6

Many thanks to Emma for His Majesty's name, and to Orangutangal for the pointer on "The City". Consider it noted, and adjusted!

Virgil reached the wreck site a few minutes later, braking Thunderbird 2's airspeed with skillfully applied steering rockets and impellers. As her altimeter fell, a glance outside revealed the lights of the British coast glowing faintly through a dense, oozing fog. Turning his head a bit, the husky pilot said to his brothers,

" 'Bout that time, Guys. Ready to go?"

Scott and Gordon unstrapped and rose, Scott calm and assured, Gordon with a few dozen loose butterflies performing maneuvers in his stomach. Sheffield, where Royce's family lived, was only 134 miles away... near enough to be in danger, maybe. Rosie and Mrs. Fellows would be sitting up by the telly, probably, waiting for news, or another call.

So far (that he clearly recalled, anyway), Gordon had exactly one and a half rescues to his credit. So far, so good. Only, this time, he was going in to do a job everyone considered him an expert at; underwater rescue and retrieval, with stakes high enough to be terrifying. He was very glad, indeed, that Scott had opted to come with him. Silently praying that he didn't screw up, Gordon gave Virgil a quick wave, then led the way down into the pod, and Thunderbird 4.

London:

Arthur Denis William Robert Phillip Hanover, right-wise King of pretty nearly everything he surveyed, turned out to be a lean and fit man of about 37, with light brown hair receding a bit at the forehead, and bright blue eyes. He was just under average height, with a nose too big for his face, and a warm, genuine smile.The cool, lovely blonde at his side, on the other hand, looked every inch the frosty aristocrat.

"Your Majesty," Penelope began, in her most formally elegant voice, "may I present...?"

"John," he replied, very quietly. "And Alan."

Penelope gave him a small, icy smile.

"Alan, and... John..., was it? Agents of International Rescue, I believe." Then, "Gentlemen: His Highness, King Denis, of..."

The King cut her off with a little head shake.

"There is a time and place for court etiquette, Lady Creighton-Ward, and a time for action. If you please, I will speak for myself."

She bowed her head just a bit, and stepped back to join the waiting military and security types, pointedly not looking at John.

Said the King, extending his hand,

"Gentlemen, I thank you for responding to the need so swiftly. Every resource we have to offer is at your disposal, for the duration of this crisis. What must we do?"

Shaking the proffered hand, John replied,

"Thank you, Sir. With your permission, we'll set up Mobile Control a little closer to the river. I and... your liaison... can coordinate the evacuation of the city from this console, and oversee the explosive disposal. The best help you could give us personally would be to get on television and encourage the people not to panic."

The King's chin lifted slightly.

"Young man," he said, "we are British. There will be no panic. London and the surrounding regions will be evacuated in an orderly and civilized manner; and when the last of my subjects climbs onto his transport, it is I who shall shut the door and send him to safety. Now; let us begin to..., as your president so charmingly puts it, 'make this thing happen'."

John, liking His Royal Majesty more every minute, had to smile.

"Yes, Sir."

Thunderbird 4:

Scott wedged himself into a bulkhead pull-down seat, finding it rather a tight squeeze. He and Gordon had donned wet suits, tactile girdles and dive belts, and were just about set to go.

Virgil called over the comm,

"We're down below 60 feet. Ready, Kiddo?"

Scott could hear the smile in Gordon's voice as he responded,

"Fire one, Sir; aye!"

"Right. Here goes."

At the last instant, just before what felt like the most harrowing theme-park ride in creation, Gordon looked over his shoulder and shouted,

"Scott..., brace!"

They plummeted, stone-like, and hit the water with a thundering WHUMP! Warned too late, Scott was unprepared for the shock of collision. He felt something wrench itself into a fiery, twisted knot, all along the left side of his back. All of a sudden, he could hardly move; every breath was a major, hissing effort.

The deck pitched and rolled beneath them, as the pod thrashed around in the waves like a dying giant. Scott clenched his teeth against a pain that seemed to start in the back of his neck, and end somewhere on the sea bed.

Gordon was far too busy to notice his brother's condition. Working as fast as he could, the young aquanaut triggered Thunderbird 4's launch sequence. The pod door dropped majestically away before them, opening onto choppy, fog-drenched water. A tracked slipway along the inside of the broad door provided their road, all the invitation Gordon needed to leave the heaving pod.

Hitting 4's rear thrusters, Gordon sent them speeding along the track, and into the brackish water. This second collision, followed by a rapid, steep-angle dive, caused Scott to clutch at his arm rests like he was dangling above a hundred-story drop. His anguished grunt must have been audible, because Gordon looked around again.

"Scott? You all right?"

"Never better," the older man grated out, through tightly clenched teeth. At last they leveled out, then came to a stop, hovering about thirty feet above the murky sea floor.

"You sure?" Gordon persisted. "Because I could..."

"Fine. I'm fine. Let's just... unhh!... get this show on the road." And he somehow managed to get the seat straps off, then rise to his feet. Pain or no pain, he wasn't sending Gordon out to face a ship load of sensitive munitions, alone.

Gordon wasn't convinced, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Scott, he noticed, was moving like a hundred-year-old man, his left shoulder slightly hunched, the left arm pulled tight across his torso.

Wordlessly, Gordon got up, fetching their dive equipment out of a bulkhead locker. Though he didn't make a big deal about it, the boy did his best to help his brother don the cutting tools, mask and rebreather. He held onto both sets of fins, though, deciding that Scott had thrown his back out, somehow, and was too proud to admit it. In any case, the injured pilot was going to have as much as he could do to step down into the lower airlock, much less carry equipment. Hopefully, Scott would do better out in the water, where most of the weight would be off his back muscles.

Keeping a concerned eye on his white-faced older brother, Gordon dogged open the first hatch, climbing down a short ladder into the airlock. Once inside, he reached a hand up to steady Scott's descent. Somehow, his brother made it down the ladder, breathing in short, hard gasps, and taking one slow rung at a time.

"Scott, are y' sure you...?"

"Gordon, I'm fine. Drop it. We've got a job to do."

"Right. Sorry."

He swarmed halfway up the ladder again, shut and sealed the upper hatch. Then, signaling Scott to put on his mask, he pressed the 'airlock flood' button. Water, cold and dark and hungry, came hissing up around their legs, lifting the two Tracy brothers entirely off the slatted deck. When the process was complete, Gordon spoke again, his voice thin and reedy over the mask comm.

"Test one: Scott, you hearing me?"

"Loud and clear, Gordon. Remember..., we get within 300 yards of that wreck, and there's no more talking; radio signal at the wrong time could light the biggest damn candle since World War II."

"F.A.B., Scott. I'll be silent as the grave, my word on it. Here, take a writing board, put your fins on, and I'll open the second hatch."

He did as he'd said, releasing the two of them to exit Thunderbird 4's cramped little airlock. A touch to their buoyancy control vests released a bit of air, making them heavy enough to sink through the hatch, and out into stygian darkness. In the faint glimmer of 4's running lights, Gordon got a swift impression of limestone outcrops and stringy grey muck. If there were any fish, they were being shy. Definitely a strong current from the river, though; it hummed around Thunderbird 4 like a gale.

The sleds and foam tanks were in a small hold at the aft of the boxy little sub. Leaving Scott to rest in the lee of the Water Bird, Gordon darted off to fetch the equipment.