Thunderbirds

The Annual Adventures

by Lee Homer

Disclaimer: All rights reserved. This a collection of adapted text stories from various Thunderbirds annuals from across the years. I wanted to help make these short stories available to fans who don't own any of the annuals or are unaware of the cool stories that they contain. The Annuals are the property of Century 21 Magazines LTD. This collection is for fan fiction purposes only. I hope you enjoy them.

Flight To Destruction

"Boy, am I glad to be handing over to you." John Tracy grinned as he slapped his brother Alan on the shoulder. "One month up here sure is enough."

The two men stood by the access ramp of International Rescue's space satellite, orbiting far above the Earth. Outside, the huge bulk of Thunderbird Three lay locked in the docking cube, waiting to take John back home after his routine spell of duty. A final wave of his hand and he walked through the automatic locks into the cabin of Thunderbird Three. His hands sped over the controls with ease of long practice, and the initial motors drew the massive craft slowly out of contact with the satellite.

At once, John opened long-range communication with the tropical island base where his father and the rest were waiting and read over his atmosphere re-entry course. Then, at full boost, the space cruiser began it's long haul home. There were many sounds in Thunderbird Three to break his thoughts on such a flight. Radio atmospherics, the ticking of the sensitive instruments of the control panel, but there was one sound more than usual. Too low yo be noticed over the rest, low like the first hiss a snake makes before a strike at an unsuspecting victim. It was a deadly sigh of escaping gas. It was an odourless, colourless gas which Brains had called 'Pentammonia Thional,' It was a super-coolant designed to operate Thunderbird Three's temperature control system. A gas to be handled with care, for its effect, though not fatal, would send a man to sleep for hours. And now it was escaping, spurt by spurt into the control cabin where John was sitting.

Minutes ticked by as the spaceship sped on it's way back towards Earth. When John felt his eyelids begin to droop, he shook his head wonderingly. He stood up in his seat and half-turned. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak came out, and he pitched sideways to the cabin floor. Thunderbird Three plunged on helplessly.

They were taking things easy at International Rescue headquarters. Brains, as usual, was deep in a scientific textbook, content to sit at the poolside and watch the others swim. Jeff Tracy sat beside him, listening to a transistor radio and glancing from time to time, amazed that the scientist could shut out the music and the half-hourly urgency of newscasts.

"Here is your noontime check," said the radio, and at that, Brains looked up.

"Gee! Is that the time already, Mister Tracy?"

"That's what the man said," Jeff replied. "Why, Brains? Feeling like some lunch?"

"N-No, Mister Tracy. Er, but, John should have checked in a routine course change at eleven forty-five."

Jeff frowned. "Say, you're right. Let's go see what kept him."

The two men walked into the innocent-looking lounge, and Jeff pressed a hidden switch. At once, the inkstand on his desk tilted to reveal it's the hidden microphone, and he selected John's call signal.

"International Rescue to Thunderbird Three. Come in, Thunderbird Three."

There was no answer. The portrait of John on the wall that should have clicked to a telescreen remained immobile.

Brains frowned. "Something's wrong, Mister Tracy. I'll stand by the emergency link r-right away."

Jeff leapt to his feet, his knuckles white on the edge of the desk. "Good grief! What's his course, Brains?"

"Th-that's just it, Mister Tracy. Something must have happened to him before he could make the change," Brains theorised. "At his current trajectory, he'll come through the atmosphere heading straight for Chicago, and his controls are set on manual. If the Jordell 6 computer wasn't dismantled for overhaul we could guide John in, but there's nothing in the world w-we can do to stop him now!"

Still wet from the pool, Gordon, Scott and Virgil faced their father across the lounge. Virgil stepped forward, speaking for the others. Jeff shook his head. His eyes screwed shut in desperate thought. His fists clenched even tighter.

"Thunderbird One is the only thing fast enough to intercept, Father," said Scott. "Let me take her up and see what I can do."

"It's not a spacecraft, Scott," broke in Brains. "Whatever you attempt, it'll have to be within Earth's atmosphere."

"Whatever I attempt? Heck, is there anything I can attempt? But sitting here won't solve it."

His father nodded despairingly, and Scott made for the swivelling door that led to Thunderbird One's entry system. As soon as the walkway carried him towards the open hatch of his Thunderbird, Scott suited up, keeping the radio channel open. Within moments, the slender Thunderbird One was resting on its launch pad. Smoke and flame shot from her tail as she lifted off on her impossible mission.

"Base from Thunderbird One. Switching to horizontal flight," said Scott. "I'm beamed onto John's course. Estimated time of convergence, One hour."

Maintaining speed, Scott cut across the sky towards his doomed brother.

A small video screen deep in the top security building in Chicago, the new home of the World Government's Central Attack Early Warning Control, glowed brightly. On it, caught by ultra-range radio bounce, the image of Thunderbird Three, head-on, and homing fast. General Omar K. Matheson straightened slowly, his jaw set in a hard line. The staff major at his side looked at him questioningly.

"It's one of the ships that International Rescue uses," muttered the general. "Get on the link right away and find out what they're playing at."

The Major did as he was told, and hurried back faster than he ever moved before. After making his call to Tracy Island, the Major made his report to the General.

"It's a runaway, sir! They claim to have an interceptor in flight now, but they report there's no definite plan of a diversion!"

The General's eyes blazed, and points of red stood out on his cheeks.

"No definite plan? Let me talk to them!"

Seconds later, General Matheson spoke directly to Alan Tracy in the space satellite. He didn't mince words.

"You listen here, feller. There are millions of people in this city, and if your ship takes it's dive here, it's gonna be like a cartload of big-time bombs going off!

"It's in hand, General," Alan replied, as he tried to sound reassuring.

"It had better be in hand!" spat the General. "I'm alerting missiles, you get that? I'm giving your ship a ceiling boundary of four miles, and at the moment it comes closer- POW!"

"You can't do that, General! There's a helpless man aboard Thunderbird Three!"

The General was unimpressed. "There are millions of helpless people in Chicago. One man's life against a million, which way would you jump, buddy?"

The arrogant General cut the transmission, leaving Alan to stew in a pool of stress and anxiety. The youngest brother knew that Scott's chances of doing something were slim. His father had briefed him on the whole situation seconds after the launch of Thunderbird One. He felt responsible for what had happened to John. If only he had taken the time to give his Thunderbird a proper inspection, then none of this would have happened. None of them knew about the Pentammonia Thional leak, yet somehow, he already knew. He stared out of the window at the Earth below, wondering if he could spot his brother. He couldn't spot the smouldering Thunderbird at all. He then remembered why he hated satellite duty. No matter what the emergency was, on Thunderbird Five, you felt utterly helpless.

At the controls of Thunderbird One, Scott took General Matheson's ultimatum with gritted teeth. Supposing he failed? He'd have a grandstand view to watch his brother blown to bits. Scott forced himself to push those thoughts to the back of his mind. He spoke coolly over the radio.

"One hundred and fifty-two thousand feet, and still climbing. I'll have to get even higher before I can do anything."

Suddenly, he gave an excited yell. "I can see her! I can see, Thunderbird Three!"

There it was, a distant speck against the vast sky, hurtling downwards like some crazy comet. As Scott closed in, Brains came over the air.

"Remember, Scott, she's still on manual control," he said urgently. "That means John will not have retracted the flight vanes."

"Understood, Brains. So they'll slow her down a little, But won't they burn off?"

The scientist stuttered in protest. "N-no! The metal I used is utterly resistant."

Scott sighed deeply as he prepared for the most dangerous task he had undertaken yet.

"Then I'm going to get as high as I possibly can, make a hairpin turn, and follow her down," said Scott. "I only hope Thunderbird One can take it."

Closing in on her sister ship, Scott got to work. It was a do or die situation. All he could think about was the safety of his brother who lay there helplessly in Thunderbird Three. Time was against him.

The tension bubbled amongst the rest of the family, as Jeff tried to steady his nerve. Virgil tried to comfort him while Gordon held a terrified Tin-Tin. This wasn't the first time, that one of his boys had looked death straight in the eye. Scott had been attacked by Zombites in the Sahara desert, Virgil had been shot down by the U.N Navy by mistake and Alan found himself trapped on a bridge with Grandma which was about to explode. Even Brains had found himself in danger at the hands of The Hood during an expedition. Jeff thought back to each of those moments. His family came through to save the day each time. He hoped that they could perform another miracle.

On converging courses, the two Thunderbirds were much closer now. Scott could make out every detail of Thunderbird Three as he flung his craft into a tight turn that threatened to black him out. He had to hold on. He just had to! Thunderbird Three whizzed past him, dwarfing her sister shift. He groaned aloud. What could he do? He couldn't fly underneath her. She was too big! There silence from the radio in the lounge. Jeff exchanged hopeless glances with the rest of the family. They had feared this all along. Scott was behind Thunderbird Three, and the craft was tossed like a toy in the backwash of the spaceship's rockets. Then it came. The sudden flash of inspiration that might work. The mad ridiculous plan that only a fool or a desperate man might try.

"I'm going to shoot out her motors!" he yelled.

Brains tried to convince him that it wouldn't do him any good. However, Scott stuck with the plan. He carefully sighted the emergency missile, carried in Thunderbird One, and placed his thumb on the firing button. If he missed, it could be the end of his brother. He held his breath and fired. The missile streaked away to slam unerringly into the main motors of the runaway spaceship. At once, the slipstream buffeting stopped, and Scott relaxed his hands on the controls. Part one of his plan was successful.

"Now for the real work," he said over the radio.

He ignored his father's calls. His scheme was too far out. His chances of success were a million to one. Deliberately, he increased his speed and pointed the sharp nose straight for the dead motors of Thunderbird Three. His hand slammed down on the full boost lever, and instantly, he curled forward in his seat. His hands protected his head, as Thunderbird One collided with her sister ship. The shattering impact flung him head-over-heels, across the control panel against the screen. Miraculously, he wasn't hurt. The nose of Thunderbird One had struck and lodged itself, buried deep within the shattered motors of Thunderbird Three. The two ships, a single united vehicle, sped on the same course downwards.

Again there was silence from the radio, but this time, it was for a different reason. Messages were coming through rapidly on the land link, and they were coming from General Omar K Matheson. His father warned him of the four-mile limit Matheson had set out. Scott hardly dared answer. Sweat stood out on his brow as he wrestled with his controls. Controls that suddenly wouldn't respond.

"It doesn't seem to have worked!" he groaned. "The spaceship's just too big. I can't get any movement at all!"

Stay with it, Son. Stay with it!" Jeff replied harshly.

Suddenly, the tips of Scott's clenched fingers transmitted tiny vibrations up through his taut forearms and into his straining muscles. Slowly, but surely, the combined bulk of the two ships began to respond. Gradually, painfully, the image of the American continent below began to turn on its axis. Suddenly, he saw twin trails, like white pencil lines, drifting up towards him. His blood froze. The General had fired his missiles. The missiles sped upwards on their course of destruction. Above them, their target lurched and staggered across the sky, piloted by an equally determined man. Scott read somewhere that men grow flippant, that they make jokes when they're staring death in the eye. Now he knew it was true. Perhaps he'd try and read the code letters on the missiles before they struck home.

Then he realised they wouldn't strike home. The courses were so different. He could they'd miss by a mile. So odd, but he almost felt disappointed. He shook himself out of his strange mood and watched the twin trails climb past him and go streaking out towards space. Then he looked below and saw the sea and a fleeting glimpse of the west coast of America. So that was the Pacific Ocean. Like a man in a dream, he called the island.

"International Rescue from Thunderbird One. You'd better get Virgil to bring out Thunderbird Two and the marine rescue equipment. We're going down in the sea any minute."

Fluttering from side to side like a stricken bird, the bonded mass of the two rescue vehicles kicked spray from the surface of the Pacific, bounced half a dozen times like a skimmed stone, and sank ten fathoms off Moratoa Atoll.

Later that day, after a successful recovery by Virgil and Gordon, the family enjoyed an impromptu game of water polo. John had recovered. Only Brains complained of trouble. How could see without his glasses? Jeff Tracy came out to the poolside with a grin on his grinning face. He made them all swim in and listen. Could it be a call for help?

"We've had a special request from a general who shall be nameless. It seems there are a couple of very expensive missiles orbiting around uselessly in space, with their jets burnt out and he wants to know if we'd consider going out to bring them back."

The family erupted in a burst of collective laughter as they rejoiced in General's stupidity.

END