions to his goal. Raising his gun, he fired; firstly at the dark-haired International Rescue operative with the pale blue sash, then at the one trimmed in identifying purple, and finally the one with the white adornments.

One by one the men of International Rescue, with little chance to react to the way their colleagues were dropping like flies, collapsed onto the rocky and sandy ground.

If he'd known that the pile of bodies was the only source of opposition to his plans, The Hood would have laughed. But he couldn't take the chance that there might be others nearby. Even though his information told him that there were no more…

-F-A-B-

It was a hot day, and Gordon was wishing that he was wearing something other than his wetsuit. Ideal as it was for cleaving through the water, it was too uncomfortable to wear when stumbling through coconut palm forest looking for a damaged wing. Hoping there were no biting insects about to feast on his torso, he pulled his arms out of the costume and tied it around his waist, before deciding that the ten minutes were up and he'd better return to the clearing with the suggestion that they use Thunderbird Two to find the wing.

It was then that he heard the shout. A single word yelled in triplicate and in alarm.

"Virgil!"

But then there were no other sounds. No shouts in response. No yelps of surprise. No words of protest. No exclamations of concern. No calls to Gordon to come and assist.

It was unnerving… And concerning.

Gordon hurried back to where he'd last seen his brothers.

Face to face with a rocket plane that had been shot out of the sky, he found himself wondering why their unknown attacker had taken so long to down Thunderbird One and why they'd deserted the crashed aeroplane.

That was if they had.

And if it was the people behind Whitney's broomstick who'd knocked Scott out of the drama, Gordon knew that he'd better be careful to ensure that he didn't get caught up in the plot.

But first he needed to know what that plot was. Making the most of the foliage that surrounded him, he crept closer to Thunderbird One. Keeping hidden, he checked the length of the rocket plane, relieved to discover that no one was exploring the edge of the coconut plantation.

But, although this was good, he realised that it was also at a huge disadvantage, in that he had a long gunmetal grey cylinder between him and getting a good look at the clearing. He'd have to take a chance, run the risk of being spotted as he dashed from his cover, and then try to find a vantage point where he could see without being seen.

Keeping low, Gordon dashed across to Thunderbird One. Placing his hands upon her hull, he realised that he couldn't feel the familiar vibrations that pulsed through her when she was in operational mode. This was either a bad sign that she was as good as dead, or a good sign, that no miscreants were trying and succeeding to bring her back to life.

It was about then that Gordon realised that he'd been assuming that whatever had happened had been caused by human beings. What if there was some unknown, potentially deadly, animal prowling on the other side, holding his brothers at bay? Or what if it wasn't the animal subset of the animal, vegetable, or mineral trilogy. What if it was some poisonous herb, or toxic rock that had alarmed his brothers and then rendered them silent?

There was only one way to find out.

Creeping down Thunderbird One's length to her nosecone, Gordon discovered that he'd made an error of judgement. The conical point was buried in a grove of trees and he couldn't see around her without risking being spotted.

Time to hike the thirty-five metres to her tail. He covered the distance at speed, whilst trying to be as quiet as the proverbial mouse. Once there, he crouched down and peered through where the tail unit would have been if it wasn't a tangled pile of metal on the beach.

He saw what had caused the shout of distress from his brothers.

It was an animal… Of the human kind.

A strange, bald man bent over Virgil's prone figure and Gordon had the feeling that he wasn't about to perform first aid on the unconscious man. In fact, the inspection that the stranger seemed to be making, appeared to be solely to ascertain what the air-pump on Virgil's back was for and if it had any value.

And Gordon couldn't help but notice that Virgil was limp and unresisting as his arms were pulled up and behind him. He showed no signs of reacting to the stranger's attentions as he flopped onto the sands and his limbs fell down; landing awkwardly on his back.

Still, as his brother was roughly manhandled, and the air-pump removed and placed to one side, Gordon was relieved to see an absence of blood, wounds, or any indication of what had rendered Virgil unconscious.

Then Gordon's heart began to thump. The man appeared to be readying some kind of injection device, and Gordon knew that he didn't want it anywhere near his brother.

Time to take some action.

His right hand automatically stole to his right hip, hunting out his stunning rescue pistol.

His fingers made contact with a neoprene-style substance.

With no other weapon at hand, Gordon crouched down, picked up a stone, and hurled it towards Thunderbird Two. It hit the craft's side with a clang that was loud enough for the man to stop what he was doing and hunker down; listening for any signs of danger.

Throwing rocks wasn't going to achieve anything long term, and Gordon cast his mind about for another solution. Thunderbird One's entrance hatch was out of the question, but one of the many that accessed Thunderbird Two could be another matter. And once inside, Gordon had all sorts of miscellaneous tools that he could utilise, and the devious trickster mind to make them count… If he could make it there without the mysterious man seeing him, and before the fiend did whatever he'd planned to Virgil, or any of his brothers.

Retreating into the coconut trees, Gordon left the shelter of Thunderbird One and made his way along the treeline until he was level with Thunderbird Two and out of sight of the stranger. After one final check that no one could see him, he made his dash across to the great green bulk of the aeroplane before him.

He made the mistake of looking to his right.

Lying there, close to Thunderbird One's entrance hatch, lay a pile of sky-blue uniforms: his brothers. They looked to be as immobile, and therefore unconscious, as Virgil.

This left Gordon as the only one available to affect a rescue.

He'd reached out to the electronic plate that would read his palm and let him gain entry to the aircraft, when he heard something buzzing to his right…

-F-A-B-

That sudden, unexplained noise was suspicious. It sounded like a solid object hitting the side of Thunderbird Two. The great aeroplane's projecting nose protected her hull from objects falling vertically after being dropped by a bird, and the area before it was too exposed for something natural to strike it without him seeing what had caused it.

Was he not alone?

His research; some conducted via personal attempts to get more information, some from reports from minions in the field; told him that usually only two International Rescue operatives would attend a rescue. If specialised equipment, such as Thunderbird Four was required, then a third would also attend. An unknown number would man a space-bound Thunderbird Three.

But neither Thunderbird Three nor Four would have been of any use at an Australian bushfire.

All the information that The Hood had at his disposal told him that the most operatives that International Rescue would ever take to a rescue was four.

There were four bodies lying before him.

Assisting The Hood's assumption that there shouldn't have been more than four men here, was a report from Sheppegie, sent before his spy on the ground was moved on by the local authorities. The report had read that only four men had arrived to evacuate those remaining at the solar cloud complex, plus the note that, once it had become clear that he had no chance of remaining behind and gathering more information, the spy had flown out in his hoverjet.

Four International Rescue operatives at Sheppegie. Four International Rescue operatives lying in crumpled heaps on the sand around him. There shouldn't be anyone else watching and forming a plan of attack against him.

But maybe his information was incorrect?

Maybe today was the proverbial 'exception that proved the rule'?

Maybe International Rescue had anticipated that the Australia rescue would be bigger than a standard crew could handle?

And if this was the case, the man who had left the scene before every scrap of information had been gleaned would pay dearly. But, in the meantime, The Hood had to make sure that there was no one to upset his plans.

Opening the bag from which he'd withdrawn the syringe, the criminal mastermind withdrew four coin-sized devices and a bigger control box. Flipping a switch on the control box set the coins humming and another switch saw them take to the air. Two zoomed behind The Hood, in the direction of Thunderbird One's nose cone but on differing sides of the clearing, whilst the others flew forwards. Once this pair reached Thunderbird Two, they split up; flying in opposite directions around the aeroplane.

Watching a small screen on the control panel, The Hood was surprised, and yet not so, to see someone reaching out for a spot on Thunderbird Two's hull. Speeding up the spy that had made the discovery, he sent it zeroing in on what had to be a fifth member of International Rescue…

-F-A-B-

Ow! Gordon had the presence of mind to not vocalise the pain and shock he felt when the flying insect rammed itself against his bare torso. But that didn't stop him from thinking it.

Nor again when it turned on him for a second attack.

And a third…

Desperate to avoid the flying menace without letting the man in front of Thunderbird Two know he was there, and without the time to pull the protective wetsuit up over his chest, Gordon took a step backwards. His second step had his wetsuited foot losing traction. He didn't have the time to register that something had pulled on the neoprene-like material at his waist before he was lying on his back, staring up at Thunderbird Two's wing…

And the boring eyes of the man who'd been about to do something with a syringe to Virgil.

"Do not move…" The grim mouth below those eyes gave a malicious grin. "So… International Rescue did have five operatives in Australia." The eyes narrowed. "Or are there more?"

No. "Of course, there are more," Gordon bluffed, hoping that his years of practical jokes were going to assist him in the execution of his lie. "Thunderbird Two's full of them. And they'll be watching us as we speak."

"You lie."

Yes. "Do you want to take that chance?"

"Get to your feet."

You're not going to order me about… But then, lying on your back isn't the most practical position to be in when facing someone who's disabled your brothers. With evident reluctance, Gordon obeyed.

"Look at me."

Gordon refused. Think, Gordon, think! There must be a way to overcome him!

Almost as if he had heard his thoughts, The Hood gave another malicious grin, and flicked the controller with his thumb.

This time four mechanical insects made a beeline for him and Gordon found himself almost forced forward away from them and into The Hood's arms.

"Look into my eyes…"

It had been the last thing that Gordon had vowed he'd do, but his eyes met those boring ones for a microsecond…

A microsecond that lengthened into a millisecond, which turned into a second, which found Gordon drawn into those staring eyes… Those glowing staring eyes…

"You will obey me."

No way… Gordon gave a slow nod.

"Are there more than five of you on this island?"

You must be able to resist him. Don't tell him anything! Gordon shook his head.

"Can you fly Thunderbird Two?"

Yes. Fighting against the hypnotist's power, Gordon managed a stilted shake of his head.

The Hood glared at him. "You lie."

Yes.

"Therefore, you can fly this craft."

I can, but I won't.

The Hood appraised Gordon's costume. "You are wearing a wet suit. You are the pilot of Thunderbird Four?"

Thunderbird Four's not on board, thank heavens. I won't let your filthy mitts anywhere near her.

The Hood appeared unperturbed by the lack of response. "Now. I shall repeat my question, and you will answer with the truth. Are you able to fly Thunderbird Two?"

Nope. I'm the aviation idiot of the team. But, as The Hood's eyes seemed to bore into him, the Tracy nodded. Stop this, Gordon!

"I thought as much. You will show me to the flight deck."

No way! You're not going anywhere inside any of our craft. His steps wooden and puppet-like, Gordon walked around to the door that led to the most direct route to the aviation heart of the aeroplane.

"Do not move."

I can't move! Gordon found himself frozen in place as his enemy ran some kind of light over Thunderbird Two's exterior.

The Hood gave an evil grin as the light reflected off a collection of smudges on the hull. "Palm recognition software. Such a shame …" His predatory grin turned on Gordon. "…for you… that the oils from your hands stand out like a beacon under my light. It means that it will be easy to gain access to your craft. All it will take is the assistance of a powerful laser…" Pulling something that fitted into the palm of his hand out of his pocket, he gave a mirthless chuckle. "Sometimes the old ways are best…" He held the object in front of Gordon's eyes and pressed a button.

A laser beam shot out.

"And now…" Grabbing the younger man's hand, The Hood turned the bare arm palm up. The laser was held across the exposed wrist and Gordon fancied he felt its heat cut into his skin. "…You will give me the power to access your craft whenever I wish."

No... Gordon felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, but was powerless to stop the man who had a vicelike grip of his wrist.

"I can feel your pulse..." The Hood gave a malevolent grin. "For now..."

Stop this!

"You fear me. And so you should." The laser grew in intensity.

Don't….

Please…

To be continued…