Triple Jeopardy – Chapter 11

Lady Penelope regarded the sleek craft before her. At present she required several things in an aeroplane. Speed. Distance. Availability. And vertical take off and landing.

This craft, the S-402, offered all but the final requirement... In a fashion.

"The B-1023 is quicker," the helpful hire company attendant, who showed no signs of being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by a titled lady, told her. "But it holds less fuel and can't travel as far."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope murmured.

"H-Anything made by Tracy H-Aviation?" Parker queried.

"Ah." The attendant beamed. "Nothing but the best, huh?"

Lady Penelope declined to explain that they knew Jeff Tracy personally. "Do you have anything from their stable?"

"Yes..." But the moment's uplifting feeling was quickly quashed. "But, as I said, they're the best. It seems that we no sooner have a TA returned to us, when we're hiring it out again. What you really want, even if it's only a good second best, is the L-889," the attendant continued. "It has all your criteria."

Lady Penelope perked up. "May we see one?"

"Sorry, we hired out our only model yesterday. It's due back tomorrow," the attendant glanced at his watch, "ah, today; if you can wait," he concluded helpfully.

This wasn't helpful at all, Lady Penelope mused. She had been presented with such a wide array of aircraft that she was beginning to feel a trifle bamboozled. She wished she could contact Scott Tracy to ask his advice, and then remembered with a pang of concern the reason why she was making this transaction.

"We shall take the S-402," she declared.

"Perfect," the attendant confirmed, even though Lady Penelope felt that the S-402 was anything but. "If you would care to come through to our office, we can exchange papers. How long do you wish to hire the S-402 for?"

How long indeed? "That is indeterminate," Lady Penelope told the man. "I shall pay for a week in advance. If we have not returned this excellent craft by the end of this time, you may contact my accountant." The one she used for financial dealings such as this. Lady Penelope preferred to keep a close watch on her own finances. "I shall instruct her to pay your any outstanding duties forthwith."

"That sounds satisfactory, Lady Penelope," the attendant enthused. "If you would care to follow me to my office..."

As they walked towards the stark grey building, Parker stepped up, so he wasn't the customary two steps behind his mistress. "H-Are you sure h-it's good h-enough?" he whispered close to her ear. "H-It ain't got VTOL. We won't be h-able to land h-if they need 'elp."

"I am aware of this, but as the saying goes: beggars can't be choosers. We may at least be able to reassure the Tracys and offer suggestions for rescue."

A short time later she was airborne in the S-402 and returning to the airfield closest to the Creighton-Ward Manor. Knowing that even with FAB1's speed and Parker's driving skill she still had an hour to prepare herself, Lady Penelope caught a taxi home, confirmed that her maid had followed her orders with regards to the packing of her travel bags, and then set about packing another. This case contained nothing that the maid had any knowledge of and was filled with the various paraphernalia an agent of International Rescue might require. Including instruments that were, she checked before she loaded them into the bag, at present useless.

Parker arrived home. "Can H-I do h-anything for you, m'Lady?"

"Pack your bags as quickly as you can, Parker. I shall see if Lil has prepared our meals for us. We shall eat on the wing."

"Very good, m'Lady." Parker respectfully withdrew to pack his singular backpack. What 'er Ladyship didn't seem to understand was that not everyone required a year's worth of kit just for a jaunt halfway around the world.

He was in the well-lit garage in double quick time, loading FAB1 with his mistress' bags and several large hampers full of food. Startled by the amount of provisions the aircraft was expected to carry, he turned to Lady Penelope. "Ain't Lil gone h-overboard?"

"Dear me, no. I told her to pack several meals to sustain us on the flight. I also told her that we were meeting up with the younger members of the Tracy family. Accordingly, she has packed enough to feed a small army."

"But we don't 'ave VTOL," Parker reminded her again. "H-Assumin' that this h-island ain't got h-an h-airfield h-and they ain't crashed h-into the sea, 'ow h-are we going to get the food to them?"

Lady Penelope held up a small pack. "Parachute."

"H-Of course," Parker grumbled, as he hefted the heavy hamper into the well-lit body of the car. "H-Ask h-a stoopid question."

-F-A-B-

John Tracy examined the mess of wires, electrodes, and other communications paraphernalia spread out before him on a small panel ripped from Thunderbird One's hull. "I think that's as good as we're going to get," he looked up at Scott. "The only problem is that it doesn't have any speakers."

His brother shifted uncomfortably. "Speakers?"

"This radio has got three settings: off, transmit, and receive."

"How's it powered?"

"By our watches' batteries." John felt a moment's concern. Scott had watched him carefully remove the tiny but powerful power packs from each timepiece.

"Transmit?"

"Morse code." Scott frowned and John could imagine what he was thinking. Morse code had been relegated to the annals of history earlier in the century and was no longer taught to communications' operators. "I'm hoping that even with all the static, Brains will be able to pick it up on Thunderbird Five."

Scott didn't comment on the weakness of the hypothesis.

"I know, there are many reasons why this system won't work," John admitted. "Chief of which is that we have no way of hearing any replies."

"No speakers."

"Yes."

Scott nodded. Then he attempted to regain his feet, groaning as he did so. Taking care to avoid disrupting his carefully assembled handiwork, John leapt up and assisted him.

With a nod of thanks, Scott stumbled, (John assuming that like his own, his brother's legs had gone to sleep), towards the back of the cabin. Pressing his palm against a panel, a small hidden locker sprung open. This locker, generally considered to be too small to be of any real use, had been disguised as a regular part of the bulkhead.

Curious, John watched as, with a grimace as whatever he was after caught on the frame, Scott pulled a pair of 20th century headphones from out of the locker. "Any good?"

John accepted the relics and inspected them. "Yes." He looked back up. "What are they?"

"Virg's not only one with a lucky charm."

John had meant what was their significance, but he didn't push it. "I thought you kept your secret stash of chocolate in there."

There was almost a chuckle. "I do," Scott admitted. "I forgot. You can tell Gordon."

Alan stuck his head inside the hatch. "Gordon's almost got dinner cooked." He looked up at Scott. "How're you feeling?"

Scott eyed up the obstacle that was the exit from his craft. "Fine."

Having placed the headphones reverentially on the pilot's chair, and with no visible signs of effort, John jumped out. "That's a long drop and we need a step out here," he claimed. "Give us a hand with this rock, Alan." He looked back inside to where his elder brother hesitated just inside the door. "You can stay there and tell us the best place to put it."

Alan crouched down next to the rock and eased his fingers beneath it. "What's wrong?" he hissed.

"Scott's breathing," John responded, equally quietly. "You can hear it."

"Has he complained about it?"

"No, but I've been listening to it get louder and louder all afternoon."

As they shifted the rock closer to the door, Alan analysed what he'd been told. When John was in full-on concentration mode, he could rival Brains for his ability to block out any outside influences. Either assembling a Heath Robinson-style radio out of a mess of parts didn't take much in the way of concentration... Or Scott wasn't as "fine" as he was letting on. "How's that?" he asked the man hovering in the door to the cabin.

"Fine." Scott stepped down onto the newly installed step and then the ground.

John slapped his hands together in satisfaction. "I'm going to check out the latrine. Meet you at the fire."

"Okay," Alan agreed. "Tell Virgil dinner's ready, would you?"

John, following the sounds of industrious digging, found Virgil chest deep in a hole. Bemused, he stopped and watched.

Virgil had stripped his shirt off, allowing ribbons of sweat to roll past the muscles on his back, and John guessed that his brother was putting all his energies into the task so that he didn't have to think about how he was worried about his family; worried about Thunderbird Two; worried about Scott…

"Hoping to dig all the way to China?"

Surprised by the interruption, Virgil straightened and stared at his brother. "Huh?"

"How long do you think we're going to be stuck here?"

Virgil looked at the latrine as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh… I guess I got carried away."

Leaning down, John held out his hand. "I'd guess you have too."

Virgil sighed and grabbed the proffered hand, hauling himself out of the hole. He kicked at a stone with his boot, dislodging it from the wall and knocking it into his newest creation. "How's Scott?"

"Being Scott. Pretending he's fine when he clearly isn't." John indicated in the direction of their campsite. "Dinner's nearly ready. You might want to have a wash before you eat."

Virgil rotated his bare shoulders and rubbed his grimy neck. "Good, idea. Tell the others I'll be there soon." He regarded the latrine. "It's too big, isn't it?"

"Depends on what you want to use it for." John gave the long hole another appraising look. "If nothing else, and we get the chance, it's just the right size to bury a Thunderbird thief."

Virgil chuckled. "Preferably after we've used it a few times."

John retraced his steps to where Gordon had built a campfire, finding the younger man scraping some leaf-wrapped packages out of the embers. "Been fishing?"

"Yeah." Having used the scalpel to carve holes into their coconuts and a few others that were stacked off to the side, Gordon had used another thread of the survival bracelet's inner core to lash the blade to the branch. This had made a tolerable lance, and once he'd managed to spear a few fish he'd used the knife to scale, gut, and bone them. The guts he'd put aside as bait for future fishing expeditions. "You're just in time. The wrapping's dry."

Alan, who'd made the short walk from Thunderbird One's cabin whilst questioning Scott about how he was feeling and had received the questionable answer that everything was "fine", frowned at the green parcel. "Are you sure they're edible?"

"Of course, they are."

"Sure?"

"Alan! They're only mackerel!"

"It's just that I can't help thinking about those Japanese fish that are poisonous if you prepare them the wrong way."

Gordon, affronted by the perceived slight of his taxonomy and culinary skills, glared at him. "I guarantee that they're edible. The worst that's likely to happen is that you'll get a bone stuck in your throat. If you don't want to take the risk, you can have an energy bar." He tossed one at Alan, before turning to his eldest brother. "Here's your throne, your Majesty." He indicated the flat-topped rock that Scott had been sitting on earlier; a shallow channel marking where he'd dragged it from its original location to its new place next to the warmth of the campfire.

Instead of complaining that he didn't need special treatment, Scott lowered himself onto his designated seat. "Where's Virgil?"

John jerked his thumb in the direction of the shoreline. "He's washing up. He's been taking his frustrations out in his digging."

The object of discussion wandered up to the fire; stopping before he reached the group. "What's that?"

Alan frowned. "What's what?"

"That." Virgil pointed at a grey, technical-looking box that none of the Tracys had noticed, nor recognised.

Gordon grinned as his brother bent down to examine the unknown object. "A little present for you. Probably left by the fairies that live on this island."

"Huh?"

"I found it in the bushes."

"You found it?"

"Yeah."

"Gordon," John growled. "It hasn't been a great day. We're all tired. We're all frustrated. We're all worried. And we're all starving. And – if you keep on making us all guess – we're all going to bury you in Virgil's latrine. Now… What is it?"

"It's a hover-jetpack," Virgil told him.

"Yep." Gordon gave a sharp nod. "It's probably how that guy managed to arrive on the island without us noticing. I found it on my food hunt, and I've given it a quick once over. It appears to work, but I was thinking that maybe you…" he nodded at Virgil, "could give it a full check and see if you can do something useful with it."

"Like fly us all off this island?"

"I'm optimistic, but I'm not an optimistic idiot. That's why I was leaving its uses up to you."

"Right… I'll think about it once I've fed my brain." Virgil threw his shirt on the ground and sat on it. "What's for dinner?"

"Mackerel, energy bars, and coconut for dessert."

"Sounds delicious."

"I know where Scott keeps his stash of chocolate," John announced.

Gordon grinned. "That can be breakfast."

Deciding that he was hungry enough to chance it, Alan had removed the leaves from around his fish. The skin peeled away with the green covering leaving the white, perfectly cooked flesh and he had to admit that it looked and smelt good; but that could have been because he'd had little to eat all day. "Is the latrine finished?" he asked.

"Finished!" John laughed. "My advice to everyone is to use it with care. If you fall in, we'll never get you out."

Virgil ignored him. "It could do with some kind of shelter around it, but that can wait till later."

"Which dinner can't," Gordon rolled a leafy parcel towards him. "Eat up."

The brothers tucked into their meal, surprised at how tasty the fish was, a pleasant foil to the energy bars. Not regarded by the boys as one of Brains' greatest achievements, the bars had plenty of vitamins, plenty of fibre, plenty of protein, and a complete absence of taste.

Having finished his fish to the tune of an unmusical rasping sound and noticing that one member of the group wasn't eating, Virgil decided to risk either the repetitious answer or being snapped at. "How're you feeling, Scott?"

Scott shrugged. "Little tired." He dragged in a breath. "Dog fight took it out of me." Deciding that he'd had enough, he slid the wrapper around what remained of his energy bar for later consumption. As he shifted on his seat, he made a face that could have been a grimace.

Gordon watched him, noting that his brother's fish hadn't been touched. "Aren't you hungry?"

Scott shook his head and indicated the bar. "Gives me indigestion."

His four brothers glanced at each other. This was from a man who had been known to wolf down four energy bars in one sitting with no complaint.

"Is your chest hurting you?" John checked.

Scott hesitated as he decided what he should answer. Then he nodded.

"I found some analgesics when I was tidying up One's cabin. Do you want one?"

There was the hesitation and the nod again.

"Back in a moment." John was as good as his word. "Erm... We've only got parannarol."

Scott made another face; this one of disgust. "Nothing else?"

"It's the only one that I'd confidently say hasn't been contaminated." John handed the small packet over.

"Here's some coconut water to wash them down." Virgil held out husk covered seed.

Scott accepted the drink but didn't take the pills. "You know what parannarol does."

Gordon snuffled a laughed. "I'll say. Dad's only just plucked up the courage to go back."

"If I take this," Scott, who'd already made the decision that he was going to – not that he'd tell his brothers that – said, "you must promise not to repeat anything I say or do..." He paused, chest heaving slightly. "To anyone!"

There was an immediate: "We promise," from Virgil and John, and a slightly belated echo from the younger two.

"Gordon..." John warned.

"I said that I promise!"

"Show us your hands when you make that promise. You too, Alan."

Indignant, Alan folded his arms. "Don't you trust us?"

"Not with something like this."

Grudgingly, both of the younger Tracys held their hands before them and intoned: "We promise not to repeat anything Scott says or does."

"To anyone," John told them. "What's said and done on this island stays on this island."

"To anyone," his brothers chorused, to which Alan added an indignant huff.

Scott popped two of the pills into his mouth, took a sip of coconut water, and swallowed.

The others waited to see the results.

The first and, as far as Scott had been concerned until now, the only time that he'd taken parannarol had been after a trip to the family dentist when he'd been in the Air Force. Jeff, glad to have his eldest son home, even if only briefly, had willingly offered to collect him after his appointment, with the intention of enjoying a convivial morning tea in the Tracys' favourite café afterwards.

That plan had gone out of the window almost as soon as he'd arrived at the clinic, to be met by drunken, bawdy, singing.

"I'm afraid that's your son, Mr Tracy," the receptionist had admitted. "He seems to have had a reaction to the pain relief. It's almost like he's dr... ah... intoxicated."

"Hiya, Pops!" Scott had staggered out of the room, thrown his arm drunkenly about Jeff's shoulders, and planted a slobbery kiss on his father's cheek. "Let's go pick up some chicks."

"Why don't you go and sit in the car, Scott," Jeff had suggested, as his plan of a quiet visit to a café had gone the same way as any thoughts of looking for female company. "I'll pay the bill."

"Shhure." Scott had spun about, lost his footing, and crashed to the floor, bringing a small table and numerous out-of-date magazines down on top of him. He lay there, unhurt, unconcerned about how ridiculous he looked, and laughed his head off.

"I'll send you an account, Mr Tracy," the receptionist had told him. "You'll want to get him home."

With an embarrassed thank you for her understanding of the situation, and the assistance of one of the other patients; a large, strong, man, whose facial muscles had twitched the entire time; Scott was partially assisted, partially dragged, outside and into the car. Jeff was sure that the man would be laughing equally as raucously before they had driven onto the street.

That drive had been one of the longest he'd endured, with Scott singing songs that should never have been sung when driving past schools and places of worship; with much enthusiasm, much volume, and very much off key. Jeff had never heard anything like it, not even from his own days in the Air Force and he only managed to put a stop to it with a reminder that Scott's grandmother didn't appreciate such language.

They'd made it home in one piece, Jeff's sanity more or less intact, and had put Scott straight to bed, to the background of sniggering by the four younger members of the household.

The next day a very sheepish, and slightly hungover, eldest Tracy boy had returned to the dental clinic with a sincere apology, flowers to beg forgiveness, a donation to a worthy cause close to the dental profession's heart, and a request to learn what the analgesic had been so he could never have it again.

Until today.

"How're you feeling now?" John asked cautiously, when he thought enough time had passed for the pain relief to kick in.

"Goodo," Scott informed him, and looked around the group short-sightedly. "Why'rewe all shtill here?" he drawled. "We could be flyin' 'ome."

"We're still here because Thunderbird One's damaged and someone's hijacked Thunderbird Two," John reminded him. "Remember?"

"Don' need a Sun... ah, Dun... um. Thun-da-bird," Scott enunciated. "Gimmee that 'overjet an' I'll fly!" He launched himself upright, as if in a demonstration.

Virgil was on his feet almost as quickly. "Not till I've checked it's safe."

"Shafe?"

"Yes: safe. Now sit back down before you hurt yourself."

"Aw… You care," Scott told him, wrapping Virgil in a hug that had to be painful despite the pain killers. "I love you."

"And we all love you too," Virgil responded; trying to be diplomatic as he attempted to disengage the crushing embrace. "Now sit down."

"You're the besht broth…, a brudda, brother a brother could have." Scott let go, but kept a firm grip on Virgil's upper arms. "You know me. It's like we gotta hotline from 'ere," he pointed deliberately at his own forehead, "to… There!"

"Right…" Virgil had had to shift to the right to avoid having his eye poked out. "Sit down, Scott."

"Shhhhi…." Scott went a little cross-eyed and then eyed up the rock. "…down?"

Virgil nodded. "Sit down."

"Okay." Scott plonked himself down, just managing to avoid falling off his seat. He grimaced in pain…

…And began to cough. A hacking bark that seemed to wrack his entire body and leave him gasping for air whenever the coughing fit let him. Dragging his handkerchief from out of his pocket he covered his mouth; an action that seemed to acerbate his oxygen loss.

"Be right back!" Alan took off at run back to Thunderbird One's cabin.

Earlier that day he'd hunted around the area where he'd woken after The Hood's attack, endeavouring to find and preserve what he could from the scattered first aid kit, and now his fingers closed around the small oxygen tank in the usable in an emergency pile.

Usable if the oxygen tank's mask hadn't been irreversibly damaged.

Looking over his shoulder Alan saw the spent oxygen mask dangling from Thunderbird One's ceiling. With an expert pull it came free and then he was sprinting back to where Scott was still coughing and fighting for breath. He forced the end of the tube over the cylinder's nipple, opened the valve, and was relieved to feel air currents flow.

By now Scott's hacking so hard that he was retching, his face turning blue and tears running out of his eyes. Helpless, his brothers could do nothing to help, except support him so he wouldn't hurt himself more by falling off his rock.

"Here," pushing Scott's hand out of the way, Alan forced the mask over his brother's face. "Try to relax and breathe normally."

Gasping for the precious gas, Scott did his best to obey. His breathing became easier; his coughing subsided; and he clumsily shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket. "I'm... fine."

"Are you sure?" Alan held the mask in place for a few seconds more, before withdrawing it and switching off the oxygen flow.

Scott nodded, his wan face at odds to his statement.

"Why don't you go and hit the sack? We can take care of things here."

Scott gave a slow, sober, nod. "Right."

The speed of his concession, without any sign of an argument, was as much of a concern as the coughing fit. As was the sudden sobriety.

Wondering he should, or indeed could do more, Alan carefully placed the tank and mask to one side, whilst John and Gordon helped Scott to his feet.

"Do you want a hand?" Alan checked.

With a negative headshake and an: "I'm fine," Scott shuffled alone over to the bivouac.

His brothers sat down again.

"I don't know how comfortable our beds are going to be," Alan admitted, prodding the embers with a stick. "But they're ready for us all when we want them."

A tropical breeze sprung up causing goose bumps to appear on Virgil's bare skin. He pulled his shirt out from beneath him, shook the sand out and, ignoring Gordon's mutterings of complaint, pulled it on over his head. "What's tomorrow's plan of action?"

"I don't know about tomorrow..." John glanced over in the direction of Thunderbird One. "...but I want to try and contact Brains tonight."

Alan perked up. "How? Has the Mark II stopped causing interference?"

"I doubt it, but I've made a radio that can send on non-International Rescue channels, and I'm hoping the Mark II's not affecting them. The only thing that's not connected are the headphones Scott gave me..."

Intrigued, Virgil sat up. "Headphones? Why's he got headphones?"

"He said they're his lucky charm,"

"I didn't know he had one. Where'd he get them?"

John shrugged. "He didn't say... Tomorrow I'll try and tune the radio to see what we can hear. If we can work out where the strongest signal's coming from, we might be able to work out where the nearest habitation or shipping lanes are."

"Is there any habitation nearby?" Gordon asked.

John sighed. "No. That's why I chose this place."

"Oh, well. The shipping lanes are still an option."

Putting all thoughts of the radio to one side in the short term, John asked the question that had been gnawing at him for much of the afternoon. "Are you ready to tell us what happened today, Gordon?" he asked, softly.

Trying to buy himself some time, Gordon stripped off Scott's shirt and pulled his wetsuit back on over his arms. It felt gritty and horrible, and irritated his burnt back, and he wasn't sure that it felt any better than the size too small shirt. "I heard you guys call out Virgil's name," he admitted. "When he didn't reply and you didn't say anything else, that's when I knew something was wrong. I realised what it was when I saw that... that..."

"Hoodlum?" John suggested, seeing his brother struggle for the appropriate word.

"I can think of better names for him." Gordon gave a quiet grin. "But I don't think Grandma would approve."

Alan chuckled. "Don't worry. What happens on this island, stays on this island."

"Anyway, he was pulling the air-pump off Virgil, and I couldn't tell if you were playing possum, unconscious, or dead."

Virgil made no comment.

"Then this guy pulled out a hypodermic syringe, and I could see that he was planning on injecting you with whatever it was. I couldn't let him do that, so I threw a rock at Thunderbird Two. The noise stopped him from injecting you for long enough for me to try get inside. I didn't have anything planned, but I knew that once I had access to all our equipment, I'd think of something."

Alan snuffled a laughed. "Then he wouldn't have a chance, Gordon."

"But I didn't make it inside. I'd just seen you guys lying there, looking for all intents and purposes dead... When he attacked me with these... flying mechanical bugs. I was trying to get out of their way when he came around behind Thunderbird Two and pulled me over. Then he seemed to hypnotise me... With his eyes! I don't know how he did it, because I've never seen hypnosis like it, but I couldn't stop it. From then on, whatever he told me to do, I couldn't stop myself from doing it. No matter how much I told myself not to, I had to obey him..." Gordon looked away from his brothers. "I'm sorry I wasn't stronger."

He heard Alan's soft, "I'm sure you did all you could," in the darkening light.

"He... He worked out that we use palm recognition software as one method to get into our ships. We're going to have to come up readers that don't retain fingerprints."

John nodded. "Noted."

"He grabbed my arm... He had a laser... He held it here…" Gordon swallowed at the memories as he drew a line across his wrist. "I could feel the laser's heat… I-I th... thought he was going to cut my hand off..."

Seeing his younger brother shudder, John reached out and gave him a reassuring rub on the shoulder.

Keen to remove the memories, Gordon massaged the endangered wrist. "That was deliberate. He wanted to scare me, so that when he scanned my palm, he got a clear reading of my blood vessels."

"Forget fingerprints," Alan stated. "We're going to have to come up with a more foolproof lock."

"I tried to stop myself, honest I did... But I showed him how to get to the flight deck," Gordon told the dying fire. "He told me to sit down and then he left. I was telling myself... instructing myself... ordering myself to get up and lock him out. I had it all planned. I was going to initiate situation-Y... But I couldn't move. Not a muscle. And then he came back and plugged his computer into our computer and reverse engineered the system, so he had full control of Thunderbird Two."

"Not full control," John reminded his bereft brother. "You know that all our systems operate on separate circuits to protect against this very scenario."

"He can still do a lot of damage just with Thunderbird Two," Gordon said quietly.

John, not wanting to upset his brother more than he already was, didn't comment.

"It was while his computer was overriding ours that he made me come out here. He told me to destroy Thunderbird One's radio." Gordon's voice was almost frighteningly quiet. "I did."

"Because you thought you had an ace up your sleeve in the form of the Mark II," John reminded him. "And because he told you he'd hurt us if you didn't."

Gordon's head nodded in the gloom. "He was kicking you like he didn't care. He said he'd already put you guys into comas that you'd never wake out of. And he said that if I didn't do what he said, he'd inject you all with something that would wake you up, but destroy your minds and make you his slaves. For all I knew he'd already done that to Virgil."

"Nah. He's just Scott's love slave," Alan joked, earning himself a thump on the leg from a less than impressed brother. "Virgil!"

"And then," Gordon continued, "after he'd destroyed everything he could get his hands on in Thunderbird One, when his computer told him that the reverse engineering was complete, he said he was going to leave you guys here and take me with him. I was almost happy when he said that, because I thought I'd at least have a chance to regain control of Thunderbird Two. And then I could come back and save you guys… But then he changed his mind... The next thing I remember was lying there, next to you, and Thunderbird Two had gone..."

Gordon's voice shook when he'd said those last four words, and John reached out again to comfort him. "It's okay, Gordon. You did all that you could."

"All I could think of was how Dad was going to be mad at me. How Scott was going to be mad at me. How Virgil was going to be mad at me."

"Dad will just be glad that you're all right. And Scott and Virgil aren't mad at you... Right, Virgil?"

During Gordon's monologue, Virgil had been sharpening his knife on a flat sided stone and was now testing the blade like he knew what he intended to do with it. "Huh?"

"You're not mad with Gordon, just because that hoodlum hijacked Thunderbird Two."

"Of course I'm not mad with Gordon…" There was a spark as steel struck iron ore in the stone. "But Whitney had better hope we don't meet any time soon."

"I suppose fixing Thunderbird One's out of the question?" It was obvious from Alan's tone that he regarded this as a statement and not a question.

"Yep." Virgil shut his knife with a snap and pocketed it. "We haven't got the tools and we haven't got the replacement parts. Without the wings to stabilise take off, we will need a lot of power to get off the ground. Even if we managed that we're still stuck with the malfunctioning tail jet unit. We can't go anywhere, except in circles, until that's fixed."

"Could we disable the one diagonally opposite, to stop the spin and fly on reduced power?"

Virgil's brow creased in thought. "Possibly. I'll have another look when it's daylight." Hearing a succession of noises behind him, he turned and peered into the shadows and repeated his earlier question. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

Alan, followed by his brothers, got up and went into the bivouac. "Can't you get comfortable?" His voice sounded slightly hollow in the echoes off the metallic walls and roof.

"Cold."

"You're cold or getting a cold?"

"Getting – a – cold." The few words left Scott gasping for air slightly.

"How about if you sit up," with Alan's assistance, Gordon guided his brother into a sitting position. "Better?"

The creases of pain on Scott's face eased. He nodded.

Virgil had an idea. "Can you support him for a bit, Fellas?"

Alan nodded. "Not a problem."

"Back in a minute." Virgil disappeared outside into the gathering gloom.

John nudged Gordon and indicated that they should follow.

Gordon obeyed. "What?" he queried when, instead of following their brother, they stopped beyond the bivouac's boundaries.

"You can do hypnosis, can't you?"

Gordon remembered the time he'd hypnotised his brothers, and their retaliation afterwards. "You know I can. So can you."

"Surgeons used to practise hypnosurgery."

"Where they would put the patient into a trance and then operate with minimal pain. I know that." The lightbulb was ignited in Gordon's brain. "Do you think we could make Scott more comfortable?"

John nodded. "You know you can hypnotise him and he knows that you can hypnotise him, and I think it's worth an attempt. Are you game enough to try?"

"If he is. He's got to be willing."

"Come on then." John led the way back into the bivouac.

Alan looked up. "I thought you'd have Virgil with you. Where is he?"

"In Thunderbird One's cabin…" John informed him. "Are you in much pain, Scott…? And don't just say fine. Be honest."

Scott's eyes roved between each of his brothers. "Some."

"We thought so. We have a suggestion that may help."

"Not – parannarol."

"No. Hypnosis."

Scott's eyes widened.

"Don't worry, we're not going to let Gordon do to you what he did last time he had you Under the Influence." John grinned. "Not today anyway."

Scott scowled at him.

"I promise I won't." Gordon made the sign of the cross over his chest. "I want to try and give you a hypnotic suggestion. Then, whenever you feel pain, you'll…" he looked around him. "Ah!" He picked up a small rock. "This is a 'hypnostone'. You'll squeeze the pain out of your body and into it. You'll still be fully conscious, but you won't feel the pain, because the hypnostone will absorb it. Make sense?"

"No."

"Doesn't matter. You don't need to know the mechanics of it. Just believe that you'll be able to transfer your pain from your chest to the hypnostone."

Scott looked at him like Gordon's own hypnotic trance had scrambled his brains.

"The hypnosis will make you believe," Gordon asserted, even though he wasn't sure if it was possible. Belief started with the hypnotist and he worked on sounding like he was confident his plan could be successful. "Do you want to try?"

Scott wasn't sure he did. He remembered the last time Gordon had hypnotised him… Well… He remembered being told what had happened to him the last time Gordon had hypnotised him.

But then anything would be better than the way he was feeling now. He nodded.

"Good." Gordon settled in front of him. "Now… Just relax…"

"I could probably do with a hand..." Virgil was hurriedly shushed. "What?"

"Gordon's going to hypnotise Scott," John explained.

"He's going to what!?"

Leaping to his feet, Gordon held up his hands in surrender. "I know! I know… I know what I made the both of you do last time. But I promise I'm not going to do it again. This is to help Scott feel better." He dropped his hands and shrugged. "It's either that or another dose of parannarol and I don't think any of us could stand that."

Virgil stared at his younger brother. Then he nodded. "Okay. I'll wait in Thunderbird One. If you two…" He looked from Gordon to John. "…could come and give me a hand when you've finished…?"

John nodded. "Won't be long."

Alan waited until Virgil had retreated to the cool of the evening before he snuffled the chuckle he'd been holding back. "He's got a long memory."

Scott lifted a warning finger. "Me – too…"

Virgil had a five-minute wait before he was joined on the flight deck by two brothers. "Did it work?"

Gordon, yet again, was trying not to feel guilty as he took in the mess of wires that had formerly been efficient means of communications. "He says it it's helping."

"How?"

"Each time he's in pain he's got what I've called a hypnostone to squeeze. I've told him that by doing that, he'd be squeezing the pain out of his body and into the stone."

"And he's pumping away so much it's like he's trying to inflate his vein when he's giving blood," John finished. "What do you need us to do, Virgil?"

"Finish removing the pilot seat's control unit casings," Virgil instructed, as he, braced against Thunderbird One's unfamiliar orientation and looked around the room. "Rip off as much as you can."

John started trying to find a fingerhold in the tough composite material "What have you got planned?"

Virgil had found a bit of metal and was using it like a jimmy. "The pilot seat's made for him, right?"

"So you think he'll prefer sitting in that?" Gordon asked, finally pulling the casing clear and revealing the electronics beneath.

"I hope so. With a few rocks and logs we should be able to support it at whichever angle he finds the most comfortable." Virgil handed the jimmy to John. "Why don't you make a start on undoing whatever you can, while I'll zap through this," he held up a small laser that looked so unlike a laser that The Hood had missed its significance in the middle of his wanton destruction. "Gordon, can you make sure the seat doesn't fall over?"

"Sure." Gordon braced himself against the incline and prepared to take the weight of the pilot's seat. "What'll we do if we get One airborne again?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," John grunted as he struggled with a bolt. There was a flash of blue light from the pedestal behind the chair and the sound of a small piece of metal falling to the floor and rolling away. "Care to swap tools, Virgil? I'm getting nowhere."

"Just a minute. I've nearly finished."

John straightened and found himself caught on the wires that had formerly threaded through Thunderbird One's microphone boom. "Shame you didn't rip these out too, Gordon."

"John!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry." Picking the boom off the seat, John placed it on the bulkhead framing.

As Virgil handed over the laser, the pilot's seat began to sway drunkenly. "Got it, Gordon?"

"Got it!"

The last component was freed, and Gordon and John took the seat's weight, lifting it up and over the remnants of its pedestal, before handing it over to Virgil who'd hopped down through the entrance hatch. Once freed of the aeroplane they hurried their prize over to the bivouac.

Alan stared at the item in their hands. "What have you been doing to Thunderbird One?!"

"Improving it," Virgil grunted, as they lay the seat on its side at the shelter's entrance.

Gordon managed a chuckle. "I did offer to buy you a booster seat."

Ignoring him, Virgil stared down at the bulky unit's underside, rubbing his unshaven chin as he thought. "With the footplate it's not going to sit flat. Have we got any of those branches left?"

"Those that we haven't burnt in the fire? Yes."

"Be right back." Virgil was as good as his word, carrying two of the logs. Dropping them, he turned to get his next load.

Gordon follow him out the entrance. "How many more are there?"

"Enough... I hope..."

"You can't see a thing in here," John remarked as they waited for the next load of branches to arrive. "I wonder..." He disappeared into the darkness.

Virgil and Gordon had just returned with the remaining logs when the entire scene was lit up. John had switched on the spotlights that ran the length of Thunderbird One.

Seeing his brother blink against the glare, Gordon shielded Scott's eyes. "Well, that saves the need for a bonfire emergency beacon. We just need to get Scott a blindfold." Pulling his handkerchief from out of his pocket, he laid it over his brother's eyes. "We'll come up with something better in a moment."

"Hope – that's – clean, – Gordon." Scott's hand pumped the stone.

"Of course, it is… I think."

Virgil stacked four of the logs until they formed a square, the two higher logs running parallel to each other. "Who's got the paracord?"

Alan fished in his pocket with the hand that wasn't supporting his brother. "Here."

"Thanks." Working quickly, and with John and Gordon's expert help, Virgil lashed the four branches together.

Gordon gave the structure an experimental wobble. "Seems stable enough."

"You helped make it," Virgil reminded him. "So you can take the blame if it isn't."

They shifted the wooden platform into the bivouac, and then lifted the seat until it sat on top, the footplate almost touching the ground.

"Hang on. Test flight." Gordon jumped onto the red cushioning, wriggling to test its stability. "What do you know. It hardly moves at all."

Virgil gave him a look that said that he hadn't expected any different. "Can you stand, Scott?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Scott nodded, but his brothers noted that he relied on them all to get him upright.

Alan guided him across to the chair. "Sit down and we'll work out which angle is the most comfortable."

Muttering about how they were making a lot of fuss over nothing, but tellingly moving with a lot of care and some facial contortions, and with the immediate request for the return of his hypnostone, Scott complied.

The seat was carefully rocked backwards and forwards by Virgil and Gordon, until Scott gave them the thumbs up – with the hand that hadn't been continuously squeezing his pet rock. Then John and Alan piled the remaining logs around the chair, and it was immobilised.

"There!" Gordon slapped Scott on the leg. "How's that?"

"Never – could – sleep – sittin' – up," Scott grumbled.

"Well, you weren't going to sleep lying down," Alan reminded him, "so I think you've got a better chance that way."

Virgil crouched down beside his brother. "Are you comfortable?"

"Stop – fussin'."

"Here," Alan unwrapped a survival blanket that he'd managed to salvage from the first aid kit. "This'll keep you warm."

"No," Scott protested.

Alan put his hands on his hips and frowned down on his eldest brother. "Whether you like it or not you are injured, and denying the fact isn't going to help anyone. So, sit back and let us take care of you like we'd take care of anyone else!" His glare intensified. "Okay!"

Scott held up a hand in supplication and grudgingly accepted the thin metallic blanket. His right hand squeezed.

A short time later, and with most of the daylight gone, the rest of the Tracy brothers decided that there was nothing to be done other than retire to 'bed'. There was a brief discussion over whether to leave Thunderbird One's lights on, which was solved when the last of the large stray panels, aside from the lost wing, was propped over the entrance to block out the blinding glare.

John, the principle proponent for turning the lights off, took himself down to the beach so he could admire the stars. He had a reasonable idea where they were and wanted to reassure himself that he was correct. Lying on the sands, he felt calmed by the familiar scene above him.

He was joined by Gordon. "Looking for a use for that light pollution you're always complaining about?"

"No. There's no major habitation within thousands of kilometres of here – so no light pollution."

"Pity…" Gordon gazed out over the inky Pacific Ocean. "I don't think any of us are going to get much sleep tonight."

John agreed.

"Scott's breathing sounds like some machine from a couple of centuries ago; something that Virgil would love to get his hands on and restore." Gordon sat down, and John resisted a groan, "He's going to keep us awake all night with the noise. But then, if his breathing settles down, that'll keep us awake too, because we'll all be wondering if he's still alive."

At John's mild "Don't" Gordon lay down next to his brother, mirroring John's position and looking upwards. "Recognise anything?"

"Yep. Do you?"

Gordon pointed skywards at a kite-shaped arrangement of stars. "That's the Southern Cross."

"Crux," John corrected.

Knowing both were correct, Gordon's hand moved slightly to he was pointing at two bright points of light close to the constellation. "And that's the pointers."

"Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman, Proxima Centauri, and Hadar in the constellation of Centaurus."

"And there…" Gordon's arm shifted to a different quadrant in the sky. "…is the pot," he teased, knowing that the nomenclature would irritate his elder brother.

John's face screwed up in distaste. "I'll accept the asterism Orion's Belt, as it's in the constellation of Orion, but never, never, the pot."

"It looks like a pot."

"Not if you're in the Northern Hemisphere."

"Did Orion often stand on his head?"

"Huh?"

"In the Northern Hemisphere he's upright. Here, he's upside down. What's the difference? Why don't we make up our own constellations that mean something?"

"Such as?"

"Such as..." Gordon considered the glowing points of light above them. "That looks like a sea snake slithering across the sky." His hands traced hundreds of stars in the inky blackness.

"You've just created a constellation that incorporates every star visible to the naked eye. Besides there already is a water snake constellation. It's called Hydra."

"Doesn't matter. We both know that none of those stars are on the same plane and you don't have to fly too far in a spaceship before the constellations become unrecognisable."

"But we're not in a spaceship; or even on Thunderbird Five, worst luck. We're on a deserted island in the middle of the largest body of water on the planet."

"Okay then," Gordon challenged. "You recognise those stars. I recognise some of those stars. So where precisely are we?"

John grinned. "In the Southern Hemisphere."

Gordon groaned and retreated to the bivouac.

Pleased, John resumed his inspection of the heavens for a few minutes longer. Then he got to his feet and wandered back to the camp, pondering his next course of action with regards to the radio. He'd tried to contact Thunderbird Five earlier, sending a message that all five were safe, but marooned, and then swapped two wires over and waited, ears straining, as he listened through Scott's headphones for a response that never came.

It was after his third attempted transmission that Alan had dubbed him Biggles because of the bulky listening devices. After his tenth failed transmission, he'd felt the need to find solace in the heavens.

He could, and probably should, try again, but he'd been to bed late, had been up for hours, had dealt with the stresses of the Australian rescue and subsequent dramas, and he was tired. Time for sleep.

He nearly changed his mind as he neared the bivouac, hearing the raspy rhythmic sounds. If it hadn't been for fraternal loyalty, he would have returned to the sanctity of the stars.

He arrived just in time to witness the explosion. Clearly there had been one too many responses of "fine" to one too many queries about Scott's health.

"For Pete's sake!" Virgil erupted. "Will you stop being macho and invincible and tell us exactly what's wrong with you!?"

What followed was an awkward silence. Silence, except for each of Scott's rasping breaths.

Overwhelmed with a sudden need to run, Virgil escaped out of the bivouac.

There was the broken silence again.

Gordon was the first to speak up. "Well someone had to say it, and if it had been me…" he fixed his eldest brother with a meaningful glare, "I would have been a lot less polite."

John turned back the way he'd just come. "I'll go and see how he is."

He returned to the beach in time to see Virgil pick up a pebble and, with an audible grunt of frustration, hurl it into the waves.

Hearing John's step from behind him, Virgil turned to face his brother. "I know! I was out of line! You don't need to say anything!"

"Actually, we were all thinking that it was about time that someone did say something, and we're all glad that it was you. He's not helping anyone, let alone himself, by continuing the tough guy act." John regarded Virgil in the darkness. "Here."

"Here what?"

"Here," John repeated, holding out a stone as big as his fist. "I thought you might like this."

"Like that?" Astonished, Virgil stared at the lump of rock. "Why? You're not going to hypnotise me."

"That's not the plan, unless you'd like me to try." John chuckled. "I thought that throwing something this solid might make you feel better than tossing that measly pebble."

"I doubt it." Virgil went to claim the stone, before changing his mind. "Wouldn't you'd rather throw it?"

"I have my own." John revealed his other hand, which held a similarly sized rock.

With a wry grin, Virgil accepted his gift, tossing it into the air to get a feel for its weight. "Let's see who can throw theirs the furthest."

John gave a grin of his own. "Deal."

They counted down together. "Five, four, three, two, one!"

Two projectiles sailed out over the dark, moonlit waters. The twin splashes, thanks to John's longer arms and Virgil's stronger musculature, hit the water at the same time and almost the same distance.

"I think we can call that a draw." John gave a satisfied nod. "Thunderbird Two will be fine."

Caught off guard, Virgil stared out over the ocean. "I'm not worried about Thunderbird Two."

"Yes, you are. If some hijacker had taken over Thunderbird Five, I'd be worried sick. And there's not a lot that the bad guys could do with her."

"Aside from hack into every computer on the planet."

"Aside from that. But with Thunderbird Two's speed and carrying capacity, whole armies could fly in, decimate entire countries, and then fly out again before the World President was even aware there was a problem."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, John. It's not working."

"Relax, Virg. you and I both know that although that guy, whoever he is; even if he has managed to reverse engineer her flight computers; he'll never be able to hack into her other systems. Not without wasting a lot of time and having several geniuses of Brains' calibre on his staff."

"I know that, and it's not that that's really worrying me," Virgil admitted. "What worries me is that that guy's going to want Thunderbird Two for more than just flying from A to B, and that she's not going to let him do to her what he wants… Especially with the Mark II screwing up everything."

John ignored his brother's anthropomorphism of the aeroplane. "What are you saying?"

"What if he decides to follow Two's flight path back the way we came? That system's not reliant on global positioning."

"Then he'll end up at a bushfire in Australia."

"Before he hits paydirt and finds himself on Tracy Island. Where he won't find several geniuses of Brains calibre: he'll find Brains."

"Brains is on Thunderbird Five."

"I know. But there's no way to warn everyone that when Thunderbird Two returns, we won't be on board. What if that guy holds Grandma hostage and forces Father reveal our secrets? He might even have to take the guy to Thunderbird Five to get Brains."

John tried to ignore the chill that shot down his spine. "I think our family's too clever for that. If Thunderbird Two flies in without one of us broadcasting our intentions, and lands at the wrong end of the runway after we've been incommunicado for several hours following a rogue plane shooting Thunderbird One down for no known reason, they're going to be on their guard."

"Unless they think we haven't broadcast our intentions because of the Mark II; which is also affecting our guidance systems, so we're landing at the wrong end of the runway to ensure that there's no chance of the computer miscalculating and flying us into the hillside."

"You're tired and you're letting that artistic imagination run away with you, Virg," John told his brother. "Any one of us could land Thunderbird Two without computer guidance, and Dad knows it."

But one thing still niggled at the back of Virgil's mind. "Okay. I'll accept that your logic is... logical. But if the hijacker gets no satisfaction from Tracy Island, then he's only going to have one course of action... To come back here and attempt to force us to reveal Thunderbird Two's secrets."

"He'll never succeed," John stated grimly.

"If we were all one hundred percent fit, and especially if we had some form of defence..." Virgil's hand fell to where has holster normally resided on his hip, "I'd agree. But, despite what he says, Scott's not well. We going to have to come up with a plan to protect him and protect ourselves."

"And reclaim Thunderbird Two," John agreed.

"And reclaim Thunderbird Two," Virgil echoed. "And I don't think Scott's the man to do it this time."

"He didn't take more than his quota of brain cells when he was born. The rest of us are more than capable of formulating our own devious schemes. Especially Gordon."

Virgil managed a chuckle. "I pity the poor guy if Gordon wants revenge for what he's been through."

John clapped him on the shoulder. "We'd better get back and start making plans. Who knows what time that guy could be returning?"

Things were subdued when they joined their brothers.

Alan looked up from where he'd been analysing Scott's wrist monitor as they entered. "Good, you're back. That means we can bring everyone up to speed."

Scott averted his eyes, unable to look at his brethren.

John and Virgil sat down on the leafy bedding and waited, trying not to listen to their brother's ragged breathing.

"Scott's given full disclosure," Alan continued. "As we've seen, he was heavily bruised after the bushfire rescue, but was otherwise unhurt. It was the crash," he flicked his head in the direction of the downed rocket plane, "that did the damage, compounded by landing on rocks when we were all knocked out..."

"Or possibly kicked," Gordon added, his face pale in the reflected lights from Thunderbird One.

Alan nodded. "The pain was that intense that he passed out when he came around. We didn't notice, because we were all dopey ourselves. Now the worst of the pain is across here..." He traced his fingers across his own lower ribcage. "...where the torso harness cut in."

All eyes shifted to Virgil, but he remained mute.

"He thinks, and I'm inclined to agree, that the ribs are broken in one spot here." Once again Alan indicated on his own torso, close to where the safety harnesses buckle would have resided, before hesitating. "He's been coughing up blood." He held up a formerly white handkerchief.

"Blood?!" Virgil stared at the invalid, who found it easier to concentrate on the shiny wrinkles of the thermal blanket that hid his injuries. "How long have you been coughing up blood?"

There was another hesitation, this time by Scott, before he extended his arm, showing the dark spots discolouring the sleeve. "Sor-ry." His eyes flicked upwards towards his brother, begging for forgiveness.

"You lied to me!" Virgil leapt to his feet again, banging his head on the tailfin roof. The whole structure shook, but he didn't appear to notice. "You were injured and... and..." Realising that another explosion wouldn't make any of them feel any better, he sat down again and glowered at his hands. "Carry on."

Alan decided that it was best to ignore the outburst. "As Scott said before, he's feeling congested, which is bearable when he's sitting up like he is...?" Glancing across at the invalid, he saw a small nod. "He promises that that's all that's wrong with him, aside from some minor bruising to his shins. Now... In order to be fair and to ensure that we're all playing on a level playing field, has anyone else got any aches or pains, or any concerns? Virgil?"

Virgil gave an exasperated sigh, an indication of the irritation he was feeling about the whole situation, then he shook his head. "My face and hands feel a bit raw, but otherwise I'm fine."

"John?"

"Aside from the same stress we're all dealing with, I'm okay."

"Gordon?"

"I'm like Virgil, except it's my back that's feeling raw. Apart from that, and some splinters from shifting the tailfin..." He examined his fingers. "...and some pinpricks from fish fins and bones, I've got no problems... ah... complaints... I mean... aches and..."

"We've got the picture, Gordon," Alan sighed. "And I haven't got any issues either."

"None of us have physical issues," John interjected, "but Virgil and I have been talking. We've got this theory that Thunderbird Two's hijacker has possibly been retracing her flight path to Sheppegie and then to Tracy Island. Our assumption…"

"Hope," Virgil interrupted.

"Hope… is that everyone at home will realise that she's not carrying us and will, somehow, banish the threat. The hijacker will then return here to force us to give him Thunderbird Two's secrets. We need to be ready for when he gets here..."

-F-A-B-

Lady Penelope and Parker ate, chaffing at the length of time it was taking to refuel their hired aircraft. Out on the tarmac foreign voices and tongues bustled around the craft.

"Shoulda waited for that long-range h-airyplane," Parker grumbled, before ripping a huge bite out of his stale ham and egg sandwich.

"I fear that you may be correct," his mistress agreed, with a dainty nibble at a more delicate morsel. "Even going through the paperwork of purchasing a new model Tracy Aviation craft may have been more time effective."

"H-And Mr Tracy would've sped h-it h-up for you. Maybe lent you one h-of 'is h-own."

"Mr Tracy had enough on his mind, without the, ah, hassle of dealing with others over what could potentially be a less than optimum telephone line. We have made our bed, and we shall accept that we must lay in it."

Parker gave a morose nod and wondered what kind of bed the Tracy boys were sleeping in tonight.

-F-A-B-

Lying in their beds was all that the Tracys were managing to do. Sleep, when they attempted it, was impossible to come by. They lay there listening to the sound, whisper quiet at first, but gradually getting louder.

Concerned, Alan sat up.

Seeing his brother rise, Virgil did the same. "He's getting worse," he whispered.

Alan nodded, before beginning his examination.

The eldest Tracy appeared to be asleep. His head was tipped back against the headrest and his mouth hung open. Through the open mouth they could hear his breathing. It wasn't the usual easy, even ebb and flow, but a wet, rattily inhalation followed by an equally noisy exhalation.

"Scott?" Alan enquired quietly. "Are you asleep?"

Blue eyes opened and looked at him from under heavy lids. "No."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Can we get you anything?" Virgil added, concern evident in his voice.

Scott closed his mouth, shook his head, closed his eyes, opened his mouth again, and inhaled another ragged breath.

"Let me look at your ribs," Alan suggested and gently pulled back the survival blanket. Scott made no complaint as his shirt was lifted up. "I can't see."

They heard John's voice in the dark. "We'll shift this out of the way." There was a clang and the panel blocking the light from Thunderbird One fell away. The glare hurting his eyes, Scott blinked, and Virgil held his hand up as a shield.

"Sorry, Scott, I'm going to have to cut this clear." Alan grabbed his pocketknife and cut the shirt away from his brother's injuries. "Now... I'll try not to hurt you..." He pressed lightly against the most livid bruise and immediately Scott's face creased into an expression of pain.

Alan frowned and stood. "I need… Keep an eye on him, Virgil. John, can you give me a hand, please?"

"Sure." Perplexed, and a little worried, John followed his brother to Thunderbird One.

Alan opened the hatch and switched on the internal light. "I need some things." He began hunting through the various salvaged piles. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed, holding up some plastic tubing. "Where's your Biggles outfit"

"Biggles outfit? Scott's headset?"

"Yeah. I need to see how lucky it is."

"It wasn't that lucky." John carefully unplugged it from the radio. "He was shot down."

Alan was creating a pile of his own. "He's still alive, isn't he?"

"I guess so... Why do you want it?"

"I want to try something I saw on an old TV show…"

"Huh?" John held the headset out to his little brother. "TV show? What TV…"

But Alan wasn't listening. He was frowning deeply as he looked at the microphone boom sitting next to the destroyed console.

He picked it up and tugged at the microphone on the end. When it didn't budge, he handed John the length of plastic tubing that he was holding and pulled harder...

"You need to unscrew it."

"Oh... Of course." Cursing the effects of tiredness and stress, Alan twisted the microphone. It finally came free and with a "Hold this," he thrust the now straight boom at John and started hunting through the remains of a locker that had contained several components designed for minor repairs to the rocket plane.

"If you tell me what you want, I may be able to help you."

"I don't know what I want... Ah!" Alan found a small valve and compared the diameter of the thin, hollow, metal boom to one of the ports. "May need a sleeve..."

"A sleeve for what?"

"Any tape?"

"Tape? What kind of tape."

"Adhesive…"

John picked up a roll of duct tape from the remains of the "useful" pile. "This?"

"That'll do." Alan laid the tape, some clear plastic bags, the boom, and the valve carefully inside Thunderbird One's entrance and jumped out.

John stared at it. "Don't you want this stuff?"

"I hope not. I'm just being a good Boy Scout." Alan hurried back to their modest accommodation.

Bemused, John followed.

They all watched as Alan disassembled the electronic componentry, before joining the headphones' cups together with the plastic tubing. "I hope this works."

Gordon stared at the Heath Robinson contraption. "What is it?"

"Stethoscope." Since this brother was closest, Alan turned back to John. "Lift your shirt up."

"Huh?"

"I want to see if it works."

"Oh… Okay…" Obligingly John exposed his chest and tried to breathe normally as his little brother laid one earpiece against his torso and listened through the other. "Does it?"

"You're coming through strength five… Okay, Scott, your turn…" Holding his makeshift stethoscope, Alan faced the invalid. "Just relax and I'll be as gentle as I can," he promised, placing the earpiece on the uninjured flank of his brother's chest. He listened intently, his lips pursed together as he concentrated. Then he turned his attention to the opposite side, trying to avoid the site of the injury.

Finally, he sat back.

"Well?" Virgil's face held a worried frown.

So did Alan's. He jerked his head, indicating that he wanted to talk beyond Scott's hearing.

Four brothers huddled together in a worried group.

"Well?" Gordon repeated Virgil's earlier question.

"I'm no expert," Alan began slowly. "But it sounds to me like he got a lot of fluid building up in his chest cavity."

"And it's compressing his lungs?" Gordon guessed.

"That's what I'm assuming," Alan admitted. "The thing is, how do we treat it? We've got next to no medical equipment available and we can't get him to hospital… Any suggestions?"

Virgil scowled. "If only that… that… "

"Hoodlum," John offered.

"Fiend," Gordon suggested.

"Hijacker had made off with Thunderbird One instead of Two," Virgil said, expressing the frustration they'd been feeling all day. "At least then we'd have full medical facilities."

"And somewhere warm and dry to care for him," John agreed. "But we don't. So, what do we do?"

"Moving him into Thunderbird One's not an option," Gordon said. "The floor's not level and there's not enough room."

Alan agreed. "And we don't want to disturb him any more than necessary,"

"I'll see what I can do about repairs to Thunderbird One tomorrow," Virgil offered. "Maybe I can shut down the opposite jet like you suggested."

"But how long would that take?" Alan asked. "And even if you succeed, will Thunderbird One be airworthy and stable enough for a flight?"

Virgil's face was non-committal in the darkness.

"I think we're just going to have to cross our fingers that he's not going to get any worse and hope that we get rescued tomorrow."

"And if he does get worse?" Gordon asked.

Alan was silent in the darkness.

To be continued…