Everything starts to go wrong at once, in a big way... self evident, I know, but these are not my characters, and I place no claims except for deep and abiding fondness.

3

It was a snowy morning in Macedonia, overcast and bitterly cold. The Citizens' Victory copper mine, recently shut down for health reasons, crouched like a rusting beast amid mountainous heaps of shattered rock and a few stunted trees. A sluggish river bubbled and stank as it oozed past the old mine complex, too polluted to freeze.

Holding her breath, Cindy experimented with several different positions, trying to find a spot where the light hit her properly... and the wind didn't. Fanged and clawed with bits of gritty, reeking ice, the wind seemed to slice right through her insulated, 'all weather' coverall. Still, cold was alright, as long as her hair didn't blow about too much, or wind-tears wash away her carefully applied eye-makeup. Trying to still her chattering teeth, Cindy asked Abe, her cameraman,

"How's this? Can you s-see the building behind me? I want to be sure and get a shot of the landing, too. How 'bout it?"

The skinny red-head nodded absently, fiddling with the computerized touch pad controls of his shoulder mounted camera. One way or another, they had to start broadcasting, preferably before a rival news team did. She was far from alone in the snow that frigid morning. Surrounded by fellow news hounds, was more like it.

Rumor had it that International Rescue were on their way, and maybe, just maybe, if the gods of journalism smiled down upon them, she and Abe might get a swift, coveted shot of the Thunderbird craft. As that would cover everything- cold, discomfort and wretched food- with fame and bragging rights to spare, Cindy was determined to film the landing. It wouldn't be easy. International Rescue were notoriously touchy about being photographed. Too bad for them. Cindy Taylor, WNN's hottest foreign correspondent, had never yet failed to get her story... even if she had to bend the rules a little.

Hearing the rumble of approaching engines at last, Cindy glanced over her shoulder and gave Abe the signal. He nodded, beginning a silent countdown with his free hand. 3...2...1...and...

"Thanks, Peter. As you know, I'm over in Macedonia, about twenty miles from the nearest town..." (Whose name she hadn't yet managed to pronounce) "...Behind me you can see what's left of the 'Citizens Victory' copper mine, where a sudden cave-in has reportedly trapped over fifty men. There's some activity, I think, from the main building... Yes, a group of officials have stepped outside. Needless to say, Peter, they appear very tense, concerned by the tragic events here today. And... oh, my goodness! Abe, swing the camera around! Are you getting this...? International Rescue have arrived on the scene. Folks, we may lose our picture soon, as the Thunderbird craft deploy their protective electro-magnetic field, so I'll try to describe what I'm seeing for you." She took a deep breath, squinted into the stinging wind, and continued. "A gigantic... you can barely grasp the size of this thing, Peter. Looks as weird in the air as a brontosaurus would... As I say, an enormous, green, heavy transport has just appeared over the hills to the west. It seems to be headed this way. It isn't terribly noisy, except for the firing of some sort of... looks like some kind of steering rockets, Peter. It's definitely not producing as much noise as you would expect for something that size, but the air around me feels like it's rippling... or pulsing... like something is pushing at it. Abe, have we still got visual? We have? Good, 'cause here comes another Thunderbird! It's coming straight down from overhead, getting closer by the second... Rats! There goes our picture! I'll keep talking, though."

Abe shrugged philosophically and lowered the camera, giving his energetic partner a wan smile. International Rescue's technology advantage simply could not be overcome. On the other hand, the lovely Cindy Taylor was a popular correspondent with a real gift for animated description. If anyone could turn this disappointing state of affairs into an asset, she could. No doubt Peter Ride, WNN's chief anchorman, had already signaled up a stock photo of Cindy, and was still running her broadcast.

The sudden turbulence created by the second Thunderbird blew snow in fifty directions at once, and wreaked havoc with Cindy's dark hair. Holding it out of her face with one hand, she raised her voice a bit and kept right on determinedly reporting.

"It's some kind of rocket," she called out, "...sleek, fast and powerful. The other one's green, but this one's mostly silver, with a red nose cone. It's emitting some sort of landing gear... three long, slender skids... and settling to the ground beside a jagged ridge about a quarter of a mile away. Peter, can you still hear me?"

Receiving a faint affirmation, Cindy nodded and went on. "The first Thunderbird, the heavy cargo lifter, has already touched down. Now I can see a hatch sliding open in the rocket, not far from the nose... a ladder is descending... (you'd think they'd have something a little more high-tech)... Oops! The other one's begun winching down some kind of one-man deplaning platform. Guess you've gotta save money somehow, even if you are International Rescue. The first pilot is approaching the mine officials on a hover-sled looking thing. Pilot two is still descending. The first guy is..., well, I'll try to describe him for you. He seems tall, and he's wearing that blue coverall uniform of theirs, but I can't see a name tag or other insignia; he's got a jacket on."

The thought flashed through Cindy's head that the young man... and he was young. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? That he was almost impossibly good-looking. "Hollywood", she nick-named him immediately. The other one (tall as well, but with a focused, meditative expression and a bluffly handsome, sun-tanned face), she started thinking of as "Cowboy".

"Pilot one has just reached the waiting miners. They're reaching out; I think they want to shake his hand. And now... Huh? I didn't just... I don't believe... Omigod! He's down! He's been shot! Two, maybe three times, in the chest, I think! The waiting men have just shot the pilot of Thunderbird 1! What's..?! This is insane! The second pilot has leapt from the platform and is running over... he's got a weapon... NO!" Cindy was screaming now, "He's been shot in the legs! They've surrounded him! Peter, you won't believe this! It must have been some kind of trap! They've got him down! They've got his weapon away! Omigod... Omigod...! Peter, they're beating and kicking him! I think they're going to kill him...! They're firing at us! They're firing at...!"

And all over the world, people tuned into WNN or one of its affiliates heard shots, screams, then nothing. The view switched with jolting suddenness from Cindy's smiling picture to a visibly shaken Peter Ride. He'd gotten to his feet behind his desk, white-faced and open-mouthed. After a moment, he managed to say,

"Ladies and Gentlemen, you've heard it just now... Something has gone terribly wrong in Macedonia. Two Thunderbird pilots are down, possibly dead, and we can't seem to reach our... to reach Cindy. We..., ah..., after a brief commercial break... we'll be right back.