3

The action starts.

The team assembled in Jeff Tracy's office within minutes of the alert, crowding around his massive teak desk for a look at the data flashing across the monitor screen. Jeff shook his grizzled head, looking grimmer than they'd ever seen him.

"I'm not sure about this one," he muttered, into the tense, waiting silence. "Technically, boys, it's more of a challenge than we've ever faced."

It seemed that a freighter transporting high explosives had floundered and gone down during one of the increasingly violent storms which had plagued the North Sea that year. HMS vindicator 'd had time to send out one swift, desperate distress call before the dark waters between the Thames and the sea clamped a silencing hand over her mouth. A single life boat had escaped the disaster, with four half-drowned men aboard. They'd been rescued by a Royal Air Force helicopter, but there was another, more serious problem; a hold full ofdeadly explosives. Extremely powerful and terribly unstable, the munitions-grade explosives might be triggered by the slightest jar, the faintest electrical current generated between metal and saltwater. And when they blew, they'd take half of London with them. Over three million people were in immediate, dire peril, and the potential casualties from fire and injury were staggering. The King of England himself had requested their aid, for his family, and his subjects, offering to remain behind and provide whatever assistance he could. What London needed was a miracle, what she was about to get was six determined young men, and a handful of high-tech machines.

Jeff plucked at his lower lip, the lines which creased his forehead deepening to craggy furrows.

"We can help run the evacuation effort," he ventured at last, "But what kind of strategy can we put together to deal with explosives too dangerous to be approached?" Needing advice, the former astronaut looked up from his desk top. "Brains? Ideas?"

The engineer began chewing on a pencil. Much like Virgil, he thought better with something in his mouth.

"I've, ah... I've still g- got that explosive denaturing spray..."

John shifted his stance suddenly, saying something under his breath that the others didn't quite catch. Brains glanced over at him, the circuitry of his glasses automatically adjusting focus to compensate for the shifted view.

He and John had worked together a great deal, on projects ranging from the wrist comms, to Thunderbird 5. They'd finished many a late night brain-storming session asleep at their computer drafting tables, surrounded by diagrams, beer bottles and crumpled coffee cups. So, he guessed that John had a problem with his idea, but didn't like to speak out in front of the brusque, no-nonsense Jeff Tracy.

"Won't work, John?" the engineer inquired, quietly.

The younger man shook his head.

"The area's tidal," he replied, keeping his gaze on the ornate Persian rug at his feet. "Current 'll wash it all away in seconds. Some kind of quick-setting foam might work better, combined with a modified dark-energy force field. Set the stuff, insulate the ordnance, get it the hell out of there. Whatever." And then he shrugged once, his posture and expression defensive and cold. John was an impressive thinker, but he rarely opened up in front of his father.

"Foam...," Brains repeated, his unmatched technical compendium of a mind at once going to work on the formula. "Yeah... I c- could make that work! J- just need a delivery b- boy."

Gordon perked up, standing a bit straighter and giving the group a cheerful little wave.

"That's me," he said with a smile, "Fifteen minutes or less, guaranteed."

Jeff looked from his second-youngest son to Hackenbacker, who gave him a helpless shrug. There really wasn't a better choice. Young as Gordon was, and careless as he sometimes seemed, he was the team's best diver and aquanaut. Still...

"I wish there was another way," Jeff sighed. "The denaturing foam and dark energy field seem workable enough, but unless I miss my guess, Thunderbird 4 won't be able to get within 100 yards of that wreck without setting it off."

Gordon, still straining at the leash, spoke up again.

"So, I'll stop her at 150 meters, and dive th' rest. I got this. Really."

"No way!" Alan cut in, grimacing expressively. Though two years separated them, he and Gordon were close friends, rarely apart in adventure, mischief or trouble. "I'm definitely going, then! You'll sure as heck screw something up, if I'm not there to..."

The baby-faced blond would have gone on (and on), but Scott waved him aside.

"I'll go with Gordon, Dad," he told his worried father. "I'm a fair diver, and I can operate 4, in a pinch." The unstated reason, 'And I promise to keep him safe', was in Scott's eyes and voice, rather than his words.

Jeff nodded, relieved.

"Right. It's a go, then. John, you'll take Thunderbird 1, Mobile Control, and Alan. Scott and Gordon will suit up to dive the wreck, deploying Brains' equipment to neutralize the threat of explosion. Virgil, you and Brains are on transport and evacuation detail, from Thunderbird 2."

"Yes, Father," The big cargo pilot replied serenely, already calculating his flight plan. A 'great circle' path from the island to London would head north, crossing the western States and part of Canada, clipping the south end of Greenland, and covering 9,567.26 miles...

Jeff turned away, smiling a little, despite his worry. Virgil was the spirit and image of his grandfather when plotting out a flight, down to the faraway look in his brown eyes, and the way he rubbed his hands together. Addressing the group's only girl, he gave a new set of orders.

"TinTin, I'll need a minute-to-minute report on the local weather and sea conditions, streamed to Mobile Control as well as Thunderbird 2. Keep an ear out for anything suspicious in the way of communications, as well. A rescue this public would be the ideal time for someone to try for a picture, or video. We need to spot and stop them before they get the chance."

TinTin nodded silently, looking somewhat depressed. She'd hoped to be included in the heavy lifting, now that Alan had become 'official'. But, no; it seemed that she was still regarded as too young, or maybe just too female, to be sent along on a mission. But Mr. Tracy was speaking again. Doing her best to conceal her disappointment, the girl focused on his words.

"I'll coordinate the rescue effort from base, and set up a liaison to deal with the Royal Family, and local authorities." With gathering confidence, he added, "Brains, I need that equipment ready to go within the hour. Understood?"

"Y- yes, Sir, Mr. Tracy. I'm, ah... I'm on it. J- John, I'll need you, and Scott and, ah... and Gordon, with me."

Jeff had risen to his feet, a tall, commanding presence; grey-haired and proud.

"Boys, we've got one chance at this. A single wrong move could detonate the explosives and incinerate half of London. There is simply...no...margin...for...error. Together, perfect, the first time, or not at all. Now, go to it, and Godspeed!"