Are you ready for the challenge?

This chapter starts with a really obvious reference, but be warned some are much harder. See if you can score all 21 points available in this chapter.

Don't forget to send your answers through to turton-tracyathotmail .com, but we won't say no to reviews as well.

Now let the fun begin…

Celebration Challenge

One: Plans and Actions

The setting sun was colouring the Pacific Ocean a brilliant orange.

As he ticked off another day on his calendar, Jeff Tracy's eye caught the date. It was hard to believe that in a week's time International Rescue would have been fully operational for five years.

Five years! As he looked back over those years, even he was amazed by what his family and friends had achieved. They'd created a top-secret organisation with equipment admired by many and craved by a few. And then, almost five years ago, they'd launched themselves onto an unsuspecting world and saved the Fireflash on its maiden flight.

Since then International Rescue had rescued hundreds of people from disasters that the regular services had been unable to cope with. There had been failures too, but these had been few and far between.

Jeff felt a sense of pride growing within him.

A harsh piano chord brought him back down to earth. Virgil was getting some sheet music out from under the piano stool and had inadvertently leant on the keyboard. He looked over at his dad. "Sorry, Father," he said, as he settled down at the piano.

"You're back from Mateo Island early. How's the Mark II coming along, Son?" As he asked the question, Jeff thought he detected a slight hardening of Virgil's jaw.

The young man's reply was abrupt. "Fine. Only cosmetic stuff and some programming to do," and then, to his father's surprise, Virgil stood, left the piano, and disappeared outside.

Jeff had no time to ponder his son's actions as his oldest boy entered the room.

"Have you seen Virgil?" Scott asked. "I wanted to check something with him before he started practising."

"He sat down at the piano and then, without playing anything, headed outside."

Surprised, Scott looked at his father. "Without playing anything?"

"Yes," Jeff's bemused expression was a mirror image of his son's. "He sat down… I asked him about the Mark II… he said it was fine… and left!"

"Ah!" Understanding passed over Scott's face.

"What!"

"It was the Mark II bit that did it."

"Did what? Scott! Is there something I should know about?"

Scott looked at his father thoughtfully. "Something you should know about? Probably not. I'll go talk to him."

Jeff watched another of his sons leave the house and wondered what he'd done wrong…

Scott found Virgil on the beach skimming stones over the darkening waters. He watched as his brother spun one out over the Pacific Ocean. It skipped five times before sinking beneath the surface. "Not bad, but you haven't bettered my record."

Virgil turned. "I didn't see you there."

"I didn't think you did. I thought you were going to have a practise. What's happened? Lose the piano?"

Virgil didn't laugh as he threw another stone and watched it sink without trace. "No. I didn't feel like playing."

"That's not like you."

"So! Aren't I allowed do something different occasionally?" Virgil asked sharply, and then checked himself. "Sorry, Scott."

"That's okay." Scott thought for a moment, trying to decide on the best way for broaching what was obviously a touchy subject. "So… Virg... Looking forward to flying the Mark II?"

"I guess," Virgil mumbled.

"Not going to be the same as Thunderbird Two though is it?"

"No," Virgil admitted. "Not even close." He sat down on the golden sands and looked at the pebbles in his hands.

Scott joined him. "Give it time. You'll grow to know her just as well as you do the Mark I. After all, there's not a lot of difference between the two."

"I hope so."

"Of course you will. Before you know it, you'll be so tuned in to her you'll forget you're flying another 'plane. And you'll wonder what you were concerned about."

Five years wasn't old for an aeroplane, but Thunderbird Two wasn't an ordinary 'plane. She was the workhorse of the International Rescue fleet. She had been involved in nearly every rescue and had performed almost flawlessly in every one. She had flown thousands of miles in environments that would have knocked most other craft out of the sky. She had taken a battering and kept on going.

Her very design, while one of her strengths, was also one of her flaws. The detachable pods meant that the wings and side supports had to withstand greater forces than it was reasonable to expect. The hydraulic legs too, placed great strains on perhaps the weakest parts of the 'plane. That Thunderbird Two had lasted five years was a testament to her design and construction. Brains had been the principal designer, but Virgil had had a large input too. He'd fully utilised his Denver School of Advanced Technology training in dreaming up what Thunderbird Two would do and how they would achieve it.

Now Jeff had decided that it was time to retire the old Thunderbird Two and build a new one. The new one was to be, to all intents and purposes, the same as the old, but made with new and improved materials and with additional features.

At first Virgil had been excited by the prospect. This time he had a better idea of what the new craft should and would be capable of. Technology had moved on in five years, and he had five years under his belt learning Thunderbird Two's idiosyncrasies and devising how to improve on them. It was only now, within days of launching the new and improved Thunderbird Two, that he was beginning to feel doubts.

"What if I can't fly the Mark II as well as Thunderbird Two? I rely as much on the sound and feel of things as on the instrumentation. You're probably the same. It's what makes us so good at flying our craft. What if I can't tune in like that with the Mark II?"

"It's almost as if she's talking to you, isn't it?"

Virgil looked at his brother unable to believe how astute he'd been. "Yeah. Talking to me. Yes, Scott, that's it exactly." He paused. "How'd you know?"

"I guessed… and I guess I'm the same. If we were replacing Thunderbird One, I'd feel pretty cut up about it too. But remember; you'll 'tune into' the Mark II. It'll take time, but you will. It took you a while to get used to flying the Mark I. I remember having to replant a couple of palms, just because you got too close to the edge of the runway."

Virgil gave a slight smile at the memory. "At least I never set fire to the diving board!" Then he became serious. "But this time I won't have the time to get used to her. We could be straight off on a rescue as soon as she's been launched. And another thing, Thunderbird Two's looked after me. Even that time when I was shot down by the Sentinel, she got me home, more or less in one piece. I don't know how, I think she flew herself."

"I remember," Scott reflected. "I felt so helpless. All I could do was watch and keep yelling for you to pull out of that dive."

"Yeah. I remember that. I remember thinking 'what do you think I'm trying to do!' Partially wishing that you'd shut up, but at the same time being glad that you were there."

Scott leant back on his arms and gazed out over the Pacific Ocean. "Yeah, I was glad she was built so strong that day."

Virgil traced a pattern in the sand. "And here we are launching the new one on our fifth anniversary… I know it sounds silly, Scott, but I feel as if I'm betraying Thunderbird Two. We should be celebrating what she has achieved, not putting her on the scrapheap!"

"I understand," Scott acknowledged simply.

"Do you?" Virgil looked at Scott for any signs that his big brother was laughing at him. There were none. "You do, don't you?"

"I wish I could help. You know that for purely safety reasons Thunderbird Two has got to be replaced…"

"I know."

"…and that there'll be so many improvements to the new one, that you'll wonder how you managed to get along with out them."

"I know. I helped design them."

"Then keep thinking of those positives. You know what they say – time heals all wounds."

"I know," Virgil repeated again and sighed. "It'll be all right, won't it? It'll just be a matter of getting used to it."

"That's right."

Virgil grimaced. "I'm worrying about nothing, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't say nothing," Scott cautioned. "Just unnecessarily. You'll be all right. You both will." He took a stone from Virgil's hand, stood, and skimmed it out across the Pacific's waters. It bounced seven times and disappeared. "Too much chop."

Virgil dropped the last of his stones on the beach and rubbed his hands on his trousers. "I guess I'd better get back to my practise." He stood and started walking away from the water's edge.

"Virgil…"

Virgil turned back to his brother. "Yes?"

"When the time comes that we replace Thunderbird One, will you come and give me this pep talk?"

Virgil managed a laugh. "Sure! I'll start practicing now. What were the clichés again?"

Scott pretended to count them down off his fingers. "Time heals all wounds… Keep thinking of the positives… You'll wonder how you managed to get along without the improvements…"

There was a shout from the balcony. It was Gordon. Always boisterous; he rarely saw the need to use their wristwatch communicators if a yell would do it. "Hey, Fellas! We've got a call out."

Scott slapped Virgil lightly on the arm. "There you go. One last chance to fly her."

"Yes!" Virgil's face lit up as he ran back to the house.

Jeff was in conversation with Alan up in Thunderbird Five. "… And there's no other way of getting to them…? Hang on, Virgil! Hadn't you better find out what you're up against?"

Virgil pulled up short. In his excitement at the thought of flying Thunderbird Two one last time he already had his back to the painting of the spaceship. "Sorry, Father," he said, and looked at Scott, who winked back.

"You're up to the Arctic, Boys. There's a research sub gone down under the ice. It's lost power and there's three men on board. You'll need the arctic recovery gear and Thunderbird Four. John and Gordon, you go with Virgil. Scott, you'd better get up there and keep us appraised of the conditions."

"F-A-B, Father." Scott went to his section of the wall, grasped the twin lamps and rotated out of sight.

"Okay, Virgil, get going…" but his third son was already sliding off the painting and down the chute to his Thunderbird. Jeff shook his head in bemusement. 'He's keen today.'

"Are you comfortable, Parker?"

"Yes M'lady. H-I must say these seats are most comfy."

"Did you have any problems with FAB1?"

"A cop was nosin' round. Said 'e was checking the tax discs," Parker said huffily. "H-I told the young scallywag to learn 'is road code. H-I 'ad great pleasure in reminding 'im that cars of that year are not required to pay tax. H-I quite took the wind out of 'is sails," he finished in satisfaction.

Lady Penelope regarded her loyal butler fondly. Dressed in striped blazer, cream flannel trousers and with the ensemble topped by a straw boater, he'd made an effort to blend in with the other passengers in the Fireflash's first class cabin. He'd failed miserably, but, Lady Penelope mused, at least he wasn't wearing the gaudy outfit he'd chosen when he was on holiday in Monte Bianco. She didn't think her eyes could have withstood two hours of looking at that bright orange floral shirt.

"H-It was most kind of Mr Tracy to stand me the tickets," Parker was saying. "H-It's not often that I get to travel with the nobs... 'Scuse me," he added in horror, frightened that he'd caused offence. "Excepting you of course, M'lady. Not that you're a nob. You're diff'rent. You're a lady like…"

"It's all right, Parker. Just relax and enjoy yourself. This is meant to be a treat for us both." Lady Penelope picked up the pamphlet and began perusing it, giving her travelling companion the opportunity to compose himself.

'Fireflash,' the brochure began. 'Now, as at the time of her launch, is regarded as a state of the art technological marvel. Her speed and comfort is without peer in the world of public transport.'

Lady Penelope skipped over many of the self-congratulatory paragraphs, stopping only when two words caught her eye. She began reading again at the beginning of the paragraph.

'The Fireflash has had its share of setbacks, each of which has added to the mystic of this fabled craft. The most notable and well publicised being the dramatic events surrounding her maiden flight five years ago. As has been thoroughly documented in other publications, a bomb had been placed in the Fireflash's undercarriage, thereby preventing the lowering of the landing gear. If it were not for the heroic actions of International Rescue, the plane would have exploded, or her passengers and crew would have succumbed to radiation poisoning.'

Lady Penelope mused that if the author of this particular missive was trying to be positive about the craft, he was failing miserably.

'Later events, such the sabotaging of subsequent models of Fireflash, have ensured that the current security measures are the most stringent in the world. Each passenger, each vehicle, each piece of luggage, and the aeroplane itself, is checked and re-checked many times by many means. It is now virtually impossible for a craft of the Fireflash fleet to be targeted by those who wish her harm.

'The radiation shield has been boosted so that now not only can the atomic engines allow the Fireflash to remain airborne for six months, but there is also no danger of radiation poisoning to the craft's occupants. By choosing to travel on the Fireflash airliner you have chosen to fly on the safest, most reliable aircraft in the world's skies.'

Lady Penelope lowered the brochure and placed it back on the table in front of her. She disliked self-congratulation in the press. She looked at Parker who was pretending to be engrossed in the latest issue of 'The Times' and reflected that in a short time they would both be in the presence of aeroplanes that truly deserved the title of 'the safest, most reliable aircraft in the world's skies'. She smiled a little smile at her secret knowledge and looked past Parker to where a thickset man, with astonishingly bushy eyebrows and moustache, appeared to be regarding her from above his newspaper. Lady Penelope broadened her smile slightly and nodded in a gesture of acknowledgement.

The man hastily raised his paper again…

Virgil slid down the chute and into the cockpit of Thunderbird Two. The controls of his craft were laid out before him, as familiar as old friends. He caressed the control yoke briefly before selecting Pod Four and then leaving his seat to get changed. He completed this task in near record time and was waiting impatiently when his two brothers arrived.

"One last trip, huh, Virg?" John said as he buckled up.

"Yep," Virgil acknowledged briefly, before concentrating on steering Thunderbird Two out of its hangar and down the palm lined airstrip. In reality he could have done this with his eyes closed, but he was determined to make the most of this last trip. And he wasn't about to mark the end of Thunderbird Two's life by shearing off a couple more palms.

They reached the end of the runway and felt their centre of gravity change as Thunderbird Two's nose was tilted skywards. One final check of the radar and they were powering up into the darkening sky. Virgil felt the vibrations and listened to the sounds that his ship produced. It WAS almost as if Thunderbird Two was talking to him; he knew what each and every sound meant. And it meant that all was well.

They levelled off at a safe height and began cruising at a speed of just under 5000mph.

"How's the Mark II coming on, Virg?" Gordon asked innocently.

"Fine," was the short answer.

"Are you writing a piece of music for the celebration?" John asked.

"Yep."

"How's it coming?"

"Fine."

John and Gordon looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Deciding that Virgil was not going to be very communicative on this trip, they began to talk to each other instead.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Please fasten your seatbelts," a female voice intoned. "We will shortly be landing in Los Angles Airport."

Parker wrestled with his restraint briefly before hearing the satisfying click as it slid home. "Nearly there, M'lady."

"Quite so, Parker. I wonder who Jeff will send to meet us?"

"Didn't 'e mention h-it to you?"

"No. I suppose it depends on, ah… events and who he can spare."

"Yes, M'lady. 'Ave you decided on what you are going to do while in Los Angeles?"

"I was thinking of visiting Carole Hampton."

"The 'Ollywood actress, M'lady?"

"The same. She lives in a Hollywood villa that makes Creighton-ward mansion look positively poky in comparison."

"H-I read 'ere," Parker indicated his reading material. He'd discarded 'The Times' and had eventually settled down to read a glossy magazine that had been handed to him to the Flight Attendant. "That she 'ad taken up with Mr Chip Harrison."

"Is that the man voted the third most eligible bachelor in the world?"

"The second, M'lady," Parker corrected gently. "But it sounds like 'e's gonna lose that status."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope mused. "I wonder if Mr Harrison is aware that when Carole left England she suffered from prominent teeth, extreme myopia, and a lisp? Not to mention a rather large," she glanced at her travelling companion as she said this, "er, nose."

"H-I always see that as a sign of character," Parker said with dignity.

"Quite," Lady Penelope agreed. "Carole has worked very hard to make it to the top of her profession, helped in no small part by an inheritance from her father. She and I got up to little bit of mischief while we were at boarding school."

"H-Indeed, Madam," Parker grinned. "H-And, 'scuse me askin', but what mischief would that be?"

"Never you mind, Parker," Lady Penelope scolded him gently, but with a certain degree of affection. "Suffice it to say that the Headmistress never did discover who wrote several, ah, shall we say, 'unladylike' words on the lawn in fertiliser. By the time it became apparent that some mischief making had occurred, it was summer and we had finished for the term."

They'd been flying for well over an hour when Scott reported in. "It's a howling gale and the snow's falling horizontally. The temperature's about 40 degrees Celsius below zero. We've got 'white out' conditions, Fellas."

"Gee, and I forgot my sun block and swimsuit," Gordon quipped.

"There's already an access hole in the ice that you can utilise, Gordon," Scott told him. "It's a little small for Thunderbird Four at the moment though. We'll have to enlarge it."

"By how much, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"Not much. Couple of metres should do it."

"Or one burst of the VTOL jets," Virgil said in satisfaction.

Through the video screen he saw his brother grin. "You got it!"

"Better make sure the rest of the research team are standing well back then. Don't want to barbeque them as well."

"F-A-B."

John and Gordon grinned at each other. It looked like Virgil was finally starting to relax.

They arrived at the rescue zone and discovered that, as usual, Scott had been 100 correct. With the white out conditions it was nearly impossible to see out the windows and Virgil came in low relying totally on Thunderbird Two's sophisticated scanning equipment.

John strained to see anything outside. The scene was blank – a white canvas waiting to be drawn on. "This is weird. I can't see the horizon, or the sky, or the ground, or anything! If it wasn't for Thunderbird Two's instruments, and gravity, we wouldn't know which way was up. How far are we off the ground?"

"About ten metres," Virgil was concentrating on his controls. Gordon had already headed down into Pod Four to ready Thunderbird Four.

"Whew – that's close. Are you sure we're in the right place?" John asked.

"You want to pop out and double check?" Virgil queried, his eyebrow raised in merriment.

John looked back out into the eerie whiteness. "Ah, no thanks."

"Thunderbird Two. Good to see you – so to speak," Scott greeted them.

"Are you actually out there, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"I'll bet you've nipped home to get warm and left us to do the dirty work," John added.

"I'm 350 metres to your right, as you well know. Have you got a reading on the access hole?"

"F-A-B," Virgil was suddenly all business. "Do we know how thick the ice is?"

"Would you believe three metres?"

"Three metres! I'll give it a 10 second burst with the VTOL jets and then get another reading."

"F-A-B. Good luck, Virgil."

With pinpoint accuracy Virgil lined up the great craft so that the right front Vertical Take Off and Landing jet was positioned over the edge of the hole that was their only access to the frigid waters below. "John will keep an eye on the timer. I'll control the jets."

John was already in front of the scanner, the readouts telling him their position relative to the hole. "Ready when you are," he stated.

"Right!" As Virgil activated the VTOL jets and a burst of superheated flame shot out of Thunderbird Two's undercarriage, he briefly remembered previous times when the jets had been a hindrance, rather than a help. Such as the time they had to rescue Eddie Houseman from the side of that mountain. If it hadn't been for some slick flying on Scott's part, Eddie would have been a gonna for sure. That problem had been rectified with the Mark II. But then would he be able to complete the operation he was undertaking now with the Mark II?

"Ten Seconds!" John stated.

Virgil shut down the rockets. "How's it look?"

John was squinting into the scanner. "The diameter's right, but it's not deep enough."

"How far are we through?" Virgil asked.

"About 2 metres."

"We'll go another five metres lower."

John looked at Virgil. He had to admire his coolness. "You sure? We'll only be five metres off the ground."

"That'll be plenty." The great craft inched its way closer to the ice below.

"How's it going, Fellas?" Gordon had finished his preparations and was waiting impatiently at the controls of Thunderbird Four.

"The hole in the ice still isn't big enough for Thunderbird Four," John told him. "Just chill out until we're ready for you."

"Chill out! It'll be chilly enough when I get down there!"

"Ready, John?" Virgil asked.

"Ready!"

"Start countdown – now!"

"Five – Four – Three – Two - One – Shutdown!" John checked the scanner again. "Perfect! Scott could fly Thunderbird One through there!"

"I'd like to see you suggest that to him!" Virgil chuckled. "Okay, Gordon, we're coming in to land. Are you ready?"

"I've been ready the last ten minutes."

It was another minute before Virgil had safely landed Thunderbird Two and the great craft had risen up onto her hydraulic legs, revealing Pod Four. Not that anyone could see it in the blinding snow – most of which seemed, to Gordon, to be joining him in the pod.

He launched himself, and Thunderbird Four, into the Arctic Ocean. It was pitch black and he switched on his halogen lights and dove deeper, searching out the research sub's last known position. As he peered into the gloom he remembered something. "Hey, Virgil."

"Yes, Gordon?"

"Can you shut the pod's door, please? I don't want to come back to a refrigerator."

"Already done. The wind's getting stronger, so we've lowered back down to reduce the resistance. Two's still rocking a bit though."

"Okay, I'm starting a search pattern."

John and Virgil were watching Gordon's progress on the radar. "How deep are they supposed to be?" John asked…

Back on Thunderbird One, Scott was watching the wind gauge. He gave a long low whistle. "250km/hour. I'm not going to be able to hang about here much longer," he muttered. Even as he spoke a particularly vicious gust of wind sent Thunderbird One rocking violently. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One!"

He heard Virgil's voice reply. "Thunderbird Two. What's up, Scott?"

"The wind! If it gets any stronger I'll be rolling around the Arctic Circle. I'm going to take off and gain some altitude. I SHOULD be able to reduce the wind resistance that way."

"F-A-B. Be careful."

Deep beneath the ice pack, Gordon had managed to locate the research submarine. A quick circuit confirmed that there appeared to be no external damage to the sub. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two. Visually the sub appears to be in one piece. I'm going to scan for cracks now. If there's none I'll use the magnetic grabs and bring her to the surface."

"Understood," Virgil replied. "Any sign of the crew?"

"Negative. The sub's totally blacked out. I can't see inside. The fresh water from the ice is mixing with the sea water and making things pretty murky."

"If they haven't got power, what would their oxygen levels be, Gordon?" John asked.

"I don't know. It would depend on so many things. How the oxygen tanks operate. What the level of damage is, where it is, how many of the crew are still…" Gordon didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to. John and Virgil both knew what he was thinking.

"How about decompression?" Virgil asked. "How fast are you going to be able to get her back up here?"

"That depends too… Okay, guys, I've finished scanning. No sign of any degradation of the hull. Before we move the sub I'm going to try to contact the crew."

As Gordon lined up his own submarine so that it was facing the windows of the research sub, John once more opened the communication lines. "What's the temperature like down there?"

"Warmer than where you are. At least the water isn't frozen!"

John and Virgil looked out of Thunderbird Two's windows. Gordon was right. Up here on the frozen pack ice there was no liquid water, only snow and ice.

Gordon double-checked his position and then pressed a button on the console.

A probe extended from above Thunderbird Four's light trough. It made contact with the research vessel, effectively turning the hull of the stricken craft into a giant sounding board. Gordon made sure the setting was at its lowest and then spoke into a microphone. "This is International Rescue. We are here to help you. Can you hear me?"

He waited.

He turned the volume up a notch. "Arctic Research Submarine Three. This is International Rescue. Do you read me? Say something and I'll hear you."

Still no response.

"Anything, Gordon?" Virgil asked through the intercom.

"No," Gordon sounded deflated. "No! Wait a moment! Something's moved"

It was like a distant recording. "…R-R-Roy. C-can you hear something?"

"W-What…"

Gordon turned the volume up slightly. "This is International Rescue. I can hear what you are saying. Are you all right?"

"Inter-na-tional Res-cue?" The voice sounded thick with sleep, and Gordon was concerned about what was causing that reaction. But then, as if he'd been jolted awake the voice came through clearer, alive with excitement. "International Rescue! We can hear you... Hurry! The oxygen's getting low."

"Is anyone injured?" Gordon asked.

"Ben's got what feels to be a broken arm. Frank took a crack to the head but hasn't lost consciousness. We all have a few bumps and bruises. But the oxygen levels are dropping fast."

"What's your compression reading?" Gordon was aware that time was of the essence, but needed to know if a rapid ascent would cause more problems than it would solve.

"I-I'll get the torch." The voice was thickening again. Oxygen deprivation coupled with carbon dioxide poisoning would soon be a major problem.

It seemed an age before there was a response. "C'mon", Gordon muttered under his breath. "Find that blasted flashlight."

"S-So hot." He heard a man say.

"D-Don't talk," someone else said.

"Gordon?" John's voice, sounding so loud and strong, made him jump.

"Yes, John?"

"What's the situation?"

"They're all alive, but running out of oxygen quickly. I'm trying to ascertain their compression reading, but they have to find a flashlight to read the meter." Gordon looked at his watch. "If I don't hear from them in one minute I'm going to have to start raising them and pray that…"

"F-Found the torch," he heard.

"I'll get back to you, John. Arctic Research Submarine Three! What's your compression reading?" as he spoke Gordon mentally ran through the sequence of events that he'd have to undertake to get the sub to the surface.

The man managed to gasp out, "S-Sea lev…" before Gordon heard a thump.

"Time for action," Gordon said, his voice being transmitted both to Thunderbird Two and down the probe to the stricken Arctic Research Submarine Three. "I'm withdrawing communications now…" Once the probe had retracted he had no way of knowing the situation of the crew. "Extending grabs…" Two magnetic arms were extended from the front of Thunderbird Four and made fast on the research sub. "Adjusting buoyancy… Rising now!"

Initially he lifted away from the seabed with care, ensuring that his craft had a good grip on its charge. As he gained confidence that the research submarine was going to neither fall apart nor fall away, he increased speed.

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Four."

"Thunderbird Two. Go ahead, Gordon," Virgil replied.

"Injuries – one possible broken arm, one possible head injury – no K.O. Oxygen levels low and I think the crew may have passed out from oxygen deprivation. Compression reading was given as 'sea level', but the man passed out when giving that reading so we can't guarantee it."

"Gordon," Scott joined in the conversation. "I want Thunderbird Two to take the sub and head straight for the nearest decompression chamber. She'll get there in two minutes. I've alerted the facility and given Virgil the co-ordinates. We won't waste time with check-ups. The medical crew at the naval base can take care of that."

"What about the oxygen situation, Scott. We don't know how long they've been without…"

"I know it's an issue, Gordon. But by the time we've got it landed, opened the sub and got oxygen masks onto them, it would have taken longer than if Thunderbird Two were to head straight to the naval base. And that's without the concerns of the cold, snow and decompression. It means you're going to have to hang about here until Virgil can get back though."

"Will you need the pod, Virgil?"

"No. I'll leave it for you, Gordon, but I won't open the door until I'm leaving. We'll try to keep some of this snow out."

"Thanks. What's the weather like up there?"

"Worse!"

"Great!" Gordon said unenthusiastically "Hurry back."

Thunderbird Four had reached the hole in the ice that was their link to the outside world. Virgil and John had periodically given it a blast with the VTOL jets to ensure that it would still be big enough for both subs.

Gordon reactivated the intercom. "We're ready for the grabs."

"Okay – I'm lowering them now," John informed him.

From beneath the nose of Thunderbird Two descended a set of grabs, large enough to cradle Thunderbird Four and which would easily carry the smaller research sub. They broke through a thin layer of ice that formed over the hole and passed into the murky waters below.

Just below the ice Gordon, in Thunderbird Four, waited. When the grabs opened he carefully raised the research sub so that four claws surrounded it. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two. In position."

John confirmed this by checking sensors on the grabs and then activated them. They gently closed around the helpless submarine and Gordon moved Thunderbird Four back to a safe distance. "Okay, Virgil. Lift away."

Thunderbird Two started rising up into the air. Hanging beneath was Arctic Research Submarine Three – ice crystals forming on its exterior. John tried to adjust the monitor that would normally have given them the visual display of the grabs and their cargo, but the screen remained blank. "Can't see a thing, Virgil," he said. "But, we're carrying some extra weight, so we'll have to assume that it's the sub and not a polar bear."

Virgil gave a tight grin. "That'd give the scientists something to think about. They're expecting a submarine and three injured crewmen and instead we present them with a very angry bear." John laughed as Virgil activated the switch that reopened the door to pod four. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four. Pod Four awaits you."

"Thanks, Guys." Under the ice, Gordon swung Thunderbird Four around so that she was lined up with the ramp leading through the frigid waters from Pod Four. Setting the controls so that they would automatically send his submarine up into the pod, he completed the manoeuvre. A burst of air from the pod sent a snowdrift back outside, while the ramp retracted from the water and the pod door closed behind him.

Cut off from the outside weather, the sound of the wind dropped and the inside temperature rose. Soon it was warm enough for Gordon to climb out of Thunderbird Four and begin the task of checking his craft and cleaning her down.

They'd made it through Customs and Parker was arranging to retrieve FAB1 from the Fireflash, when Lady Penelope's personal phone rang. She answered it. "Hello, Jeff!"

"Hello, Penny. I was checking your flight on the Internet when I saw you'd already landed."

"Indeed we have. It is such a marvellous craft, and so quick."

"Any problems with Customs?"

"None at all. They were perfect gentlemen."

Jeff chuckled. "If they knew you better they wouldn't be."

Lady Penelope feigned ignorance. "Why, Jeff! I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Jeff laughed again. "You know exactly what I mean, Penny."

"How are the boys?"

"That's why I rang. They're on a job at the moment and won't be able to pick you up for some time. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. I have an old friend I wish to call on and I know Parker wanted to do some shopping. He was moaning that autumn in Britain is not the time to purchase clothing suitable for a tropical island. Also I have one or two items I should like to purchase myself. And I would imagine that when…" Lady Penelope looked around her at the crowded airport lounge, "…the boys come home, they would prefer not to have to come and collect us. We will find somewhere in Los Angeles to stay tonight."

"You're welcome to stay in my Malibu house. I'll give Maxwell a head's up so he can have everything prepared."

"Thank you, Jeff," Lady Penelope smiled. "I think we may take you up on your offer. Do you think the boys will be away for long?"

"I don't think so, but, as you know, anything could happen," Jeff told her. "I'll warn Maxwell that there's a chance that you'll be staying for more than one night."

"Better to, 'be prepared', as my old Guide Leader used to say," Lady Penelope commented.

"Huh?" Jeff sounded confused.

"I believe you call them Girl Scouts," Lady Penelope informed him.

"You were a Scout, uh, Guide?" Jeff asked. "I can't see you selling cookies."

"We would never sell cookies. We would sell biscuits."

"Biscuits!" Confusion was evident in Jeff's voice. "Did you have to bake them before you sold them?"

"No, they were baked in a factory."

"Wouldn't they be a bit stale by the time you got them? The only good biscuits I've ever had, came straight out of the oven!"

"What you are probably thinking about now are scones. Really, Jeff, I can see that I am going to have to sit you down and teach you the King's English."

"The only member of the royal family I'm interested in, Penny, is you."

"I am not royalty," Lady Penelope sounded almost exasperated. "I am a reluctant member of the aristocracy."

"And I'm a common American, Penny. You'll never change me."

"There's nothing common about you, Jeff Tracy," Lady Penelope said with some affection. "I'd better go. Parker will be waiting for me. I heard him say to Lil, my cook, that he wants to show your sons what a 'real' man dresses like."

Jeff laughed at the mental image. "Well if any of the shop assistants give either of you any trouble, just mention my name. I have a little influence over there."

"Thank you, Jeff. I will pass that on to Parker."

The trip to the medical station did indeed only take a couple of minutes. The sub was set down, with minute precision, on the back of a flat bed arctic truck. The truck drove the sub into the warmth of a hangar where engineers and medical personnel were able to attend to her and her cargo.

Typically, as soon as the tricky bit was completed, it stopped snowing.

John and Virgil returned to Pod Four and contemplated it. It was almost completely covered by snow. "What happened to the antifreeze system?" Virgil asked.

"You know," John remarked. "All we need is a giant snowball, a really big carrot, a couple of huge lumps of coal, and we could turn Gordon into the world's largest snowman."

Virgil activated the intercom. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four."

There was a moment's silence before he tried again. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four. Come in, Gordon."

The intercom burst into life. "Thunderbird Four. I was getting her secured when I heard the radio. How's things going?"

"No problems getting the sub there. Scott's monitoring the scientists and will let us know. How's things going with you?"

"Fine. After all that running round, getting rid of the snow that blew in as the ramp shut, I'm nice and toasty. When are you guys going to pick me up?"

"When we've worked out how we're going to get all that snow off you."

Gordon felt a twinge of concern. "Isn't the anti-freeze working?"

"Not fully," Virgil told him. "You'd better check the thermostat."

"Okay, hang on." Gordon disappeared from the airwaves for a short time. "Something had gone wrong with the thermostat," he said when he arrived back. "It was on desert setting. I've adjusted it manually."

"Yes, we can see that," Virgil told him. "The snow's begun to melt."

"Aww. No chance to make a snowman," John moaned theatrically.

"Huh! What's that John?" Gordon had heard the comment, but had not understood its implications.

"Oh, nothing. Just be grateful we're not near a supermarket or a coal mine."

"You sure the anti-radiation protection on Thunderbird Five is still working, John? I think something's fried your brains." Gordon's comment had both John and Virgil laughing.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil ensured that the link to Thunderbird Four was still open and then replied. "Thunderbird Two. Go ahead, Scott."

"Is Gordon listening?"

"Sure am, Scott. Why? Do you want to go to the supermarket too?"

There was a bemused silence from Thunderbird One for a moment, punctuated by more laughter from John and Virgil. "I'm sure I'll be told what you're on about sometime," Scott said, "But in the meantime I thought you'd appreciate an update on the crew you just rescued."

"We're all ears."

"They look like they're going to be fine. There were no decompression problems, and while the oxygen level in the sub was low and the level of carbon dioxide higher than normal, it wasn't critical. So apart from the broken arm and a few bumps and bruises, they're going to be okay. They send their thanks, Gordon."

"Always a pleasure."

"So now, Guys," Scott continued on, "we can head home to our nice, warm, tropical island."

"Sun," Virgil sighed.

"Sand," John echoed his brother's tone.

"And water warm enough to swim in," Gordon added. "Has the snow melted yet?"

Pod Four was a green jewel nesting in a cushion of white snow. With the ease that comes with many hours of practise, Virgil deftly positioned Thunderbird Two until she was directly above her precious cargo. Out of habit and as a result of his natural sense of caution, Virgil glanced at the sensors that told him when the great plane was in position. But if they had failed he still would have been able to position the plane accurately, so in tune was he with Thunderbird Two.

All was well. They started descending. The pod slipped into its designated cavity as easily as if the sides had been greased. The manoeuvre, as usual, was going smoothly.

The jolt was unexpected, sudden and brief. John looked at Virgil. Virgil looked at Thunderbird Two's control panel. Gordon called up on the intercom. "Hey, Guys. Did you feel that?"

"Yeah," Virgil acknowledged, his eyes darting back on forth over the control panel, searching for any red warning lights. There were none.

"What was it?"

"I don't know, Gordon. Everything seems fine."

"I wouldn't swear to it, but from here it seemed to come from the upper right quadrant of the pod."

"That's the impression I got," John agreed.

"I'll run the diagnostics programme." In reality Virgil wanted nothing more than to go outside and have a good old-fashioned look at his Thunderbird, but knew that was impossible in the wind and cold.

"Okay, while you're doing that I'll come on up."

Virgil was punching the necessary numbers into the onboard computer when he heard a noise behind him. John was securing their three arctic survival packs to the bulkhead by the emergency exit. Seeing his brother looking at him John shrugged. "Better safe than sorry." He hung polar suits above each pack.

Gordon arrived in the cockpit and saw the survival gear. "Hey, this looks serious."

"They probably won't be necessary," John said. "Just being prepared."

"Those years in the Boy Scouts came in handy then," Gordon grinned.

The computer was spitting out the numbers and Virgil read them twice. "Nothing's wrong according to this. The pod's locked securely into position. There's no damage anywhere." He frowned. "I guess this means we're safe to take off."

"So what happened?" John asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was just an extra strong wind gust." Virgil didn't sound convinced. Neither was John or Gordon. It would take a mighty big gust of wind to move the bulk of Thunderbird Two like that.

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One…" Virgil made contact with Scott and let him know what they knew…. which wasn't much. "There's no evidence of any problems, so I'll try lifting off and take it easy heading home."

"Okay, Virg. I'll keep within monitoring range. Good luck."

"Thanks, Scott."

The lift off was trouble free. No warning lights came on. No red alerts starting blaring. As Virgil gained in confidence he increased Thunderbird Two's height and speed. Gordon and John felt relaxed enough to undo their safety harnesses and look out the windows at the arctic landscape speeding below them.

Another snowstorm came up apparently out of nowhere. The wind velocity increased tenfold. Once again they were experiencing white out conditions.

"Boy, I'll be glad to get back home," Gordon grumbled. "If for no other reason than to be able to actually see some landscape."

"These are not the conditions to be attempting a little stargazing," John agreed. "It's almost like some kind of sensory depravation! Right, Virgil?"

But Virgil wasn't listening to them. He was listening to Thunderbird Two. She was talking to him and he didn't like what she was saying.

John walked up to the pilot's seat so that he was standing at his brother's shoulder. As he looked out of Thunderbird Two's windows he still could see nothing but the never-ending whiteness. "Any improvement?" he asked.

"Sit down and buckle up!" Virgil said tersely.

John glanced at the instrument panel. There were no warning lights indicating further deterioration in the weather and, to him, all seemed well with Thunderbird Two. "But why…?"

"Just do it! You too, Gordon."

With a mystified look at each other both brothers complied. With one hand, Virgil tightened his own safety harness.

"What's wrong, Virg?" Gordon asked.

"Something's not right with Thunderbird Two, I'm reducing height."

"But why?" John repeated. "Instrumentation seemed okay."

"I don't know, but…"

Thunderbird Two gave a sickening lurch and spun around. To those inside it seemed that she completed a full 360-degree turn. They felt as if their stomachs were trying to reach out of their mouths as they rapidly lost height. Virgil tried to stabilise his craft, but she was not responding. He watched in horror as the altimeter showed their rapid decent. For Gordon and John, strapped into their seats, they had no visual representation of their height and position; only the forces on their bodies told them that they were dropping from the sky.

There was another lurch and Thunderbird Two tipped nose forward. Virgil gripped the control yoke tightly, though by now he'd given up any pretence that he was able to do anything in the way of directing the great plane. He had no power over Two's horizontal and vertical movements and was beginning to think that the three of them were done for, when suddenly Thunderbird Two ploughed into a giant snow bank. A fountain of snow hammered past the windows and cascaded down the sides. Thunderbird Two teetered for a moment, completing a nose stand, before falling back to Earth with a jolt, coming to rest in an approximation of her normal orientation.

Silence descended….

So… How many references did you find? Email your answers to turton-tracyathotmail .com. Don't forget to replace the at with the appropriate symbol and to remove the space before the .com.