Within twenty minutes after landing, Scott had established mobile control on the bridge of the Colin Powell, and was sipping gratefully on a steaming cup of coffee. Through the observation windows he had a clear view of his beloved Thunderbird, lashed securely down to the deck with steel cables. "Base from Mobile Control. Are you receiving me? Over."
Nothing except the crackling of static. Scott switched frequencies and tried again. "Base from Mobile Control, are you receiving me? Over."
It was John's voice that answered him. "Mobile Control, this is Thunderbird 5. Scott, the storm is wiping out surface and most satellite communications. You'll have to relay through me."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird 5. Thunderbird Two, are you receiving me?"
"Loud and clear, Scott. I hear you're going to need a fresh pair of tighty-whities after that landing."
"Very funny, Virgil," Scott grunted – but he couldn't help but grin. "What's your ETA?"
"Should be flying over the rescue area in twenty three minutes. What's their condition?"
"Unclear at this time," John's voice chimed in. "RAAF Air Sea Rescue has managed to keep satellite contact open with only two of the yachts, both of which are toward the rear of the group. They have no visual on the capsized ships. One bit of good news, though – it looks as though the crew of the Melbourne Melody have been rescued by the British yacht, the North Sea."
"Thanks, John." Scott said. "That's one less for us to worry about. Link us both up with the GPS locators for our targets, will you?"
"Coming right up."
Two small dots of light appeared on the radar screen in front of Scott, representing the capsized yachts – the Snowbird and the Spirit of Nantucket. He looked at the unforgiving weather pattern right on top of them and sighed. "I just hope they're still alive in there."
For Virgil, the remainder of Thunderbird Two's flying time to the rescue zone was the longest twenty minutes in his recent memory. He usually didn't mind the fact that his elder brother was always on the scene first, since most of the time he got to even the score in terms of actual usefulness once he arrived. But this time, with no information forthcoming from the rescue area, he was acutely aware of the clock ticking. He could only echo Scott's prayer that the men and women they were trying to reach would manage to stay alive long enough for International Rescue to do them some good.
One blessing – Thunderbird Two, with her huge bulk and high flying altitude, was able to make most of the journey in relative comfort. Gordon stood up from the co-pilot's seat, stretching his legs. Ever since the high-speed hydrofoil accident that had almost killed him a few years before, he couldn't sit still for long periods of time without stiffening up. "How long now?"
"Two minutes less than the last time you asked, Gordo." There was no bite in Virgil's words, though – he understood only too well. They were quiet again for a time, watching the rain drive across the cockpit shields, both thinking their own private thoughts. Then a soft, snuffling noise made them look at each other. "Is Alan asleep again?" Virgil said, incredulous.
Gordon glanced over his shoulder at the bench seat, just as the tow-headed youngest Tracy brother let out another snore. "Yep – I don't know how he does it. Guy could sleep through a hurricane."
The beeping of a monitor alarm alerted them to the end of their journey. "Well, you'd better wake him up," Virgil smiled, "Because we've arrived, and he'll pout if we let him miss the rescue."
The lower Virgil took Thunderbird Two, the harsher the conditions got. It took every ounce of his considerable skill and concentration to fly the slow circular search pattern through gale force winds, all the while staring down, struggling to make out anything at all in the abysmal weather. "I think I saw something," he said suddenly, voice taut with the effort of keeping his ship level.
"Where?" Alan stared, straining his eyes in the dark and the rain.
"Look at the size of those swells," Gordon murmured, pointing at a crest sweeping by beneath them that had to be forty feet high. "This is really going to be hell."
Virgil and Alan caught their brother's reflection in the cockpit shields, all of them remembering other rescues, other trips to hell and back. For better or worse, this was what they lived for. "Bring it on," Virgil said.
"There they are!" Alan shouted suddenly. "I see them!"
From the air, the capsized hulls of the Snowbird and the Spirit of Nantucket looked like the bleached undersides of two dead whales, bobbing like corks on the surface of the cold grey water. Virgil opened the comlink. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two – we have visual contact with the capsized yachts. They're close together in a small area, but there's no sign of life."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two," Scott's voice came back. "Virgil, what about the thermal scan?"
Virgil smiled slightly at the sound of his elder brother finishing his own thoughts. They were quite a team. "Running it now, Scott."
Nobody spoke, all of them anxiously watching the screen as Virgil guided the Thunderbird over the capsized craft. If the sophisticated thermal imaging sensors didn't pick up any appreciable heat sources, there would be very little chance that there was anyone left to rescue.
For a long time there was nothing. Then the screen sprang to life, fuzzy green-illuminated forms crowding upon each other in both locations. "Good news!" Virgil whooped. "We've got live ones down there!"
He could hear the relief in his brother's voice. "Gordon, you'd better get moving," Scott said. "And be careful – it's bad out there."
"On my way." Gordon headed toward the back of the cockpit, where he would pass through into the pod and enter Thunderbird Four, International Rescue's very own yellow submarine.
"Okay, Scott," Virgil said, "I'm going to make my approach run and drop the pod."
"F.A.B., Virgil. Keep me posted."
"F.A.B." Virgil began to bring the great green Thunderbird around.
The minute Pod 4 hit the water, Gordon was pitched right into the teeth of the storm. The incredibly rough seas played catch with the heavy steel structure, tossing it from crest to crest as if it weighed nothing. Even with his usually ocean-proof stomach, he was feeling distinctly queasy within moments as huge waves tipped the pod almost on end, then immediately rolled it through nearly forty-five degrees. A couple of loose objects from inside the pod, probably tools, thwacked into the submarine's hull. It crossed Gordon's mind that he'd better get outside quickly – before something bigger broke free from its restraints.
The pod door opened easily enough, the long track extending out and down to the surface of the angry grey ocean. Getting Thunderbird Four out proved to be a lot more difficult. The insane rolling of the pod almost unseated her from her track twice – Gordon had several bad moments when he was sure she was going to go over all the way and land on her back like a beached turtle. Then one enormous swell exploded right underneath, kicking the rear of the pod so high into the air that the submarine was catapulted forward, tumbling straight down into the cliff-like canyon between the waves. She hit the boiling water hard, the wave crashing down on top of her like a piledriver. Gordon could do nothing but let her go, concentrating only on trying to stay upright – knowing from long experience that resistance to the forces of nature would only make things worse.
"Gordon," Alan's anxious voice came over the comlink. "Are you okay? That didn't look too good from up here."
"No kidding," Gordon grunted, thinking that he now understood exactly how it felt to be an ice cube in a blender. Deep enough under the surface to get the submarine back under control, he took stock of the instrument panel, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "I'm a little banged up, but I'm okay. Better keep an eye on the pod, though. It's pretty hairy up there on the surface."
He switched on the headlights and the tracking sonar. "Okay, Thunderbird Two, I've got them," he said. "On my way."
"F.A.B., Thunderbird Four," Alan acknowledged.
Gordon brought Thunderbird Four around in the direction of the capsized yachts, trying not to think about how he was going to get the submarine back into the pod when this was all over. At the last moment he remembered to hit the remote to close up the pod. His brothers would never let him live it down if it sank behind him because he'd left the door open.
The surviving crew of the Spirit of Nantucket had all lapsed into silence by now. Tally was beyond doing anything more for anyone – even herself. The water had risen again, and she couldn't feel her body any more. She floated miserably next to her brother, struggling against the soporific effects of the intense cold, listening to the wind shriek outside the hull.
"I'm sorry, Tally," Michael said, forcing out the words through frozen lips. "I don't know what I was thinking. I should never have let you come."
She managed a wry smile. "Not your fault. I twisted your arm, remember?"
Another oversized wave smashed into them, picking up the Spirit of Nantucket and hurling it sideways. Tally went under the water as the boat rolled. She broke the surface again, gasping and choking. "Mike? Mike!"
She found him floating nearby, a foot under the water. "Mike!" she screamed, forcing her frozen arms to drag him up to the surface, pulling him against her, holding his face out of the water like they'd taught her when she was sixteen and working the summer as a lifeguard. He lay limply in her arms, dead weight, a nasty gash on the side of his head. He was so cold, the blood wouldn't even run. Oh, God, Mike, please wake up, she begged silently. I don't want to die alone…
And then, against all odds, a miracle happened. Above the howling wind, she heard a sound that tore a sob from her throat. Jet engines.
Gordon had put it off long enough – he was going to have to come up now. Bracing himself, he pointed Thunderbird Four's nose toward the surface.
It was an utter nightmare. The waves were unbelievable – he tried to plough the submarine through them rather than surf their crests, but the conditions were so bad he had very little say in the matter. And as if that wasn't enough, the freezing rain blowing horizontally across the surface of the water kicked up clouds of spray that reduced visibility to almost nothing. It was a tribute to the superior construction of the capsized yachts that they had not broken up completely under the relentless pounding, he thought.
He quickly found out that maneuvering Thunderbird Four near enough to the yachts to effect a rescue, without letting the waves throw him against one of the far more fragile craft, was next to impossible. He tried over and over again, but every time he got close, he had to take swift evasive action before the submarine's sixteen-ton steel mass punched a hole though the nearest hull. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Four," he said at last, frustration clear in his voice. "This isn't working. I can't get close enough. We'll have to come up with another way."
Up in the hovering Thunderbird Two, Virgil's shoulders were starting to feel the strain of the constant manual adjustments that were needed to hold the massive craft in place in these gale force winds. He glanced at Alan as Gordon's transmission came through. "Understood, Thunderbird Four. Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two."
On the bridge of the Colin Powell, Scott was standing at the observation windows, staring down through the sheeting rain at Thunderbird One on the deck below. This was the part of the rescue operation he hated the most. Yes, he had to be in charge, and sometimes that meant being removed from the scene of the action. He knew all the reasons, and the logical part of his brain accepted that they made sense. But he'd rather be doing anything, anything, other than this endless waiting.
The sound of Virgil's voice made him swing around. "Mobile Control, go ahead, Thunderbird Two," he said, crossing back to the console.
"Scott, we need a Plan B," Virgil said. "The seas are so rough that Gordon can't get close enough to the yachts without destroying them."
Time for Jeff Tracy's eldest son to make him proud. This was what Scott did better than any of them – think on his feet. "Well, guys, I can think of one way. But you're going to have to come and get me."
Back in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, Virgil and Alan exchanged puzzled glances. "Go ahead, Mobile Control," Virgil said. "What's the plan?"
Trapped under the hull of the Spirit of Nantucket, Tally Somerville heard the worst sound of her life – her miracle, fading away into the distance. The jet engines were leaving.
"I'm sorry, Mike," she whispered to her brother, lying unconscious and probably dying in her arms. "It's all over now. I guess there was no way to get us out."
There was nothing to do now but wait to die.
The Hood was a master of blending into the woodwork in order to pass through any place undetected. That unparalleled ability had even been responsible for his nickname, given to him by the police and military forces of the world – none of whom knew which of the myriad of faces he presented to them was really his own. Nobody had any idea what his real name was. Sometimes he didn't even remember it himself without an effort, it had been so long since anyone had called him by it.
With the amount of excitement surrounding the arrival of International Rescue on the Colin Powell, it took him much longer than usual to find a good vantage point to survey the situation. Everywhere he went, there were far too many people. Then a scrap of overheard conversation triggered a stroke of genius. With no planes able to land or take off in this weather, the catapult control pod – a small windowed dome protruding above the deck, where the catapult control officer operated the machinery required to launch the carrier's fighter planes into the air – would be deserted. From there he would be able to see the entire deck, while being unobserved himself.
On his way, he allowed himself a moment to shake his head at the incredible way fate worked. He had been on board the Colin Powell to steal secrets – for sale to the highest bidder, of course – having received a tip that they would be testing a new fighter jet with a totally different propulsion system while supposedly on "maneuvers" with the Chilean Navy. His mission successful, he had been making plans to depart the carrier at her next stop and return to his secret hideout in his native Malaysia, when the Colin Powell had suddenly changed course without explanation. Try as he might, all the Hood had been able to find out was that the orders came from Washington, from the highest levels.
And now he understood everything. Jeff Tracy had picked up the phone.
The Hood climbed the ladder into the catapult control pod, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness and driving rain outside. His eyes glittered as they fell on the sleek silver arrow of Thunderbird One, a scant hundred feet away. That meant the eldest Tracy brother, Scott, must be the one on the bridge with the Captain.
The Hood hated the Tracys without reservation. He wanted nothing more than to watch Jeff Tracy and his five sons die slow, lingering, painful deaths. It was something he fantasized about endlessly, thinking of all the torturous ways he would make it happen, when he finally got his chance. They had made him look like a fool more than once, costing him time, money and even worse, lucrative alliances with others – and you didn't do that to the Hood and think you could just walk away. He also knew what would hurt them the most – exposure as the team behind the most famous secret organization in the world, International Rescue. But one thing kept him from calling the news services and unmasking them – greed. He knew that he had only just scratched the surface of the incredible machinery and resources International Rescue had stashed away, somewhere. And to keep themselves hidden the way they did, so that not even the most sophisticated satellites could pick up any traces of where they took off from and went back to, they must possess technology the rest of this world could only dream of. Technology that could make the Hood the richest man in the world. But in order for that to happen, he had to find International Rescue's base of operations and find out how they did what they did. And that meant, at least for now, he couldn't risk anyone else finding out the Tracy family's best kept secret.
Something was happening out on the deck. The Hood watched as the huge green bulk of Thunderbird Two – without its cargo pod, he noted – approached low over the deck. Virgil Tracy was having a tough time of it – even a craft of her size and weight was buffeted mercilessly by the high winds. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, one of which swung her around almost 180 degrees, her landing jets finally fired and she settled down on to the deck safely, albeit a lot less smoothly than usual. A movement caught the Hood's eye – a yellow utility vehicle was speeding across the deck toward the newly arrived Thunderbird. In the darkness it was hard to tell, but he thought he saw… Yes! He'd seen a flash of the blue International Rescue uniform beneath the heavy coat of one of the men. He watched as Scott Tracy disappeared into Thunderbird Two's rear cockpit hatch, and the great craft's rocket thrusters fired, launching her up again into the storm.
Leaving Thunderbird One sitting all alone on the deck of the Colin Powell. The Hood was so stunned at his incredible good fortune, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.