Brains makes ready to defuse the captured 'Birds, and Scott fends off a possible attack. With thanks and greetings to Tikatu, Laura, and Zeilfanaat!

12

Brains reached an ideal transmission spot after perhaps two hours of determined hiking. By the time he crested the last low, wooded ridge he was puffing and blowing like a walrus.

"Out of sh-shape...," he panted to himself, relieved enough by the welcome sight of Thunderbird 1 to joke a little, "l- less time in the lab, m-maybe... and more a-afternoon walks... in the s-snow... uphill... w-with a Volkswagen on... on my b-back...!"

He set up his equipment in the lee of the ridge, within visual range of both Thunderbirds. Nervously keeping an eye on his surroundings, Hackenbacker began tuning up the scanner. Figuring that the bombs were likely motion-triggered, with a remotely signaled detonation feature, he began scanning them electronically, planning to determine the detonation frequency, and jam it.

It was delicate work, and Brains found himself sweating despite the icy wind. If he chose wrongly, or if the scanner developed feedback at just the wrong frequency, there would be nothing left of the 'Birds but a couple of smouldering craters. Worse yet, and HE would have thought of such a trick, himself... What if the bombs were rigged so that jamming one would automatically trigger the other? Or set to detonate at any signal whatsoever? The nightmarish scenarios seemed endless.

So, Hackenbacker was cautious, methodical, and very, very slow. He hit touch pads and adjusted field strengths with the approximate sensations of a parent trying to lure his three-year-old out of a cage full of sleeping crocodiles. Eyes fixed on the scanner gauge, he prayed fervently for the sudden spike that would indicate success. Then, finally..., something. A needle jiggled, just a bit. Brains took off his glasses, wiped the fog away on his jacket sleeve, then set them firmly back in place. He had it, probably.

Glancing across once at the blunt-nosed, whalish bulk of Thunderbird 2, at the clean, sleek lines of 1, he bit his lip and began the jamming transmission. This was it. He was far too close to come away unscathed. Either he'd found the right frequency, or he'd go up with his 'Birds.

Back at the news van: It was a bold gesture, gallant and foolish. There was no way Scott could protect her, but Cindy knew he was willing to die trying. Genuinely terrified, she scooped up the van's steel wheel-lock, holding it like a club in her right hand as she hooked the fingers of her left through Scott's belt.

The sliding door handle rattled a bit. Softly, as though someone wanted to get in without alerting the van's inhabitants. Cindy's entire universe contracted to that handle. The side door was locked, but she didn't seriously expect that to stop a determined intruder. A glowing line began slowly tracing itself around the locking mechanism. The intruder was cutting through the door. With some cold, distant sliver of her mind, Cindy was aware of Scott thumbing back the hammer of his pistol, aware that her grip on his belt was so tight that her fingers actually hurt. Suddenly, the young man who'd placed himself between her and death meant more than anything else in the world, because she expected it all to end, soon.

"Scott?" She whispered swiftly, eyes locked on the door. "Thanks... for everything."

"Yeah. Same here."

Then the lock slid out and thumped to the floor at their feet, still smoking at the edges. A split instant later, the door was yanked open, and someone sprang within.

Meanwhile, TinTin and Alan hadmade good time. Unburdened by anything but weapons and G.P.S. gear, they were able to take a direct route through more challenging terrain than Hackenbacker. They ran into company fairly quickly, traveling less than three quarters of a mile before they crested a high ridge and found themselves face to face with a small troop of twenty or thirty lightly armed civilians. Locals, from the look of them. Dark-haired, scowling teenagers, mostly, with some adults thrown in, and a few grizzled officers in faded uniform. They looked tense and determined... and spoke no English whatsoever.

Alan repeated, "International Rescue. Here to help," several times, smiling and pointing at himself and TinTin in what he hoped was a friendly, soothing manner, then said it all again louder, as though more volume would help their comprehension.

TinTin elbowed him aside, electronic phrase book in hand. The only Macedonian words she'd bothered to memorize were threats and commands, far from ideal at the moment. She had a feeling that these people had armed themselves to re-take the mine and save the hostages, not to hunt down rescuers.

"Um...," she began tentatively, "zDravo...? Kako ste?"

Somebody giggled. Evidently she'd mangled the pronunciation. Blushing, TinTin tried again; met with no better success. Then a slim, brown haired girl with heavy eyebrows and a friendly smile came forward. Pointing at herself she said carefully,

"Krste. Krste Koncaliev." And hazarded further, in her own mangled accent, "Parlez-vous Francais?"

"Oui! Absolutment! Dieu Merci!" TinTin responded gratefully. As she spoke French fluently, and Krste was able to limp along in it, communications were established and plans hurriedly explained. The home-grown rescue effort had been well under way, it seemed, but additional volunteers were more than welcome.

"Yeah, buddy!" Alan exclaimed, when TinTin and Krste got around to translating their conversation, "The cavalry is about to arrive!"

The van shook as two more fatigue-clad figures leapt within, their assault rifles leveled squarely at Scott's chest.

"Marine Recon!" One of them shouted, "Drop your weapons!"

Weak with relief, Cindy sagged against Scott's back, momentarily, thinking, 'Thank God, thank God, oh, thank you, God!'

Scott gave her a quick 'I knew it all along' smile. Then, carefully placing his pistol on an equipment shelf, the pilot said,

"No problem, Lieutenant. Boy, are we glad to see you."